Chapter 14
SOPHIE
‘I’m home,’ I call out, bundling through the front door laden with shopping bags.
‘In the lounge,’ Harlow calls back.
I pause in the doorway to find her and Connie playing Jenga, a prime example of grandmotherly love. Connie hates Jenga – far too noisy when it all comes crashing down for her liking.
‘Hey, you two.’
‘Hi, Mum. I’m beating Coco.’
Connie glances up at me, her mouth twitching. We both know a Jenga win is only decided once the tower tumbles. And from its precarious state, that could be any second now.
‘Well, when you do, feed Hobbes, then come help me with dinner.’
‘Okay.’
I’ve picked up a basic bake-at-home pizza to doctor with our favourite toppings – fresh basil and sun-dried tomatoes on my side and black olives and mushrooms on Harlow’s.
She’s also obsessed with anchovies – something Daniel got her hooked on as a small child – but that’s where I draw the line.
I grew up in a no-fruit-no-fish pizza family, and I can’t stand the smell of them.
I unload the bags, turn on the oven, and busy myself slicing mushrooms, listening out for the crash of the Jenga tower which comes within minutes.
‘I win!’ shouts Harlow, and I’ve got a perfect mental picture of Connie’s face.
She mutters something inaudible, which will be about Harlow being a good sport and not rubbing her victory in her opponent’s face.
But Harlow is her father’s daughter – and not only when it comes to pizza toppings.
Daniel was a sore winner too; he even had a victory dance, which he taught to Harlow when she was two. It was cute then – less so now.
‘So, I hear the premiere was quite the event.’
Connie enters the kitchen and climbs onto a stool at the kitchen bench with effortless elegance – as usual.
‘You’ve had the rundown then?’ I ask with a smirk.
‘It was mostly about the film, and I can’t say I’m any the wiser after Harlow explained it to me.’
I hold up the bottle of wine I’ve opened – a Chardy from Aldi that isn’t half-bad.
‘Oh, go on then,’ she says as if I’ve twisted her arm.
I pour her a glass and slide it across, and we raise our glasses in a silent toast.
‘To be honest, I have no idea what it was about and I sat through it. Lots of lore that only the comic-book readers get, is my guess.’
‘Ah, say no more,’ she replies.
She sips her wine and I continue slicing, keeping one eye on my mother-in-law. It’s easy to tell when she wants to broach something.
‘And this film star…’ she says, surprising me. I was positive she was going to ask about Drew.
‘Max Stirling? What about him?’ I ask lightly.
I have no plans to tell Connie that he openly leered at me. Ever since she plucked up the courage to leave Daniel’s father, she has zero tolerance for that sort of behaviour. She’d insist that I put him in his place, which I’m not going to do.
‘Well, Harlow seemed a little dreamy-eyed when she mentioned him,’ Connie replies. Ah, that’s why she’s asking. ‘And I saw the autograph.’ She widens her eyes. ‘Two kisses,’ she says with a double raise of her brows.
‘Actually, you would have been proud of her. It was as if she meets celebrities every day. Maisie on the other hand…’ I say with a grimace. I fill Connie in, making her chuckle softly.
‘So, not the beginning of a schoolgirl crush, then?’ she asks and for a second, I’m not sure if she means Maisie, Harlow, or me. ‘I suppose she’s getting to that age,’ she adds wistfully. Harlow then.
‘Hmm, could be,’ I say. ‘Although, she’s just as enamoured with Margot Robbie and Zendaya, so…’ I trail off with a shrug, leaving the thought unfinished. When I was Harlow’s age, I wanted to marry Kylie Minogue.
‘And what about Drew?’ Connie asks, ending up exactly where I suspected she was going in the first place.
‘What about him?’ I set down the knife and meet her eye, almost daring her to go there.
‘Oh, don’t play coy, Sophie,’ she says, flattening her mouth into a frustrated line. ‘I saw the photograph.’
‘What photograph?’
‘From the premiere.’
Okay, I did not see that coming.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘How did you—?’
‘Nerida messaged me this morning.’
I should have known. Nerida is Connie’s best friend and she’s obsessed with celebrity gossip. If Connie mentioned the premiere, which she would have because she tells Nerida everything, then Nerida would have trawled online until she found something to gossip about.
‘Here,’ says Connie, reaching for her handbag.
She takes out her phone and taps on the screen a few times, then shows me a photo of me and Drew standing either side of the girls. Three of us are smiling at the camera – although I do have a deer-in-the-headlights look about me – but Drew is staring straight at me.
The caption reads, The Parker Family.
My eyes start stinging as if I’ve been cutting onions, not mushrooms, and I blink rapidly.
‘Sorry,’ I say, turning away and reaching for a tissue.
‘The caption?’ Connie asks, understanding immediately.
I nod, then sniff and wipe my nose.
‘We’re Reids, not Parkers,’ I say, sniffling again.
‘You absolutely are, my darling.’
I take in a steadying breath and with a shake of my head, I exhale, turning to face Connie.
‘All right?’ she asks. I nod again. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you – just…’
‘Just?’
Her head angles to the left. ‘Well, in my experience, when a man looks at you like that,’ she replies, her eyes dropping to the photo on her phone, ‘then maybe it’s time to—’
‘I finished packing up,’ Harlow says from the doorway. She comes into the kitchen and climbs onto the stool next to Connie.
Uncanny timing, my daughter, and I dart my eyes towards Connie, who discreetly puts her phone away. I doubt I’ve heard the last of this and I’d never say anything, but the second I’m alone, I’m finding that photo.
‘Wait a minute,’ I say to Harlow, giving her a side-eye. ‘You were packing up that whole time?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ she says, hiding her lips between her teeth.
‘The game ended a while ago, Lo.’
I exchange a look with Connie, then we both turn to Harlow, wearing twin expressions of disbelief.
‘Okay, I was messaging Maisie on HappyChat.’
‘Harlow, we’ve talked about that. You get permission first. It’s dinnertime and I doubt Maisie’s parents want her on HappyChat right now.’
‘But she messaged me,’ Harlow whines and I give her a pointed look.
Hobbes, who knows exactly when dinnertime is, comes into the kitchen, announcing himself with a loud meow.
‘And can you please feed Hobbes?’
‘Fine,’ Harlow replies, climbing off the stool. ‘It’s not like he’ll starve to death,’ she mutters under her breath. Although Hobbes would dispute that.
I glance at Connie, who’s watching Harlow. She hates it when Harlow talks back to me, but she might let it slide this time.
I spoon some black olives out of a jar and give them a rough chop. This is about the time I’d invite Connie to stay, but selfishly I want Harlow to myself tonight. After dinner, we’re watching Home for the Holidays.
‘Right, I’ll be off,’ she says, rightly guessing there won’t be an invitation to stay – but it’s not as if she’s much of a pizza fan. She takes a delicate sip of wine, then reaches over and tops up my glass from hers. It’s such an un-Connie thing to do that I snort out a soft laugh.
‘No sense in letting it go to waste,’ she says with a shrug.
Maybe it’s something Nerida does – or Keith. God, I’m such a shitty daughter-in-law. I’ve forgotten all about poor Keith!
‘What?’ she asks, hesitating as she slides her handbag onto her shoulder.
‘Nothing, I… I feel bad because I haven’t asked you about Keith.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Still early days – we can talk about him next time.’
One day, maybe I’ll be half as understanding as Connie is.
‘Thanks, Connie.’
She blows me a kiss.
‘Come and give me a kiss goodbye,’ she tells Harlow.
Harlow wipes her cat-food-covered hands down her jeans and Connie dodges a hug by patting her cheek. Harlow gives her a peck. ‘Bye, Coco. Thanks for playing Jenga with me.’
Connie leaves and Harlow and I finish doctoring the pizza, then put it in the oven and set the timer for ten minutes.
‘So, I thought we could watch a movie tonight,’ I venture.
‘Really? Another one?’ she asks, her eyes lighting up.
I laugh. ‘I mean, here – we’re not going into Central London or anything.’
‘Okay, but it’s a school night.’
‘It is, but it’s sort of my homework,’ I say, a callback to what Drew said on Monday.
‘Oh! We’re watching Home for the Holidays.’
‘We are – and how did you get to be so clever?’ I ask, pretending to eye her suspiciously.
She shrugs, taking the question at face value.
‘Hey, Mum, Maisie still believes in Father Christmas.’
‘Oh no – you didn’t—’
‘No – course not. I mean, she is younger than me.’
Harlow’s known about Father Christmas since she was seven because Horace Winkleman took great delight in telling all his classmates the truth.
The parent group chat blew up, their poor teacher did her best to stem the flow of howls and tears, and Horace became the least popular kid in their class overnight.
I even dubbed him ‘Horace the Horrible’ but only in my head – didn’t want that catching on, no matter how fitting it was.
I wished at the time we could have maintained the ruse for longer – Connie did as well – but despite Mrs Kwan’s rigorous efforts at damage control, the savvier kids like Harlow latched on to the truth, grilling their parents the second they got home.
‘Besides, some of the kids at school still believe in him as well, and it’s sort of a secret code, you know,’ she says earnestly. ‘No one wants to be like Horace.’
‘I think I saw that on the side of a bus last week,’ I joke.
Harlow rolls her eyes – I guess I’ve graduated to ‘mum jokes’ now – but then her expression shifts. She wants to ask me something.
‘Mum, can we put up the Christmas tree on the weekend?’
‘It’s pretty early, Lo – we usually wait till December first.’
‘I know, but…’
‘What’s going on?’ She shrugs, her lips pursing. ‘Lo?’
‘Do you ever miss being a little kid?’
It’s a big question for a multitude of reasons. Back when she was in single digits – and not a worldly ten-year-old – she believed in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. She was also obsessed with unicorns, Bluey, and Frozen.
And Daniel was alive.
‘You mean back in the 1900s?’ I ask, keeping it light.
She grins, dimples popping. ‘Yep, in the olden days.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you’ll keep,’ I say, giving her a playful hairy eyeball. ‘But back to your question – is that how you’ve been feeling? Missing being little?’
I steel myself, half-expecting her to say something about her dad.
‘Yeah. It was fun being little – ’specially at Christmastime. Sending a letter to the North Pole, making a list of all the toys I wanted, going to Hargreaves and sitting on Father Christmas’ lap…’ She sighs wistfully.
‘We could still do that – the last part, I mean. Get a photo with Father Christmas.’
‘Hmm, maybe.’
‘You think about it. But yes to putting up the Christmas tree.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Really?’
‘Why not?’
She bounces up and down and starts squealing – very much like a little kid – and my heart feels like it will burst out of my chest.
The timer goes off and we snap into action, a well-oiled machine after all these years on our own, and less than five minutes later, we’re in front of the TV, and I’ve pressed play.
Time will tell if stuffing my face with pizza, a full glass of wine at the ready, is a good tactic for getting through this movie – especially that opening scene between Stevie and his dad – or sheer lunacy.
It ends up being somewhere in the middle – bearable. Probably because I’m watching Harlow watch the scene, rather than the TV. She seems unfazed by it, taking a huge bite of her pizza and munching away like it’s nothing.
I force myself to catch the tail end of the scene, my eyes riveted to the actor who plays the dad, then glance at Harlow. Nope, nothing. I reach for the remote and press pause, and Harlow’s head swivels towards me.
She’s still chewing and swallows. ‘Do you need the toilet?’ she asks – a fair assumption.
I shake my head. ‘I just wanted to ask you… Does it feel strange seeing other kids with their dads?’
She blinks at me. ‘How do you mean? Like, at school?’
‘Sure, yeah – at school or…’ I gesture towards the TV.
‘Umm,’ she says, looking up, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘Sometimes. I miss Daddy,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘But I feel like he’s with me, you know?’ she asks, looking back at me.
‘I do,’ I reply with a smile, tears starting to gloss my eyes.
‘I know you miss him too, Mum,’ she says and I’m struck by how aware, how self-possessed she sounds.
‘I do miss him, you’re right, but that’s why I talk to him all the time.’
‘It’s cool that you do that, Mum. It’s good for your mental health.’
I burst out laughing, then clap a hand over my mouth. I’d hate for Harlow to think I’m laughing at her, my ten-year-old, who’s going on thirty. But no matter how mature she sounds, Harlow’s a child and it’s not her job to soothe the grieving widow. I’ve got Connie and Jane for that.
She watches me, her eyes wide and guileless.
‘Thanks, Lo.’
I reach for the remote.
‘Is that why you won’t go on a date with Maisie’s Uncle Drew? Because you miss Daddy too much?’
Every one of my words plummets into the pit of my belly where they curdle, and I’m speechless for a long heavy moment.
‘I… no…’
‘Because if it is, Daddy wouldn’t mind. He would want you to be happy.’
My daughter, ladies and gentlemen – not only giving her blessing, but also my dead husband’s. Harlow picks up the remote and the movie resumes, and I stare at her open-mouthed.