Page 28 of The Ex

‘I know, but…’

‘Don’t worry about it. Seriously.’

She nods, her eyes bright. ‘But we’re doing all right now, aren’t we?’

‘Of course. Of course we are. We’re doing great.’

‘And you don’t still… hate me or anything, do you?’

‘Of course not. I never hated you.’ Heat climbs his neck. ‘And… and this’ll be great for Tommy. If you need me to have him at the weekend, just, you know, shout.’

‘That’s kind, but let’s take it one step at a time, shall we?’

The heat reaches his face; he feels himself blush. ‘Sure, sure. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself.’

‘Maybe in a few weeks?’

‘Sure. Yes. That’d be great.’

Smiling, she turns to go. He waits on the stone doorstep, feet cooling through his thin socks. She clips Tommy into the back seat, closes the door, gets into the driver’s seat. She moves carefully, as if everything she does impacts the baby.

As she pulls out of the long, wide driveway, he sees her in silhouette, waving.

He raises his hand. ‘Bye, Nomes,’ he whispers. ‘Bye, Tommy.’

CHAPTER 21

Dear Sam,

So you’ve done your first full shift with Toms and now you’re ready to take him for a weekend. I must admit, I did have a little laugh about that in the car on the way home. You have no idea how hard it is to look after a baby full-time, but I’ll let you off. There was no malice in it. That’s the thing about you, Sam. You never mean any harm; you just do it by accident. Usually it’s what you don’t do or say. Do you remember that time I had about four inches of my hair cut off, and when you got in from work I asked you if you noticed anything and you looked around like a cornered criminal and asked if I’d varnished the coffee table? I was literally standing there looking completely different and you didn’t even notice. When I got upset, you told me I was overreacting instead of just putting your arm round me, telling me I looked nice and saying sorry. You did stuff like that all the time and it used to really hurt my feelings. But Dawn helped me see it’s not intentional. It’s not personal.

I should have laughed, shouldn’t I? Me, varnish a coffee table? As if!

Anyway, I’m pleased you enjoyed having Toms. And when I agreed that you could have him one weekend sometime, you couldn’t hide your feelings, could you? Your eyes literally lit up, and that’s a good sign. You see, we were close once, and I just know we can be close again.

CHAPTER 22

On a Saturday in late May, Joyce is standing at the kitchen sink mixing filler for the crack in the wall of the nursery. The varnish on the floorboards has dried, and once the walls are painted, they’ll be most of the way there. But she isn’t thinking about that; she’s thinking about the absence of drama this last month. So sure was she of it coming, the lack of it is stark, as if it’s a solid thing in and of itself – like a table suddenly missing from a room, the indentations in the rug creating the expectation that it should by rights still be there. The strange lightness in the air is such that she half expects the ornaments to start levitating off the sideboard. No wailing recriminations, no slamming doors, no swearing to make a sailor blush – all of which only makes her own breath audible, her footsteps loud, the clang of her tools in the kitchen sink deafening.

Naomi has not put one foot wrong. Like clockwork – no, likeSwissclockwork – she drops Tommy off each Wednesday morning. Here again, this almost tangiblenothingness: no belligerent lateness. No utter disregard for the timings and plans of others.

In this conspicuous peace, Joyce and Sam have eased themselves into a lovely routine. As she said to Miranda on the FaceTime the other day, ‘I count the days to little Tommy’s visits, I really do. And when Naomi comes to take him away, it’s like she’s taking one of my limbs with her. But Sam says we can’t push for more, not yet.’

‘And what about Naomi? Is she any nicer?’

Joyce couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Do you know, I barely recognise her. The haughtiness is gone, the guilt trips, all the little barbed comments disguised as jokes. And she doesn’t do that coy wheedling thing anymore, not so far as I’ve seen. I thought she might have wanted to punish Sam for leaving, you know? For being absent during the child’s early months. But no. She seems to have moved past it.’

No punishments. Another troubling absence.

As for Sam, she thinks now, he is happier than he has been since he left Naomi – ironic, since the happiness has come precisely because Naomi is back in his life, albeit in a different form.

Not for the first time, Joyce wonders whether there’s anything physical between them. She remembers the one and only time she let hopeless Hugh back into their red-brick semi-detached villa off Clapham High Street; he was back in her bed before he’d dropped his bags, only for her to kick him out two months later when the mask of reform slipped and his promises went up in sweet, cloying marijuana smoke. But just because Hugh never grew up doesn’t mean to say that Naomi hasn’t. And after what Sam told her, it’s possible thatheneeded to grow up too, learn to communicate from time to time instead of brooding and huffing like a horse stuck in a stable.

She stirs the filler. It’s a bit stiff, so she adds more water, curses herself for being too lazy to fetch her glasses to read the proportions on the side of the bag. Another stir; the mixture is easier this time. She lifts the bucket out of the sink and turns to make her way upstairs, realising in that moment that her glasses are on her head.

‘Fool,’ she mutters, grasping the banister with her free hand.

Whatever has happened, happens or might happen between those two, what’s beyond doubt is Sam’s devotion to that little boy. The other Saturday he drove to Exeter and returned with a mobile toy for the cot. He bought a sleep suit, a night light that plays a lullaby and rotates, showing a circus scene with acrobats tumbling, and a frame backpack that doubles as a makeshift high chair.

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