The Fallout

She feels her blood pressure rising.

‘Right, Casper darling. Telly off.’ She looks at her watch.

‘Five more minutes,’ comes the wail.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Listen, darling, I thought since we’ve got Thea, we’ll go to Sainsbury’s. Have a really fun trip there. You can steer the trolley? Be like Captain … America, is it?’

‘Nooooooo Mummy. Noooo. I want telly.’

She inhales. Kindness and calm.

‘No. We’re going to Sainsbury’s. Like I just said. And please. You’ll wake Thea.’

His voice starts to rise, his legs thumping into the sofa.

‘Fine,’ she snaps. ‘Just turn off the telly. I’ll buy you a toy if you come with me now.’ She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth; she’s already gone way over budget this month and she had to teach Casper to do what he was told without a bribe. But with a tiny zing of relief, she watches as he leaps up off the sofa.

After she’s been to Sainsbury’s (thankfully, Thea had remained asleep) and thrown anything and everything sugary that Casper wanted into the bottom of the pram, just to shut him up, she decides to go straight to Liza’s.

She always has her spare key which Liza had handed to her when she and Gav had separated. She’ll open up, organise everything in the fridge, put the fish pie she’s bought into a Le Creuset and trim and arrange the bunch of purple lilies she’s bought in preparation for their homecoming.

Casper can hang out in the playroom and she’ll feed Thea and pray she lies there quietly whilst she gets everything done. This will be the start of everything, she tells herself. The start of making it up to Liza. She’ll need a morning or two to sort out the flat if she and the kids are to move in. But that’s OK. She’ll make up the beds, check everything is in order. She’d started doing it last week, after all, when they’d planned for Airbnb renters. And then she’ll get Tom to come round. He would soon enough. They’ve had such a difficult time this last year. It would be a chance to start afresh.

‘Casper? Go to Jack’s playroom when we get in. And don’t start pulling everything out.’ She pulls out her key and struggles inside with the pram. ‘Thea, I’m coming. Time for food.’

She’s always been envious of Liza’s house. The sleek, marble open-plan kitchen. The black barstool and the big island with the copper drop lighting. It even has three holes in it in which you can drop different types of rubbish. There is also the abundance of unlit Jo Malone and other smart looking candles (Liza thinks it a dreadful waste to ever use them), soft, fluffy cushions and sharp lines that draw the eye to the end of the house. But today, without Liza, it feels cold. Today Sarah sees it for what it is – which is a place totally at odds with her friend’s laid-back, slightly chaotic, down-to-earth character. It’s all Gav, she thinks, totally up his street. Liza must be more beholden to him than Sarah ever realised. She thinks about her strong, feisty friend. How recently she’d agree with Gav in front of his face – whatever he said – and then afterwards, she’d say something totally different. It’s almost as if she’d do anything to get back with him. It hadn’t been like that when they’d first met. In fact, it had been Gav doing all the running. His tall frame, following Liza around the room, eyes sparkling at the sight of her. What the hell had happened?

‘There, there Thea.’ Sarah makes a token effort at spinning some coloured beads on the bar of Thea’s bouncy chair. She empties the dishwasher (that’s more like Liza, she thinks – everything thrown in higgledy-piggledy piles), cleans out the fridge (also more like Liza – wilting coriander stalks, broccoli stems and soggy aubergines: evidence of her failed weekly good intentions) and puts two loads of sheets in the wash.

She transfers the fish pie into a dish, cling-filming the top. She writes a message on a small, pink notepad. Thirty five mins @180,and she tears off another piece and writes a list of what she’s done and what food she’s bought. She’s starting to feel a little better. Thea starts to whine. Sarah makes up her milk and goes into the playroom, where Casper is building Duplo.

‘You OK, darling? Mummy’s just going to feed Thea now. OK?’

‘Can you help me Mummy? I want to build a space station.’

‘Of course. Just tell me what you want.’ She rests Thea’s bottle in her mouth and uses her elbow to keep it upright. ‘Here.’

She passes her son a plastic cube, in an effort to look as though she is engaging with him. Be present, as all the Mama blogs say. This time goes much too fast. Before you know it, they’ll be teens and they’ll never let you kiss their sleepy heads again. (She’d always silently told the authors of these blogs to go fuck themselves at three in the morning when the prospect of sleep was impossible, and then felt teary-eyed and guilty about that too.)

He takes it without looking. Thea sounds content. Phew. She’s done it. She can do this. Breathe. Just as she’s starting to feel on top of things, she hears a key in the lock. It must be Gav, or Liza. They have no parents between them, and she knows Liza’s cleaner is not due today.

‘Hello? Liza? It’s me, Sarah,’ she shouts. ‘I let myself in.’ No answer. Weird. Despite the surge of adrenaline, she doesn’t move. Thea’s too settled – better Sarah gets hurt than wake the baby – and she’s quite frozen.

‘Liza?’ she shouts.

‘Oh!’ says a voice. ‘Someone’s here,’ and then another, quieter voice in the background. ‘Hello? It’s Mary O’Sullivan here. I’ve come to help out.’

There’s a rustle of plastic bags and more footsteps and then the living-room door opens. The bottle of milk falls out of Thea’s mouth and she starts to cry.

‘Oh hello.’

Sarah looks up at a short-haired lady dressed in full Norland Nanny uniform.

‘Like I said, I’m Mary,’ she smiles. ‘Oh, and look at that delicious, gorgeous little bundle. Here, let me.’

And before Sarah can say another word, Mary has whipped Thea out of her arms, bottle and all, and is cooing in her ear. ‘There, there. Is this Thea then? I’ve seen a picture. Isn’t she gorgeous. Aren’t you gorgeous?’