Read Online All We Have Lost by Aimee Alexander - Free Book Online

asleep. We cover him back up and kiss the top of his head.
     
    I made an effort with dinner – roast chicken isn’t actually that hard – and Ian seems to appreciate it.
    ‘Let’s get a babysitter,’ I suggest.
    He grimaces.
    ‘Just for an hour. To go for a walk.’
    ‘We need to cut back. We can’t go on spending like we are.’
    ‘I know. I’ve totally cut back but I need to get out. I’ve had the children all day.’
    ‘Right, then, you go. I’ll go later.’
    ‘Who’ll I talk to?’
    ‘I’m serious, Kim. Once a week is enough for us to go out, for the moment – at least until I’m permanent. We’ve the mortgage to think about.’
    No point suggesting a new kitchen then. I grab my keys and phone, briefly worry about axe murderers, then remind myself I’ll become one if I don’t get out.
    ‘See you later then.’
    ‘See you later.’
    His kiss feels like a consolation prize.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    After a day of tantrums (Sam), whining (Chloe) and total frustration (me), I do not greet my husband with a warm bosom, slippers or even the standard, ‘How was your day?’ What he gets is a flat, ‘I’m going for a walk.’
    He looks at me.
    ‘It’s either that or lose my mind. They’re in bed.’ I head for the door before he finds out Sam’s still awake.
    ‘But I’m just home,’ he says, like another child.
    ‘You’re dinner’s in the oven.’
    ‘I was talking about your company.’
    ‘I’ll be great company – when I get back.’
    There’s a gentle thud from upstairs and then a succession of smaller ones. Sam appears at the top of the stairs. The demon child looks so suddenly adorable, all soft and squishy, hair defying gravity.
    ‘Sam, back to bed.’ I turn to Ian. ‘Or you could have a man-to-man chat while you’re eating dinner? I’ll put him to bed when I get back. I won’t be long. Promise.’
    ‘All right, go on then.’ He sighs and heads up the stairs to our son.
    I try to ignore the permission-granted tone of voice and hurry into our neighbour’s house for a pee. I can’t risk going back – I might never get out again. I also borrow a hat. It’s freezing. It’s summer and it’s freezing.
    I walk fast, arms pumping. I even break into a run. It does help. By the time I get home, I’m feeling almost human. Ian is unconscious on the couch, his arm around our sleeping son. I take a moment to admire them, then slip Sam out and carry him up to bed.
    I take out my laptop and try to fix Peripheral Fear , the novel that is proving a peripheral nightmare.
     
    Friday and Connor is throwing a party.
    ‘Guess who’s babysitting tonight?’ I ask Sam to distract him from the fact that I’m washing his hair.
    ‘ Sally?! ’
    ‘No, Sally wasn’t free. Guess again.’
    ‘Angela?’
    ‘Got it in two, mister.’ I turn to his sister. ‘Chloe, I need you be a little more careful about what you say to Angela, this time. No more talk about hairy arms.’
    ‘I was just trying to help.’
    ‘I know, sweetie, but you’ve got to trust that Angela can look after her own body, OK?’
    Last time, Chloe suggested that Angela shave her arms because they were ‘hairy like a man’s’. By way of encouragement, she added that I always shave mine. When Angela suggested that I might shave under my arms, Chloe insisted, ‘No, she shaves her arms.’ The fact that Angela relayed the story in vivid detail gives me hope that she wasn’t too upset by the unintentional hairy arms insult.
    Angela arrives to a hero’s welcome – from all three of us. I hurry upstairs to get ready.
    I throw on the outfit I managed to select earlier. I stand in front of the mirror, something I haven’t been doing much of, lately. Good God, are those my hips? I try different trousers. And look worse. I resort to black and promise to exercise.
    In the bathroom, I put on make up, another forgotten activity. I squint and lean in to the mirror. Is that a grey hair ? Jesus Christ. There’s a full-length silver