Page 19 of The Ex

I wonder what you’ll do now.

I wonder what I’ll do now.

I think I’m still in shock. Are you?

This is definitely a letter now.

It’s Monday, by the way. Typical you, to go silent on me for the rest of Saturday and the whole of Sunday, leave me to get more and more unsure about what I’ve said and done, whether it’s justifiable or even understandable. That’s abusive, do you know that? No, of course you don’t. Well, I’m wise to your mind games. They won’t work, not anymore. And I’m going to make sure you don’t get too close too soon to little Tommy.

I’ve just changed him actually, put him down for his nap and cleaned up after him, put a wash on, caught up with myself, managed to grab a piece of cold toast and a lukewarm cup of tea. I bet you spent your Sunday going for a lovely long walk, didn’t you? All the time in the world. Take some nice photos, did you? Get out your watercolours? Or maybe you spent the weekend planting seeds in little pots to line the windowsill in the conservatory. Sorry, orangery. Maybe you’ve already discussed our situation with Joyce. She’ll have told you how terrible I am, what a bitch I am for keeping your child from you, how dare I, am I right?

I don’t blame her.

Bet you didn’t see that coming. But I don’t blame her. Really. As I keep saying, I’m learning to reflect. Dawn helped me so much. I know what I said at the pub was bad. I know people do and say bad things when they’re angry, and I know I have a right to be angry, but it was still wrong of me to have a go at you in public like that.

But here’s why I got the rage.

I have a right to see him, you said.

How quickly you claimed that right. So entitled, when you think about it, not that anyone would get that about you unless they knew you like I do. Funny, it’s not in your star sign at all, but seriously, what did you ever do to give you the right to be his father? Slept with me, is that it? That’s how it is for men, I suppose. A guaranteed orgasm and a nice warm bed. No periods to put up with, no cystitis, no pills to remember, no swelling, no sickness, no sore breasts, no weight gain, no stretch marks, no milk leaking down the front of your T-shirt in the middle of Morrisons, no sleepless nights, no crazy hormones, no wondering who the hell you even are anymore, what day of the week it is… I could go on.

I know I sound bitter, and you probably stopped reading that list halfway through, but all you have to do is read it when you should be trying to imagine what it’s like to actually live through every single thing on it. You enjoyed me for years. Physically, I mean. I kept myself nice for you, didn’t I? Always tried to ring the changes in and out of the bedroom, always bought the birthday cake, booked the restaurant, the night out with friends, and then, without any warning, you tell me you can’t stand me being angry all the time. Did you ever stop to wonder why? Or if there was something you could do about it? Did you ever think you might have caused it? And then you walk out without so much as a backward glance.

That’s what you did, Sam. Actually.

Out of interest, how does that count as a claim on Tommy?

Now. This is going to surprise you, but that’s Pisces to a T – full of contradictions. I’ve had a good long think about it. After seeing you on Saturday, I can tell how much you want to be involved. I know you always wanted kids. And I know Joyce will be calling her lawyer, if she hasn’t already. I’m not stupid. So tell Granny Joyce to calm down. I’m not going to keep Tommy away from you, OK?

CHAPTER 15

Sam, I’ve been thinking things over. I know I said you couldn’t see Tommy, but I was hurt and angry and I suppose I wanted to punish you. I’m sorry. For all that I’ve fantasised about doing it, I didn’t enjoy it. Can we meet this evening? I’ll ask Jo to have Tommy. The Harbour, 8pm?

When Sam receives this message, he is engaged in the rather mundane task of lifting the old concrete flags at the Higher Mill job. It might be minor fantasising on my part, but I think I remember him straightening up like he’d heard a gunshot just as I was leaving to pick up Betsy, one hand flying to his back pocket. I remember reflecting at the time that he lived with the constant possibility of an emergency call from Joyce – she was an absolute bugger for trying to lift things or power up tools or climb places she shouldn’t.

Except, of course, I didn’t realise then that it wasn’t just Joyce who was on his conscience now.

So, there he is, slipping his hand from his work glove, pulling the phone out of his pocket and seeing that message. Breath catching, he goes to the app and reads it a second time, a third. The breath leaves him in a gasp. She is going to let him see his son. He feels his mouth break into a wide smile. Replies instantly, gloves hanging from his back pocket like filthy, boneless hands.

Hi. I understand, dw. I’ve been thinking a lot about how things must have been for you and I’m sorry too. I was going to contact you at the weekend but thought you might need space, but then I worried you’d think I was going silent, which I wasn’t, I promise. I’ll never do that again, and if I do, just say the word and I’ll stop. And yes, 8 at the Harbour. X

On the way home, Sam calls in on Miranda to update her on the day’s progress.

‘It’s on the latch,’ he hears her call down the hall.

She is at the small kitchen table, supervising Betsy, who is eating pasta with a dessert spoon.

‘Hey, Bets,’ he says, passing a hand over her soft hair. ‘That looks delicious.’

She holds up a piece of broccoli. ‘This is a tree,’ she tells him.

Miranda catches Sam’s eye and they share a smile.

‘An oak?’ Sam asks. ‘Or a beech? Or actually, is it a chestnut?’ He is careful to match Betsy’s seriousness with his own.

For a split second, she stares at him as if he’s lost his mind.

‘It’s not really a tree,’ she explains. ‘It’s boccoli.’ She puts the whole thing – leaves, branches, trunk, the lot – into her mouth.

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