them.’
‘How’s the manuscript going?’ Leo asked a moment later as Adele stepped from the bath and pulled a towel around herself.
‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘You know, Dylan’s school are giving them two-week half-terms now. I was half tempted to give the girls the same so I can work on it some more when Gordon’s gone.’ She sat on the arm of the sofa and looked at Leo. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think as long as Catkin’s on track with her GCSE studies, then why not? The weather’s so nice. I might even take some time off work too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, why not? I can take the girls off your hands maybe, do a day trip or two. It’s the least I could do to repay you for looking after my old bastard of a father all week. It’s the least I could do to repay you for everything you do. Seriously.’
‘I really do love you sometimes, Leo.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Yes, sometimes. Sometimes I hate you.’
‘But right now you love me?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
Leo smiled, wolfishly, and patted her side of the futon.
Adele let her bath towel fall to the floor, and climbed in next to him.
The following morning Adele put Scout on a lead and walked him around the gardens for a while. The girls were all still sleeping; Leo was showering; she’d taken Gordon his morning toast and jam and water for his painkillers.
It was a pale, bland morning, no cloud, yet no sun, the lawn still dewy underfoot. Scout tugged at the lead and Adele checked the time on her watch. Not even eight thirty. Was it too early, she thought, to knock on Clare’s back door? She decided to pass by, discreetly, see if there were any signs of life. The girls said it was the one near the halfway house, with the giant magnolia tree in the back garden. She stood, nonchalantly, on the path outside, pretending to adjust Scout’s collar. The light was on in the kitchen, the curtains open in the living room. She saw a head pass the window and the steam of a boiling kettle blooming into condensation on the glass. She came to the back door and knocked gently. Pip appeared, in fluffy pyjamas, her thick curls in disarray.
‘Hi,’ she said uncertainly, her hands tucked inside the sleeves of her pyjamas.
‘Sorry,’ said Adele, ‘it’s really early. I just wondered if your mummy was here.’
Pip crouched down to pet the dog and called over her shoulder for her mother.
Clare, thankfully, was dressed. She looked both surprised and displeased. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
She was a funny little thing, Adele observed. Made from tiny bones, with a pale, almost peaky face framed by an urchin cut of soft bleached hair. She wore no make-up apart from a coat of the kind of mascara that gives you unnaturally long eyelashes. The overall appearance was that of a newly born lamb.
‘Hello, don’t know if you remember me, I’m Adele, mother of the three girls …’
‘Yes,’ said Clare, ‘I remember. From across the garden.’
‘Yes!’ said Adele. ‘That’s me and it was lovely to meet you the other day and I wanted to say I’m so sorry I couldn’t ask you in or stop and chat but, like I said, we had a last-minute house guest on the way and anyway … we were thinking – me and Leo – the girls all seem to be getting along so well and we wondered if you might all like to come over for supper one night. We were thinking maybe Friday next week? My father-in-law will be in hospital then and we’ll be a lot more relaxed. And nothing fancy. Just a pie or something?’ Adele knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t quite stop herself. It was something to do with the way Clare was staring at her as if she was waiting impatiently for her to get to the point. But the point had been reached and passed, yet still the words fell from Adele’s mouth.
‘Would you like that? And obviously if you have a partner or someone else you wanted to bring …?’ Adele looked beyond Clare into her flat; it was immaculate. Horribly so. White walls, grey
‘How’s the manuscript going?’ Leo asked a moment later as Adele stepped from the bath and pulled a towel around herself.
‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘You know, Dylan’s school are giving them two-week half-terms now. I was half tempted to give the girls the same so I can work on it some more when Gordon’s gone.’ She sat on the arm of the sofa and looked at Leo. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think as long as Catkin’s on track with her GCSE studies, then why not? The weather’s so nice. I might even take some time off work too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, why not? I can take the girls off your hands maybe, do a day trip or two. It’s the least I could do to repay you for looking after my old bastard of a father all week. It’s the least I could do to repay you for everything you do. Seriously.’
‘I really do love you sometimes, Leo.’
‘Sometimes?’
‘Yes, sometimes. Sometimes I hate you.’
‘But right now you love me?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
Leo smiled, wolfishly, and patted her side of the futon.
Adele let her bath towel fall to the floor, and climbed in next to him.
The following morning Adele put Scout on a lead and walked him around the gardens for a while. The girls were all still sleeping; Leo was showering; she’d taken Gordon his morning toast and jam and water for his painkillers.
It was a pale, bland morning, no cloud, yet no sun, the lawn still dewy underfoot. Scout tugged at the lead and Adele checked the time on her watch. Not even eight thirty. Was it too early, she thought, to knock on Clare’s back door? She decided to pass by, discreetly, see if there were any signs of life. The girls said it was the one near the halfway house, with the giant magnolia tree in the back garden. She stood, nonchalantly, on the path outside, pretending to adjust Scout’s collar. The light was on in the kitchen, the curtains open in the living room. She saw a head pass the window and the steam of a boiling kettle blooming into condensation on the glass. She came to the back door and knocked gently. Pip appeared, in fluffy pyjamas, her thick curls in disarray.
‘Hi,’ she said uncertainly, her hands tucked inside the sleeves of her pyjamas.
‘Sorry,’ said Adele, ‘it’s really early. I just wondered if your mummy was here.’
Pip crouched down to pet the dog and called over her shoulder for her mother.
Clare, thankfully, was dressed. She looked both surprised and displeased. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
She was a funny little thing, Adele observed. Made from tiny bones, with a pale, almost peaky face framed by an urchin cut of soft bleached hair. She wore no make-up apart from a coat of the kind of mascara that gives you unnaturally long eyelashes. The overall appearance was that of a newly born lamb.
‘Hello, don’t know if you remember me, I’m Adele, mother of the three girls …’
‘Yes,’ said Clare, ‘I remember. From across the garden.’
‘Yes!’ said Adele. ‘That’s me and it was lovely to meet you the other day and I wanted to say I’m so sorry I couldn’t ask you in or stop and chat but, like I said, we had a last-minute house guest on the way and anyway … we were thinking – me and Leo – the girls all seem to be getting along so well and we wondered if you might all like to come over for supper one night. We were thinking maybe Friday next week? My father-in-law will be in hospital then and we’ll be a lot more relaxed. And nothing fancy. Just a pie or something?’ Adele knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t quite stop herself. It was something to do with the way Clare was staring at her as if she was waiting impatiently for her to get to the point. But the point had been reached and passed, yet still the words fell from Adele’s mouth.
‘Would you like that? And obviously if you have a partner or someone else you wanted to bring …?’ Adele looked beyond Clare into her flat; it was immaculate. Horribly so. White walls, grey
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