She turns to me and smiles sweetly. ‘Cross my heart.’
I find a spot in a multistorey car park next to the station, and we get out. I open the boot and haul out her rucksack, before helping her to hoist it onto her back.
‘What are you going to do with yourself when I’m gone?’ she asks, as we head towards the station.
‘Oh . . . who knows. I’m sure I’ll keep busy.’
‘I don’t meanwork,’she says, with a note of disdain. ‘I mean something interesting. You must have put some thought into it.’
I have not had time forthought.But I can’t imagine myself being at a loose end, no matter what the circumstances. Like most women of my generation, I don’t have the capacity to be idle. You’d never catch me reclining on a chaise longue, G&T in hand in the middle of the afternoon – though, come to think of it, maybe I’ve been doing life all wrong.
I do have interests outside Frankie and my job, as a senior buyer for a national chain of homeware and fashion stores.
I work out at the gym regularly. Occasionally, I’ll babysit for my brother. I have also been dating, though I use the term in its loosest sense. Still, it’s hard to deny that this probablyiswhat’s been happening between Gavin and me on Friday nights lately.
If Frankie’s departure leaves me with any spare time, then I have plenty to fill it with – the kind of jobs I’ve promised myself for years I’ll get round to one day. Such as organising my drawers like the women on Instagram with their cleaning hacks, or pre-preparing nutritious salads in mason jars every Sunday, or rubbing lemon-scented essential oils on my sofas. Maybe I’ll take up Gavin’s offer to start training with him more often at Pure Fitness. It’s certainly possible that I have actual abs hiding somewhere underneath those squidgy bits.
I’ve only got as far as listing the salads when Frankie stifles a yawn. I turn to her, with an offended frown.
‘Sorry!’ she laughs. ‘It just doesn’t sound hugely fascinating, you must admit.’
‘Just because I don’t plan to go paragliding every weekend,’ I reply, as the doors to the station open and something occurs to me. ‘You’renot planning on going paragliding, are you?’
But by now she’s marching across the concourse, looking every inch the student backpacker in frayed jeans, DMs and a faded hoodie that is unlikely to smell of my fabric conditioner for much longer.
She is a head-turner, my daughter, long-legged and beautiful by anyone’s definition. Though she is light-skinned, she has her dad’s Afro hair, which – after a decade of battling with straighteners – she now wears natural, like when she was a little girl. It was a conscious decision to embrace her mixed-race heritage, and it looks gorgeous in my view. Not that any teenage daughter cares about her mother’s opinion on near enough anything as far as I can tell.
‘Will you text me as soon as you get to France?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ she says soothingly, like she’s reassuring an anxious five-year-old on her first day of school.
‘Thanks, love,’ I say, in the full knowledge that it’s never going to happen.
Milly is waiting for us on the station platform. Frankie’s best friend is almost a foot shorter than she is, with a severe, brown bob that reminds me of the hair on a Lego figure. Flanked by both parents, she is dressed like a Cub Scout Akela, compass attached to her straps, sturdy walking boots and a rucksack so big it threatens to tip her over.
‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence.’
I have tried to persuade Milly to call me Jules, to no avail. Even when she overindulged in Krispy Kremes at a sleepover once – and I found myself rubbing her back while she retched into a toilet bowl – she still managed to croak, ‘Sorry Mrs Lawrence. I hope I didn’t ruin your shoes . . .’
Being off her face on doughnuts is about as wild as it gets for Milly. That is my glimmer of hope – the only thing that will allow me to sleep for the next six months. If nothing else, I know I can count on Frankie’s cautious, sensible friend to keep her on the straight and narrow.
We wait on the platform, chatting until the train to London pulls in. From there, the girls will take the Eurostar to Paris and spend their first night in a pre-booked hostel whose TripAdvisor reviews I have studied extensively. As the doors open, an audible whimper escapes from Milly’s mother’s throat. Frankie throws me a look that renews my determinationnotto be that woman.
‘This is it then,’ I say, brightly. Frankie steps forward and takes a deep breath. ‘Your dad would’ve been so proud of you,’ I whisper.
At that, she seems to swallow something stuck in her throat and a glaze begins to form on her eyes. Then she coughs and smiles and opens her arms wide.
‘Come on then. Bring it in,’ she says.
I fold myself into her embrace and squeeze, as she pats me on the shoulder, likeI’mthe child, not her, something she did even when she was tiny. I have a sudden memory of those hugs she’d give me before parties or camping trips, when she’d tell me how much she was going to miss me, before promptly disappearing without a second glance.
Which is near enough what happens now.
‘One last thing,’ I say, as she steps onto the train. She turns to look at me. ‘Have the time of your life, all right?’
She blows me a kiss and waves.
‘Love you, Mum!’ she calls out, before stepping inside.
