in a steady stream of nannies, who’s now about to desert her in just a few days’ time.
I do have a dad and one day he’ll come for me.
I can almost hear her little singsong, baby voice saying that, proudly, defiantly and the blow it gives me right to the solar plexus is physically making me nauseous.
I knew, of course I knew, that one day I’d have to have the awkward chat with her, that I’d have to tell her why I’m a single mum by choice – I just had no idea that it would creep up on me this fast. And how exactly do I explain to an innocent little child that I never even met her father? That he’s in fact some nameless, faceless Petri dish in an industrial estate out in Sandyford? All I know about him really is the basics; his height, eye colour, hair colour, occupation and IQ. That’s it. And worst of all, that he’s never going to come for her, because how can he? He doesn’t even know of her existence. Or of mine.
Christ alive, what chance has the poor kid got? No father and, judging by the not-too-difficult-to-read subtext of what Miss Pettifer’s telling me, an absentee mother to boot. I look across the desk at her and can almost see a cartoon thought bubble coming out of her brain saying that there are probably undiscovered terrorist cells in the mountains of Afghanistan more nurturing that I am.
The worry swirls round my brain now, dull and nauseating, over and over again. No getting away from it, I am a horrible parent whose child doesn’t even know the truth about her own parentage. A child, to my shame, that I barely see at all. And now my Lily, my little strawberry-blonde angel, is acting like Damien from The Omen and taking pot shots at her little classmates for accusing her of not having a dad … Oh God, now the guilt feels exactly like heartburn.
I’m just wiping away tiny beads of worry-sweat, wondering how in hell I’m going to fix this, when Miss Pettifer cuts into my thoughts as if there’s more – worse – to come.
‘So you see why I had to call you in Eloise.’
‘Yes, of course I do, and thank you for letting me know …’
With jelly legs, I make to get out of my chair, but she holds her palm up to stop me.
‘And there’s something else too,’ Miss Pettifer says.
I look dumbly up at her, dreading the next sentence. But she must realise the deep, nightmarish turmoil I’m in and second guesses me, actually coming round from behind her desk and perching right beside me, taking my hand and speaking to me quite kindly.
‘Come on Eloise, I know all of this has been awful for you to hear. It was difficult for me to tell you too, though I wouldn’t have been doing either you or Lily any favours if I hadn’t. But you have to believe me when I say that you’re not a bad mother. You’ve just been run off your feet, that’s all. And essentially, Lily is an adorable little girl who we’re all very fond of. Just remember though, these precious years with your child are very fleeting and will all be over in a blink. Before you know it, she’ll be an independent little lady who won’t need you any more. So please, before it’s too late, take this advice from me. Explain to her about her father. She’s crying out to know why her life is different from the other children’s and I know that once you do, you’ll never regret it. Otherwise, when she’s older, she might track him down for herself and possibly even end up resenting you for not being more open on the subject with her before.’
I look up at her, pathetically grateful to her for not making me feel any worse than I already do.
Miss Pettifer stands herself up straight, mercifully indicating that our meeting is over, and instantly resumes her straight-backed, sergeant major pose. I manage to stand up beside her and am just scooping my handbag off the floor with trembling hands … And then, just when I think I can take no more, comes the killer blow.
‘But you do understand that naturally you and I must put Lily and what’s best for her first. As you know, we’re completely full up here, with a very long waiting list; I was only able to squeeze her in at all because you were so very insistent.’
I nod, remembering that I practically had to donate a spare kidney just to get them to take Lily on in the first place. And even then, I could only get her in on a monthly trial basis.
‘However, it’s a strong principle of mine that if a child isn’t happy or for any reason doesn’t settle in with us, then the parent really should look elsewhere. Of course, perhaps in time we many look into taking her back here …’
‘What do you … Hang on; did you just say taking her back?’ I splutter, confused.
‘But you have to understand that, with regret, we just don’t feel that at the moment it’s working out for Lily here as a pupil. It’s your daughter I’m thinking of, you must understand. So I wish you and Lily all the very best in future, Eloise. But I’m afraid you have to understand that at this point in time, I’ll have to offer her place to another child.’
Ten minutes later, I swing my car into the driveway outside my house, blatantly ignoring the flashing of my mobile as yet another angry missed call comes through and remains unanswered. I glance down at the phone; thirty-five missed calls is the total to date and twenty-eight voice messages, all from the office. And that’s not even counting the number of emails that have landed in my inbox. Christ, I think impatiently, I’ve barely been out of the place an hour and now they’re acting like the whole building is about to blow up any second?
But on the principle that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I make an executive decision to ignore each and every one of their so-called urgent calls. I’ll think of something to tell them all when I get back. I’ll improvise wildly, I’ll fib shamelessly, but I’ll wriggle my way out of it somehow. I’ll plead my hitherto impeccable record if I have do, I’ll stay there till two in the morning to make up the time … But there’s something else, something far more important I need to do first.
And so, for the first time in the best part of a decade, I’m actually home during daylight hours, pulling my car through the gates and parking in the tiny, gravelled driveway. I bought this house not long after I was made editor, thinking that I’d get to actually spend a reasonably decent amount of time in it, poor misguided gobshite that I was back then. It’s a neat, terraced little Edwardian redbrick in lovely, leafy Rathgar, two storeys over a basement, with a study that I never go into (no time, I’m only ever really in this house to sleep), a pretty, landscaped garden at the back that I’m never in (ditto) with a sunny little patio area that I once dreamt of sitting outside having a civilised breakfast in.
Breakfast? Who, may I ask, has time for breakfast? I’m doing well if I get to stuff a banana into my face while driving to work at dawn – and that’s on a good day when I’m not driving and having to hold a meeting over the phone at the same time.
Then there’s a lovely, sash-windowed, high-ceilinged dining room that I never entertain in. Entertain? Are you kidding me? When, exactly? Not only that, but I forked out a small fortune for a stunning Victorian dining table and chairs that comfortably seats twelve and to date, has only ever been used once. I’ll never forget it; for a mortifying attempt at a dinner party that I gave as a house-warming, where the guest list included a few of the T. Rexes and their wives, plus one or two from the office, that, if not actual friends, were at least people who seemed not to actually despise me. And of course in the end, it was one of those awful, excruciating nights where no one really had a non-work related thing to say to anyone else and where everyone started asking me for the name of a good local taxi company … at half ten. Anyway like I say, I’m rarely home before the wee small hours and as I trip up the stone steps to the
