I put my head in my hands, already exhausted by what I won’t manage to do today.
Be grateful, Kate. You have a proper grown-up job. You’re one of the lucky ones.
My husband Col is a qualified occupational therapist, but he’s working at the Odeon cinema. It could be worse. At least he gets free popcorn.
‘Well, you’re bright and shiny, aren’t you?’ Tessa Warwick, my manager, strides into the office, clicking on her Nespresso machine – a personal cappuccino maker she won’t let anyone else use.
I jolt upright and start tapping keys.
‘And what’s that, a new hairdo?’ Tessa is a big, shouty lady with high blood pressure and red cheeks. Her brown hair is wiry and cut into a slightly wonky bob. She wears a lot of polyester.
‘I’ve just tied it back, that’s all,’ I say, pulling my curly black hair tighter in its hairband. ‘I’m not really a new hairdo sort of person.’
I’ve had the same hair since I was eight years old – long and curly, sometimes up, sometimes down. No layers. Just long.
‘I might have known. Yes, you’re very, very sensible, aren’t you?’
This is a dig at me, but I don’t mind because Tessa is absolutely right. I wear plain, functional trouser suits and no makeup. My glasses are from the twenty-pound range at Specsavers. I’ve never signed up for monthly contact lenses – I’d rather put money in my savings account.
‘I’m glad you’re in early anyway,’ Tessa continues. ‘There is a lot to do this week.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Leanne Neilson is in hospital again. Gary and I were up until nine on Friday trying to get her boys into bed. I just need time to get going.’
Gary is a family support worker and absolutely should have finished at 5 p.m. So should I, actually. But two out-of-hours team members were off sick and we were swamped.
Tessa inserts a cappuccino tablet into her Nespresso machine. ‘So you were babysitting the three Neilson scallywags?’ She gives a snort of laughter. ‘They’re like child versions of the Gallagher brothers, those boys. All that black hair, fighting all the time. You never know – maybe they’ll be famous musicians. But you shouldn’t have been putting them to bed. You should be in the pub of an evening, like a normal twenty-something.’
It’s a bone of contention between us – the fact I rarely drink alcohol. Also, that I married at twenty years old and go to church twice a week.
‘Jesus drank, didn’t he?’ Tessa continues. ‘I thought it would be okay for you lot.’
‘Us lot?’
‘You young churchy types. You’ll be drinking soon,’ Tessa predicts. ‘Just you wait. You’re new to this, but everyone ends up on the lunchtime wine eventually. Now listen – have you done the home visit for that transfer case yet? From Hammersmith and Fulham, Tom Kinnock? The one with the angry dad.’
‘No. I sent a letter on Friday. She’ll get it today.’
‘Get on to that one as soon as you can, Kate. The transfer was weeks late. There’ll already be some catching up to do. Have they got him a school place?’
‘Yes. At Steelfield School.’
‘I bet the headmaster is furious,’ laughs Tessa. ‘“More social services children thrust upon us … we already have the Neilson boys to deal with.’”
‘I’m not sure a high-achieving school is the right environment for Tom Kinnock,’ I say. ‘Very strict and results obsessed. After what this boy has been through, maybe he needs somewhere more nurturing.’
‘Don’t worry about the school,’ says Tessa. ‘Steelfield is a godsend. They keep the kids in line. No chair throwing or teacher nervous breakdowns. Just worry about getting that case shut down ASAP. The father is a risk factor, but all the dirty work is done.’
‘I’m pretty overwhelmed here, Tessa.’
‘Welcome to social work.’ Tessa gives her Nespresso machine a brief thump with a closed fist.
A brown envelope, addressed formally to Elizabeth Kinnock. The mottled paper has a muddy shoeprint from where I stepped on it.
I study the postmark. It’s from the county council, i.e. social services. I know these sorts of letters from when we lived with Olly. We’d like to meet to discuss your son …
I should have known social services would want to meet us. Check we’re settling into our new life. But we don’t need any of that official stuff now. Olly is gone.
My fingers want to scrunch the brown paper into a tight ball, then push the letter deep down into the paper recycling, under the organic ready-meal sleeves and junk mail. Stuff away bad memories of an old life, now gone.
But instead I shelve the letter by the bread bin, resolving to open it after a cup of tea. There are other letters to read first.
I sit on the Chesterfield sofa-arm and slide my fingers under paper folds, tearing and pulling free replies to my many job applications. They’re all rejections – I’d guessed as much, given the timing of the letters. If you get the job, they mail you straight away.
I look around the growing chaos that is our new house. There are toys everywhere, children’s books, a blanket and pillow for when Tom dozes on the sofa. Really, it’s hard enough keeping on top of all this, let alone finding a job too.
The house was beautiful when we moved in over the summer – varnished floorboards, cosy living room with a real fireplace, huge, light kitchen and roaming garden full of fruit trees.
But all too quickly it got messy, like my life.
I have that feeling again.
The ‘I can’t manage alone’ feeling.
I squash it down.
I am strong. Capable. Tom and I can have a life without Olly. More importantly, we must have a life without him.
There’s no way back.
A memory unzips itself – me, crying and shaking, cowering in a bathtub as Olly’s knuckles pound on the door. Sharp and brutal.
Tears come. It will be different here.
I head up to the bathroom with its tasteful butler sink and free-standing Victorian bathtub on little wrought-iron legs. From the porcelain toothbrush holder I take hairdressing scissors – the ones I use to trim Tom’s fine, blond hair.
I pick up a long strand of my mousy old life and cut. Then I take another, and another. Turning to the side, I strip strands from my crown, shearing randomly.
Before I know it, half my hair lies in the bathroom sink.
Now I
