I turn the grill on to 180 degrees, open the freezer to take out the fish fingers, and find there are none. I rummage through the cupboards, locate two cans of baked beans and one open can of dog food, a bit rank, but should be ok, Herbie eats anything. Stick the beans in the microwave and slip my frilly apron over my pants, an ironic moving-in gift from Tina, back when we shared a flat in London: ‘To my favourite Domestic Goddess!’ I see my old pal, grinning, off her face pretty much all the time on anything at all. The beans are hissing and spitting, jumping out of their skins. The microwave is spattered with bright orange sauce. Later. I’ll clean that later.
‘Anything good on?’ I place the dog’s plate on the couch beside him and Tommy’s plate on his knees.
‘Where are the fishies?’
‘Don’t start, Tommy. Remember the starving children in Africa?’ The moment I say it I wish I could force the words back inside. The kind of shit my father used to spew at me. ‘There was none left. We’ll get some tomorrow, ok?’
Tommy nods and lifts a spoon to his mouth.
‘Ouchy.’
‘Too hot, darling?’ I go to his plate and blow. ‘There now, see… Yummy?’ Lift the spoon and make an airplane noise as I bring it towards his mouth, which is clamped shut. See my hand moving of its own accord, slamming the spoon against his lips and forcing them to open. The clang of metal as the spoon falls from my shaking hand on to the floor. Hyper imaginings, never a good sign. ‘Ok, not to worry, you’ll eat when you’re hungry.’ I manage a jaunty wink before finding myself back in the kitchen, the bottle to my mouth, to hell with decorum, be still my banging heart.
The bottle emptied, a space opens up and my head feels liberated, as if I’ve just removed a too-tight elasticated band from my hair. Glide into the living room and flop down between my two boys, Tommy feeding Herbie the rest of his beans by hand: what a sweet, caring boy. I’ll make sure he eats later. Settle against the warmth of their bodies, feel mine softening, falling.
Sometime later an acrid smell of burnt cheese on toast from yesterday fills the room. I sit up too fast, head banging, dots dancing in my eyes. Black smoke is billowing under the kitchen door. Move as if in a trance, groggy, but pulse racing – is this another of my night hallucinations? Open the grill door, reach in, grab the handle, flames are leaping, drop the pan on to the floor – fuck, be still my walloping head. Wrap my hand in a soggy tea towel and lift the pan into the sink. Under the tap, and whoosh, the flames burst and die, black charcoal in their place. I lined the grill with baking paper instead of tinfoil, stupid stupid stupid woman. I see my son in the doorway, eyes huge and glassy. ‘Ok, Tommy, everything’s alright now.’
He smiles, his mouth tight and tilted, an exact replica of his grandfather, and says, ‘Beeootiful. Hot and slinky like the sun.’
Herbie whines. My hand is hot and scalded.
‘Water, Yaya.’
I smile at him, my little oracle, and hold my hand under the cold tap.
Every window will need to be opened. Every part of me is jangling. Feel myself crashing, falling into the pit. Should’ve known when I first saw her there on the beach, shimmering, irresistible, that this was the way it would go. Grab the full bottle, turn my back, undo the screw top with my teeth. Tell myself that what Tommy doesn’t see can’t hurt him.
2
The windows are wide open and I’m naked except for the apron, no sign of another body in the bed. The clock says 9:10 – what, morning already? The TV is blaring and the house stinks of burnt charcoal overlaid with bleach, making my hot, scratchy eyes water. ‘Tommy? Tommy, darling?’ I lie back on the pile of tussled pillows, exhausted by the effort, and stare out the window at the grey overhang of cloud. One day of sunshine is all I deserve. My body is heavy yet my brain is racing, careening against the inside of my skull. Need to get up, shower, get dressed, go to the supermarket, make lunch, tidy the mess from the beans, scrub the charcoal off the blackened walls, buy some polish, spray the house, maybe get a bunch of flowers, tulips, brightly coloured, need to wash Tommy, clothe him, feed him, walk Herbie, find the lead – where’s the lead? – must pick up after him, need to remember to do that, bring the poo bags, get my son into the fresh air, make sure he eats. Close my eyes, drained by the effort of imagining the day’s activities. Everything feels parched: tongue, gums, lips, eyes, eyelids, fingertips. Will Tommy think to bring me in water? – he should know to do that by now.