The Secret Mother(6)

‘Take care, Tess.’ He leans in to give me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. The smell of his aftershave blindsides me and I want to put my hands to his face, to keep his cheek next to mine. Keep the warm scent of him in my nostrils. But he’s already moving away, pulling open the front door. Escaping. He gives me a last smile and a nod, and pulls the door closed behind him. Gone.

I stare at the closed door and take a breath. I won’t allow myself to sink. To wallow. I’ll make some supper – something comforting and delicious. Even though I’m not at all hungry.

The kitchen is empty. Quiet and still. Harry’s drawing lies on the counter top. I pick it up and examine it: a pretty good likeness of a green steam engine, partly coloured in. To the side, a boy with dark hair and a woman in a flowery dress with a smiley face.

I put my fingers to my hair. Harry said it was a picture of me, but the woman he’s drawn has brown hair, and my hair is fair. I open the top drawer again to look at the pencils. There’s a brown pencil and a yellow one, so he could have made my hair the right colour…

Why am I even thinking this stuff? He’s obviously a traumatised little boy. Something has happened to him and he was just pretending that I was his mum to help him get through a tough time. Perhaps he’s even colour blind. I’ll probably never know.

I’m about to place the picture in the drawer along with the pencils, but something stops me. I told Harry I would put it on my fridge so that I can look at it every day. I can’t break my word.

There’s another picture already stuck to the fridge with two fruit magnets. It’s a drawing of me and Scott and Sam – happy stick figures all holding hands. I remove the bottom magnet and move the picture along to the right. Then I use the magnet to secure Harry’s picture to the fridge too. I step back to survey them both. I’ll have to buy a couple more magnets to stop the paper flapping around.

I open the fridge. Inside, a small block of cheese and a shrivelled carrot moulder on the middle shelf. Looks like I’ll be having beans on toast then. No. I remember there’s no bread left. Beans with grated cheese, that’ll have to do.

The doorbell rings and I freeze for a moment. Could Scott have changed his mind and decided not to leave me on my own tonight? We’ll have to order a takeaway. I run my fingers through my hair uselessly and rush to the front door, pulling it wide open, ready with a smile and a fast-beating heart. But it’s not Scott. It’s my neighbour, Carly, her chestnut hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She’s standing under a black-and-white checked umbrella, and she’s smiling her white-toothed smile.

‘Hi,’ I say, disappointment deflating my body. I should have realised it wouldn’t be Scott. And Carly is the last person I feel like talking to right now.

‘How are you doing, Tess?’ she asks, with that confident rasp in her voice.

I try to pull myself together as she raises her beautifully plucked eyebrows, presumably waiting for some kind of response. I wonder what she’s doing on my doorstep. Back when Scott and I were still together, Carly and I used to be quite good friends. She lives opposite, moved in around the same time as us. We’d have a natter whenever we saw each other, pop round for cuppas and the occasional barbecue, and even keep an eye on each other’s houses when we went away – water the plants, feed her cat, that type of thing.

But then she started getting a bit too pally with Scott. I’d arrive home from work to find her over at our place having a drink with him, or she’d drop things into the conversation that I didn’t know about him, like something funny he’d done but hadn’t got round to telling me yet. It rankled. She would show up on our doorstep, ask to borrow stuff, then never return it. Scott even gave her a small financial loan once. So I ended up cooling our friendship. Not that Carly is very good at taking hints. She’d still call round and wheedle her way in. Well, until Scott left, that is. After that, I didn’t see her quite so often. Funny, that.

‘What’s up, Carly?’ I finally reply.

‘I just stopped by to see if you’re okay,’ she says. ‘I saw the police outside, and a little boy coming out of your house…’

‘Oh, right. Thanks. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. He was lost, that’s all.’ Call me cynical, but Carly has not dropped round to see how I am, especially not on a foul night like this.

‘Lost?’ she repeats, her eyes taking on a feverish gleam. ‘That little boy? Did you find him somewhere?’

I should’ve known she’d be interested in Harry. Carly used to work for one of the tabloids, but with newspaper sales dwindling because of all the free online news sites, she was recently made redundant. Now she’s a freelance reporter and – like so many journalists who’ve found themselves having to scratch around for work – she’s desperate for a story. How can I politely tell her to piss off? It’s been a long, hard day, and all I want to do right now is make some food, read a book and forget about the world outside for a few brief hours.

‘I’m sorry, Carly,’ I say. ‘Is there something specific you wanted? It’s just I’m a little busy right now.’

‘Oh, right. I just thought if something’s happened with that little boy, it could make a good story.’

Bingo! I was right. ‘Nothing’s happened. There isn’t any story,’ I say. I want to slam the door in her annoying face, but I’m too polite. Besides, I don’t want the hassle and embarrassment of any bad feeling between us. It’s already awkward enough. ‘Thanks for coming over, though. It was thoughtful,’ I add, knowing full well there isn’t an ounce of concern in her self-centred, gym-toned little body.