Friend Request(43)

Sam’s parents have never really been on the scene either. His dad died years ago, when Sam was at university, and although his mum flits in and out of his adult life, you wouldn’t describe them as close. I used to try and get to the bottom of how and when she got back in touch, but he wouldn’t talk about it. We were so close in some ways, but there were parts of him he never let me see. Henry’s only met ‘Other Grandma’ a handful of times, so she’s taken on something of a mythical status in his head.

I’ve chickened out of befriending anyone from school apart from Sophie on Facebook, so I’m reduced to poring over the little public information that is available on their pages – profile pictures mostly, although on some of them I can see photos and statuses that Sophie has liked or commented on. Matt Lewis seems to have picked up some small children, although they’re not his; Sam met up with him occasionally when he and I were still together, although I never joined him, and he certainly didn’t have kids then. He must have met someone who had children already. Claire Barnes has older children and is separated from her partner, judging from some of her and Sophie’s exchanges.

I’m on my laptop at the kitchen table while Henry painstakingly eats a peanut butter sandwich, licking his forefinger and pressing it on the plate after every bite to catch any stray crumbs.

‘My sister’s not allowed peanut butter,’ he announces. ‘In case she swells up.’

It still hurts for me to hear him use the words ‘my sister’ about a child that isn’t mine. He rarely mentions Daisy, or his stepmother. Of course he doesn’t know that Sam left me for Catherine, but he obviously has an unconscious understanding that he is not supposed to talk to me about her or Daisy.

‘Swells up,’ he repeats. ‘Like a balloon.’

‘Right,’ I say absentmindedly, absorbed in Facebook, wandering further and further off track, browsing through the holiday photos of someone Claire Barnes works with. My phone buzzes on the kitchen worktop as a Facebook notification pops up on the top right of my screen. I click on it, and everything in the room recedes until it’s just me and the screen. It’s another message from Maria.

Going back to the scene of the crime? I’ll be looking out for you, Louise.

Each message from her is like a blow to the head from an unknown assailant, leaving me reeling and confused. Henry is oblivious, totally focussed on his sandwich, protected by the egocentricity of small children.

This is never going to end until I confront it. I don’t know what this person wants, but hiding here in my flat deleting messages is not going to solve anything. I stride into my bedroom and rifle through the wardrobe, discarding outfits: too work-y; too unflattering; too mumsy. I pack an overnight bag for Henry, and go online and book a room at the Travelodge on the outskirts of Sharne Bay. There’s no way I’ll get through this evening without drinking and the last train back to London from Norwich is way too early, something like ten o’clock.

There’s still a part of me that wonders if I’m going to back out. But a few hours later, I’m in the car, dressed in the boring but flattering black dress I always wear when in doubt, make-up carefully done, high heels in the passenger footwell next to me. With Henry strapped in the back, I can’t pretend any longer that I am not going to my school reunion. I can’t ignore the messages either, and a tremor runs through me at the thought of what, or who, might be waiting for me at Sharne Bay High School. Layered on top of that fear is a tight knot of tension at the thought of seeing Sam, of being in the same room as him at an occasion that’s not a necessary transaction, not a result of handing over our child. An occasion soaked in wine and nostalgia, emotions running high. I focus hard on the road, as if good driving will quieten the emotions that churn inside me.

At Polly’s, Henry hardly gives me a second glance, struggling out of my embrace to go and find Phoebe, who he knows will happily read him the clutch of Thomas books he has brought in his backpack.

‘Phoebe’s got to go out soon,’ Polly warns him. She turns to me. ‘She’s going to a sleepover. That little cow’s going to be there.’

‘What little – oh. Her.’

‘Yes. Her. Listen, thank you so much for speaking to Phoebe about all that. It really seems to have helped. She went to the cinema with a couple of the others yesterday, they had a really good time. I think it really helped her to speak to someone who’d experienced the same thing.’

I smile weakly, wishing to God I’d never cast myself in this role of bullied schoolgirl.

‘Now,’ Polly goes on, looking at me sternly. ‘Are you absolutely sure about this? Think of this as an intervention – an opportunity to change your mind. I’m not judging you or anything awful like that. I’m just worried about you. You’ve done so well to move on from Sam, you’ve been so strong. I don’t want you to get sucked back into… anything. You know what I mean. You could stay here. I have wine. You could watch Strictly with me and Maya.’

I am only tempted for a few seconds.

‘No, I’m going. Honestly, Polly, I’ll be fine. I’m not going because of Sam; I’ll probably barely speak to him. I see him all the time, I don’t need to go to a reunion to talk to him.’

‘Yes, but you don’t really speak, do you? You do all your communicating about Henry by text. Your only personal contact is passing Henry between you like a baton in a relay race. Which I think is a good thing, by the way. This is different: it’s a social occasion, you’ll be drunk, it’s very emotive, being back at the place where you first met.’