‘Absolutely,’ I agree, taking the hint. ‘It’s been a whirlwind.’
I’m smiling and nodding in all the right places, but there’s tightness in my chest, the ‘out of place’ feeling I sometimes get among people I don’t know very well. Tilda and Simon seem so composed, so at ease with themselves. Multi-million-pound home or not, I can’t ever imagine measuring up to their kind of effortless charm.
‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink,’ I say. ‘This is our first visit, we’re not actually “in” yet.’
‘No, no. We won’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got loads to do,’ Tilda says, glancing at Simon. ‘But the other reason we came up was to invite you for dinner at our place. Once you’ve moved in, of course.’
‘A nice informal dinner,’ Simon adds quickly, looking at me. ‘Tilda’s a great cook and it’ll just be the four of us, a chance to chat so at least you’ll know two people here.’
Dev looks delighted. ‘Well, that sounds perfect,’ he says quickly. ‘Doesn’t it, Merri?’
‘Yes, lovely!’ I echo my husband. ‘Thank you so much, we’d love to come.’
Dev adds, ‘Let’s swap numbers and I’ll let you know when we have a definite moving date.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Simon says, with a wide smile that’s as flawless as the rest of him.
As Tilda and I exchange details, Dev takes Simon into the plant room to show him how the heat pump works.
‘You’re so lucky,’ Tilda says wistfully, gazing around theroom again. ‘This place is fantastic and I’m sure you’ll be really happy here.’
‘Thanks. I think we will.’ I smile, realizing it should be the truth without the shadow of unpaid bills to mar our peace. ‘We still haven’t taken in the win, to be honest.’
‘No kids?’ Tilda looks around the lounge, as if a toddler might be hiding in a corner somewhere.
‘No kids,’ I say, my throat tightening. I’ve lost count of how many people have asked that question since we got married. Perfect strangers feel entitled to wade straight in.
I look round with relief as Dev and Simon return from the plant room. We say our goodbyes, and as they turn to leave, I feel the discomfort in my chest ease.
As soon as the front door closes, Dev turns to me, his eyes bright.
‘See, Merri? The people around here are lovely. We’re going to fit in perfectly.’
Later, back in Nottingham when I’m lying in the bath and Dev has gone out for a run, I reflect on why I felt so anxious today. I wonder if it might have had something to do with the last time I made a life-changing move with someone I loved.
My sister and I went to a place that was supposed to be an amazing fresh start.
It turned out to be a place where everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
11
Sixteen Years Earlier
Beth and I sat on our respective beds in the dingy bedroom and stared at each other in disbelief. After months of uncertainty and what I thought were fleeting, empty promises, the care manager had just told us that the impossible had happened.
‘I have good news. You’re both going to live with Mr and Mrs Webb. The nice couple who’ve visited you a few times. A fresh start for you both. How about that?’
We’d been living at Clay Bank for over a year, ever since our mother had died unexpectedly from liver failure. Our dad had died when Beth was one, and there was no one else – no grandparents, no aunts or uncles stepping in to keep us together. Just me and Beth, and a terrifying unknown that gaped in front of us where our future should have been.
I hadn’t let myself think about what would happen if Mum didn’t make it, but when the moment came, it hit like a landslide. One day, we were in our flat, our lives chaotic but familiar. A few days later, strangers were sorting through our things, asking questions I couldn’t answer. I kept waiting for someone to step in, to take charge, to say,It’s all right, you’re both coming with me.But no one did. At just fifteen years old, I felt I should be responsible and have all the answers.
Being taken into care wasn’t like the horror stories I’d imagined, but it didn’t feel like home either. Clay Bank wasclean, ordered and full of people who were paid to look after us. But none of it felt real. Social workers talked to each other in hushed tones, decisions were sometimes made about us as if we weren’t in the room.
I clung to Beth, not sure if we’d be split up, never sure of anything except that whatever happened next, it was completely out of my hands.
After a few weeks, our care manager had quietly taken us aside and explained the fostering procedure. ‘We find that prospective foster parents are often looking for only one child and, in our experience, they tend to prefer babies and young children, usually under five years old,’ she said regretfully. ‘Of course, that’s not to say it won’t happen for you two and that you won’t find a placement together. I’m just giving you the facts because that’s what I’d want to have in your situation.’
Our little chat had gone straight over eleven-year-old Beth’s head, but at just sixteen, I was old enough to read between the lines. Miss Rachel was basically saying we were too old to be fostered – especially me – and, in the unlikely event someone did come along, they’d probably want only my little sister.
