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.
‘Yes, of course I can, just tell me when,’ I say and the tension in her face relaxes as she nods, then pats me on the arm.
‘Remember, we’re only ever a phone call away,’ says Dad, coming back for his coat while Mum goes to the car.
‘How about you, Dad?’ I ask gently, helping him into his coat. ‘Mum’s been distracted by my news, but I know she’s worried about you.’
‘My forgetfulness aggravates your mother far more than it aggravates me,’ Dad says, patting me on the arm just as Mum did.
‘You don’t think you should talk to a doctor?’
‘I had a look at your veg patch, propped up some sagging tomato vines for you. Make sure you keep watering them, there’s not been much rain of late,’ he says, ignoring my question completely.
‘I didn’t even know I had a veg patch, so, thanks,’ I say, flattening one of his coat lapels.
‘You know what I’ve always loved about gardening?’ he asks, and I shake my head. ‘Plants don’t mind who you are, what you’ve done or what you’ve forgotten. If you visit them frequently and look at them properly, you’ll sense what they need. People are the same – you don’t need to know someone’s entire history to know when they need a hug.’ Then he pulls me into his arms.
‘Oh, Dad,’ I say, sinking into him.
‘If I’m going doolally, I’ll go doolally on my own terms, love.’ He pauses, then gives me a questioning look.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.’
It turns out, I have not got this. Not by a long shot.
Amy wakes four times in the night. Once for a nappy change, once because she’s thrown Neckie out of the cot, and the other two times, I don’t even know why, she just grizzles until I pick her up. The only thing that will make her stop is walking around and around the room with her, which is the last thing you feel like doing when you’re shattered yourself. How do people survive off this little sleep? Then Felix wakes up distressed because he doesn’t have Hockey Banjo.
‘Am I looking for a real banjo?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ Felix wails, ‘my armadillo.’
‘I’ll help look. He must be somewhere,’ I say.
‘She’s a she, and she doesn’t like the dark,’ Felix sobs, crawling on the floor to look beneath his bed.
‘She won’t be lost.’
‘How do you know? You don’t even know what she looks like because you’re not real Mummy!’ Felix cries. He’s right. I don’t know what his toy looks like. Maybe she is lost. Maybe Hockey Banjo went through a portal and is now living my old life, drinking bone broth and tequila with Julian and Betty.
Eventually, at four a.m., after pulling apart the playroom, I find a cuddly armadillo that fits Felix’s description and Felix, placated, finally manages to get back to sleep. I do not. I am too wired, too primed for the next disturbance. I resort to unmuting the Fit Fun Fabulous app on my phone and asking it to play me a sleep meditation.
‘I let go of the waking world,’ comes a breathy female voice, accompanied by soft chiming bells. ‘I relish this feeling of stillness. I cherish my journey to sleep.’
Nope. No relishing or cherishing happening, just an intense new hatred for this woman, who sounds incredibly smug about how well-rested she is. I check the time again. I just need to get through to seven fifteen. As soon as Maria arrives, I can make coffee, I can go to work, I can get my head together.
But at seven I get a call from Maria saying she’s developed an infection from her routine micro-needling appointment and isn’t going to be able to come to work. Shit. I’ll need to get the children up, dressed, fed and to school and nursery all by myself, then catch a later train to London. I was planning to wear something nice for my first day back at work, to do my hair, try to look professional. But with two children now shouting for breakfast, I have to make do with throwing on the first outfit I find and pulling my hair into a messy bun.
‘Did you look at the forums? Did you upload my drawing yet?’ Felix asks. Bollocks, I completely forgot about that.
‘Um, not yet, sorry, I got distracted,’ I say, while trying to find ‘the shapey cereal’ he has requested for breakfast.
‘But you’re going to London, aren’t you going to look for the portal?’ Felix asks.
‘No, I’m going to work – to my job.’
‘Do aliens know how to make TV?’
‘I am not an alien. This one?’ I hold up a box of Captain Crisp and he shakes his head. ‘This one? This one? This one?’ I pull all the cereals out of the cupboard, and Felix picks the packet of Weetabix. ‘How are those “the shapey ones”？’ I ask, exasperated. He holds up an oblong wheat biscuit to illustrate how obviously shapey it is.
‘What should I make you for your packed lunch?’ I ask him, pausing to pick up Amy’s milk cup, which she’s lobbed across the room for no reason.
‘Cheese sandwich, please,’ says Felix. Well, at least that was easy. ‘But only if you have the white cheese. I don’t like the yellow cheese any more. And only if we have the long rolls? I don’t like the bread with the green man on the packet, he’s got scary eyes. And if there’s no white cheese, ham, but only if it’s the ham with the edge.’
I should not have consulted him. Grabbing a packet of crisps, a bag of nuts and an apple from the cupboard, I throw a piece of what might be cheese into the only bread I can find and stuff it all into a yellow lunch box that has a cartoon spaceship on the front.
‘Can we upload my picture after school?’ Felix asks.