‘I suppose it’s reassuring. If your marriage is strong, you can survive anything. You’ve been through worse.’
Have I? Before I can ask her what she means, Sam appears at the kitchen door.
‘Morning, Margot,’ he says. ‘Sleep well?’
Mum clears her throat, then takes a loud sip of her coffee. ‘Adequately, thank you.’
Sam has been in a strange mood since he woke up. Maybe like me, he’s a little hungover. He opens the fridge, closes it, opens it again, stares at the contents for a minute, then closes it one final time before turning back to Mum and me. ‘Something has come up,’ he says, his face serious. ‘There’s this recording session in Manchester tomorrow, with a full orchestra, it’s been scheduled for months. What with everything going on here, I’d asked a colleague to stand in for me, but he just messaged to say he’s sick.’ He pauses. ‘There’s no one else, and I’d be letting a lot of people down if I don’t go.’
‘Of course you should go!’ Mum says. ‘We can stay and help Lucy.’
‘I don’t want you to miss your festival, Mum, I’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘Maria will be here to help first thing tomorrow, but I wouldn’t be back until Tuesday morning,’ Sam says, looking at me hopefully.
‘We’ll stay until the morning,’ offers Mum. ‘Most of the talks don’t start until midday anyway.’
‘What do you think, Luce?’ Sam asks me.
‘Of course I can manage,’ I say, feeling insulted. ‘Honestly, you don’t think I can cope for less than forty-eight hours with the help of grandparents, a nanny, school and nursery?’ Mum and Sam exchange glances. ‘I am a competent adult, I’m not thirteen.’
Mum clears her throat. ‘You seem entirely compos mentis to me.’
Sam combs a hand through his hair, his face serious.
‘Fine. If you’re sure you don’t mind staying, Margot? There’s a list on the fridge of anything you might need, Maria knows it all anyway.’ He pauses, looking at me again. ‘I’ll need to get the train up there this morning so I have time to prepare.’
‘On a Sunday?’
Mum is sitting right here, so I don’t expect Sam to be all over me, but I can’t help feeling that he’s being slightly off this morning. His body language certainly isn’t saying ‘I got laid last night and it was pretty awesome’。 Does he regret how drunk we got? Is he embarrassed by how loud we were? I try to convey in a smile that I don’t regret a thing. I want that delicious buzz of flirtation back, but then Amy toddles in, chased by my dad holding a puppet badger, and when I look around, Sam has left the room.
Amy grabs my legs for safety, and I lift her onto my lap where she snuggles into my chest, her whole weight falling against me. She pushes a hand up beneath each of my arms, nuzzling her head into my chest like a baby koala. It’s a unique feeling, being hugged by a child – my lap her refuge from everything scary. It feels like a big responsibility to be that to someone. I wonder what age I stopped crawling into my mother’s lap for comfort. Inhaling Amy’s sweet, milky smell, I hug my arms around her soft little thighs and bury my face in her hair. It’s calming, the gentle pressure of her, this unhurried cuddle that has no agenda, except a desire to be as close to me as possible.
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