‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Dad said, opening the door to let Toby in before heading to his car.
‘Everything okay?’ Toby asked, bouncing a screaming baby on his hip as we walked to the kitchen.
‘Nope. Everything okay with you?’
His grin instantly collapsed.
‘Reunion’s off, then?’ I asked, patting his back a few agonising sobs later, Hazel cocooned between us, still sniffling.
‘I was looking at your loft,’ Toby said, abruptly changing the subject as he surreptitiously wiped his face on the shoulder of my top. ‘There used to be an outside staircase, round the back. The door is still there. Nice-sized windows. It must have been an annexe once. There’s probably electrics and decent flooring, although they’d need updating. It’d be easy to convert into a granny flat, only for an idiot teenager.’
‘An idiot teenager? Not you, then?’
‘Could get someone over to have a look at it, see what they think. Are you cooking Mexican? It smells awesome.’
‘By wonderful coincidence I have a burrito going spare.’
‘Want a salad making?’
I handed him a tissue, and a pack of tomatoes.
When Finn and Isla came in to help their honorary big brother set the table, for a few blissful minutes it felt as thoughI was the kind of woman who could survive anything. Mum turning up, Dad not being around so much, Toby turning my loft into a bachelor pad, Brayden’s second not-even-close-to-midlife crisis… an actual date for the first time in ten years.
After all, I’d survived worse.
39
THEN
I woke to the sound of thumping on a door. Brutally loud and accompanied by shouting that it took my startled brain a few seconds to process.
‘Jonah? Open the door, please, or we’re coming in.’
Why was Mum banging on my door asking for Jonah?
Oh no. Ohcrap.
I opened my eyes and saw, not the green of my attic bedroom, but Jonah’s dark-blue walls. He stirred beside me, shaking his head and squinting his eyes.
‘Jonah?’ Dad.
Eyes widening, Jonah froze, mouthing a string of swear words. Before I could decide whether to dive under the covers or bolt for his wardrobe, the bedroom door opened.
For three seconds it was as though the world stopped turning.
Mum and Dad stood in the doorway in stunned silence.
Then all hell broke loose.
Shouting, crying, Dad ripping the duvet off us – thank goodness I was still dressed, and Jonah had his shorts on. Smallconsolation in the grand scheme of things, but I preserved that tiny iota of dignity, at least.
Jonah tried to physically shield me from the torrent of anger, but that only enraged Dad even more. Abandoning any hint of professionalism, he wrenched Jonah to the side, grabbing my wrist to yank me off the bed.
‘Dad, stop!’ I was too stunned at that point to cry or resist. ‘Nothing happened! Please, stop!’
‘You being in this boy’s bed happened,’ Mum screeched. I’d occasionally seen my parents grow irate at social services, ignorant teachers or having to stand by helpless as one of their foster children suffered, but nothing like this. They’d borne physical blows, verbal abuse – one girl ripped up Dad’s late parents’ wedding photo – and never once lost their temper.
I huddled in the corner as Mum grabbed a sports bag and started stuffing Jonah’s things into it, sobbing.
