The Good Part(50)

Dad volunteers to drive Sam to the train station, but I manage to grab Sam alone at the door before he leaves.

‘So, last night was fun,’ I say, shooting him a cheeky grin while reaching for his hand.

‘Yeah, it was,’ he says, a brief, guilty look crossing his face. Does he feel bad we haven’t made time to talk, to discuss whatever it is he hasn’t told me? My mind jumps to what it might be – did they, we, have a miscarriage, multiple rounds of IVF? Maybe we had a bad patch in our marriage and more kids were off the table for a while. Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to know right now.

‘I don’t need to be told everything all at once, the stuff I’ve forgotten,’ I tell him. ‘Can we just enjoy this bit for now, catch up on the rest later?’ I search his face – does he understand? I just want to hold on to this glorious feeling for a little longer, where everything about the other person is ahead of you, yet to be discovered. I don’t need the crib notes on our whole relationship history before it’s even started.

I lean in to kiss him on the lips, but he moves this head and plants a kiss on my cheek.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You’re really going to be okay without me?’

‘Of course.’ I reach out a hand to catch his waist, but he’s already turned to go.

‘And you will call me if there’s anything, with the kids?’

I nod.



Once Sam and Dad have left, I end up confiding in Mum about my work situation. She insists I spend the afternoon hunting down this ‘big idea’ while she fields the children. Ushering me off to my office, she says, ‘Lucy, when the world is spinning, work tethers us with purpose,’ which sounds like a misquote from a throw cushion, but I take her point. After my extended absence last week, wouldn’t it be great if I could stride into work tomorrow, Big Idea in hand, and save the day?

My office is tucked away at the back of the house. Opening the door gives me a Virginia Woolfish thrill. A wide wooden desk sits in front of an expensive-looking swivel chair, and tasteful framed prints hang on the walls. On the left-hand side is a bookshelf lined with awards: ‘Best Independent Production Company – Badger TV’; ‘BAFTA Children’s Award, Best Animation – Underwater Sam’. On the bookshelf are books covered in Post-it notes, written in my handwriting. On one, Fairies aren’t Real, I’ve written, ‘Potential stop animation?’ On another, Space Camp, ‘Eight-part series, one episode per planet.’ This whole room is full of ideas.

The laptop unlocks with my fingerprint, but after skimming through various folders, I can’t find anything obvious. I do find an up-to-date CV, listing every show I’ve ever worked on, and a thought takes hold – if I watch all these, I could fill in the gaps, catch up on what I’ve missed. Soon I’m lost in a rabbit hole of research. In each new programme, I see some element that might have come from me. I’m also burning with a new sense of pride – I worked on these shows, these good shows, there’s my name on the credits. A familiar creative spark ignites, as new ideas vie for my attention, and I look for a pen to jot them down.

On the desk, there’s a photo of me and Sam. He’s standing with his arm around me in a garden. I whisper to myself, ‘You did it’. You stuck at it, you weathered the terrible pay and the fierce competition, and you got your ideas made. You got what we always wanted. The thought puts a new steel in my belly – I’ve been left in charge of Badger TV, for how long, I don’t know, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Coleson Matthews, or anyone else, take it away on my watch.

I shoot a text to Michael:



Apologies for the radio silence. I’m finally feeling better – have lots of ideas to discuss. I’ll be in the office tomorrow first thing. L



He replies straight away:



Wonderful. So glad you’re better. You had me sweating there. M



Ideas I can do. Ideas are my forte. I used to think of them sitting on my bed, scribbling down titles for shows in dog-eared notebooks. Here I have a massive desk, a fancy computer and a bookshelf full of inspiration. Plus, I don’t even need to think of loads of ideas, I just need one. How hard can it be to come up with one brilliant show idea?





Chapter 20


‘You’re really fine with us going?’ Mum asks later that evening when they’re finally packed and ready to go. I’ve insisted they leave tonight. The children are in bed, Maria will be here early in the morning and I have everything under control. Mum’s friend Nell is expecting them in Wales, and I know they want to beat the morning traffic.

‘I’m fine. You’ll have a clear run-up if you leave now,’ I reassure her.

She dithers at the door while Dad rearranges the contents of the boot for the umpteenth time. As I watch her run a hand through her short grey hair, it strikes me that this style suits her better than wearing it long ever did. Before, she was always checking her hair in the mirror, constantly smoothing it flat with her palms. This short style has her much more at ease.

‘Will you still be okay for next month?’ Mum asks. ‘I’m having my cataracts operation. You said you would come and stay for a couple of days, I might need a bit of help.’ She flushes slightly. She has never asked me for help with anything before.