“Zora, poppet, go and get your bag,” Marina said. “I’ve got Rup asleep in the car.”
Coralie, who was sitting on the stairs, moved to the side to make space. “Tiptoe past the baby,” she murmured.
Adam leaned on the banister. “How’s Tom?”
“Put it this way,” Marina said. “He now lives in one house, has one job, has his weekends back, sees the kids, earns proper money, and doesn’t talk about Brexit all the time.”
“That sounds—good?”
“Happy wife,” Marina said darkly. “Happy life.”
“Oh, trouble in paradise!” Adam said when he closed the door. “Tensions high in Bartholomew Road!”
“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you.”
“Are you all right?”
“Those were the worst four months of my life. Running from pillar to post, working, not a minute to myself, butyou’rethe stressed one, you’re the one with ‘deadlines.’ Deadlines! Five a.m., Florence is up; nine a.m., nursery drop-off; fifteen minutes later, I’m on the bus to spend all day doingpointlessbullshit for Stefan, who used to be my colleague and is somehow now my boss? I have torunto get Florence by six—or pay a late fee! Six thirty, dinner—or Florence loses her shit! Seven, Florence’s bath, alone. Seven thirty,Florence’s bedtime, ALONE! It’s all hopeless; I feelabsolutelyhopeless!”
“I do some baths! I do some bedtimes! What about last week? I picked up twice! You don’t do all the drop-offs!”
“Somebaths!Somebedtimes!Somepickups! And who gets up when she calls out in the night? Not you, me—you don’t even hear her! And then I’m awake, looking at my phone, watching my sleep time tick down, down, down until it’s gone, and another day starts, as awful as the last!”
“I know it’s been bad, but it’s over, it’s done!”
“I’mover.I’mdone.” Coralie was shaking. “I’m moving out. You can have two kids on your own every weekend. Two days a week, a hundred days a year, I’ll finally have a fucking break!”
She stormed out of the house. Two minutes down the road, she stopped for tea and cake and spent ninety minutes on Rightmove, furiously short-listing two-bed flats.
•••
Adam did drop-offand pickup for three days in a row. On the third night, Coralie briefly lay on Florence’s experimental new big-girl bed while Adam was reading, and together they cuddled their daughter, though not each other. But afterward, she ran a bath, lay in it for half an hour, got dressed in the bathroom, and once more went up to sleep in what used to be called the spare room but which (somehow) over the previous two years had become “Adam’s study.”
Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?Adam texted after a while.
This sounded like a sext, like he thought sex would fix it.No thanks, she texted back.
I don’t mean in a sex sense, I mean in a practical one. I’ll do anything to make things better.
She didn’t reply.
Anything, he wrote.Please.
Why do you get to write books when that’s always been my dream?she typed and erased.Having a baby is the nice bit, she typed.It’s having a husband I can’t stand.She erased it. For one thing, they weren’t married.
Come down and tell me, he wrote.Tell me anything and I’ll listen. Please?
“I’m a shit parent, and shit at my job, and a shit person,” she cried when she got downstairs. “I feel shit, and I hate myself, and my life.”
Adam pulled her into bed. “Beautiful Coralie.BeautifulCor. You’re the best mother, the cleverest at your job. I love you so much, I would die if you left me. I woulddie.”
“I can’t keep the whole house quiet so you can be free. I can’t work full time so you can post all day on Twitter!”
“Tweeting is sort of w—Okay! I know what you mean! I need to organize my time better.”
“You know where I ameveryminute of every day. I’m either in the office, on the bus, or at home. You just do whatever you want, whenever you want, and trust that I’m there to cover it! And the pathetic thing is, I am! I always am!”
“I’m sorry. It’s bad. I’m so, so sorry.”
