Page 46 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘You’re hungry,’ I explain. ‘I’m starving too.’

Cora and Finton were in the middle of their dinner last night when Ellie and I got in. When Cora asked us to join them Finton nearly choked on his broccoli. So, Ellie and I had dinner on the couch instead. We shared a couple of packets of crisps and a rice cake bar that I picked up in the vending machine in work, and Ellie happily munched away while watchingPaw Patrol.

‘Coco Pops,’ Ellie suggests, sitting up and opening her eyes. She’s suddenly so full of energy and smiles and I’ve no doubt she’s thinking about the chocolatey milk that she loves to drink when she gets to the bottom of the bowl.

‘Not this morning,’ I say, glancing at my watch.

It’s 6.23. Cora’s alarm will go off in seven minutes for her early shift and I’d really like to be gone by then.

‘But I so hungry.’ Ellie rubs her stomach for effect.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Okay, arms up.’

Ellie knows the drill, and she raises her arms above her head and I tug her pyjama top off and pull on her favourite pink unicorn t-shirt and matching jumper. I do the same with her leggings, then stuff her warm pyjamas into one of the Tesco bags. I guide her arms into her coat and zip it up before I add her hat and gloves.

‘Quickly,’ I puff out, as I straighten the cushions on the couch and leave the blanket folded on the coffee table.

‘I’m so hungry,’ Ellie says again, and she adjusts her hat that she doesn’t bother to complain is scratchy the way she normally does.

‘We’re going out for breakfast this morning,’ I tell her, trying to sound excited.

‘Out?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ I pick up the plastic bags, taking them both in one hand. I reach my other hand out and Ellie curls her chubby fingers round mine.

‘Right,’ I say, tilting my head towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’

I take one last look around Cora and Finton’s flat. Content that there is no trace that Ellie and I were ever there, I open the front door just as Cora’s alarm goes off. The chilly contrast in the corridor takes my breath away. There’s floor-to-ceiling glass at each end of the long corridor and a stairwell almost directly in front of us. A draught seems to sneak in the windows and climb the stairs to accumulate into a tiny, freezing cyclone on this very spot, trying to claw at the skin on my face and force me back into the flat.

I wait for Ellie to complain about the cold, or her empty stomach or her uncomfortable hat, but she squeezes my hand and chirps, ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Let’s,’ I say.

I have no idea where to go. Or if anywhere local will be open this early. We might need to ride around on the bus for a while to keep warm. Luckily, Ellie loves the bus.

EIGHTEEN

‘Thank you,’ Ellie says, smiling at the bus driver as we get off.

He raises his hand to his forehead and salutes his young passenger. ‘Have a good day, little lady.’

‘I will,’ Ellie says with certainty as she skips down the steps.

‘Thanks,’ I say without making eye contact with the driver, hoping he doesn’t notice that we’re getting off the bus at the same stop we started at over an hour ago. I reach for my daughter’s hand. ‘Ellie, be careful, don’t fall.’

We’re swept into a sea of commuters and the buzz is refreshing. It’s still dark outside – a typical December morning – but there are lots of people about. It seemed to happen suddenly and all at once. An hour ago Ellie and I were almost completely alone as we walked the cobblestone streets of Temple Bar. Now, there are people all over. Men in suits and long winter coats with mobile phones stuck to their ear. And women in heels regretting their choice of footwear as they tried not to get a stiletto caught between the cobbles. There’s construction workers in high-visibility jackets and lots of people whose clothes don’t hint at what they do all day. There aren’t any other kids though. It’s still too early for crèche drop-off.

The city is coming to life and a sprinkling of shutters are rising. I spot an open café on the corner – opposite the main gates of Trinity College.

‘Here we are,’ I say as I curl my fingers a fraction tighter round Ellie’s, and, stride with pseudoconfidence towards the door.

Heat warms my face as soon as we step inside, and the tips of my bare fingers tingle, adapting. Inside is cosier than I was expecting, with mismatched furniture pushed too close together. Ellie pulls her hat and gloves off and breaks away from me to choose the long, narrow table just inside the window. It’s much too high for a four-year-old.

‘Here,’ she announces, reaching for a backless stool with two hands.

The legs squeak as she drags them across the rustic pine floor. I take her hat and gloves and help her climb up.

‘Careful,’ I warn, unzipping her jacket. ‘No messing if you’re sitting up this high. You’re a big girl now.’

---