Another audible gasp.
‘He’s renting that back room off me. I could use the extra help, since you’ve been promising to pay me child support in the form of shares in your still-non-existent new business. But I appreciate the apology. Shall we get on with the session now?’
I might be a wreck in all sorts of ways. I was lonely, and more than a little lost. But, boy, Brayden was right about one thing. Building my brilliant business while raising two small children had made me tough and brave and, below the stress and the mess, understand what really mattered. I was so grateful that I was finally putting that into action.
‘He left you for Silva? When you had two littlies?’ Claudia’s birth partner suddenly asked. ‘That’s not cool.’
‘And whatever the excuse, it’s a bit much bringing her to the classes.’ Chris, the dad with four kids, turned to his partner. ‘See? You think I was bad!’
‘You were bad,’ Jemima replied. ‘You told your not-yet-ex-wife that I was your niece. On balance, that’s probably worse.’
I powered through a one-off private antenatal class on Tuesday evening, and the Bloomers postnatal session on Wednesday. Doing my best to keep on top of things while adding more items to the new to-do list, the one with an achievable number of things to do, rather than a billion. When I found myself wide awake at one o’clock on Thursday morning, I dug out an old notebook and tried journaling again for the first time since I was a teenager, the process reminding me of how cathartic putting my feelings onto paper could be. I scrawled pages aboutBrayden and his unexpected apology, the wonderful weirdness of adjusting to Toby and Hazel being around, and – of course – my hopes and fears about the upcoming dinner with Jonah and Ellis.
My fears? That Ellis still resented me for what happened. That it would be stilted and awkward and we’d have nothing to talk about. Jonah would hear how my life had turned out and conclude I was a loser. Then he’d throw into the conversation some anecdote about his incredible girlfriend, or wife, and, even though I couldn’t and didn’t want to be either of those things, I’d choke on a piece of chicken and the grumpy waiter with sweaty hands would perform the Heimlich manoeuvre in front of everyone.
My hopes? I tried to hope for an enjoyable evening with people I once cared deeply about. I wanted to hope that I’d connect with Ellis well enough to become a supportive friend, or at least enough to keep her coming along to Bloomers.
But the events of the past few days, seeing Jonah again, the very fact that we were meeting up, had stirred up that old naïve optimist inside me. The thingsshehoped for, I wouldn’t even admit to my journal.
The evening was overcast, so in a last-minute panic I threw on a newish pair of jeans – two years old counted as new compared to the rest of my wardrobe, anyway – a thin-knit jumper with a flattering neckline that made me feel more curvy than dumpy, and a pair of sandals that were so old I had a feeling they were back in fashion again. I dug out my old hair tongs and played about with my new hairstyle, then dabbed on a smattering of make-up.
Jonah or Ellis wouldn’t care, but it had been far too long since I’d cultivated some personal pride, so it meant a lot to me.
‘Looking good, Libby!’ Toby winked when I nipped into the kitchen to check the kids were eating their fishfingers without causing any trouble.
‘I’ll be back for bedtime,’ I promised them. ‘You can skip a bath tonight, but if you’re good for Toby and get everything on the new chart ready for school tomorrow, I’ll read you an extra story.’
‘Ilovethe new chart!’ Isla sighed, dreamily.
‘Especially if we get a special treat at the end of the week!’ Finn added.
‘Me, too.’ I gave them both a kiss on the forehead, taking care to avoid ketchupy fingers.
‘What’s your special treat, Mummy?’ Isla asked. ‘There’s nothing on the list for you.’
‘Seeing you two happy is enough for me,’ I said, checking, for the third time, I’d got everything I needed in my bag.
Toby folded his arms and blocked my exit from the kitchen. ‘What’s your treat, Libby?’ he asked. ‘How are you showing these guys that mums deserve to be happy, too?’
I paused, glancing at the clock on the microwave, which, thanks to Toby, was now correct for the first time in forever.
‘I don’t have time to think one up now. I’ll add something to the chart later.’
Toby slowly pulled the pencil from behind his ear and handed it to me. ‘I think we can all agree you’ve put it off long enough.’
‘Fine!’ I grabbed the pencil and scribbled ‘bar of chocolate’ on the treat list.
‘A bar of chocolate?’ Toby said, making no effort to hide his contempt.
‘That’s rubbish, Mum.’ Finn shook his head mournfully. ‘Ours are way better. You’ve worked almost as hard as us at the chart.’
Almost?
I was tempted to write down ‘a child-free weekend in a luxury spa hotel’ but was scared Toby would somehow force me to go through with it.
‘I’m really late!’ I handed the pencil back to Toby, not wanting to admit how stumped I was when it came to thinking up something nice for myself. ‘You pick one.’
‘Fair enough.’
