Si thought this was hysterical. For a good few weeks afterwards he was calling me Scary Cathy, and whenever I touched him – laid a hand on his arm, gave him a hug – he’d screw up his eyes and start wailing, collapsing in giggles every time.
It made me laugh at first, but after the forty-seventh time he did it, I started to get ever so slightly pissed off. Even Lucy told him off, which was most uncharacteristic of her, although she didn’t actually mean it.
‘Oh, Si,’ she’d playfully berate him. ‘Don’t be so mean. Poor Cath. It wasn’t her fault. Maxy’s just nervous of strangers, aren’t you, Maxy?’
Si would then have to prove her wrong by smugly taking Max from her arms and making faces at him or bouncing him up and down while he gurgled with delight.
And now, at three years old, Max still makes me feel as uncomfortable as he did when a newborn baby. But now, instead of screaming, he just has this habit of looking at me, and I find myself trying to befriend him, being extra-specially nice to make him change his opinion of me.
‘If you’re a good boy, Cath will give you a present. Would you like that?’ I feel ridiculous, saying these things to him, but I don’t know how else to talk to a three-year-old.
I’ve watched Si with envy, because Si doesn’t treat Max like a child, he treats him like an adult. Si sits and has in-depth chats with Max about work. I know. Ridiculous. But it’s true. I’ve actually seen Si walk in, sit down next to Max and say, ‘God, what a terrible day. Do you want to hear about my day?’ And Max will nod very seriously, as Si proceeds to talk at him about film rushes and editing, and things being left on the cutting-room floor.
But what’s even more ridiculous, is that Max loves it. Adores it. He cannot take his eyes off Si during these conversations.
And then there was one time when Si sat down wearily next to Max, as Josh grabbed Lucy and enfolded her in his arms, covering her neck with kisses while she giggled and tried to push him away, and said, ‘I wish I could find someone who loved me like that.’
Do you know what Max did? He put his hand in Si’s and squeezed it, then very solemnly gave him a kiss on the cheek. Si said he nearly burst into tears.
But no matter what I say to Max, how large my bribes, he never seems to change with me.
I bring a lollipop out of my pocket and extend it to Max, who examines it for a few seconds without touching it, then takes it out of my hand, turns his back, and disappears down the hallway.
‘Max!’ Lucy shouts, running after him and sweeping him up. ‘I saw that! Don’t be so rude. You must say thank you when someone gives you something.’ She rolls her eyes at me, mouthing ‘sorry’, as she drops Max at my feet.
‘Fank you.’ He looks at the floor, lollipop already in his mouth.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say, as he trundles off again. I follow Lucy into the kitchen, the smell of freshly baked biscuits making me salivate. ‘He does hate me, you know,’ I say, pulling off my coat and throwing it on a chair.
‘Well, he obviously has terrible taste in women,’ she says, ‘and he doesn’t really hate you, he’s just at that difficult age.’
‘He’s been at that difficult age since he was born.’
‘Bloody men,’ she laughs. ‘They’re all the same. Now, how about some home-made, fresh-from-the-oven, apple-and-cinnamon biscuits?’
I rub my stomach in approval and take one from the plate Lucy sets on the table, not bothering to wait for the tea that ought to be the accompaniment.
‘Lucy,’ I mumble, mouth full, trying to catch the buttery crumbs that fall as I speak. ‘Sorry for speaking with my mouth full, but these are amazing.’
‘You’re so sweet.’ Lucy breaks into one of her dazzling smiles. ‘That’s why I adore having you over. So much nicer to enjoy what you’re eating. I just can’t bear all these sticklike girls who eat only lettuce, or have drinks filled with that ghastly sweetener stuff. Have some more.’
I happily comply, feeling only slightly guilty that I am not one of those sticklike girls who would wave the biscuits away, asking for a carrot instead, or perhaps a teaspoonful of cottage cheese. But even those girls would have trouble finding willpower if they had a friend who could cook like Lucy.
Lucy brings the teapot to the table and sits down. ‘Cath, are you happy?’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I mean at work. Do you enjoy what you’re doing?’
‘I love my work,’ I say, suddenly realizing that I am only saying this because, up until recently, it is what I have always said. Except there is no longer any conviction in my words, they sound hollow and empty, even to me.
I start again. ‘Well, I did love my work. I suppose I haven’t really thought about it lately. Sometimes I quite enjoy it, but not like I used to. What a strange question, what are you up to?’
Lucy sighs. ‘I’ve just been thinking an awful lot recently, about why we’re here, and what we should be doing, and for years I always thought I wanted to help people, which is why I’m doing this bloody counselling course, although thank God it’s practically over.’ She pauses to drink some tea.
‘But the thing is,’ she continues, ‘I haven’t done any proper illustrating for three years, since Max was born, and to be totally honest I don’t think I want to do it any more. This is going to sound awful.’ She looks at me sheepishly.
‘But,’ I prompt.
‘But,’ she smiles, ‘I feel like I’ve devoted these last few years to helping other people, looking after other people, being Josh’s wife and Max’s mother, and, although I adore looking after my boys, I think that now I need to do something for myself.’ There’s a long pause. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that if that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you should do. Absolutely.’ Even as I say it I know I should be applying those rules to myself, but then I haven’t got a husband who would pick up the pieces if everything went horribly wrong. Who could afford to take on the entire mortgage if my money ran out. Who could, in short, be there for me.
‘So what are you thinking of doing?’ I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
‘Ah,’ she says, breaking into a smile. ‘Now that’s where, hopefully, you come in.’ She stands up. ‘Grab your coat. We’re going for a walk.’
As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Lucy yells out to the au pair, ‘Ingriiiiiiiid? I’m going out. Won’t be long.’
Ingrid appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Okay, Lucy,’ she says stonily, ignoring the fact that Max appears to be wrapping a lasso around her left leg. ‘See you.’
‘She is a godsend,’ Lucy says, closing the front door, which slightly surprises me, as personally I think she’s a cow. ‘I honestly don’t know where we’d be without her.’
‘So where are we going?’ I walk alongside Lucy, up her road, on to West End Lane, smiling because it’s impossible not to feel good when the sun is shining and the pavements outside the cafés are crowded with tables and chairs, with people lingering over their coffees, just to enjoy the sunshine a bit longer.
‘Surprise,’ she says. ‘But you’ll see when we get there.’
Chapter six
‘Here we are,’ says Lucy, stopping in front of an empty shop and turning to look at me expectantly.
I look at what she’s looking at. An empty shop in between the organic deli and the shop that sells strange wooden carvings. A shop that you can’t see into because all the windows are obliterated by huge, multicoloured posters advertising bands, concerts, gigs.