by NJ Moss
“What about Jack and Nathan? Did you get to talk to them, hmm?”
He nodded sulkily. Jack and Nathan were his best preschool friends, and were also in his Reception class. “Yeah.”
“And what about sitting down? Were you sitting down all day?”
“Well, no. But it’s stand when she says and sit when she told and maybe I want to stretch my legs because that’s what you say, Mummy, you say let’s stretch our legs and do you remember when I used to think that meant we had to make our legs go all like spaghetti when I was really little?”
“Yes, I remember.” An ocean flowed beneath my words, trying to shatter my resolve.
“Can we talk to the Miss and you can say I need to come with you in the lunchtimes, and in the mornings I can go there, but then we can do the fun stuff, Mummy? I’ll be super quiet and good even when you’re in New Look, I promise.”
I cursed myself. I should’ve made him do more than half days at preschool. “Russ, look at me.”
“But the horse, Mummy.” Despite his outpouring of words, his eyes had remained fused to the iPad.
“Young man.”
He looked up at me with Father’s pale green eyes. “Mmm?”
“I want you to behave at school.” I was as stern as I could muster. “Do you know what I mean when I say behave?”
“No.”
“I think you do. Why don’t you try to tell me?”
“I should just not have any fun and just sit there and hear the teacher and do what she says. I hate school.”
His voice caught. I fought the instinct to embrace him.
“You can still have fun. I’m sure there are lots of activities where you can enjoy yourself. There’s playtime. You’ll make more friends. But no, I’m sorry, you can’t have fun all the time.”
“Can I play Minecraft now?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
I nodded and gave into the urge, reaching over and rubbing him on the shoulder. “Then yes, you can play Minecraft.”
11
Clive dashed around the office as though he was determined to always be several steps ahead of me, striding in his steel-coloured suit, balding head held high. He pointed around the office, talking too quickly for me to keep up. I clipped along next to him in my heels and my business attire, trying to project the image of a woman who knew what she was doing.
“And this is finance, but I doubt you’ll have much to do with them. They’re pretty self-sufficient. Don’t do anything stupid like spunk the expenses at a strip club and you’ll be golden. Joking. Here’s Zora, the office gossip. Joking.”
Please tell me you’re joking one more time.
My head was spinning, but I made myself seem at ease – or tried to – as we stood over the desk. Zora had dyed silver hair cropped close to her head. Her forearm sported a tattoo, some sort of Viking-style thing, like a hieroglyph or a rune, and when she looked up at me, there was a knowing glint in her pale Nordic eyes.
“Oh, and you are Grace,” she said with a Scandinavian accent.
“Yes.” I was suddenly overcome with the feeling she knew something about me.
It was simple paranoia, of course. It was the sort of thing Cecilia Hyde had probably experienced, the little invasions of her mind, before they’d become her mind and she’d let slip her hold on reality. I stamped down on the thought. I needed to calm down. It was a tour, for Christ’s sake. Was I so accustomed to the role of motherhood I’d let this office beat me down in only a few minutes?
Fuck. No.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Zora said, with an insinuating smile. “Your interview, I mean. I heard you did fantastic.”
“Grace, yeah?” the man at the desk next to her said. “I’m Derrick. You need anything sorted, like your computer breaks down or anything, come and ask me, yeah? I’m the Jack of all trades around here.”
This came from a lean young man, probably in his mid-twenties – except for Clive, this place was making me feel absurdly old – with a skin-fade haircut and a confident smirk. He was fit and knew it, with his tucked-in shirt and his sleeves rolled up. He stared rather lasciviously, almost leering. It was like he was playing a porn video in his mind: fix her computer, bend her over the desk, pull down her tights, and wham.
“Right,” Clive said. “Let’s show you to your office.”
“I get my own office?” I gasped, forgetting the vultures were still circling, Zora and Derrick, watching and mocking.
“Of course,” Zora said, as though this was very obvious. “You earned it with all your hard work, no?”
There was an emphasis there I didn’t appreciate. Derrick smirked and hid a laugh behind his hand. I tried to imagine why they could possibly be implying what they so obviously were: that Clive and I were in any way romantically involved. I looked at Zora and then Derrick, into their eyes, and I saw it again, the implication. Where did you get that insane idea? I thought, wondering if Clive had told them. But why?
“Ignore them,” Clive said, as we walked away from what he called the Pen to the room directly next to his office. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto the Pen, but the blinds were shut. “They have a strange sense of humour. It’s a bit like hazing. They like making the newbies feel uncomfortable.”
I tried to believe him. “Okay.”
But—
But what, Grace? But their eyes? You could look into the eyes of these strangers and immediately read their thoughts. Do you have any idea how you sound right now?
The office was elegantly furnished. A sleek desk in the middle, classier than the simple Ikea assemblies in the Pen. A small cream sofa sat off to the left, near a corner plant, with a glass coffee table in front of it. For a second I stared, a dumbfounded smile on my face, stunned this was mine, I’d earned this. I wanted to drag Mia and Russ in here and show them what Mummy had earned.
But I was Mrs Businesswoman today.
“It’s very nice.”
“All right, eh? Not the Ritz, but it’ll do. Anyway, if you wait here, Olivia will come and handle the contracts. Sound good?”
“Um, yes.” That was the last time you say “um” in this building. “Thank you.”
He left and I walked around, feeling suddenly self-conscious. If I claimed this chair surely the motherhood patrol would come barrelling through the door, perhaps a woman wearing tight leather and a stern matronly expression. She’d point a whip at me and scream, “Get your arse back in the house this instant, young lady. Who do you think you are, playing with spreadsheets when you should be playing with Legos? Urgh, in my day…”
I was grinning at the absurd thought when somebody cleared their throat behind me. I turned to find Olivia, the rather distant woman who’d walked me to Clive’s office for the interview. This time, she was smiling, her freckly cheeks made charming with the expression. Her eyes were kinder than before. She wore her red hair in a bob.
“Grace.” She beamed, striding in her heels, a good two inches taller than mine. She balanced like a gymnast. “Why don’t I give you the contracts and then I’ll go and get us some coffees while you read over them? I’ll get them from the café across the street, the good stuff. What do you like?”
I was about to tell her I’d quit caffeine. Every time I drank coffee my heart hammered and sweat poured and I regretted the decision. But that was only because I wasn’t used to it and, really, what were the chances of me working in an office and avoiding caffeine forever? There was also the matter of Olivia’s new-found friendliness. I didn’t want to come across as the high-horse-riding weirdo who was too good for hot drinks.
It was only coffee, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t like I was injecting heroin into my eyeballs. “I’ll have a latte, please.”
“One latte it is.” She smiled, placing a few pieces of paper on the desk. “Be back in ten, hon.”
I returned her smile and looked over the contract. It was, as far as I could tell, what was to be expected. My wo
rking hours were from nine until half past two, which would give me time to make the school run. Just. The pay was incredible. Probation, my responsibilities, et cetera. The only standout section was concerning overtime, where it stated it was a necessity in this position, but the company would always strive to give me ample notice in these circumstances. It seemed reasonable. I signed it and left it on the desk.
Soon Olivia returned with the coffees, the same rictus smile on her face. “Here. I hope it tastes okay. The girl was mucking about with the machine a bit.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
She sat with me. I realised I was sitting in the senior position, and it all seemed so funny.
Olivia saw me smiling. “A lot to take in?”
“A bit.” I reached for the paper coffee cup.
“You’ll get used to it. Focus on the work. That’s all you can do. And try to get as many hot drinks down you as possible. Cheers.”
She raised her cup and I did the same, and then I took a large sip of the latte. It was good, so good. It was like manna from heaven. It settled on my tongue and then I felt it.
The kick. Ah yes. Here we go.
I drank more. Caffeine swam like electricity through my body. I found myself smiling, confidence filling me, and right then, sitting there with my new friend, I knew I could do it; I could do anything. I’d pushed two human beings out of my body. This was easy work in comparison.
“Enjoying that?” Olivia laughed.
“It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.”
She laughed again and then I was laughing. It felt good to let go, to not be wound tight all the time, to not be like Mother. Holding it in. Waiting for it to explode.
Once I’d left the office, I felt too wired to drive. I wandered the city, ending up in the centre, strolling around Cabot Circus and peering into the shops. I imagined myself walking into one and getting anything I wanted, casually, a flick of the wrist with my card in my hand. Contactless, beep, and it would be mine. No thought of the balance.
I caught sight of myself in a shop window, but for a split second I didn’t recognise the woman.
Usually I pricked with self-consciousness when I studied my reflection. I needed to go to the gym more. I needed to eat less. I needed to hate the way I looked because I used to be younger, thinner, shinier. And yet this woman looked like she didn’t give a damn, owning her natural curves and the way her heels shaped her calves. Her hair was bright yellow and radiant.
She looked powerful. She looked sexy and dangerous. She looked like a person I wanted to be.
12
I gave Russ the biggest smile I could muster when I picked him up from school, ignoring the caffeine-induced hammering that went all through my body, seeming to persist rather too long. But never mind. Here was my son, finishing his first full week at school. It was a happy day.
When I asked him if he’d had fun, he shrugged and walked over to the car, where Mia was waiting. I looked back toward the school, the milling parents, the children springing all over the place, and tried to spot Naomi Mathieson through the fray. Every day I’d waited for her to tell me we needed to have another chat. But so far Russ’s behaviour had been acceptable, if not exemplary.
I was glad, even if it meant my son seemed less like himself. “It’s school,” Troy had said a couple of nights ago, stroking his hands idly through my hair as we lay in bed. “It’s bound to be hard. He’ll get over it.”
Part of me didn’t want him to have to get over anything. I wanted him to flourish, to never be unhappy or bored, but of course that was unrealistic. Who enjoyed all their days, all the time? I couldn’t be one of those mothers, the doters, the over-carers, the nothing-is-your-fault women whose children ended up robbing banks because they assumed the money within was rightfully theirs. If I went too far down that road perhaps Russ would get Mummy tattooed on his bicep in prison. Better to be tough.
“Are you excited to have dinner at Grannie and Grandpa’s?” I said, backing out of the parking space and guiding the car toward the end of the road, where I’d start inching us toward Clifton. I wished – as I always did when I made this drive – my parents had moved after Hope’s death. Driving up the hill was like driving into the past.
“Yeah.” Mia rested her forehead against the window. “Is Dad coming or is he working?”
“Working. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I hope Grandma has some more paintings for me.”
I squeezed the steering wheel too hard. Your daughter is obsessed with the visual rantings of a troubled woman. I made my smile even wider, listening as she talked about how her teacher had complimented her today during art. He’d said she was getting a real eye for perspective, and had even called her a prodigy.
“Do you know what that means, Mum?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
Thump. Russ kicked the back of my chair and I pretended not to feel it.
Traffic had come to a stop. There was no space to go around; both curbs were covered in parked cars.
I was finding it hard to focus on everything at once.
Thump.
Russ certainly wasn’t helping.
“…I’m going to be something one day,” Mia finished. “Do you think he’s right?”
“Of course.” I ground my hand on the steering wheel, my heartbeat pounding as I waited for Russ to kick my chair again.
This time he did it with both feet, a full-throttle effort.
I spun on him quickly. “Russ, stop kicking my seat. It’s annoying and it makes me want to shout at you, which I have no desire to do.”
He lifted both legs, never breaking eye contact, bringing his knees to his chest as though getting ready for another kick.
“Russ,” I warned. “I mean it. What’s wrong? Did something happen at school?”
“I hate school,” he whined. “I hate school and I hate you.”
At the corner of my vision, I saw Mia’s mouth open, the shock of Russ’s words moving through the car like a rotten odour. Russ, my baby, my boy, always so polite and loving – everybody said he was a mummy’s boy – and he hated me, he fucking hated me. My heart was drumming and my whole body was tingling, everything screaming at me to grab him, shake him, to make him pay for hurting me so badly. I squeezed the edge of the seat so I had something to hold on to, digging my fingernails in.
Then I saw Russ had tears in his eyes and Mia was looking at me in real horror, as though I’d crushed a baby’s fragile skull with my heel.
Because I was shouting; I was screaming at my son.
I had to focus past my rage to hear the words. My throat was sore. “…You’ll go to school through every holiday if you keep on, young man. Christmas, Easter, summer, all the half terms, say goodbye to them. I’ll ask Miss Mathieson to give you extra homework and keep you after school. Would you like that? Well, would you?”
“N-no,” he said, tears streaking his cheeks.
“No,” I said, taking a breath, getting a hold of myself.
I never snapped so viciously. I couldn’t remember a time when my rage had been so easily accessible, so close to the surface.
Liar, a voice hissed. As if you’ve always been so calm and kind. As if you’ve never snapped.
I pushed the voice away. I pushed the past away. This wasn’t about that.
I felt amped up and ready to get things done, that was all. And right now the thing I needed to accomplish was to stop Russ from acting up. I couldn’t let him embarrass me in front of Mother. It worked in the sense he didn’t kick my chair for the rest of the journey. But neither did Mia tell me more about her teacher’s praise.
In fact, nobody said a word until we pulled up outside the house. It didn’t feel like a victory. I felt like I’d gone too far and I didn’t like it.
“I’m sorry, Russie,” I said. “Mummy shouldn’t have shouted.”
“It’s okay.” He pawed at his cheeks, though they were dry. “I’m sorry too.”
&n
bsp; “Great. Then we’re both sorry. I love you.”
“Okay, Mummy.”
My belly dropped. Of course he wasn’t going to tell me he loved me. I’d screamed at him. What sort of mother was I, turning full berserker?
I turned to the house. My childhood home. I looked past the tree in the front garden to Hope’s room, the one that fronted the street. With the lights off, all I could see was the reflection of the glass, a shimmer, and for a moment, a smile, utter glee in the twist of her lips.
I shook my head and reached for the door handle. “Come on. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
13
I’d felt like a stranger in this house ever since I’d returned from the police station to ostensibly sleep, but really to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I was convinced if I closed my eyes I’d dream too deeply and disappear into that evening, reliving it over and over again, seeing Hope’s bike wheel spin around and around and…
Father was waiting in the hallway. Nicholas Addington was a sturdy seventy-year-old, with a head of thinning grey hair. He was perpetually dressed in Marks and Spencer’s sweaters and chinos and shoes. “Grace,” he said, striding over to me and opening his arms. “It’s so nice to see you. Congratulations on the job.”
I gripped onto him too fiercely, perhaps because I knew what was waiting for me when I greeted Mother. The look in her eyes: the frigid detachment. The buried hate. It should have been you instead. Even though Father had always felt uncomfortable around me since that evening – I knew I could never be the same in his eyes – he always made an effort, and I loved him for it.
“Your mother’s in her office,” he said. “Why don’t you let her know you’re here and I’ll show these two my latest masterpiece? How does that sound, huh? You guys want to see the biggest model ship in the universe?”