Page 52 of The Fall-Out

‘Come on then, you two.’ I forced a cheerful note into my voice and pushed the duvet aside, my ears straining to hear sounds of life from downstairs. But there was nothing – Patch had already left for the day.

When I’d dropped the children at nursery, been to see Bridget and returned home, the house felt emptier than ever. The central heating was off and I shivered when I removed my coat, but I couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs and find a warmer jumper. I could see drifts of dust on the skirting boards and crumbs on the floor under the kitchen table, but I couldn’t summon the energy to run the Hoover round, even though a bit of housework would warm me up.

I made a coffee and sat down, looking out into the garden hoping for signs of spring. It was already April, but it had been raining relentlessly and the drifts of blossom that had appeared on the trees had been stripped away by wind. The blackbirds I’d seen flying to and fro from the overgrown ivy on our neighbour’s wall weren’t there – I imagined them deciding to raise their family somewhere that felt more like a happy, welcoming home.

‘Come on, Naomi,’ I told myself. ‘Get a grip. It’s not that bad.’

But it felt that bad. It felt worse than when Patch had returned to work after his paternity leave and I’d been left with alone with two tiny babies, exhausted and terrified. Worse than when I’d woken up the morning after Abbie’s engagement party with the hangover from hell and a sense of impending doom. Worse than when Toby got croup and I’d rushed him to Accident and Emergency in the middle of the night, the sound of his rasping breaths making me feel sick with fear.

Because at those times, I’d known that the Girlfriends’ Club had my back. I’d had Rowan to come and change nappies, feed me cake and bundle me into a hot shower. I’d had Kate to commiserate with over a bacon sandwich and a Bloody Mary, agreeing that was the only thing that would take the edge off. I’d had Abbie to do a late-night mercy dash to sit with Meredith overnight and cuddle me the next morning when I cried with relief that Toby wasn’t going to die after all.

Automatically, I reached for my phone. The impulse to talk to my friends when I was sad, or happy, or even just plain bored was so deep-rooted than even unease about the response I might get couldn’t overcome it.

Naomi:

Morning gang! What’s going on? Feels like it’s been quiet on here the past few days.

Rowan:

I’m all good – work’s just crazy. What’s up with you?

Abbie:

Bloody April, innit. Feels like Narnia, where it’s always winter and never Christmas. This too shall pass.

Kate:

I’m just eating my body weight in pasta, trying to get through it. At least Daniel and I are off to Sicily in a few days so we’ll see some sun.

My best friends in the world, and all they seemed to want to talk to me about was work, the weather and their holiday plans. I might as well try confiding my worries to a bloody hairdresser, I thought miserably.

I set my phone aside and poured the dregs of my coffee down the sink, resigned to the fact that I was going to have to tackle the cleaning before it was time to pick the children up again, bring them home and watch everything descend into chaos again.

Then I heard its cheerful ringtone trilling from behind me and abandoned the bottle of anti-bacterial kitchen spray. An incoming call wasn’t exciting in itself – I often got phoned by the twins’ nursery, by my mother-in-law and by scam numbers trying to sell me non-existent phone upgrades. But this was a withheld number, and that almost never happened.

I considered ignoring the call – if whoever it was wanted to speak to me, they could leave a message – but at that moment I was bored enough and lonely enough to want to talk to anyone, even if it was about a car accident that hadn’t been my fault (and had never happened).

‘Hello? Naomi speaking.’

‘Naomi? Hi. It’s Zara.’

I was so surprised my legs almost gave way under me, and I sat down hard on the thing nearest to me, which happened to be a plastic basket half-full of dirty laundry, in which I found myself trapped, my legs and arms sticking out of the top, the phone pressed to my ear.

Maybe we should do this again, she’d said, the last time I saw her. It felt like far longer than six weeks ago when I’d picked up the camera from her – the camera, still in the drawer, its secrets locked within. I’d been clear I didn’t want to see her again, or have anything more to do with her.

But that had been before she’d turned up at the Girlfriends’ Club, taking the place that should have been mine.

‘Naomi? Are you there? Please don’t hang up.’

‘I haven’t hung up,’ I gasped, fighting to extricate myself.

‘I guess this call’s a bit of a surprise. I’m sorry. But I wondered if you’re free tonight?’

‘Tonight? Why?’

‘I thought maybe we could meet up for a drink.’

Seriously? A drink? Which part of I’m not sure that would be a good idea hadn’t she understood?

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