Chapter One
An ordinary evening: stirring spaghetti hoops while craning my neck to check on Bertie. My precious boy sat in his usual spot, glued to the Xbox screen, building a Minecraft home from colourful blocks.
‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Bertie, did you hear me?’
Bertie grunted a reply, and I popped two pieces of white bread into the toaster and took the pan off the heat. If Rob found out I was feeding Bertie pasta hoops and white bread for dinner, he’d have a fit. This one small rebellion made me smile. I turned the radio up and tapped my foot as Taylor Swift’s latest song blasted out. I smiled again, twirling around as I wondered what my in-laws would think if they could see me now. To them, I wasOlivia, the Oxford-educated lover of classical music and Radio Four. To Bertie I wasLiv,lover of cheesy pop music and kitchen discos.
The toast popped up, and I smeared an extra thick serving of real butter onto it. Not the plastic, baby-sick-coloured healthy spread Rob kept in the fridge. I slopped the hoops over the bread, catching a dribble with my finger and licking it. The tastetook me back to a cramped dining room in a small house. A family of four squashed at the table, eating own-brand tinned food, which was all they could afford while the parents scrimped and saved their way through university. Those were the days.
I left the cavernous kitchen to fetch Bertie. He was sitting cross-legged, leaning back against the plush white sofa. White Dove carpet, Pegasus furniture, Fresh Kicks walls. I shuddered at the memory of my mother-in-law beating me into submission in the home decor store with her lecture on the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand shades of white. Living in our house was like being in a warm version of Lapland, the decor highly unsuitable for an eight-year-old boy.
I pulled the headset away from Bertie’s ears and leaned over to kiss his bushy black hair. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
Bertie reached up and brushed my kisses away, causing his hair to spike up like a helmet.
‘Come on, Bertie. Your food is getting cold.’
‘Is it vegetables?’ asked Bertie, wrinkling his nose.
‘Nope. Spaghetti hoops.’
Bertie held a hand aloft for me to high-five.
‘Thanks, Mum. I won’t tell Dad.’
‘Good boy,’ I said, smoothing down his hair as he walked past.
Bertie shovelled fat spoonfuls of dinner into his mouth and chewed like a cement-mixer. ‘You’d better remember your manners when we go to Grandpa’s at the weekend. No eating with your mouth full there.’
‘Not Grandpa’s, please.’
‘You know they love seeing you.’
‘They hate me.’
‘Of course they don’t.’
I’d become an excellent liar since becoming a wife and mother. Hate may be too strong a word, but Rob’s parents oozed dislike for their grandson, burying their feelings beneath a politestream of questions about his schooling and extra-curricular clubs. Despite their forced interest in Bertie’s life, their tight smiles, winces, creased foreheads, and occasional sighs told my emotionally intelligent son all he needed to know.
After gaining permission, Bertie jumped down from the table to return to his game and his friends. I cleared away the plates, rinsing out the can, crushing it beneath my boot, and hiding it at the bottom of the recycling bin so Rob wouldn’t find it.
‘Mum? Can I have a yogurt?’
‘Only if you come and eat it in here.’
‘I promise I won’t spill any.’
‘You know how your dad feels about eating in the living room.’
‘Stupid Dad.’
‘Bertie…’ My rebuke was pointless, for the headset was clamped over his ears once more.
With Bertie’s rebellious meal tidied away, I turned my attention to the fridge. Among the olives, hummus and rainbow of vegetables Rob put in his smoothies, I found two tuna steaks, and all the condiments I’d need to make the complex garlic and herb sauce Rob loved. At least the pain-in-the-butt sauce required the use of a few brain cells, unlike any of the other tasks I had performed that day.
After chopping, crushing, sautéing and stirring, I could leave the pan for long enough to send a message to Rob.
Dinner will be ready at 6.30 x
