Page 75 of The Fall-Out

‘Do you think this is it now?’ Patch asked. ‘Do you think they’ve cracked it and they’ll do it for, like, ever?’

‘I very much doubt it. Well, maybe when they’re teenagers we’ll have to drag them out of bed, kicking and screaming.’

‘Them or us?’

‘Dunno. Probably both.’

Together, we returned to the children’s room. I’d left the door ajar and we stepped in, silently watching them for a second, lost in delighted surprise. Then Patch went over and pulled the curtains open. Morning light filled the room; I could see a rectangle of blue sky filling the window frame, bright with the promise of a warm spring day.

Patch and I stood together for a moment, looking down at our sleeping children. It was an amazing thing we’d done, I thought – the most amazing thing ever, creating these two perfect, small people out of our bodies and our love.

The idea should have filled me with joy, but it didn’t – it made me feel inexplicably sad. If I’d known, on whichever of the countless occasions when we’d slept together that had resulted in a sperm and an egg – or rather, in the random case of my body, two eggs – that our relationship hadn’t been what I’d trusted it was, would I have done things differently?

If I’d known when we were first together, delighted with the newness of our love, that I hadn’t been the only woman in his life, would I have stuck around?

I wanted to believe that I wouldn’t – that I’d never have allowed any of it to happen. But I’d been so besotted, so head over heels with him, so enthralled with the knowledge that he was finally mine, that I hadn’t allowed any doubts to cloud my happiness.

But you did know, I reminded myself. You knew, all along, when you were busy falling for him, that he was taken.

But he told me he’d ended it.

Not until after you’d kissed him. He hadn’t ended it then, but you went ahead and did it anyway.

I shook my head, as if I could physically dislodge the thoughts that were whirling through my mind. The children had woken while I was musing – Meredith instantly alert as she always was, Toby drowsy and yawning. On auto-pilot, I got them up and dressed, my distraction preventing me from entering the dreaded morning fishwife mode.

I made coffee for Patch and myself, stuck some bread in the toaster, then hurried upstairs and dressed, dragging a brush through my hair and wondering how on earth the likes of Imogen managed to emerge from their houses groomed and stylish each morning. Did she have a nanny? A house husband? A time machine? Whichever it was, I needed some of it.

I’d made my choice – I was going to have to make the best of it. I’d made my bed (actually, I hadn’t – the duvet was still scrunched up at its foot, Patch’s pillow on the floor where he always threw it during the night) and I was going to have to lie in it.

‘What time are you home tonight?’ I asked Patch, noticing with a flicker of pleasure that he didn’t have his gym bag over his shoulder as usual.

‘Early. Seven thirty, eight? Maybe we could…?’

‘I’ll cook something nice,’ I promised. ‘Early night?’

‘For sure.’ He leaned in and kissed me, not the usual quick peck but a lingering contact between his lips and mine that felt like a promise.

Or perhaps not a promise – perhaps it was something else. A request, or even a plea for something. Something I wasn’t sure I was able to give.

But I had to try. I owed that to Patch, and to myself. So, after dropping the children off, I flew into action. First, I went round to Bridget’s and found her in good spirits, laughing about her mishap the previous night and apparently able to recall every detail of the incident clearly.

‘You’ll have to show me that wooden spoon trick of Patrick’s,’ she said. ‘Next time, I’ll know what to do and I won’t have to interrupt your night out.’

Just a few hours before, I’d been certain that I’d never be able to ask her to babysit again, but now I second-guessed myself – what if it had just been a blip, a mistake anyone could have made? Depriving her and the children of the pleasure they took in one another’s company on the basis of that seemed like an over-reaction. But still, it had happened. It had been real. And I was worried about her.

‘Bridget,’ I asked, ‘when was the last time you saw your doctor? Just for – you know, a once over?’

‘Are you suggesting I’m losing my marbles?’ She put her teacup down firmly. ‘Because I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.’

I felt a pang of sadness for her, and fear for what lay ahead. I loved her; she’d always been welcoming to me and her adoration of her grandchildren was one of the best things in their lives. And I hated doing this – ahead, I could see my role in managing her health and wellbeing increasing while Patch stood back and let me get on with it.

If I was going to take on that responsibility, I might as well start now.

‘I’m not saying anything of the kind,’ I told her firmly. ‘I’m not a doctor – I have no idea. But I – and Patch and the children, and Niamh and her kids – want you around and well for as long as possible, right?’

She nodded slowly.

‘There’s probably nothing wrong at all,’ I went on. ‘But why not make an appointment, just for a check-up? Where’s the harm in that?’

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