‘He gave me his card for a reason.’
‘How often do you talk?’
‘You’re deflecting, Sonya. We’re discussing the need for you to stay on top of your recovery and here you go firing questions at me. As is your way.’ He puts his coat on.
‘And you never answer. I didn’t think I was your client any longer.’
‘You were never officially a client of mine. You made sure of that, Sonya. You knew what you were doing.’
He looks really rattled for a moment, then changes tack.
‘Sonya, your father worries about you.’
‘What stops him checking in on me himself?’
‘I’m sure you know the answer to that one.’
I really want him the hell out of my home now.
‘We must go out for dinner again some evening, find a babysitter for the little man.’
I don’t say anything. He’s at the door, waiting to see if I reply, debating whether to say anything else, when suddenly, abruptly, he opens the door and slams it behind him. I think he’s hurt.
As soon as he’s gone I realise I didn’t ask him for the key back. Did my father give him one? Our last conversation didn’t exactly convince him I’m a capable, coping single mother.
I go into the living room, where Tommy moves with speed and stealth away from the door back towards the couch, a sylph. I bet his ear was pressed to the door; he’s had plenty of opportunity to hone that particular skill of late. I have to fight an urge to ask him what he thinks of this situation, have to fight even harder not to ask Herbie.
‘Hey, Mr T, how many of those invites did you give out today?’
Tommy reaches into his bag and pulls a full complement of envelopes back out.
‘None? Why’s that, then, Munchkin?’
His shoulders move towards his ears.
‘Tomorrow, then? How about you hand them out tomorrow?’
‘Don’t want to go tomorrow.’
I should be pleased.
‘Ah now, come on, Tommy. It can’t be that bad.’
He sticks his thumb in his mouth.
‘Did something happen, Tommy?’
He looks at me like I’m a complex puzzle. How to put the pieces together so they fit, and then stay together? Superglue, a frame.
‘Yaya, we can stay at home together, just us. Like before.’
And just what did we do all day, before? Watch crap TV, make up games? No, he’s going to have a different life from here on in. A life made up of structured, ordered, productive days.
‘Darling, you’ll have to go – I’m going to get a job.’
I don’t know where that came from, but as soon as I say it I settle on it. Of course, I need a job, interaction with the world, money in my pocket, a purpose. What could I do? Retail? My fingers itch at the thought. Receptionist? The weight of boredom at the thought of it almost crushes me. Perhaps I could think about setting foot on stage again? Tommy needs to see his mother happy, thriving, in her element.
I adopt my best Shakespearean stance: feet firmly planted, shoulders back, head aloft, back slightly arched, demanding attention from my captive audience. I start in a whisper: ‘Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, towards Phoebus’ lodging…’
Tommy claps. ‘Hewbie, come here.’ He climbs on top of the dog. ‘Giddy-up, Hewbie Howsie, giddy-up.’
Herbie’s tail is wagging vigorously as he circles the room, barking, the kitten mewling, a rousing underscore to my spotlit monologue.
My voice builds in volume. ‘… such a wagoner as Phaethon would whip you to the west, and bring in cloudy night immediately… What’s next, Tommy?’
Tommy abruptly dismounts Herbie and looks out the window. He’s not playing. ‘Dada’s up there, Yaya.’
The sky has faded from daytime grey to early-evening pewter.
A cold feeling lands in my stomach. Water on fire, a dousing. I too look out, shiver.
‘Can’t see him, Yaya. Too early for stars.’
‘Too cloudy for stars, Tommy.’
The day will come when Tommy’s old enough to understand, and I’ll tell him, I’ll have to – I’ll let him know he has a father who’s alive. For now, though, the lie, the kindest of lies, continues.
45
I wake, the sheets tangled, cold and damp. Open my eyes, take in the scene around me, all my babies sleeping on the bed. Move my hand from one to the other to the other; like the different textures of hair, fur and skin.
Tommy opens one eye, looks at me fiercely, sniffs.
‘I didn’t mean to, Yaya.’