Page 51 of The Fall-Out

‘I’m not. I’m mostly average and often a bit shit.’ I took a gulp of my wine; the glass had been standing there for so long its sides were weeping with condensation. ‘The twins are… you know. I love them so much it hurts, sometimes. But I can’t do it again. I’m knackered. I want to go back to work and have something for me again.’

‘You’d be more knackered if you went back to work.’

‘Not as knackered as I’d be if I had another baby.’ Only now that we were actually discussing it did I realise how much the prospect terrified me. ‘Seriously, Patch. My body’s fucked. My feet are a size bigger than they were before. I’ve still got a stone I want to lose. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in four years.’

Patch looked as surprised by the intensity of my reaction as I was – surprised and hurt. ‘They’ll start school in September. It’ll be easier then.’

‘And that’s why I want to go back to work.’

‘But what about when I’m working late, or away?’ His tone was almost pleading.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it,’ I lied. ‘We’d make a plan. Other people manage. Your colleagues must manage.’

‘They mostly have wives who stay home and look after the kids.’

‘Yeah, well.’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve done that. I’ve done my time. I need to move on from just being a mum now. You don’t get it – you don’t know what it’s like being with them twenty-four-seven with no time to yourself.’

‘I bloody wish I could.’ His hurt was turning to defensiveness now. ‘You don’t know what it’s like working ten-hour days and being away from home and never seeing them.’

‘So let’s swap.’ I called his bluff. ‘You stay home, I’ll go to work.’

‘And who pays the mortgage? Father Christmas?’

I felt my cheeks sting with anger. Back when we first got together, we’d earned about the same. Then Patch had got a promotion and another one, and then I’d got pregnant and that had been that. If I did find a job, whatever school-hours-friendly role I secured would command a salary maybe a quarter of what he brought home now.

‘Okay, so you can’t stop work,’ I admitted. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t start. There are ways – like I said, people manage. It’s months away, anyway – maybe next year. Let’s think about it, please?’

‘Haven’t you given me enough to think about for one night?’

‘Probably.’ I forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch. It’s a lot. The Zara stuff and now this. We can talk about it another time. Let’s go to bed.’

He picked up the remote control and turned the sound back up. The roar of the football stadium crowd filled the room. ‘You go. I might come up later – or sleep down here.’

I opened my mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Too much had been said and nothing resolved – and nothing would be, not tonight. So I said good night, kissing his cheek because he wouldn’t turn his head, went upstairs and got into bed.

Normally, I’d have gone on to WhatsApp to pour my heart out to my friends. Normally, even though they couldn’t solve my problems, their advice, virtual hugs and outrage on my behalf would have made me feel better. But now I couldn’t do that. I felt as if the hands I’d been able to reach out for in the dark were no longer there – or if they were, they wouldn’t reach out to me in return, and my fingers would be left scrabbling at empty air.

TWENTY

‘Mummy?’

‘Mummy, where’s Daddy?’

The sound of my children’s voices and their footsteps on the wooden floor jerked me out of sleep. The patter of little feet – if only whoever had come up with that cliché knew that first thing in the morning, it was more like a herd of wildebeest invading my bedroom.

I reached automatically over to Patch’s side of the bed, but encountered only chilly, empty sheets, same as I had the previous six nights.

My head pounding and my eyes scratchy with tiredness, I sat up. ‘Daddy slept downstairs.’

‘Why, Mummy?’ Meredith asked.

Why indeed? Work was hectic and he needed his sleep. He was training for some hardcore fitness thing and getting up early to go to the gym. That was what he said, anyway.

‘Meredith, could you stop asking why when I don’t know? Just maybe for one day. Even a couple of hours.’

‘Why don’t you know, Mummy?’ chimed her brother.

Oh, for God’s sake, just shut up. Fortunately, I managed to say the words in my head rather than out loud. But I’d been more snappy with the children than usual, more absent. Not as absent as their bloody father, I thought, in an unsuccessful attempt to mitigate how guilty this made me feel.

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