On Monday,at a little past seven, Sally texted. She braced herself to deal with Anne. Would she be mocking, or (worse) scathing?Coralie, don’t be silly.But as she rounded the corner near the pub, she saw them waiting in front of the house. As she approached, they waved goodbye. They walked away holding hands.Thank you, she texted at eight when she left. And she meant it.
•••
On Friday,Adam was back in charge. He messaged her at seven. She messaged him at eight. When she left, the sun was bright, high and scorching. She looked back down the road. He was standing there, watching. She raised her arm. He raised his. That was enough.
•••
She remembered whenthey’d first met, how joyfully they’d opened themselves up and knitted themselves back together, every thread of her fused with every thread of him. What had happened to her? How could a person have everything they ever wanted and still be empty? How could a person be surrounded, always, by people they loved—and yet still feel alone? In the back garden of the house on Graham Road, a funny thing had happened to a tree. It was, or had been, a birch. Over time, ivy had grown round it, bending the tree within. Now the ivy was as thick as her forearm, and the tree inside was crushed. Could two living beings entwine without one of them having to die?
•••
On Saturday,when Adam texted “Ready,” she let herself into the house, hurried upstairs, and threw herself onto Florence’s bed. Her children jumped on her, comb marks in their wet hair, their beautiful faces shining. She read to them and cuddled them. She put them in bed, then back into bed when they got out. She shushed them when they chatted. She sat in the corner until they slept. This was what she’d thought being a mother would be like. Doing one thing at a time, and kindly.
Ready, she texted Adam, and tiptoed down the stairs. As she clicked open the door, she heard the sound of someone rushing from the kitchen. She turned in shock. “Zora!”
“Oh, that’s nice!” Zora was furious. “She remembers me!”
Adam would be on his way back. “Zora,” she said again.
“Sorry,” Zora said. “Did I break the rules? The rules of whatever this is? Sorry for speaking to you, Coralie. Sorry for existing! Sorry for needing you!”
“Oh, Zor.” She could hear Adam’s footsteps on the pavement outside. “I have to go.” And she ran out the door, past Adam, and along Wilton Way, hating herself.
•••
She stayed awakehalf the night, waiting for a breeze to stir the curtains. It would hit forty degrees next week; that was what the papers said. Forty degrees in London? She couldn’t believe it was real. At one, she dropped off to sleep. At six, tangled sheets damp with sweat, she woke to find a message on her phone.
write to me as soon as you get this, Zora had texted.i have something i want us to do.
•••
Fourteen,and almost as tall as Coralie, Zora had arranged the whole outing, efficiently setting out the plan. But as soon as they met at the station, and before she even said hello, Zora offloaded two big bags into Coralie’s arms, just like she’d used to do at pickup. She was still a child, and Coralie was still the adult. It was a relief to be handed the stuff.
By eight, they were marching up through Hampstead Heath, ground still baked from the day before, grass and wildflowers dry and brown and brittle. “Are you sure we’ll be allowed? Don’t you have to book?”
“Not this early in the morning,” Zora said.
“What swimsuit did you pack for me?”
“I got the boring black one, like you said. From your boring drawer of boring black pants.”
“Perfect.”
“Important to be boring at all times,” Zora said.
“Why stand out when you could just…” Coralie shrugged. “Fade into the background and disappear?”
“No!” Zora’s teasing suddenly stopped. “I know you think you’re funny, but you sound really, really sad.”
“It’s possible to be both at once, you know. Funny and sad.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to make grown-up speeches to me anymore,” Zora said. “Not after whatever all this is.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Leaving my dad? Moving out? Abandoning us? But notallof us. You’re still seeing thegood children. Your real children.”
“Are you a child?”
