Her eyes widen. ‘Really?’ she says, brightening. ‘I could do that?’
‘Well, I don’t see why not. If you’d like to, that is.’
She nods determinedly. ‘I
would. I would
like to.’
So thrilled am I by the thought that maybe I’m Liverpool’s answer to the baby whisperer after all that it’s a moment before I register slight concern. It’s prompted by something that’s bothered me since I got here.
I haven’t seen a single picture of Ruby’s mother in the whole house.
No wedding photo on the mantelpiece, no daft family pictures stuck on the fridge, no photo album in any of the drawers. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d think she’d never existed.
‘Okay,’ I say to Ruby, ‘perhaps I can speak to your daddy about it tomorrow night – if he’s home – and we’ll see if we can sort one out for you. How’s that?’
‘I know where there’s a photo of my mommy,’ she tells me, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
As she stands up and grabs my hand, I feel suddenly uneasy.
‘Ruby, I really think we should wait until I can talk to your dad.’
Her little face drops again. ‘So I can’t speak to my mommy, after all?’
I bite my lip. ‘Oh, come on, then. Show me where it is.’
Chapter 30
The picture’s in the utility room, tucked away at the back of a low shelf next to a camping stove collecting dust. It can’t be that old because Ruby features in it, albeit as a baby, but it’s tatty and dog-eared. Despite its condition, though, there’s something immediately captivating about it.
Ruby’s mom is a picture of youth and vitality, her long blonde hair cascading beyond her shoulders, her hazel eyes bright and alive. She’s holding baby Ruby so close to her face that their noses are inches apart and their eyes locked. She has the unmistakable look of deep, thunderbolt love that mothers wear soon after their first child is born. The look of someone who has just discovered a part of their heart they never knew existed.
‘Do you think she’s pretty?’ whispers Ruby.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ I reply. And I mean it. She has a classically beautiful face, with full lips, lightly freckled skin and the bone structure of a supermodel.
I find a spare picture frame in a drawer in the hall – I remember seeing it there ages ago. Ruby watches as I position the photograph in it and close the back. ‘There,’ I tell her. ‘How’s that?’
When she smiles, I know I’m back in business. ‘Good,’ she says decisively.
‘I’m glad. Now, come on, let’s get you tucked in.’
‘Wait,’ she says, and picks up the picture. She looks at it for a second, then plants her lips on the glass.
I feel my heart swell and am immediately reminded that this is about so much more than me trying to do my job well. This is about a little girl being able to give her mommy a kiss – which she hasn’t done for nearly three years.
When Ruby snuggles down in bed and pulls the covers up to her shoulders, I lean down to kiss her. ‘Night-night, Ruby.’
‘G’night, Zoe.’
I’m about to leave when she pipes up again: ‘Zoe?’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘Thank you.’
By the time I get into my own bed it’s almost eleven thirty. Sleep washes over me quickly and deeply . . . and the next thing I’m aware of is Ryan’s voice. Which sounds like the equivalent of a helicopter taking off in my bedroom.
‘Zoe? Come out here, I’d like to speak to you.’
I rub my eyes and look at the clock. It’s seven twelve a.m., which means I’ve had almost eight hours’ sleep. But it feels like only minutes since I dropped off.
‘Zoe? Are you listening to me?’
I sit up in bed, feeling like a zombie who’s been suffering from insomnia for the last week.
‘Zoe!’
I leap up, straightening my pyjamas and scanning the room for a band to tie back my hair. I might be half asleep but I’m certainly not going to answer the door to Ryan looking like the Bride of Dracula on a bad day.
‘Just a minute!’ I reply, in a tone that’s supposed to sound casual, but doesn’t.
‘ZOE!’
I dive to the door and open it, regardless of the fact that I’m still minus a hairband.
‘
Yes
?’ I reply coolly.
He’s about to speak when he glances at my pyjama top.
‘Is something the matter, Ryan?’ I ask calmly.
He averts his eyes pointedly and gestures to my pyjama top.
My eyes travel downwards.
Then I nearly faint.
Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!
I was so tired last night that I managed to miss out two buttons when I put on my pyjamas. This wouldn’t be such a big deal except that my left boob is poking through the hole.
I dive back into my room, grab my dressing-gown and wrap it round myself tightly.
‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter, my face burning. ‘Um, what can I do for you?’
‘Can I come in?’ he asks. His expression tends to indicate that he isn’t after a cup of tea and a nice long chat comparing horoscopes.
My mind races – what have I got in my room that I might not want him to see? Top of the list is yesterday’s knickers next to my bed, which he definitely must not set eyes on – even if I have just flashed him.
‘I need to speak to you somewhere the kids can’t hear,’ he hisses.
I hesitate. ‘Right. Sure. Just give me a second,’ I say, diving back into my room and shutting the door. Outside, I hear him sigh again.
I scan the room as my heart pounds in an audacious attempt to break the world land-speed record. The offending knickers are kicked under the bed. The upper-lip dye kit on my dressing-table is chucked into the wardrobe. And, for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I replace the Jackie Collins on my bedside table with Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
, a book I’d promised myself I’d read at some point in my life, but which I haven’t got round to yet.
Within twenty seconds, the room is transformed into something I consider vaguely acceptable to Ryan’s eyes. I open the door. ‘Do come in,’ I say, as if welcoming him for mulled wine and canapés.
Ryan enters and sits on the end of my bed. I plonk myself at the top. ‘Right,’ I declare brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’
Chapter 31
Sitting at the top of my bed, I catch a glimpse of myself in my dressing-table mirror and my worst suspicions about my hair are confirmed. It looks as if it recently got tangled up in the blades of a combine-harvester. I gather it together and hold it, trying to concentrate on what Ryan’s saying.
‘Zoe,’ he begins, with another heavy sigh. This morning he’s wearing a pair of long vintage shorts that I’ve never seen before. As he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, they ride up and expose his tanned, muscular lower thighs. I glance at them momentarily but the image lingers in my mind.
‘Yes, Ryan?’ I say.
He looks at me directly and I see how weary he is. ‘My kids like you,’ he says softly.
‘Oh!’ I say, perking up. ‘Well . . . thanks. I mean, good!’
He nods. ‘My kids like you. And . . . and I . . .’
He’s about to reveal his assessment of me.
‘I think you’re – you’re . . .’
I lean forward anxiously, biting my lip.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter what I think,’ he concludes.
‘Right.’ I feel deflated.
He looks down at his hands and scratches the side of a finger. The golden skin on one of his knuckles goes briefly pale.
‘And it’s because we . . . that is,
the kids
like you, that I’m going to be as diplomatic as I can be.’
I try not to raise an eyebrow, but the words ‘diplomatic’ and ‘Ryan’ aren’t natural bedfellows.
‘The photograph you put next to Ruby’s bed last night.’
My heart nearly stops. I’d forgotten about it. But I know immediately that my reservations about it were justified. I also know that, whatever happened the other night, this is one conversation that
isn’t
going to end in a fit of the giggles.
‘Ah,’ is all I can bring myself to say.
‘Yes,
ah,’
he mimics. ‘Well, I’ve removed it.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I’d like you to respect the fact that this is my house,’ he continues. His voice, as deep and rich as ever, has a throaty quality this morning. ‘If I’d wanted to decorate the place with pictures of my late wife, I would have. But I don’t. And I believe that’s my choice.’
‘Oh, Ryan, listen . . .’ I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. ‘I mean, I didn’t realize—’
‘That’s all I wanted to say about it.’
‘Please let me explain—’
‘No,’ he interrupts.
I’m so taken aback that I nearly fall off the bed. I sit up straight and will myself to keep it together. Because I know that, whether Ryan likes it or not, I have to explain what happened last night. ‘Please let me just tell you what Ruby said last night.
Please.
’
He hesitates for a second. ‘Okay. What?’
I gulp. Right. Keep things calm, Zoe. Calm but succinct.
‘She said the reason she never wants to go to bed is because her mommy’s not here any more to kiss her goodnight.’ The words tumble from my mouth. ‘She said she can’t picture her because she can’t even remember what she looked like. She said she wanted to be able to talk to her because—’
‘Stop!’
shouts Ryan. ‘That’s enough. For Chrissake, that’s enough.’
‘But, Ryan—’
‘I said that’s enough. Now,
please
, just do things my way. For once.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I pull my dressing-gown tighter round me. ‘I’m sorry.’
He nods slowly and takes a deep breath, then stands to leave.
Oh, well done, Zoe. Beautifully handled.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I add awkwardly.
As he reaches the door, he turns. My eyes meet his and I’m shocked by what I see. They’re filled with sorrow and, I’m certain, glistening with unspilled tears. Is he crying? Is Ryan really crying?
‘You didn’t.’ He sniffs, and slams the door behind him.
Chapter 32
From: [email protected]
Dear Zoe,
How are things? Sorry I haven’t emailed for a while but, as I think your father told you on the phone the other day, I’ve been feeling really out of sorts lately. Absolutely everyone at work has had this stomach bug and I’m sure I’m coming down with it.
It’s all I can think because I’m absolutely exhausted and have lost my appetite completely. I’ve never been a big eater, as you know, but when we went round to Dave and Angela’s for a bite to eat the other night I could stomach hardly any of it. Still, I lost three pounds at Slimming World for the first time ever on a ‘red’ week, so it’s not all bad news.
Anyway, Ian and Debbie next door have had their baby. It’s a little boy, weighing ten pounds seven ounces, would you believe? Debbie’s still feeling a bit tender after the birth. We saw her yesterday and she said it had been like trying to extract a watermelon from her private parts. Your father went a bit queasy. They’ve called him Harley. Harley Stan Keanu Xabi Smith. Still, I’m sure we’ll get used to it.
Thanks for sending the pictures, by the way. The children are gorgeous, especially Ruby with that lovely blonde hair. And the house looks wonderful – like something straight out of
Desperate Housewives.
Of course, I still think you’d have been better taking that job in the Wirral, no matter how good a boss you keep telling me Ryan is. That place in Neston was one of those multi-storey nurseries. That’s what they call them, isn’t it?
Oh, it’s no good: I need to tell you about something.
Jason turned up at the house the other day. I was just coming in from work – after what had been a hellish day all round, not helped by Maurice Black from Payroll having scratched the side of the Astra as I was on the way out of the NCP – and he rolled up, just like that. Unbelievable. Wanted your address in America, apparently, and was quite insistent that we give it to him. Obviously we didn’t. Your father sent him packing and I honestly hope I never set eyes on him again.
I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. You won’t worry, will you? I think we managed to get rid of him, and after what your father said to him, I’d be amazed if he ever darkened our door again.
I’ve got nothing much else to tell you really, apart from the fact that I’ve picked out a new bathroom. It’s almost identical to one in the Fired Earth catalogue
and
it’s got a bidet. Your father’s reaction was: what do we need a bidet for when we’ve got Andrex? Isn’t that typical?
Lots of love,
Mum
XXX
Chapter 33
Considering my mum normally treats gossip as a competitive sport, I can’t quite believe the lack of detail in her email about Jason having turned up at the house. What did he say, exactly? What was he wearing? Was he sheepish? Apologetic? And, more to the point,
why
did he come?
Why? Why? Why?
I can’t ask any of these questions in my reply to her, of course. Dwelling on the issue would shatter the carefully crafted illusion that I’m successfully getting over him. That, now I’m in the US, he barely enters my thoughts.
It’s laughable, really, because nothing could be further from the truth. I think about him all the time, between the welcome distractions of Ryan’s biceps and decisions about the kids’ dinner.
I’m constantly thinking about the small things: like how when he laughs, it’s a full-on laugh, no half-measures, tossing his head back and submitting himself entirely to the moment.
I think about the precision with which he works when he’s cooking, his face a picture of intense concentration, even when he’s making something as straightforward as spaghetti Bolognese. I think about him singing in the shower in a way no one else I’ve ever met can: his powerful, melodious voice belting out tunes to recording-contract perfection.