Chapter 18
The Aftermath
A wise person once said, You’re only as happy as your least happy child.
And Effie is downright miserable. Despite the naturally warm tone of her skin, she looks pale and droopy.
Dana hands her over to me with palpable signs of relief.
Silently she hands me my child, her car seat and a clean sick bowl.
I suspect Dana is like me. Give me a bloody extremity and I will tackle it without drama.
But vomit starts a sympathetic response.
The smell, the sight, the sound — all of it makes me shudder and want to head for the nearest receptacle.
As I take Effie in my arms, the bubblegum scent of children’s toothpaste hits my nose. Her bottom is padded. From somewhere Dana must have magicked up some pull-ups for the journey home. The woman is a goddess.
Effie’s joy at having a solo sleepover is long forgotten. She buries her feverish head into my shoulder, tears still streaking her cheeks. “I’m sick,” she mumbles, sounding ever so pathetic. My heart breaks for her.
“I know, darling.” I smooth my hand across her face, wiping away the tears. “I’m going to take you home now. You’ll feel a little better in your own bed.”
There are no arguments as I strap her into her car seat and settle the bowl on her lap.
It’s late so there isn’t so much traffic but it’s still Friday night so I’m careful to obey the speed limits.
The police will be out looking for drunk drivers and other idiots.
I hear Effie retching, but I don’t stop.
I concentrate on driving and getting us both home safely and quickly.
Her moans are reassurance she’s still functional and hasn’t choked on anything.
Sure enough, when I come to unstrap her, there is a tablespoon of putrid bile in the bowl, but not much else. The poor dab chick has emptied herself out and there is not much left. Throttling down my own urge to vomit, I tip it into the gutter.
Once we’re home, I move quickly. I make sure Effie has some water to drink before I strip her out of her puked-over pyjamas, give her a flannel wash, and pop her into her favourite clean ones. When she is ready, I take her to bed.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Her voice is piteous. I don't have the heart to say no.
So eventually Effie, her stuffed toys Penguin and Dolphy (relics of two of her earlier enthusiasms), a wheatie for her stomach, and a sick bowl all join me in my double bed.
It's earlier than my normal bedtime, but it's been a rollercoaster of a day, and I'm emotionally worn out and physically drained.
I turn the light off and settle down to sleep.
Half an hour later I'm woken by the sound of Effie retching.
She's snuggled into my side. In the dark, I frantically reach around trying to locate the sick bowl but it's on the other side of the bed.
As I lean over to grab it, Effie brings up the water from earlier.
The bed catches most of it, the wheatie takes a hit but my nightdress is soaked too.
I get the bowl underneath her, but it's too late.
She looks up at me with miserable eyes. I move fast. If I wait, the liquid will soak through to the mattress and then my life will be even harder.
I leap out of bed, scoop up Effie, and frantically strip the bedlinen like a woman who knows exactly how long vomit takes to soak through a mattress protector.
Only when I've ripped off the padded under-sheet, do I turn on the light.
My relief when I see the mattress is untouched is heartfelt.
Miraculously, Effie is also untouched; it seems the wheatie, and I sustained most of the damage.
Taking Effie's hand, I pick up her toys and the empty sick bowl and lead her back to her room. Before nestling her down, I give her more water. It may come back up but it’s vital she stays hydrated.
Only once I've showered, set off a boil wash, double wrapped the wheatie and binned it do I remake my bed. Finally, I can climb back in, but the backwash of adrenaline is still buzzing. Sleep evades me. In these witching hours, I can’t stop thinking about my evening before Dana’s call.
It pains me to admit it but there is something between us.
Something bigger than lust. Not as big as marriage, but a definite connection.
For the first time since Mike, I feel the need for contact.
For a slender thread reaching through the darkness.
Eventually, I pick up my phone and text Anders: Sorry about tonight.
I don't expect a reply. It’s after midnight. But one arrives immediately. No worries. I had a great time. How is Effie?
It's a tiny, innocuous question, but lying there in the dark, for the first time I feel I'm not alone. No one else in this big, wide world cares how we're doing. Except he does.
Don't get maudlin, Cora, I remind myself as I text him an update.
Dana and Fiona and Max care too, although they're probably worn out from disinfecting every surface that Effie has touched, in an attempt to stave off the contagion Effie has brought into their home.
They know the risks with stomach bugs as well as I do.
Effie wakes twice more in the night, stomach heaving.
Even with her in a different room, I'm still tuned enough to hear her and go to her.
The first time she manages to get all of it in the sick bowl; the second time nothing comes up.
I take that as a sign that she may be nearing the end of the first phase.
We wake the following morning, neither of us feeling perky. Effie is complaining that her stomach hurts from the inevitable cramps. Her eyes open wide as she asks me, “Am I going to die?”
After reassuring her she will be alive and well tomorrow, I improvise a wheatie using a sock and some pearl barley from the kitchen cupboard. For breakfast, by some miracle, I persuade her to accept a banana and watered down apple juice.
We spend the day together, curled up on the sofa, watching back-to-back How to Train Your Dragon movies. Soon I’ll know the script by heart. Anders offers to come over and help but I warn him off, telling him I’ll refuse to open the door. But the offer is another mark in his favour.
Effie is feeling much better by bedtime. A good night’s sleep and she will be completely recovered. Unfortunately, my stomach is not happy. An hour later and I’m becoming well-acquainted with the toilet bowl. It’s a bad night.
When I drag myself out of bed in the morning, I’m confronted with an effervescent Effie who is rested and raring to go.
The worst stage of the bug has passed for both of us but I’m exhausted.
Two nights of broken sleep on top of the usual grind of single motherhood leaves me desperately tired. But Effie isn’t.
She’s bored with television. Eventually, I fetch her dress-up doctor’s kit and some toilet paper, and we play doctor and patient. As the patient, I get to lie on the sofa even if I can’t go to sleep while Effie mutters to herself and wraps my appendages in loo roll.
I send a message to Mike threatening holy hell if he doesn’t turn up for his scheduled access today.
When the doorbell goes and he’s standing there, for the first time in five years I could kiss him.
He gives me a look like I’m fresh from the crazy farm, which is when I remember I’m dressed head to toe in white tissue.
Effie skips off happily and I make it back to the sofa where I fall into a coma, still wrapped in toilet paper.
Monday morning, I emerge from underneath the duvet like a mole scenting the spring air after a long winter.
I went to bed at the same time as Effie and I’ve slept for twelve gorgeous, wonderful hours solid.
I’m ravenously hungry but I feel like a new me.
Until I remember I’ve got to go into work and see Anders, having abandoned him on the date to which I’d invited him.
Effie is happy though, talking endlessly about her afternoon with her dad.
It rankles that he has to do so little for her love while I have to do so much.
But in the end, I’m happy she’s happy and I keep my resentment to myself until I drop her at school.
Then I allow myself to rant to Stormfly.
I get an odd look from a passenger in a car next to me at the traffic lights, so I must seem slightly deranged, but I feel better.
Anders’s door is shut when I get into the office, but I can hear voices. His calendar shows he’s meeting with Scarlett. It must be the one postponed from last week.
I’ve only just returned with coffee when the door opens and both of them appear. Scarlett puts her hand on his shoulder. “Thanks,” she purrs. Her hand strokes down to his elbow before she walks away.
I’m left blinking. What is going on between the two of them? Did he propose to me and when I refused, hedge his bets with another to Scarlett? But then, why the gifts? Why rescue me? Why go to dinner with me? Talk about mixed messages.
“Cora,” he says brightly. “Feeling better?”
But I brush his enquiry aside. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” His face reflects his confusion.
Stepping closer to him, I mime the way she fondled his arm. But I keep two inches of space between his skin and mine. I don’t dare touch him in case my body reacts. “Are you sleeping with Scarlett?”
A mask drops over his features. “Come with me.”
His hand lands on my elbow, and he tugs me into his office. He shuts the door before he wheels to face me.
“What the fuck? You can't just ask me that!”
But I see red. “Of course I can! It's a simple question. Are you sleeping with Scarlett?” Men. Lying, dirty, cheating scumbags, the lot of them. “There's obviously something going on between you.”
Finally, he answers my question. “There's nothing going on between me and Scarlett. She’s just touchy-feely around me.”
“Oh, come on! You can't be that na?ve. You've got to know it's more than that. She’s obviously flirting with you.”
“So what? Plenty of people flirt with me. Have you seen me reciprocate?”
I take one step closer to him. “No, but you don't stop her either.”
“And what is that to you? What is going on here, Cora? You're acting like we're in a relationship and we haven't even kissed.”
“Is that it?” I sneer my challenge.
Putting my hand in the centre of his chest, I push until he backs up against the wall.
I reach onto my toes and smash my lips against his.
The shock of the contact takes my breath away; the fire and heat, and passion.
It’s explosive. Pressed up against him, I can feel every part of his body respond.
It's not my tongue that invades his mouth but his that invades mine, tangling and twisting.
His arms move. One slides around my waist, the other cradles me, pulling my chest hard against his. I'm completely lost in the smell and taste and feel of him. I don't ever want this to end.
But I need to breathe.
“Fuck me, Cora,” Anders whispers against my forehead.
And I would. Here, at this moment, in his office, I would.
But it’s business hours, and during any day, Anders is fully scheduled.
His computer chirps with the warning of an incoming video call with the tax accountant.
I step away, wiping a hand across my tingling lips.
Anders looks slightly shellshocked as I smooth down my clothes.
I wonder how long it will take for his erection to ease.
He’d better make sure he’s sitting down before he turns the camera on.
The chirp is insistent. As I turn to leave, his hand catches mine.
“Later,” he promises. But I’m his assistant.
I know the reality of his day. He has five-minute coffee and toilet breaks, that’s all.
Even lunch is ten minutes, just enough time to scarf down a sandwich.
If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have realised sooner how difficult this is going to be.