Chapter 25 We Three Queens of Bluewater Are
Chapter twenty-five
We Three Queens of Bluewater Are
Miranda
The toast is a bit too dark on one side, and the butter refuses to spread like a reasonable dairy product. I give up halfway through and let it clump where it wants.
SJ is sat at the table in his Spider-Man pyjamas, cross-legged on the chair, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted in his sleep. He’s already halfway through his cereal and deep into a dramatic retelling of a dream.
“Rexy had to cross this giant pit of lava, right, but the bridge was made of jelly. So he said, ‘I’m not falling in that again,’ and tied a parachute to his tail instead.”
I nod. “Practical.”
“He still crashed,” SJ adds, shovelling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “But then all the other dinosaurs clapped, so it was fine.”
“Good to know applause cures lava injuries,” I say, dropping a piece of toast onto his plate. “Want jam?”
“Yes please. But not the weird one with seeds. That one gets stuck in my teeth.”
I hand him the raspberry jam without pips.
We eat in the quiet rhythm of weekday mornings—chewing, mumbling, the occasional sound of milk sloshing and the soft thud of a dinosaur being repositioned beside the juice carton.
My tea is going cold. Again.
Jasper’s mug from last night is still by the sink, rinsed and upside down. He left just after five, same as always—early enough that SJ doesn’t notice, quiet enough that I only woke when I felt the blanket lift and the brush of lips on my shoulder.
SJ clears his throat in that very deliberate way kids do when they’ve decided the next thing they say is Important.
“Mum?”
“Mm?”
He picks at the crust of his toast, eyes not quite meeting mine. “Do you think you and Dad will get back together?”
I freeze. Not dramatically. Just long enough that the silence stretches into something noticeable.
I set my tea down.
“Where’s that come from?”
He shrugs, still looking down at his plate. “You just seem to get on better now. Like when he came to the fair. You didn’t look like you wanted to punch him.”
“Well, I didn’t not want to,” I say lightly, but it doesn’t land the way I mean it to.
He looks up.
I sigh. “I’m not mad at him all the time anymore, if that’s what you mean.”
SJ nods, like that makes sense. He folds a bit of crust into a rough dinosaur shape, then immediately bites its head off.
“Are you going to?” he asks, voice quiet now.
I pause, studying him. “Would you like that?”
He shrugs again. Less evasive this time, more unsure.
“I don’t know,” he says, picking at a crumb near his plate. “I like you like now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Like now?”
He nods. “You laugh more. And you don’t do the thing with your face.”
“What thing with my face?”
He screws up his own in a dramatic frown. “This.”
I blink. “I don’t look like that.”
“You kind of did.”
“Well, that’s rude.”
He grins.
I reach over and ruffle his hair, which he immediately tries to fix with all the indignation of someone who believes their fringe is a personality trait.
“You seem happier,” he says, matter-of-fact, like it’s just another observation. Like saying the cat’s on the windowsill or the bin smells weird.
And I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I am.”
“But if you could be happy and with dad, then I’d like that too.”
He pops the rest of his toast into his mouth and stands up, grabbing his dinosaur.
“I’m going to go brush my teeth,” he announces, already halfway down the hall.
And just like that, the conversation’s over.
But the echo of it lingers underneath the clatter of mugs and the creak of floorboards and the sound of Twinklesocks launching herself into the laundry basket like it insulted her.
You seem happier.
It’s not a grand statement. Not a question.
But it’s true.
Bluewater is heaving. Not sure what I expected when deciding to head to a shopping centre this close to Christmas.
“Right,” Lizzie says, adjusting the oversized shopping bag on her shoulder like she’s about to summit Everest, “if I don’t sit down in the next five minutes, I’m going to start throwing a Lindt reindeer at strangers.”
“You’ve already thrown one,” I point out.
“Self-defence,” she says breezily. “The man shoved me. Elbowed me out of the way for a diffuser that smells like pine and shit.”
Amelia appears at my elbow holding what looks like three tubes of glittery bath cream and a single Christmas pudding-shaped dog toy.
“I don’t even have a dog,” she says, baffled. “Why am I holding this?”
“Capitalism,” I offer.
“Peer pressure,” Lizzie adds, sinking into a nearby bench with a groan. “And possibly early-onset festive madness.”
I lower myself beside her and glance into my bag. Books, LEGO, a jumper for SJ that he’ll hate and wear once for photos.
“Tell me again why we thought this would be fun?” I ask, pulling off my coat for the fifth time today.
“Because we were promised pretzels and festive drinks,” Amelia says, scanning the horizon like a snack-deprived meerkat. “Also, I wanted to feel like a functioning adult with a list and a plan.”
“And how’s that going?”
“I’ve spent ￡83 on things I don’t remember picking up, and I’m pretty sure I lost feeling in one foot around Marks & Spencer.”
“Excellent,” Lizzie mutters. “So we’re all thriving.”
There’s a brief, collective sigh as we sit there, surrounded by bags and general yuletide chaos.
Then Amelia claps her hands once, startling a passing toddler. “Right. Costa. Stat. If I don’t get some water and a hot chocolate in the next ten minutes I’m going to lie down on the escalator and let fate decide the rest.”
Lizzie and I both grunt in agreement and haul ourselves upright with the weary grace of women who’ve survived total shopping mayhem. We gather our bags and make the slow, determined trudge toward the nearest Costa like three very glamorous pack mules.
Five minutes later, we’re installed at a sticky table with cardboard cups, cinnamon dust, and a vague sense that we’ve earned this.
“So,” Lizzie says, pulling the lid off her coffee and blowing steam across it. “Jasper.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Subtle.”
“Thank you,” she says, deadpan. “Now talk.”
Amelia leans in, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got that post-shag glow.”
“I do not,” I protest.
“You do,” they say in unison.
I roll my eyes, trying to sip my latte like a woman with dignity, but Lizzie kicks my foot under the table.
“Out with it.”
I pause.
I glance down at my coffee, then back up at them, cheeks starting to burn. “We’ve… spent the last couple of weeks together.”
“Define ‘together’,” Amelia says, already grinning.
“Together-together,” I admit.
Lizzie lets out a loud whoop that turns several heads, none of whom she notices or cares about. Amelia follows suit with a high-pitched “Yesss!” that could probably be heard from the John Lewis homeware department.
“Keep your voice down!” I hiss, laughing despite myself.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Lizzie says. “This is the most exciting thing to happen since Bri hooked up with Omar.”
“I swear to God, if you start asking for details—”
“We won’t,” Amelia promises, patting my hand solemnly. “Unless you offer them.”
I bury my face in my coffee.
They both lean in, smug as anything.
I sigh into the lid. “Don’t get that excited. It’s not that straight forward as it sounds…”
Lizzie makes a weird noise and shuffles her chair a little closer.
I take a sip, stalling. “Sim-Sim turned up.”
Both eyebrows go up in perfect synchrony.
“Mid shag?” Amelia snorts.
“At the Christmas fair,” I clarify. “SJ invited him. I didn’t know until he was just… there.”
Amelia winces. “That’s awkward.”
“Mm.”
“And Jasper?” Lizzie says, already guessing.
“Was incredibly polite about it,” I say. “And completely calm. On the surface.”
“And underneath?” Amelia asks.
I stir the coffee I’ve already half-finished. “He was jealous.”
Lizzie grins. “Ooooh, possessive now, is he? I love it.”
“I didn’t say possessive,” I counter. “I said jealous. Quietly. In that British, ‘I’m-fine-but-also-I-might-die-inside’ kind of way.”
Amelia snorts. “Did he say anything?”
“Later. When we were back home, after SJ was asleep. He asked if I thought there was still a chance with Sim-Sim.”
“Oh God,” Lizzie groans. “Did you tell him absolutely not, that ship has sunk and is now an underwater museum?”
I laugh, but it’s a little hollow. “I told him I don’t think so. But I also said that when Sim-Sim turns up it messes with my head a bit. Because we had a whole life once. A messy, flawed, exhausting one… but it was still a life.”
They’re both quiet for a second. Amelia’s expression softens. Lizzie, for once, doesn’t fill the pause with a joke.
“And Jasper?” Amelia says.
“He heard me,” I say. “Didn’t storm out. Didn’t sulk. Just stayed.”
“Because he’s a grown-up,” Lizzie says, a little too smugly. “You’re not dating a man-child. See how healthy this is?”
“I don’t know if I’d call any of it healthy,” I mutter. “But it’s… different.”
“And is ‘different’ good?” Amelia asks.
I glance down at my coffee again.
“SJ asked me if Sim-Sim and I will get back together because we don’t fight that much. He said he’d like that.” The words feel heavy, but I put them out there anyway, because I don’t really know how else to handle them.
Amelia squeezes my hand. “He’s not even nine. I’m not saying he doesn’t understand anything, but for kids, relationships are black and white. If you don’t fight, you must be good together.”
“Exactly,” Lizzie says, then narrows her eyes. “Oh god. You’re not actually thinking about going back to Sim-Sim, are you?”
“And if she does, that’s her choice,” Amelia cuts in with a look sharp enough to make Lizzie wince.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, it’s not just about me. I have to think about SJ too. But until I figure it out… how fair is this on Jasper?”
“Pish-posh,” Lizzie waves me off. “Men do this kind of thing all the time.”
“Yeah, and we don’t like them for it,” I sigh. “Anyway. Enough of my emotional turmoil.”
Lizzie leans back and says, “Right. Finish your coffee, ladies. I need to find something wildly inappropriate for my boss before I lose the will to shop.”
“Excellent,” Amelia says, already standing. “I vote novelty wine stopper or ‘world’s okayest manager’ mug.”
And just like that, we’re back in motion. Three women, too many bags, and one slight emotional breakthrough, promptly buried under sarcasm, caffeine, and questionable gift choices.
Business as usual.