Memories of Olivia and Emily inventing names for nail varnishes resurfaced, but I pushed them gently away. “No,” I contradicted my friend. “I’ll have a Brimming Over Cup, and she’ll have a Bitter Cow.”
Rosie grinned. The barman looked as if he were contemplating quitting.
“Actually,” Rosie said, “my friend’s wrong. I’m so over Bitter Cows. I’m all about Sowing Wild Oats now. It’s utterly delicious, Beth. You should definitely try it.” She smiled at the barman. “Yes, I’ll have a Sowing Wild Oats, please. With extra oats.”
I burst out laughing. The barman glanced nervously over his shoulder for his supervisor, who was nowhere in sight. “Er, I’m very sorry, madam,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m not familiar with any of those cocktails.”
“Well,” I said, “in that case, we’ll both have mojitos, thanks.”
“Spoilsport,” said Rosie after the barman had scurried off to make them. “I can just taste that No Commitment now. Passion fruit, peaches, and vodka with a dash of champagne.”
“It sounds absolutely disgusting.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“I have tried it. It gave me a hangover.”
We smiled at each other, both aware we weren’t talking about cocktails.
“You’ll be all right, kid,” she said. “We both will.”
But later, as I tried to get to sleep, I realised what Rosie had said was true. Our friendship would never be quite the same once I had a child. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t continue, did it? We’d been friends forever. We always would be.
19
“What makes you want to adopt a child now, Beth?”
Clare Carter was seated at my dining room table, next to my shelving unit. I’d liked Clare the least out of the three social workers at the introductory session. I’d respected her—she’d seemed experienced and very good at her job. But I hadn’t wanted her to be allocated to my case, because I sensed that the other two social workers—Jenny and Sallyanne—might give me an easier ride. But of course, I’d been teamed up with Clare. Of course.
Clare struck me as a woman of strong opinions. For example, I saw her notice the colour I’d painted the shelving unit—flamingo pink—the minute I’d shown her into the living room. While she didn’t quite shudder, it was a very close-run thing. She certainly thought a shudder.
I supposed the shelves were quite bright against the jade-green walls, especially with all the tinsel and Christmas decorations adorning the items on display, but after the paint stripper didn’t work, I went to the DIY shop, and that pink just called to me. It was as if Richard were looking over my shoulder. I could almost hear him laughing. If that’s the colour you want, you go for it, girl. But make sure to do two coats. Pink can come out a bit streaky.
I invited Clare to sit on the sofa—I thought soft furnishings might be a bit less formal and more relaxing. But she opted for a wooden dining chair at the table, so I guessed she wanted it to feel formal and unrelaxed. But perhaps I’d have felt tense on the sofa.
As I sat down opposite her, I wished my chair were facing the garden instead of the door to the spare bedroom. A view of the garden and the odd friendly sparrow or blackbird might have helped me feel less like I was facing a firing squad.
But this was no good. No good. I had to focus. Put any negative thoughts behind me. This woman had the power to make or break my dreams. Besides, it was hardly a controversial question, was it? What makes you want to adopt a child now?
“Well, I’ve always wanted to have children, and I’m thirty-seven now. Mentally and financially, I’m ready for it. I don’t have any debts, and my job is secure . . .”
God, I sounded as if I were speaking in support of a bank loan application. I’d put all this across much better in the written application I’d agonised over for a week—the one I’d read snippets of to friends, tweaking the tone, triple-checking spellings and grammar.
I sighed. Dried up.
Clare Carter smiled. “Take your time.”
“I suppose I thought I’d have a family by now, but for one reason or another, that hasn’t happened, so I thought . . . Well, I’m sure you’ve read about my situation. My childhood. I was practically adopted myself after my parents died—my Aunt Tilda and my friend’s parents shared care of me. So I thought . . . well, you’re always hearing about children needing families, aren’t you? I thought maybe I could put my experience to good use. To help a child.”
It sounded frustratingly lame to my ears. Certainly, I’d done little to convey the exciting light-bulb moment I’d had in the bath one Sunday night, lying in the bubbles contemplating my childless state. Why not adopt? Christ on a bike! I could try to adopt!
“Thank you,” said Clare, jotting a note down on her pad. “There’s a lot to unpack there. Why don’t we start by discussing that distressing time in your life when you lost your parents? How did you find out about their accident?”
My stomach clenched. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. I generally play with my hair when I have to talk about this kind of heavy stuff, but I was trying really hard not to fidget like a nervous wreck.
“I was at school. In a science lesson. We were doing an experiment to learn about electric currents. The school secretary came to fetch me out of class. When I got to reception, there was Aunt Tilda, standing with the head teacher. They took me into the office, and then . . . well, they told me.”
I hadn’t wanted to leave that experiment. Mrs. Hounslow, my teacher, had put me in charge of my group, and we were about to be the first group to connect up the light at the top of a model lighthouse. No doubt my expression had been surly as hell as I followed the school secretary out to reception. I had no idea why I’d been called out of class. Mum and Dad were still away, so it wouldn’t be my mum waiting to take me to the dentist or some other forgotten appointment. It was Aunt Tilda. And Aunt Tilda as I’d never seen her before, her smart black jacket done up on the wrong buttons, her eyes red rimmed as if she’d been crying.
“So you went to live with your aunt?”
I nodded. “Yes.” If it had been anybody else, I’d probably have changed the subject at this point. Offered them another cup of tea or a biscuit. Asked them a question about themselves. Anything so they’d take the hint and drop it. I’d been a very miserable young girl for quite a long time after my parents died, and I didn’t like to dwell on it.
But if I wanted this application to work, I didn’t have a choice, did I? If Clare Carter wanted me to talk about the day I lost my virginity or my first experience of smoking, I would have to talk about it, wouldn’t I? She called all the shots.
“And what was Tilda like?”
I thought about it for a moment. “‘Worried’ probably describes it best. Stressed. But that’s hardly surprising, is it? She was a single woman with a high-powered job in the city, without much experience with children, and suddenly she had complete responsibility for the well-being of a nine-year-old child. It was no wonder she was worried and stressed . . .”