Читать книгу: «A Part of Me»

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

PROLOGUE

THERE WAS SOMETHING innately foreboding about waking up at an unknown hour in an unfamiliar room. A childlike fear, fortified by pressing shadows and the mysteries they concealed. Revelations better left in the dark.

Against an unexplained sharpness nestled deeply within my throat, I inhaled the softness of my mother’s perfume from where she sat motionless beside me. Her presence was little reassurance amidst the thick heavy quiet.

As children, she’d once driven us, weeping, through the night to spend the remaining dark hours in the box room of my grandmother’s bungalow. I was reminded now of that long night in the darkness, lying in a bed that did not smell of home, listening to the sounds of my brother’s restless sleep from the fold-out bed next to me. I remember being not quite brave enough to risk disturbing so much as the air around me to call out for my mother.

She was here now, but still this felt a lot like that time. The air heavy with a palpable sense of change. The loss of something achingly irreplaceable.

I opened my eyes with another steadying breath. The pinch in my throat cut the action short. Mum shifted beside me.

It was too quiet.

Intuitively, a cool, soft hand tried gently to reassure with soothing motions over the back of my knuckles. The stirring anxiety in my chest blossomed in response. A warm wave of nausea rushed past the scratchiness in my throat then, lacing my mouth with a pitiful flurry of saliva. It hurt when I retched. Across the bleak grey room, the sound was enough to pull the attention of the figure standing quietly there.

I felt my mother’s hand close around my own.

‘Sweetheart? Try not to move too suddenly.’ In the dimness of the nightlight, I couldn’t see that she had been crying, but I could hear it, there in the fragile reserve of her voice. Another retch and Mum took back her hand, adeptly lunging forth with a cardboard bowl. The sickness heralded an immediate thumping in one side of my head, forcing closed my eyes again as she wiped the bitter residue from my lips. They hurt too. And my teeth, clenching behind them – sore from the assault of medical intervention. I swallowed to remind myself of it. The pain lessened the further down it travelled. Beyond the neatly folded edges of crisp white hospital bed sheets, pain seemed to disappear altogether.

I couldn’t bring myself to look down there.

A faint squeak of shoes on linoleum stirred across the other side of the room. The sounds grew as their owner began making his way tentatively over. James’s hand, heavier than my mother’s, ran gently over my head. For a moment, it soothed the angry thump of ache there.

‘It’s okay, baby,’ he whispered. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’

There was something fragile in James’s voice too, something that didn’t belong. He leant in and kissed the straggled brown mess of my hair. His whiskers were long, scratchy, with none of his usual cologne to cocoon me as he closed the distance between us. He smelled the way he sometimes did after his run – of strain and exhaustion. Something in the way he kissed me now paved the way for inevitable memories of the previous morning to filter back home.

The day had begun like any other. The same dull ache I knew would subside from my hips once I was up and showered; enough mischievous nudges to wake me long before my alarm had chance to. And then, the unexpected as I’d pulled back the duvet, revealing that this day would punctuate all others in the last thirty-one weeks.

There hadn’t been that much blood at first. During the frantic time that followed, I’d stayed calm – we both had – listening to plans being made as the professionals poked and prodded, recorded and conferred. James had focused on their reassurances, while I’d stacked all my chips on the nudges. That was the practical thing to do. No panicking unless the nudges stopped. All the while I’d kept calm, thinking such practical thoughts, as if thought alone could keep us safely centred in the eye of the storm building around us. Now there was only quiet.

James moved his head beside mine, his breathing shallow against my ear. I listened to it. But there was no relief in him. I knew then. This was the aftermath of that storm. The stillness after the chaos. The changed landscape waiting to be considered. Here in this too-quiet room, the devastation would be met.

Mum took my free hand again, the other engaged in tubing and tape. She was squeezing it tightly now, holding onto it as if one of us might be blown to oblivion otherwise. I lay quite still, suddenly afraid again of disturbing the air around me.

‘Amy? Do you know where you are?’ James asked quietly, straining to hold the evenness of his voice. He was still holding himself awkwardly beside me, his face hidden from mine. I nodded against him, willing him to stem the rest of his words. He was trembling. ‘Amy … We lost him, baby.’

My mother’s grip loosened as she broke beneath a subdued shudder of anguish. James’s voice cracked against me. ‘We’ll be okay, baby,’ he promised. ‘We’re gonna be okay.’

CHAPTER 1

Five years later

AS FAR AS uncomfortable experiences went I was pretty good in the saddle, I thought. Calm. Controlled. Cool under fire. And these traits had come in handy over several tumultuous years working within a fast-paced architectural practice. But this? This gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘pressure’. This whole set-up was geared towards breaking a person. A relentless tap-tap-tapping at the walls of our resolve, thinly veiled attempts to expose our weaknesses so that they could finally tell us what I’d prepared myself to hear all along – that we weren’t worthy, that we’d make awful parents, and that this had all been a horrific waste of everybody’s time.

A heavy wooden door clattered shut somewhere off the corridor where we sat, fidgeting like apprehended schoolchildren. We both listened to the patter of daintily heeled shoes as they echoed away from us to some other inhospitable depth of the building. I knew it wasn’t Anna, she’d been wearing flats when she’d briefed us this morning. I’d watched her tapping them nervously on our behalf before the panel had called us in, then I’d focused my eyes on the bejewelled toes of those same shoes while James answered the questions each panel member had put to him.

I let out a long silent breath, surprised that I couldn’t see a grey plume as it hit the chilly air in this fusty old building. James’s knee resumed its impatient bobbing. That James, the epitome of unflappability, was this jumpy only jangled my own nerves.

Every other meeting, interview and session had been conducted in a purpose-built room. A conference suite, an office, our home, even – where there were carpets and coffee and heating. But the Town Hall, this last checkpoint on the home straight, was about as inviting as a Dickensian institution.

I checked my watch. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since the panel had dismissed us to await our fate out here. You could cram an impressive amount of mental self-flagellation into that timeframe, I’d found. I knew James didn’t want to hear it, but I needed to blurt out something, and words seemed preferable to anxious blubbing.

‘I shouldn’t have said we’ve been looking at bigger houses,’ I groaned quietly.

Exasperatedly, James pushed a flop of dark blond hair back from his face and gave his left knee a reprieve from all the jiggling. I’d made him grow his hair out a little after one of the other women on the prep course had said we looked corporate. She’d made it sound like a swear word. James couldn’t understand why I was taking any sort of advice from a woman who was actually choosing single-parenthood. When she’d told us that she was hoping to adopt more than one child by herself, James had whispered that even if she made it to the medical stage, they’d probably find she was certifiably nuts.

I hadn’t noticed until just now, but longer hair didn’t really suit James.

He turned to face me. ‘They didn’t ask us anything that they hadn’t already read in our report, okay? And there’s no rule that says we can’t move house one day.’ James’s right knee took over the bobbing.

I tucked precision-straightened hair neatly behind my ears and began to fiddle with one of the small diamond studs he’d bought me for my twenty-ninth last month. One of the few nights we’d actually gone out together and not fallen out.

‘Stability, James. That’s what they want to hear, not that we’re planning to up sticks and disrupt our home—’

James held a hand aloft to cut me off. ‘Amy, forget it. We’re not doing this again. We’ve jumped through every sodding hoop imaginable over the last year just to get to this point. We’ve just met ten people in there we don’t know from Adam, yet they know every last sodding thing there is to know about us.’ He was already pointing an accusing finger down the corridor towards the room where the panel were still discussing and dissecting our lives. ‘They’ve been through our income, our childhoods … our sodding body mass indexes, for Christ’s sake! If it’s all going to come tumbling down now because you said you’d like a bigger garden one day then they can shove it up their pedantic arses.’

‘Shh! Someone might hear you!’ I sputtered, nervously eyeing both ends of the corridor. James stood. I watched as he moved away from me over to the tired lead window opposite. This journey hadn’t been an easy one, but on some level I knew that James had found it harder than I had, and ultimately would find it easier to walk away from, if it was about to come to that.

We’re nearly there, I wanted to say to him, but everything about him looked so uneasy. He’d never wear that jumper again. I’d bought it from M&S because walking in wearing his favoured Ralph Lauren might’ve been read as ‘part-time yacht-enthusiast’, when what we were aiming for was ‘full-time crayon-enthusiast’. I blew out a cheekful of air. Subliminal messages through the medium of casual knitwear – how was that for cruising close to certifiable nuttiness?

James shook his head as he looked out onto the dismal March morning. We’d asked for the earliest slot available, I knew I’d be a wreck otherwise. James began jostling the keys in his trouser pocket before turning cool blue eyes on me.

‘Anna wouldn’t have put us forward to panel if she didn’t think we were ready, you know that. Just … try to relax, okay?’ I nodded, reluctantly leaving my earring alone before I pinged it onto the floor again. I decided to chew at my lower lip instead. There was less chance of that ending up on the floor and, unlike diamonds, skin was self-regenerating. Beyond the corner of the corridor, softly striding footsteps were making their way towards us. James’s chest rose with a deep intake of breath as he turned back to the window.

The Chair of the panel, a forty-something chap with thinning hair and a name I’d been too flustered to catch, rounded the corner towards us. Awkwardly, I got to my feet and straightened my clothes. I’d gone for a pale blue blouse and pretty cardigan in lavender. Depending on how the next few minutes went, I probably wouldn’t wear them again either.

‘Miss Alwood, Mr Coffrey. Would you like to come back in?’

I gave a small, unassuming smile and convinced myself he had smiled back. I looked to James for affirmation, but he was steely eyed.

I watched Mr Chair’s elbow patches all the way back into the musty room where Anna sat at one of three chairs set in front of the panel. We’d got lucky when Anna was assigned to us. Not everyone liked their social worker but, thankfully, we did. I waited for her to look at us, but only the back of her short blonde ponytail faced our way. My stomach churned. Beyond Anna, the panel of four men and six women looked as though they were sitting at the top table of a wedding reception, with a very small congregation of three with which to share their joy.

I crossed my fingers at my side. Please, let them be about to share joy.

‘Hey, take a seat,’ Anna whispered, gesturing at the chairs we’d sweated out our interrogation on just half an hour ago. I was sure I saw one of the panel members, the adoptee, smile too, but it was so much warmer in here the temperature change was making me feel fuzzy at the edges.

The Chair settled himself into his seat again and fumbled at his papers the way officials with official business like to do. ‘Mr Coffrey, Miss Alwood.’ A new thudding was taking up residence in my chest. ‘We know this can be a rather fraught experience, so we don’t wish to subject you to any further unnecessary tension.’ James reached over and took my hand assertively in his. We’ll be okay. Whatever happens, we’ll work through it.

‘Therefore, we would like to offer you both our congratulations. It is this panel’s recommendation that you be approved as joint adoptive parents to a child under the age of four years.’

Thud, thud, thud …

The pulsing inside my chest was the only thing telling me I hadn’t keeled over and died on the spot, but even that was beginning to wane. The trembling inside me was being swallowed up by something else, something shocky and numb – a sensation sweeping through my insides chased by a warmer, welcome feeling …

Joy.

Could this really be happening? Finally, were we nearly there? I glanced vacantly through each of the warm expressions of the panel members. Had I correctly understood what had just been said?

I looked at Anna. Her face was rosy with controlled delight, which made something loosen in me, some invisible hawser rope that had kept me steady all these past months, suddenly letting me go enough that I might keel over yet. James nuzzled a kiss against my cheek, his thumb chasing the first wet track as it coursed down my face. He said something to Anna as a broken message began organising itself in my mind.

We’re going to have a child. Somewhere out there, our little boy or girl is waiting for us to bring them home.

Skirting along the periphery of my thoughts, I was aware that Anna was saying something in reply to James. She patted my back reassuringly, just a small gesture of comfort but enough to trigger the domino effect. I hadn’t meant to dissolve so whole-heartedly in the middle of that room, to be so completely disabled by my own happiness and rendered such a useless blubbering mess, but after twenty-one months of being cool under fire I couldn’t keep it inside another second.

There was room for only one thought, one thread of coherence in my mind, and each time it lapped around my brain, so began a new wave of uncontrollable sobs, muffled only by James’s M&S jumper. The jewel-like embellishments on the toes of Anna’s shoes shone and danced like a kaleidoscope refracted through my rather impressive deluge of tears, and then James leant back in to my hair and said the words. Said them out loud so that we could hear the truth in them.

‘We’re going to be parents.’

CHAPTER 2

‘WELL, YOU KNOW what they say.’ Phil grinned, chocolate eyes peeping from under her blunt designer fringe. All around us, the city’s populace of on-trend urbanites basked in the funky basement atmosphere of Rufus’s Cocktail Lounge. It had always been our favourite place.

‘Go on, Phil, what do they say?’ I asked, indulging her.

‘If your sex-life is crap and you argue all the time, you might as well have kids.’ Phil finished her words of encouragement with a blood-red smile and a playful shrug of her shoulders.

‘I think you mean get married, Phil. If your sex-life is crap and you argue all the time, you might as well get married, isn’t it?’

Phil hooked a long glossy fingernail around a hair that had affixed itself to her newly reapplied lippy and swept it back in with the others. ‘Whatever. They’re both bad ideas.’ She winked.

‘Well, I know which one I’m interested in,’ I said, over the mellow beats of Rufus’s in-house DJ. ‘And it doesn’t involve a big white dress.’ I smoothed out the creases of my silk pewter vest while Phil let her eyes follow a group of men towards the bar. In the dimness of the club’s ambience, her dark brown bob looked closer to black, giving her an air reminiscent of a Japanese doll. Whatever had caught her attention at the bar wasn’t enough to hold it there.

‘We’ll see,’ she cooed. ‘Once junior arrives, you’ll be all loved up and Viv will be banging on about nuclear families, and you’ll buckle. I’ll put money on it. You’ll be Mrs Coffrey before the end of next year.’

Phil knew my family too well. Mum had already tried every angle she could to talk me into the virtues of marriage, despite my father having put an abrupt end to theirs after falling for mine and my brother’s babysitter. It wasn’t that I was against marriage exactly, and in fairness to my father after eighteen years it seemed to be working for him and Petra, but as far as commitment went, I just couldn’t see that there was anything more binding than raising a child together.

‘Mum just wants the whole wedding faff, Phil. She missed out when my brother married Lauren because Lauren’s mum did it all. That’s why she’s going nuts with this bloody party she’s talked us into having. Did I tell you that she’s made me order a massive cake for it?’

Phil broke into a husky giggle. ‘If she’s content with throwing you a mock-wedding reception, Ame, cake and all, take the deal and run.’

‘It’s not a mock-wedding reception.’ I shuddered. At least not outside my mum’s head it wasn’t. ‘It’s just a small gathering to celebrate our new status as …’ What were we now, exactly? ‘… parents-in-waiting.’

‘It’s your last chance at a big mash-up before you go all boring on me is what it is. I suppose we’ve had a good run, though.’ Phil sighed. ‘You’ve been pretty good fun, for someone who’s already been stuck with the same ball and chain, for-ever.’

James wasn’t the ball and chain. Ball and chains didn’t keep a mental itinerary of all the things we wouldn’t be able to do over the next few years. Like skiing holidays, and city-breaks. If anyone was shackling anyone else, Phil probably had it back to front. ‘Eight years is hardly forever, Phil.’ I smiled.

‘Sex with the same man for eight years and you’re not even thirty yet. It’s heartbreaking,’ she said absently.

I shook my head, spearing a slice of lemon with my straw. ‘You never know, Philippa. You might settle down yourself, one day.’

Phil grimaced at the horror of such a thought. ‘And wake up to the same guy for the rest of my days? No. There isn’t a man who could swing that deal. I mean, how utterly depressing. No wonder women turn to chips and chocolate once they settle down. You’d better buy yourself some loose joggers now, Hon, you’ve done well to last this long. In fact, I’d been wondering what gift I should bring you guys to your “kissing-our-lives-goodbye” party. I’ll get you his and hers jogging bottoms … with pockets, for your chocolate wrappers.’

Phil smiled while a couple of our remaining cohorts, still lucid enough to follow the conversation, joined in.

‘I can’t imagine Amy in jogging bottoms,’ chirped Hannah, Cyan Architecture & Design’s newest office junior. Hannah’s wispy blonde hair had become steadily more wispy as we’d worked our way through the cocktails list. ‘You’re always so … polished,’ she continued.

Sat beside Hannah, Sadie Espley – niece of Adrian Espley, Cyan’s founding architect – looked as though she might actually contribute something for the first time all night. Then her phone flashed again, reeling her face back down behind a curtain of honey-blonde tresses.

‘You do know that Amy isn’t your boss, right, Hannah?’ Phil enquired, drily. ‘You haven’t got to kiss her arse. And before you say it, yes, even though it is indeed a perfectly honed and perky size ten.’

‘Twelve now,’ I corrected. James had mentioned Christmas excess twice since my birthday.

Tom and Alice, Cyan’s computer-generated-imagery techie and marketing primo respectively, flopped down onto the right side of the booth, squashing the rest of us four bodies closer to Phil.

‘Did I hear something about a perfect arse?’ Tom asked, a glaze of dance-induced sweat sticking loose fawny curls to his forehead. ‘You talking about my booty again, Philippa?’ He never changed out of his hipster jeans and casual shirts, not even for Friday-night cocktails.

‘Not this time, hot stuff,’ Phil replied. ‘Amy’s arse, not yours. Hannah’s grown fond of kissing it.’

‘Cool it, Phil. Hannah’s just being nice. Remember what that feels like? Being nice?’ I stuck my tongue out playfully and was rewarded with another danger-red grin.

‘If you think Phil’s got a big mouth, Hannah, wait till you go on a night out with Dana and Marcy,’ Alice said glibly. ‘You’ll think Phil’s a pussycat.’ Phil blew Alice a kiss. Over the last few years Cyan Architecture & Design had grown enough that the women in the office now loosely formed two groups. Us and Them. Dana and Marcy were definitely thems. Phil said Sadie belonged with them too, and wasn’t impressed that I’d asked her out with us tonight. Sadie’s relentless preoccupation with her phone wasn’t exactly winning her any points. Sadie lifted her head and briefly looked big blue eyes out from trendy rectangular glasses. ‘Dana and Marcy are all right, Alice,’ she declared.

Phil cocked an unconvinced eyebrow. ‘Well, they’re not going to be bitchy with you, are they, Sadie? Not with Uncle Adrian paying their wages.’

‘I earn my keep, Phil,’ Sadie retorted. ‘I work all the hours you do.’

‘Er, you’re in the studio the same amount of hours, Sadie, I’ll give you that. But that’s not quite the same thing.’

The atmosphere dropped a few centigrade. ‘I don’t get any special perks, Phil.’

Phil smiled. ‘But you don’t see Uncle Adrian letting us lot get away with a fumble in the samples library with the lighting rep, Sadie. That poor guy, he only came into the office to show you their new product range.’

Tom began tittering. ‘She saw more than that!’

Sadie glared at Phil. ‘So who are you, Phil, the sodding fun police?’ She tried to meet Phil’s glare, then, obviously thinking better of heading further into the argument Phil had started, returned to her text-a-thon. Fortunately, her phone had more life left in it than Leah from reprographics, who’d been face down on the glass-strewn table for at least twenty minutes. Phil stopped glaring at Sadie and muttered something under her breath about dodgy CVs and loose knickers. They’d always jarred. Phil disliked Sadie for the same reasons I couldn’t bring myself to – Sadie was twenty-three, with legs up to her eyeballs, and seemed to have way too much fun for just one person. I hoped it would last as long as possible for her. I’d been like Sadie too, once. Phil still was, she just wasn’t twenty-three any more and it annoyed her.

Phil shook it off just as a sticky round of Cosmopolitans touched down on the table next to Leah’s face.

‘So, who’s up for going up town?’ Alice enthused.

‘You guys get stuck into those,’ I said, nodding at the drinks. ‘I’m just nipping to the Ladies’.’ I nudged Tom and Alice so I could wriggle out past them.

A few minutes of peace in the loos and I was glad not to be part of the clubbing debate. By the time I’d re-emerged from my cubicle, I was already flagging. The door into the Ladies’ swung open and a familiar head bobbed into view. ‘So? We going with them?’

I pulled a face and pumped on the soap dispenser. ‘I don’t think I’ll be out much later, Phil.’

Phil pouted. ‘Nah, you’re right. I don’t think I could listen to Hannah blowing any more smoke up your arse anyway.’

‘Give her a break, Phil. She’s a nice girl.’

Phil acknowledged me sourly then began retouching her lippy in the vanity mirror. ‘I’m a nice girl too, you know,’ she huffed indignantly.

‘I know! Just … be cool. Give Hannah a chance to know that too.’ I finished rinsing the soap from my hands. ‘And lay off Sadie. I know you’re not keen but she’s not so bad. Plus, I don’t want to wind Adrian up. He’s strung out enough.’

Phil watched me in the mirror. ‘Adrian’s always strung out. Since when did you roll over for him, anyway?’

I pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser and bent down for a quick cubicle check. ‘Since Claire Farrel told him she’s taking a partnership with Devlin Raines. She leaves in six weeks.’ Devlin Raines were Cyan’s main competition in the city. They were a bigger company than us, with offices in several UK cities, and Adrian hated losing anything to them, especially staff.

‘Claire’s leaving? She kept that quiet. So that’s why Adrian’s been so uptight.’ Phil began tidying her fringe. ‘But why does that affect you?’

‘Because a few days before Claire gave Adrian notice, he agreed to consider James and I sharing the adoption leave. Claire’s leaving has thrown the surveying team up in the air, I don’t want him to clamp James down and change his mind about us sharing the time off.’

‘How much time is it?’

‘A year.’

‘A year? Adrian agreed to that? Well, at least now I know why you asked Glitter Knickers to come out tonight. Keep Uncle Adrian on side then, hon.’

‘That’s not why I invited Sadie, Phil. She’s been a little out of kilter lately. I think she’s having man trouble.’

‘Man trouble? Sadie! You are joking? Jeez, Ame, you are such a sucker. She’s been sexting some brain-dead beefcake all night. I bet you any money, she dumps us soon to go cop off with him.’

I watched Phil carefully in the mirror. ‘Jealous, much?’

She was trying to keep a straight face. ‘You’re damned straight, I am,’ she conceded, tumbling into husky laughter. ‘I could do with a good snog.’

Phil tugged me back out into the throb of Rufus’s. Leah from reprographics was now propped up between Tom and Hannah. They were chatting to each other as if it were a bus stop and not a human body sandwiched between them.

‘Where’re Sadie and Alice?’ Phil asked.

‘Clubbing’s a no-go with this one,’ Tom huffed, repositioning Leah’s limp arm through his. ‘Alice’s gone to get a head start on the pizzas and Sadie, er … she left when you guys went to the loos.’

‘Sadie left? By herself?’ I asked.

Tom shrugged. ‘Said she didn’t fancy sharing a pizza, or a taxi, with Phil. She said she was going to grab a cab at the rank.’ I threw Phil a reproachful look and checked my watch.

‘What?’

‘Come on, it’s one thirty in the morning. We’re not leaving her to wait for a cab on her own.’

Phil grimaced again. ‘But what about the pizza?’

I narrowed my eyes at her. ‘You don’t eat pizza, Phil. It’s not macrobiotic.’

Phil was better at narrowed-eyes than I was. ‘Oh, sod it, Amy. Why do you have to be such a sodding Girl Guide?’ she huffed, starting off towards the doors. She waited there impatiently as I said goodbye to the others.

‘Come on, then,’ Phil called, ‘let’s go rescue Glitter Knickers.’

*

Ten chilly minutes later, the end of the taxi rank queue snaked into view.

‘I don’t see her, Phil,’ I said, trailing my eyes over the queue of scantily clad girls and kebab-wielding lads vying for the next available taxi.

‘She’s a big girl, Ame. She probably got the beefcake to pick her up.’

‘And what if she didn’t?’

Phil gave the queue a once-over. ‘She’s not here, Ame.’ A commotion broke out in the line, the timeless cocktail of testosterone and alcohol. ‘Sod this,’ Phil scowled, ‘I’m not waiting here with this lot. Work’s only five minutes away, let’s call a cab from there. Quicker and warmer.’ As soon as Phil mentioned the cold, I could feel it, seeping in through my jacket.

‘We can’t, Phil. No unauthorised access at weekends any more. Adrian was pretty clear on that.’

‘Again with the Girl Guide thing, Ame! You’re such a do-gooder these days.’

I held my hands up. ‘Okay, okay! We’ll go to the office. But I’m not getting labelled as the Nightshagger, okay? So if we get caught, I’m just gonna flat out say that I know it’s you, Phil.’

Phil’s face flourished at that. ‘Let me tell you now, if I was the one who’d been flushing the un-flushable down the men’s loos, I wouldn’t risk getting caught there now. The cleaners are on the warpath. Anyway, everyone knows it’s Stewart from reprographics, the dirty little monster. No wonder Leah drinks so much, it must be awful working next to Stewie all week.’ Phil huddled into me, walking us away from the crowd.

‘So Stewart’s been slipping into the studios at night! Are you sure?’ Honestly, I didn’t think he had it in him.

‘Yeah, I’m sure. You see, Ame, while you spend your time keeping abreast of promotions, and job restructuring, the rest of us keep track of the important stuff – like who’s sneaking into the office at night for a bonk. It would almost be romantic, if the little weasel wasn’t married.’

‘Stewart’s married? I’ve never noticed a ring.’

‘That’s because he never wears it outside the marital home, the sneaky shit.’

Comical though the saga of the Nightshagger had been, I felt bad for Stewart’s wife, whoever she was. I’d seen the flip side of extra-marital fun, and it wasn’t much fun at all. Phil shivered as we crossed the deserted courtyard of the immaculately landscaped business square where Cyan Architecture & Design’s studios dominated. The studios were housed in part of what was once an old biscuit factory, deep red brickwork dating back to an era when even industrial buildings were beautiful.

We came to a standstill between the two potted box bushes standing sentry at Cyan’s sleek glass entrance. Phil was already ordering the taxi by the time I’d silently punched the code into the door keypad, letting us in to the perma-lit reception. It was marginally warmer inside the lobby, but the blast of cold air outside had already highlighted the fact that I was not as sober as I thought.

Phil finished the call as I flopped down into the swivel chair behind Ally’s reception desk.

‘They said fifteen minutes. We could go and revise a drawing while we wait, if you like?’

I swatted my hand dismissively. Okay, so I’d become a bit of a slave to this place over the last few years, but taken with Phil’s abandon it made for a necessary balance within the interiors team.

I began swivelling my chair slowly. ‘Why does Ally need so many mini Post-it notes?’ I whispered, glancing over the array of neon-coloured squares framing Ally’s computer screen.

‘Probably so she can tell her arse from her elbow?’ Phil leant over my shoulder to read the little memos. ‘File nails, stick boobs in Adrian’s face, practise counting to ten …’

I pushed her away. ‘Don’t be mean, Phil. Ally’s okay. I like her eyelashes. They’re so big, and …’ I tried to think past the effects of too many mojitos for the right word ‘… lashy.’

Phil grinned. ‘Oh, you like that, do you, Hon? Allow me!’ Phil took a luminous-pink Post-it note from the colourful stack of pads beside Ally’s keyboard and began fringing it with a pair of scissors from the pencil pot. She leant over the desk and stuck it over my eye. I waited while she did the same to a neon-green Post-it, and slapped it over my other eye. Then she stood back to admire her work. ‘How’s that for a degree in product design? Give them a whirl, then!’

I began power-blinking and grinning in alcoholdefying unison. It would seem that Phil’s cocktail intake was finally taking effect too and an explosion of laughter burst from her throat.

‘Ha-HA! That’s funny!’ she cackled. ‘You should defo wear Post-its on party night, Ame, you look priddy.’

‘BFFs should match, Phillypops. You’ll need some too!’ I chortled. I held off flapping my new eyewear just long enough to fashion Phil a pair of the same, sticking a set of bright orange paper appendages over her smoky grey eyelids. Once we started laughing again, we were infected. Phil hung over the reception desk in silent convulsion while I threw myself back across the swivel chair, somehow still batting mismatched neon eyelids while struggling for breath.

Had we not finally broken for air, we probably wouldn’t have heard it. I caught it first. Somehow managing to hold my snickering long enough to listen a while.

There it was again, someone else’s laughter, deep within the design studio. I held my breath and began flapping my hand at Phil, signalling frantically for her to stop giggling.

Phil caught on and shushed. We both heard it this time, a woman’s laughter. Definitely.

Slowly, I released my breath and watched Phil’s expression sober as she strained to hear. The culprit was already taking shape in Phil’s mind, I could tell. ‘That randy little sod!’ she whispered. ‘Come on, let’s bust the Nightshagger!’

I was too drunk for this, so was Phil. I could feel that last bout of laughter still sitting high in my chest, threatening to erupt. I watched Phil cock her ear and wait. The giggler had no idea they had company.

‘And do what?’ I whispered.

‘Just bust him! Ame, we’ll never have to wait our turn for printouts again, or panic about getting things print-ready before the repro lot clock off! Stewie will do anything to keep this from Adrian! How good’s your camera-phone?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. Phil grabbed my hand and hoisted me up before we both tried to tack delicately in heels across the reception’s polished floor. As we slipped into the darkness of the first studio, whispers at the far end of the office gave way to another ripple of laughter. This time, Stewart joined in with his guest, a muffled masculine growl of a laugh, rising and disappearing in waves as he buried his face somewhere that most likely did not belong to his wife. Whoever did own those places was enjoying his visit. It made the laughter rise in me. I yanked on Phil’s hand to slow her Royal Marine-like lead across the darkened office before my lungs erupted into ear-shattering laughter.

What? she mouthed as I held her back. One of Phil’s orange non-Marine issue eyelashes was coming unstuck. The grunting was coming from the boardroom, just the other side of a few shafts of moonlight spearing the office windows. Phil yanked us on, passing our own workstations to slump ourselves just the other side of the glass boardroom wall, blinds mercifully shielding us from view.

It probably wasn’t the most appropriate time, but the alcohol in me saw fit to roll off a few more comedy blinks. Phil clamped a hand over her mouth, and for a few more moments, we both stayed that way – crouched in darkness and silent hysterics while the grunter grunted on. Over his groaning, Stewie’s guest was delivering a running commentary on her talents. Listening to dirty talk was too much. I clamped my fingers and thumb over the end of my nose, trying to hold down the pressure of burning hilarity before it leaked noisily from my face.

Phil was at it too, straining to remain quiet as she leant against the glass wall, but unlike me, Phil was focused–determined to take Stewart down commando style. From behind her makeshift lashes, Phil fixed me with determined eyes. She raised her free hand, aggressively pointing two fingers at her own eyes then mine. Then she signalled the count.

Three fingers …

Two fingers …

One …

We half exploded, half fell into the boardroom. Phil had clearly done this before, going straight for the lights.

‘GREEN BERETS! EVERYBODY FREEZE!’ she shouted as the half-naked blonde skittered from where she’d been straddling her friend.

The laughter that had been waiting for its escape jumped from my body towards the dazed couple before I could stop it.

For a few seconds, the room became like a vacuum, a spinning black hole sucking away the air. A queasiness immediately filled the void my laughter had left behind. I swayed on my feet.

Sadie looked younger without her glasses.

Disorientated, I watched the groaner lurch from his chair, yanking at his trousers.

‘Amy!’ James, baffled, running a hand over his muddled blond head. ‘Shit! Amy, I can explain …’

CHAPTER 3

‘ARE YOU SURE this is what you want to do, honey? Why not leave it a little while, just until you’ve given yourself a few days to think everything through?’ This was the third time Phil had called. It was a rare occasion that saw the softness beneath her prickly veneer, but I guess she thought the situation warranted it. Somewhere in the murky recesses of my mind, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.

‘All I’ve done is think, Phil. My head hurts from it. I just …’ I watched the rain silently streaming down the windows overlooking the executive homes opposite. So far April had been unseasonably cold. All morning the sky had promised snow, but there was nothing on the horizon now but miserable grey inevitability.

Phil waited for me to get it together, but I’d already forgotten what I was saying.

‘You can’t just walk, Amy. You’ve worked too hard at that place. Don’t tell Adrian anything, not yet. Just … call in sick. Think about all that later.’

Later? Because later would somehow suddenly mean I didn’t work at the same company as the man who’d just car-crashed our life? Or the woman he’d chosen to go joyriding with? What could later possibly offer? My focus shifted from the streaks of rainwater, breaking my view of the new sandpit in the garden, to the faint reflection I could see of myself in the cold grey glass. I turned away–away from it all, back to the house James hadn’t returned to last night. Apparently, he couldn’t explain. Other than a flurry of missed calls at 3 a.m. there had been nothing.

‘Ame? Are you still there?’

I leant my back against the bookcase and scanned the rest of the lounge. My own home suddenly felt foreign.

‘I’m here.’

Anna had advised us to replace the old glass coffee table with this wooden one. Wood was safer, easier to affix corner cushions to. I’d bought those the same day. And the socket covers, the kitchen drawer catches and the fire guard. All deployed and ready for action. We were fully accident-proofed. If you wanted to hurt yourself around here, as in really cause yourself gut-wrenching pain, James’s idea of love and loyalty was probably going to be your best bet. I tried to shake his name from my head but, from nowhere, the turmoil of the last twelve hours saw its chance and rushed me again. I covered my face with my sweater sleeve, holding the lower part of the phone away so Phil wouldn’t hear.

‘Why don’t I come over?’ she tried.

Quietly, I breathed through it. I felt my chest release again, reluctantly unclenching like an angry fist, and risked a steady lungful of air.

‘I can’t stay here, Phil. I’m going to Mum’s once I’ve packed some things.’

‘Is Viv picking you up, or do you need a ride?’ she asked softly.

‘No. Thanks. I’ll get a cab.’ My voice faltered.

‘Are you crying? Because if you’re crying I’m coming over right now.’ A warm rush streaked down either side of my face again. I wiped the tears away, as if that might somehow hide the evidence from my friend.

‘Stand down, Phil. I’m not crying,’ I lied. ‘I have to go. I don’t want to be here much longer in case he turns up.’

Phil let out an unappeased breath. ‘Okay. Call me, will you?’

I nodded at the phone and set it down on its post before Phil could hear me lose it again.

I hadn’t been sure that I couldn’t stay here until I’d said it out loud. Now I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t think he’d have brought her here, but it wasn’t impossible. I booked a cab and skipped upstairs, pulling closed the first door I passed. The lingering smell of recent paint was reason enough to shut off that bedroom. James said we should wait, see who we were matched with, but I’d started painting the nursery in neutrals the day we’d returned from panel. Maybe I’d jinxed it. There were superstitions about that kind of thing.

My bedroom felt just as foreign as the rest of the house. I began stuffing a few handfuls of clothing into James’s overnight bag before lunging towards my dressing table. The bottom drawer slid out easily, revealing the prettily decorated firebox nestled safely on its cushion of winter sweaters. I couldn’t remember where the idea had originated from, my grandmother probably, but I was glad for it now. In the event of a house fire or other major catastrophe, letters, keepsakes – anything of irreplaceable value–would all be to hand in the firebox. All in one place, ready for salvation.

I lifted the découpaged box from the open drawer and regarded it. Dedicated teacher that she was, there wasn’t much Mum couldn’t achieve with PVA glue and patience. My fingers briefly reacquainted themselves with the delicately placed art nouveau motifs in muted blues and greens, the subtle unevenness of the layered images she’d painstakingly crafted. She’d made the firebox for us that August, busying herself in the kitchen while I’d pretended to sleep up here. James had to return to work eventually, for normality’s sake, if nothing else. She’d said such precious things deserved to be kept somewhere nice.

I let my fingers rest on the lip of the firebox. As if I needed to look. As if I didn’t know by heart the remembrances kept safely inside. The pitiful testaments to our son’s tiny life.

He’d have been at school now. Greenacres Primary in Earleswicke, where his grandmother, headmistress there, could have kept an eye on him for me. Made sure he ate his sandwiches; comforted him if one of the other kids was mean. Something like anger flared in my stomach. I fed the firebox gently into James’s bag, pulled on my jacket and skipped out across the landing for the stairs.

Thoughts of Sadie knowing the inside of my home almost sent me into a delirium. The firebox wasn’t the only thing I couldn’t bear her to have been anywhere near. I padded from the pale stairwell carpet onto the milky polished tiles of the hallway. We’d spent months fattening out the file I’d kept safely in the kitchen cupboard. The file that demonstrated the family we could offer to one of the thousands of children awaiting a home. Every last detail of our lives was in there, including our copy of the prospective adopter’s report Anna had put together on us. The PAR was the result of months of countless assessments, interviews with friends, family, diagrams of our support network, income, medical backgrounds, and it was not being left here. Sadie probably knew it all anyway, pillow-talk while I sat at home, oblivious and foolish. Well, it was all coming with me.

A car horn papped outside as I strode into the white tundra of our clean-lined kitchen. I stood the overnight bag against the wine fridge and stalked over to the last cupboard at the end run of units.

I yanked open the tall, sleek cupboard door. The door clattered clumsily, opening only a little way before jarring back against my fingers, denying me access. The handle pulled my fingernail with it and a hot pain drew a hiss from my throat.

I still wasn’t used to the cupboard locks, designed to prevent inquisitive little hands from finding their way to trouble. A searing pain flared where I’d snagged my nail. It was already bleeding happily, a burning sensation spreading not just through my fingertip, but it seemed completely through my core, too. I held it up for inspection and found I’d torn the end of it clean off. It was only a fingernail. Anyone looking in would’ve thought I’d just severed a major artery. I slumped pathetically against the unit doors to the cold tiled floor. Something had been severed, it just wasn’t anything that could be tackled with a tourniquet and fast thinking. At the sight of a silly bleeding finger, something tight in my chest, like an over-stretched elastic band, suddenly gave way. I tried not to, but it was futile. It was as if every muscle in my body wanted to cry for itself too. So I let them, right there on the kitchen floor as the taxi papped on outside.

CHAPTER 4

THE WALLS OF my old bedroom weren’t magenta any more but an inoffensive cream and peppermint pinstripe where Mum had done away with the bohemian décor of my youth. My once beloved tie-dyed swathes had been replaced with crushed silk drapes in her favourite sage, more befitting of the 1930s home Dad had left us with. For the last week, hiding out here from my life, I’d been fifteen again.

‘Sweetheart? Are you coming down? They’ll be here soon.’ I stopped studying the abstract patterns in Mum’s artexed ceiling and rolled over on my pillow. More clattering sounds of saucepans being thrown into service echoed up the stairs.

Mum’s Sunday lunch was ritualistic as far as my brother was concerned. Since Lauren had given birth to their second child two months ago, Guy had tried to blag Mum to lay on a regular midweek curry night, too. He’d complained that mealtimes with a mischievous four-year-old had been chaotic enough; add a newborn to the mix and Lauren was beginning to lean towards quicker, easier, less-washing-up meals. Mum hadn’t gone for it. She’d told him to be grateful Lauren was still cooking for him at all after delivering two nine-pounders, epidural-free.

‘Coming,’ I called, stepping out onto the landing. The morning had been fairly sedate, with Mum busying herself with her latest crusade on behalf of the WI and greater good. She’d taken my reluctance to talk about James and my crumbling adoption hopes as her cue to lead the conversation. Earleswicke community centre was soon to be levelled because the parish council shrewdly thought it made more sense to sell the place on than stump up the cash for an upgrade. I was with them on that. The community centre had smelled of damp and lost property when Mum used to drag me off to Brownies there. I was eight at the time and to my knowledge, it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since. No doubt I’d hear the whole sorry tale again once Guy and Lauren arrived. I’d use the opportunity to huddle up with Samuel and catch up on all things creepy-crawly and dinosaur. Mum had put them off coming last weekend. A few concerned words from a well-meaning cabbie and Viv had gone on lockdown, prescribing a week of peace so I could lick my wounds. That and endless home-cooking.

The rich homely wafts of roast beef floated up the stairs to greet me. This was how Mum swung into recovery mode, as if food could fix whatever had been broken. She’d launched herself into maniacal cooking when Dad had first left. All of his favourites, every night for weeks, just in case he walked back in through the door. He never did.

‘Okay, sweetheart?’ She was carrying a tray of tea through to the conservatory as I crossed the kitchen towards her. The conservatory was cooler than the kitchen, the rattan armchair creaking beneath me like a groaning shipwreck as I settled into it. ‘How are you feeling today?’

Outside, the garden had held onto the morning’s frost, as though the lawn had accepted its abandonment by the sun, stoically contenting itself with ice instead. ‘Fine. Thanks. Lunch smells good.’ I smiled.

Mum nodded approvingly as she poured a drop of milk into each of the cups. Her hair would redden in the autumn, but until then it would remain nearly as dark as mine, with only the beginnings of grey featuring just where she would clip her corkscrew curls over one ear. Miraculously, I’d dodged the full severity of Mum’s curly genes, though I realised now how youthful she still looked because of them.

‘A good meal will set you up, sweetheart. Tomorrow isn’t going to be easy, but I think you’re doing the right thing.’

Thoughts of a Monday-morning showdown with Marcy and Dana heading up the office gossips made my stomach lurch. I’d gone over all the reasons for and against going back there, trying to find a way around it, but the fact was if I just walked out now, I couldn’t think how I’d explain my sudden change in circumstances to Anna. Not that job-security alone was going to be enough to dupe her into seeing through our application.

‘She should be the one clearing off,’ Mum declared, vigorously stirring the tea.

I never thought that James would do this. He’d pleaded for a chance to fix things, to undo the undoable. I’d listened as Phil had coached me through the week on the evils of the unfaithful, but through the malignant mass of bitterness and hurt churning away at my insides, there was something of me that desperately wanted James to fix it all. But we were on social services’ schedule, not Relate’s. We didn’t have time to delve into our brittle relationship and gently nurse what had been broken.

‘And should James clear off too, Mum?’ I asked.

She tapped her spoon on the rim of her cup, ignoring my accusation of her lopsided justice. ‘You know, sweetheart, James has done a terrible thing. But it doesn’t make him a terrible person.’

I watched as she set the hot drinks in place between us, then looked away through the glass onto the garden. A little robin flitted down onto the lawn and began pecking away at the grass. Maybe I was the terrible person. Maybe I’d pushed James out, neglected him. There hadn’t been much room left for anything that wasn’t either work or adoption related for longer than was healthy for anyone.

Mum held her cup to her face and blew over it, settling herself back into her chair. ‘He called again this morning.’ I carried on watching the determined little bird. James had been calling all week, leaving texts and voicemails, apologising, asking that we talk, offering to take some of his annual leave if that made my returning to work any less humiliating. ‘He said he needs to talk to you, sweetheart, before you go back into the office.’ I hadn’t accepted James’s offer but still he’d anticipated I’d go back to Cyan. I hated that I was so predictable.

‘Mum, please, don’t. I’m not ready to speak to him yet.’

‘You can’t avoid him for ever, Amy. You need to talk to him. Before the social worker catches wind of all this. Won’t you see him in the office tomorrow anyway?’

An unfortunate creature caught the attention of the robin, suddenly transforming it from Christmas icon to ruthless killer. I’d never been great with birds, they seemed all beady eyes and sharp bits to me. ‘He has site meetings on Mondays. It’ll be easier for me to go back there tomorrow while he’s not there.’ While I still have a job. That’s if I didn’t lose my bottle first, which was more than possible.

Mum repositioned her glasses on her head. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. I know he’s hurt you, sweetheart, but if you’re both serious about trying to salvage this, you’re going to need to work together. Children need stability, and this situation is far from stable. You need to be very careful you don’t jeopardise everything you’ve achieved over these last months because of one … indiscretion.’

Indiscretion. That was one word for it.

‘It’s not that simple, Mum. He didn’t just slip up.’

Mum took a sip from her cup. ‘James shouldn’t have fooled around with that girl, Amy. But men … they do slip up, lose their way. Sometimes, sweetheart, they just can’t help themselves.’

It was only ever a matter of time before parallels would be drawn between James and my dad. I inhaled deeply and rolled into the inevitable. ‘That’s just it, Mum, they can help themselves. It’s a choice they make.’

‘No, not always, Amy. Sometimes they just … they fall into an unexpected situation, and then before they know it they’re not sure what they want.’

I wondered if after telling herself the same thing for so long, my mother had somehow erased the basic principles of betrayal from her understanding. Eighteen years on she was still hanging onto the ghost of a notion – that Dad’s departure was somehow not of his choosing.

Mum looked out onto the garden. I let my eyes fall to the teacup steaming on the table between us. It felt intrusive somehow to look outside while she did also. She sighed and turned uncertain eyes back to me. ‘I’m not trying to be insensitive, Amy. I know how much hurt you must be feeling, I do. But, you and James have been through so much together. Experiences that have bound the two of you. He hasn’t led you to believe that he wants a relationship with this woman, has he?’ I searched the garden for something to concentrate on. The robin was nowhere, abandoning me to the conversation. The answer to her question was no. No, he hadn’t. In every one of the messages he’d left these past seven days, James had said that he loved me. He loved me, and that he was sorry.

Mum was still waiting. I shook my head to answer her.

‘James knows how complicated things can be, Amy. Hear him out, see what he has to say. Life isn’t a walk in the park for anyone, sweetheart. It’s complicated and messy and at times, ruddy heart-breaking. But, you have to press on.’

‘So what? I should just forget what he’s done?’

‘No, not forget. James has done wrong, but he is trying. Doesn’t that count for something?’

It did count for something. Mum had never met another man, waiting for my father to show a fraction of the regret James had shown over this last week. It would be cruel to say to her that it didn’t count, I just didn’t know whether it counted enough.

‘I can’t go through with the party, Mum. I’m sorry. Even if we were on speaking terms, I couldn’t stand in front our friends and family and … fake it.’

‘You haven’t got anything to be ashamed of, Amy. Lots of people learn to carry this sort of burden. Relationships are all about accepting each other’s imperfections. Goodness knows, we all have those.’ I couldn’t argue with that. Imperfections didn’t exactly encompass that which James had accepted in me.

‘The party was a nice idea, Mum, but it was your idea. I never wanted a fuss about the adoption, I just wanted the …’ I couldn’t say the word; it stuck in my throat like a rusty barb. I had to get around this or I’d never make it through a single day at Cyan. I tried to think of something, anything, else, but I was already losing again. I looked outside, hoping the shift in position might slow the inevitable but the tingling was already there behind my eyes.

‘Oh, sweetheart. Don’t cry. You’re tougher than this, I know you are.’ Mum leant over and began rubbing my knee reassuringly. I shook my head. I wasn’t tough. I couldn’t survive a broken fingernail or a mistimed buzzword.

‘I’m not, Mum. Guy’s tough, not me.’ I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever seen my brother cry, not even during the catastrophic fallout after he’d walked in on my father and Petra. Guy had glued the three of us together until Mum had finally realised that we didn’t need to keep eating Dad’s favourites any more.

‘Oh, Amy, you’re tougher than you think.’ She reached for my hand, clasping onto it as she always had whenever I’d brought a crisis home with me.

‘What am I going to do, Mum?’ I asked steadily, trying not to set myself off again. She was making small circular motions over the back of my thumb.

‘Well, first you need to work out what’s most important in your life right now, sweetheart.’

‘I know what’s most important. That part hasn’t changed in the last five years.’

‘Right. Well, that only leaves one other question. Has James’s part in that changed in the last five years?’

James had always been part of that picture, but tensions had been growing lately. Somewhere along the line, we’d stopped laughing and making plans. I realised that there had only been one plan for a long time now, and what had started out as a joint venture had at some point turned James into a back-seat passenger on my much diverted road-trip to parenthood. But never had I imagined him not being there, somewhere, with me. Never had he said he wanted to get off this journey. Or maybe I just hadn’t been listening.