Page 36 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

Although I know as soon as I go inside I am going to call Cora and tell her about my horrible day. The day I hid my daughter in a cupboard. Lost her. Got scammed out of my last penny. Ate a particularly delicious sandwich with an old man on a roadside bench, and finally got chauffeured across the city by a male knitter. We’ll laugh for a while. And then I’ll probably cry. Actually, I will definitely cry. I decide I need to stop thinking about it right now, because I’m already starting to feel tears swell.

‘Well, you take care of that grandfather of yours, won’t you?’

‘You said that already,’ he reminds me.

‘I did?’

‘You did. Twice. And I will. I promise. I’ll stick a hat to his head, if I have to.’

I laugh. It’s a genuine hearty giggle and it’s the first time since Declan walked out that anything has made me feel light enough, even for a moment, to giggle.

It starts to snow again, heavier than before, and Shayne looks at Ellie sleeping on my shoulder.

‘You gotta get her inside.’

‘I do,’ I say, but suddenly I don’t want to go.

I want to hear more about his knitting and what type of glue he might use to secure a woollen hat to a bare head.

‘Goodbye, Bea.’

‘Bye, Shayne. Maybe I’ll see you around,’ I say, although I doubt it.

He smiles in a way that says he doubts it too. I watch as he walks back to the car, starts the engine and drives off, taking care as the roads grow slippery under falling snow.

‘Goodbye, Malcolm,’ I whisper, then I pull Ellie close to me and hold her so tightly she wriggles in her sleep.

I am more grateful than ever for the perfect little girl in my arms. I can cope with anything as long as I have my Ellie, I tell myself. Then I go inside, put her to bed and change out of my uniform into my favourite fluffy pyjamas with a cute tiger on the front of the top and a matching tiger print on the bottoms. Then I remember that Declan bought me these pyjamas for my birthday a couple of months ago, and I think about taking them off. But I’m too comfortable and too tired. I settle for calling him all sorts of names under my breath and plodding in my bare feet into the kitchen. I fetch a wine glass, open the fridge and pour Pinot Grigio from the bottle that has been open for more than a week. It’s bitter, and doesn’t even taste like wine any more, but even so I take the glass to the couch, curl up with a blanket and take out my phone to call Cora.

As usual I am distracted by a barrage of notifications from the crèche app. I exhale wearily and click into each one. Something about an outbreak of head lice and advising on the best, no doubt very expensive, shampoo to use to get rid of them. There’s something long and rambling about lost hats and gloves. And, finally, there is a reminder that tomorrow is Christmas jumper day. The children should wear their brightest and favourite jumper, apparently.

We are kindly asking for a donation of €5 from each child, which will be passed on to charity. Happy Christmas.

The message is signed off by Alannah and her name is followed byxoxoas if she’s the star ofGossip Girl.

I breathe a sigh of relief that there is actually a bright side to being unable to send Ellie to crèche tomorrow: I don’t have to worry about Christmas jumper day for another year. The round neck of my pyjamas suddenly feels tight and I tug it away from my neck. I can’t imagine what next week will look like without a new flat lined up. It’s beyond impossible to imagine how Ellie’s and my life will look this time next year. I have to imagine it will be better. I have to.

I’m barely a half glass in when the wine hits and in a fit of temper I message the scamming landlady.

I want my money back!!!

I wait a moment, and when there is no reply I knock back the remainder of my glass of wine and type again.

I know you scammed me. I want my money back!!!!

I add an extra exclamation mark for firm effect.

Hello????

Answer me????

You stole my money!!!

I’m going to the police!!!

It takes my winey brain several messages to realise that there is only a single grey tick appearing after the message sends.

‘She blocked me,’ I say with a gasp, as if anyone can hear me. ‘She bloody blocked me. Of course she did.’

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