Page 38 of The Women

He bends and kisses her on the cheek. Before she can respond, he has grabbed his keys from the raku bowl on the hall table and is opening the front door.

‘Bye, girls,’ he calls.

The door shuts.

Eighteen

Samantha stares after him, seething, though she is not sure why. Perhaps because he cannot even commit to looking after his own sodding daughter for a few hours once a week. Yes, perhaps it’s that. But if he has to work, he has to work. And the crèche might not be such a bad idea. It means she won’t have to rush home, and she fully intends to meet up with Aisha and Jenny after class.

There are questions she needs to ask.

She calls the crèche and books Emily in. When she goes to write it on the wall calendar, she realises that next Monday is the fifth of February, Peter’s birthday.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispers.

It’s his fortieth. A landmark birthday. In all the turmoil, she’s totally forgotten. She is a rubbish, rubbish girlfriend.

But when Peter returns and she asks him if he’d like her to invite some friends over at the weekend, or organise a meal out, maybe some drinks in the Marlborough Arms if she can find a babysitter, he replies with a good-natured wave of his hand.

‘Good Lord, no. Always low-key if there’s a zero on the end. Why on earth would anyone want to celebrate being a decade older?’

Relief washes over her. He’s not angry. And she’s not expected to do anything grand. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Besides, it’s too much with the baby and everything. And it’s a Monday, for God’s sake, no one wants to go out on a Monday. Let’s go to that new pizza place near St Margaret’s. I’d rather open a decent bottle of wine and have a quiet dinner with you.’

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll book it. What’s it called?’

‘Pizza Romana. I’ll send you the link.’

He seems genuinely happy, tells her to relax in the living room while he fixes them a drink. She goes through, sits on the sofa, kicks Emily’s furry giraffe underneath just in time.

‘You see, people have babies,’ he says, coming through to join her with their drinks and a small plate on a tray, which he puts down on the coffee table. She stares at it.

‘Thinly sliced raw fennel,’ he explains. ‘Good for digestion.’

‘Right.’ They’re going to eat it, she supposes.

He hands her a glass. ‘Bourgogne,’ he says before returning to his theme. ‘Yes, I was just thinking as I was pouring our drinks just now how important it is to have this ritual, don’t you think? Our little aperitif. It’s important to keep a handle on adult life, especially now that Emily is here. I’ve seen friends have babies and from one moment to the next they go from civilised human beings to blithering idiots, apparently no longer capable of decent thought or deed, their whole lives descended into a wash of breast milk, puke stains and shit.’ He chinks his glass against hers, takes a long slug she suspects is not his first. ‘I don’t want that for us, do you?’

‘No,’ she replies, nibbling on the fennel, which tastes of liquorice.

‘That’s why our routine is just as important as Emily’s. We have to stay civilised or we’ll fall into the abyss.’

‘Yes,’ she replies, not wanting to tell him that sometimes, when she has slept little, the wine gives her a headache, that she often still has that headache in bed. ‘I read that an early-evening glass of red wine can help with milk production.’

‘Really?’ he replies, and she tries not to notice the mild expression of distaste that crosses his face. ‘Excuse me, I’ve left the gnocchi on.’

On Monday evening, Samantha gives Peter the card she has made and signed from her and Emily, together withEgon Schiele: L’oeuvre complet, 1909–1918, a book that cost over a hundred pounds but for which he sent her a link that took her to his Amazon Prime account.

‘This wrapping paper is lovely,’ he tells her as he plants a kiss of thanks on her forehead.

Later, he even sings to the baby while Samantha has a shower, takes five minutes to apply a quick lick of mascara and throws on the black strappy dress. It’s too elegant, really, for a Monday night in a pizza restaurant, but it is Peter’s birthday and so far she’s only worn it for him inside the house.

She returns downstairs brushing at the smooth fabric, a little embarrassed suddenly.

‘You look stunning.’ His eyes are soft, sloping at the edges in the way she loves. He hands her a glass of red and clinks his larger glass against it. ‘This is Pinot Nero, very light. Did I tell you this place uses polenta in the pizza bases? The guy is from Naples, apparently, and it’s bring-your-own, so we can take the rest of the wine with us.’

He brings a chilled bottle of champagne too, so that they can toast, which he is about to do when she stops him.

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