‘Okay.’ I allow him this final ego prop, because what does it matter, now?
He jabs a finger in my direction. ‘You know you have serious attachment issues? You’re going to end up dying alone.’
I shut my eyes as I wait for the father of my baby to leave my flat and not come back.
SECTION III
44.
Rachel
March 2005
I’ve been sketching and painting every day, in the six months since Lawrence and I broke up. I draw while Emma feeds and sleeps, one-handed if I need to, while I could be washing, or napping, or getting my fix of trash TV. I trawl artists’ websites, hungry for inspiration. I see art in everything – the slant of light on a building, the texture of water creased by wind, a perfectly angled streetscape. I dream of pigments and patterns, colours colliding on canvases.
So, eventually, I decide to hand in my notice at the bank, before my maternity leave is up, to try to make a go of my art. My plan is to start slowly, accepting commissions for friends and acquaintances, and see where it takes me. Josh was always encouraging me to do this, when we were together. But I never felt brave enough. Now, though, feels like the right time to take the leap. And as Polly pointed out the other night, ‘If you don’t do it now, you never will.’
Lawrence, of course, thinks it’s a terrible idea. He says I’ll barely scrape by, that his mother – a semi-famous artist – makes a pittance. He insists I’ll never get another job as good as the one I already have, one that comes with annual leave and pension contributions and big fat bonuses.
And there is truth to some of that. But there is another truth inside me too, one I feel far more acutely. Which is that it’s time for a fresh start. Ineeda fresh start. In years to come, I want Emma to look at me and be proud of the person I am.
To my immense relief, it didn’t take Lawrence and me long to establish a tentative truce after we parted ways. It became apparent fairly quickly that we work far better apart than we ever did together. And, right now, nothing is more important to me than making sure his bond with his daughter remains tight. No matter what’s gone on between us, as long as I have breath in my body I will fight for Emma to know and love her father.
After Lawrence drops Emma home one Sunday night in March, I make tea and bathe her, then settle her down.
I never thought I’d miss the early days of night feeding, but, weirdly, I do. I remember it – far too nostalgically, of course – as girl time. Just the two of us, bonding as I consumed endless snacks and drinks and hours upon hours of mindless TV.
Once I’m back in the living room, and the flat has fallen quiet, my mind turns – as it so often does – to Josh.
This has been happening more and more frequently lately.
I think of him when I’m in bed, the flat dark and dormant. I find myself imagining him next to me. Touching me. Kissing me. The things he might whisper about what he wants us to do.
We haven’t spoken in seven months. Since he said I could always ring him, no matter what the time was.
So, tonight, I take him at his word. I get out my phone, and send him a text.
45.
Josh
March 2005
‘Can I see her?’
Rachel smiles and nods, beckons me gently to Emma’s room. It is a primrose-hued cocoon, filled with baby rabbits and bunting and gingham, the soft glow of a nightlight.
Together, we go in. I step over to her cot, look down at her sleeping.
She is beautiful, of course. Just like her mum.
The emotions arrive fast and thick, monsooning their way up my throat. I try very hard to focus on the entirely bonkers fact that this tiny human is half Rachel.
‘This is mad, Rach. You have a baby. Youmadeher.’
It could have been us. Itshouldhave been us.
Rachel’s smile is peaceful and content. Not at all like she’s mourning everything we could have been.
