‘Do you want some company?’
‘Yes please.’
‘OK. I’ll be round in twenty minutes. I hope you’ve got a bottle chilling.’
Rachel stalks downstairs to a peaceful living room with the children slumped coma-like now watching Tom and Jerry. Rachel watches with them for a while. She’d always hated Tom, and found herself as a child, rooting for the cheeky chancer, Jerry. On watching again, she realises that he’s actually a pretentious little tosser and Tom is the eternally tortured soul, whom no one understands.
‘Unbelievable,’ she mutters to herself as she heads to the kitchen. ‘I’m empathising with a cartoon cat now.’ She checks the fridge first for wine and then decides to be an über-mother by preparing something wholesome for the kid’s tea. On further inspection of the contents of the fridge, she decides that another dose of Omega 3 via the medium of fish fingers will do them no harm.
As she scans the surprisingly tidy kitchen, her eye is caught by a picture Will did a month or so ago entitled ‘My Family’. It had made them laugh because he had drawn them all as Power Rangers. Rachel looks closely, smiling to herself, but this time notices the expressions on the faces. He has drawn himself, his siblings and Steve with enormous cartoon grins but she notices that her face is not smiling but slightly turned down. She tries to dismiss it with her usual humour, questioning whether he is a new Leonardo and is seeking to recreate the Mona Lisa, but something about it makes her feel sad and rather lonely. She is interrupted by a polite tap at the front door.
‘You took your time,’ she declares flinging it open.
‘I did?’ says Tom smiling.
Rachel is momentarily flummoxed. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else’
‘Oh.’ Tom looks slightly disappointed and then grins again.
‘No, it’s OK. It’s nice to see you. Are you all right?’
‘Fine thanks, Mrs Summers. I’m just playing Postman Pat. I took this parcel in for you this morning.’
‘Oh, thanks very much.’
‘Where’s Postman Pat?’ Alfie inquires suddenly at Rachel’s legs, peering up at Tom.
‘I’m here and you must be Alf Thompson. Hullo Alf!’ says Tom putting on a Postman Pat Yorkshire accent.
Rachel is impressed. ‘Good knowledge!’
Tom winks at her. ‘My nephews and nieces have trained me well. I can do them all, Fireman Sam, Bob the Builder.’
‘Where’s Jess?’ says Alfie, oblivious to the mild flirting which is going on above his head.
‘She’s at home having a rest. We’ve had a busy morning delivering all these parcels.’
‘Where’s your van?’ continues Alfie.
‘Er, round the corner.’
‘Ha!’ laughs Rachel. ‘You’re rumbled mate!’
Tom laughs. Alfie screws up his face with scepticism and runs back to the living room.
‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Rachel asks, surprising herself.
‘Erm, OK, why not? Only if I’m not in the way though.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can keep us entertained with your repertoire of children’s characters.’
Rachel leads him down to the kitchen just as her mobile starts to ring. It’s Sue: ‘Listen, darl, I’m really sorry. I’m not going to make it. Joe’s just thrown up everywhere. Can we speak tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry. I hope he’s better soon.’
‘Take care, lovely, and talk to Steve. He’s one of the good guys, you know.’
‘I know,’ says Rachel feeling suddenly exhausted.
Rachel turns to find Tom filling up two wine glasses from the bottle he’s found in the fridge.
‘Sorry, I took the liberty.’
Rachel accepts the glass feeling suddenly shy. She is relieved when two sets of three-year-old feet come stampeding down the corridor. Alfie and Lily appear in a state of heightened excitement.
‘That’s him,’ says Alfie pointing at Tom.
Lily looks Tom up and down, like an old lady inspecting a joint of meat. ‘Why are boys so stupid? That’s not Postman Pat. It’s Tom from next door.’
It’s getting dark as Emma leaves the office, joining the flow of commuters in a hurry to get home because it’s Monday and no one goes out on a Monday. The sky has that London light-polluted glow which means it never goes completely dark, even at night. It’s chilly and a little rain has dampened the streets. Emma is feeling fed up and ready for a bath, a large glass of wine and the welcoming arms of her fiancé. She feels her phone vibrate in her bag. Fumbling through a mess of keys, lipstick and receipts, she locates it just in time, seeing Martin’s caller ID on the screen.
‘Hi, handsome. I’ve just left and I’m looking forward to my spag bol and maybe an encore of last night’s performance?’ says Emma with a smile.
‘Hey, Em,’ says Martin sounding guilty. ‘Thing is I forgot I’d said I’d play five-a-side football with Charlie. Any chance we could postpone it til tomorrow night?’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Look, Em, I’m really sorry and I’ll come home if you want me to. I know you’ve had a crap day,’ says Martin in a tone that is begging to be let off the hook.
Emma sighs, knowing that she’ll feel mean if she forces the issue. ‘No, it’s OK. You go. I’ll probably just head home and have a bath and an early night. I’m a bit knackered.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sure you’re sure?’
‘Yes, you loser, now bog off to your little football game,’ laughs Emma.
‘OK, well spag bol tomorrow night and then how about that encore?’ says Martin. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’
‘Anything?’
‘Apart from the washing-up. I’ll see you later, OK? Love you, Em.’
‘‘Course you do. I’m bloody lovely!’ she declares. She throws the phone into her bag and starts to trudge towards the Tube feeling like a lost soul.
‘Emma! Emma!’ The voice is an unwelcome interruption to her thoughts of home and at first she thinks it’s Joel. She spins round, her face set in a scowl. ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ says the voice’s owner. ‘I come in peace!’
Richard Bennett stands before her, an
