I quickly turn the burners off and wipe my hands on my towel just as a knock sounds at the door.
I fix my frazzled hair, which has escaped the messy bun I threw it up in, before swinging the door open with a smile.
A smile that drops at the sight of my parents and sister standing at the door with expectant faces.
“Well?” Mum asks, with a quirked brow as I freeze on the doorstep. “Are you letting us in or making us stand here like solicitors?”
Wordlessly, I step backwards and allow them in. We’re not a hugging family so I hold onto the door for longer than necessary just for something to do with my hands.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“We couldn’t decide on a restaurant so decided risotto sounded nice. Don’t worry, I bought some chicken from the shop that you can add in.”
What?
I’m so stunned by the presence of my family in the flat that they’ve never been to before to even compute the words.
“Uhm, I?—”
“Where do you keep your chopping boards?” Mum asks, rummaging through the cupboards as if they aren’t propped up on the side.
I turn helplessly to my dad, hoping he’ll help me make sense of the situation, but he’s already pulled out a seat at the head of the table and is thumbing through his phone.
My attention is pulled to Cleo, who’s wandering closer to the living room, her silky blonde hair swinging behind her.
I rush after her, cutting her off. “What are you doing here?”
She sends me a saccharine smile between full lips, as if we haven’t avoided being in the same room for the last ten months. “Why so stressy, Rosa-pee? You’re so jumpy.” The nickname grates over my skin the same way it has since I was eight years old.
Cleo had let me join her birthday sleepover with all her friends. We had fun, watching films and stuffing our faces with chocolate. Until we woke up the next morning and Cleo poured her water bottle on my sleeping bag and told the other girls I’d had an accident in my sleep. I had spent the rest of the day locked myself in my room crying and the nickname stuck.
I brush away the memory to focus on the more pressing matters. Like getting rid of all the evidence of Jackson or the baby that I possibly can.
“Cleo, come look at this,” Mum calls. I dread to think what she’s found that they can comment on in the kitchen, but I know more trouble can be found in every other room in the flat. As soon as Cleo swans back to the kitchen, I fly around the room grabbing every baby book, spare item of Jackson’s clothes and the pillow he’s taken to sleeping on when it’s too late to drive back to his hotel and hide them in my bedroom wardrobe.
If only every time I cleaned I was this frantic. I could actually get quite a lot done.
When I’m sure every item of baby paraphernalia or male belongings are out of sight, I return to the kitchen. My mother has taken over my cooking and my nearly perfect risotto now has large chunks of unseasoned, cooked chicken floating on the top.
I take a deep breath even as my stomach lurches, and I shakily take a seat at the table.
“So, what have you been doing today?” I ask my dad, desperate to fill the tense silence.
“Hmm?” he asks distractedly, lifting his eyes from his screen.
“By all means Rosalie, sit down, relax. I’ll do all the work shall I?” Mum snaps from the stove top.
My stomach sinks as I rise to my feet, my once organized kitchen and nearly finished meal now chaotic and busy. “I can do it,” I say, sliding next to her and attempting to take the spoon out of her hand.
“It’s fine, you get the drinks.”
I press my lips together and head to the fridge, removing the drinks and bringing four to the table.
“No alcohol?” Cleo asks, in a sugary sweet voice that makes my skin crawl.
I shake my head. “Haven’t been to the shop for a while.”
Dad sighs heavily as he takes a sip of his Coke. “It’s fine.”
