A minute later, Cee-Cee marched in the front door.
‘Blowing up a storm out there. You should be grateful you’re stuck indoors.’
I stopped, mid-poke of a carrot stick, and looked at the closest thing I had to a friend. Cee-Cee was flicking the rain out of her short grey hair, her down jacket and tracksuit trousers dripping onto the lino.
‘Excuse me?’
She shrugged off her coat, dumped it on a chair and glanced around. ‘Where’s this spider then?’
‘What? Did Joey message you?’ Annoyance exploded in my chest like an airbag.
‘He was worried you’d chicken out and sneak it into the bin.’
‘I told him I’d sort it.’ I drained the vegetables, burying my guilty expression in a cloud of steam. ‘Joey!’ I called up the stairs. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
‘So?’ Cee-Cee took three plates out of a cupboard and started setting the table. ‘Can I reassure him it’s safely outside or shall I empty the bin first?’
‘Safely outside?’ I snapped, just as Joey wandered in. ‘Joey, go and fetch the dirty pots down from your room.’
‘But you said it was…’
‘Now, please.’
I closed the kitchen door after him and turned to Cee-Cee, who was lifting a tray of salmon out of the oven.
‘I apologise. Poor turn of phrase,’ she said, banging the tray on the table.
‘In answer to your question, no you don’t need to empty my bin, and I’m perfectly capable of reassuringmyson. I don’t need you acting as a go-between.’
‘I’m here to help. Nothing more.’
‘Can I come back in now?’ Joey asked from the other side of the door. ‘I don’t want to be late.’
I blew out a sigh, reminded myself of everything Cee-Cee had done for us, and all that I needed her to keep on doing, and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. Once again, I appreciate your help.’
We ate dinner in awkward silence, and Cee-Cee left with Joey. She was taking him to a school start-of-the-year parents’ meeting, because, if it hasn’t already become apparent, I was a woeful failure as a parent. Or so I told myself, as I changed into pyjamas, before crawling under my duvet – the only place I could go to ease the weight of despair, frustration and self-hatred for a while. A failure who needed another woman to care for her child outside of these four walls. A failure who never saw her son grinning as he accepted an athletics award, or riding his bike with his T-shirt flapping behind him, or wide-eyed with wonder as he explored, discovered, embraced this big wide world I was too scared to be a part of any more. A failure who…
Ping.
Phew! My pity fest was interrupted by a message. Expecting Cee-Cee, or Joey – because really, who else would it be? – I fumbled for my phone and was surprised to see an unknown number. Curious, I wriggled out from under the duvet, and read.
Amelia, I’m sorry for contacting you like this, but you didn’t reply to my email.
Damn it. How the hell did he get my number?
I automatically went to click delete. Then, realising that forewarned is forearmed, I ignored my heart, pounding with agitation and alarm, and carried on reading.
Can we at least just talk? I understand why you might hate me, but our child deserves the chance to know his father. Please don’t punish him because I was an idiot thirteen years ago. I hope very much to hear from you, Sean.
Okay, so now I could click delete.
If only I could delete those words so easily from my brain. Along with deleting my number from his phone. This was not good. I threw my phone out of the bed and burrowed back under the covers, fighting an overpowering surge of dread-induced nausea and agonising memories.
Ten minutes of freaking out later, I prised my hands off the side of my head and flipped the duvet back.
‘Enough, Amy!’ I barked. ‘A few hours ago, it was apparently“time”! What, a couple of stupid setbacks and you instantly revert to a pathetic mess? Get up, get the kettle on and get a plan together. You used to be a winner, for pity’s sake. You have to get a winning plan again.You have to!’
So, amazingly, after thirteen long years of flailing, wallowing, eating way too much processed sugar, hiding and letting life kick me in the butt, I somehow found the strength to haul myself out of bed, arm myself with a cup of chamomile tea and give it a bloody good go.
