Chapter Two
On Skyla’s fourth birthday, I wake early and head out into the living room to blow up a collection of confetti balloons.
When I’ve worn myself out, I take some out to the front of the building and fight with the rubber as I tie the balloons to the fencing.
When they’re secured, I take a step back and admire my work. But it’s tainted.
The For Sale sign up at the front of our apartment complex makes my stomach turn.
It reminds me of the multiple offers we’ve received in less than a week.
Of course everyone is eager to get their hands on a home boasting waterside living right in the heart of Bristol’s city centre.
Perhaps naively, I’d allowed myself to believe that no one would be able to afford it.
But they can, and we’re in no position to turn down offers.
In recent months things have gone from bad to worse for us.
‘Morning!’ my neighbour calls on the way out the gates. She always greets me, always pops a Christmas card through our letterbox. Even now.
I wave back, mute. She’s either so out of touch with the world to not know who we are or she’s genuinely just one of those overly friendly people who is nice to everyone.
Regardless, I don’t trust her. I don’t trust her because I don’t trust anyone any more.
My entire life has changed since losing Robin.
I have lost so many people, but over time I’ve realised I’m better off without people who only see me as Isabella Rushmore, the woman whose toddler got abducted from her cot in Bristol.
I never did go back to my job, after what happened.
Gabby had arranged a Bloom I gave up long ago.
I let them in our house, let them pick at our snacks and drink our lemonade.
But I don’t interact. After a while there became no point.
Anything I said would only be leaked to the media in the past. You just can’t trust anyone these days. So I don’t.
I do the best I can today though, for Skyla’s sake. I offer slices of ice cream sundae birthday cake, help the girls play pass the parcel and I bite my tongue when, after less than an hour, as predicted, uncomfortable parents guide their daughters out of our apartment.
‘Right.’ James claps his hands together, switching the music over from The Wiggles to something more adult-friendly. ‘Now they’ve cleared off, shall we order a takeaway?’
‘Chinese!’ Skyla squeals, and because it’s her birthday, her choice rules.
I wonder, if Robin were here, what her favourite takeaway would be.
I do that sometimes, lose myself marvelling in who Robin has grown into.
What she likes, what she doesn’t. Does she ever get takeaways, wherever she is? I like to think so.
James writes down everyone’s order. A starter of crispy aromatic duck and pancakes, a portion of tempura prawns and some crispy seaweed. Barbeque spareribs, roast pork Szechuan, king prawn kung po and crispy shredded chicken.
‘Don’t forget the sesame prawn toast!’ Skyla cries as James reads the order back to us.
‘How could I forget?’ He smiles, ruffling her hair.
He dials the restaurant and places the order while I set the table with the special ceramic dinner set we’ve had for years. Skyla helps me, placing chopsticks down next to each rice bowl with such concentration on her little face I can’t help but smile.
‘Bella, I’ve been wanting to speak to you,’ Harper, James’s sister says, drifting over with a glass of prosecco in hand. Her ash-blonde hair is perfectly waved, not a strand out of place.
‘Mm?’ I say, busying myself with collecting all of the discarded wrapping paper from Skyla’s presents.
‘Well, you see,’ she starts, hesitantly. ‘Robert and I have been having some difficulties.’
I stop and look up. It isn’t like Harper to confide in me.
We aren’t close. I used to want to be, but she was never exactly forthcoming in that regard.
We’ve had a fair few spats over the years, and any time I don’t need to see her I choose not to.
She’s the jealous type, and toxic too, but she’s family and I have to grin and bear her from time to time.
Birthdays and Christmas mainly, but I tend to try and avoid her as best I can for the most part.
‘Difficulties?’ I ask and grab the neck of the bottle of prosecco, feeling like I’m going to need a drink for this conversation. For any conversation with Harper, really. It’s impossible for her to talk about anything other than herself. I pour myself a glass while I wait for her to respond.
‘Trying to conceive,’ she hisses, her cheeks flaming red.
‘Oh.’ I gulp. I can’t help but stare at her mortification. It is probably the first time I’ve ever seen her look anything less than confident. ‘I mean, how long have you been trying?’
‘About a year.’ She winces, glancing around as though worried someone might overhear our conversation, but one of Skyla’s new toys blares loudly, drowning us out. ‘I don’t know what we’re doing wrong, and I was wondering if I could maybe come to one of your infertility support group sessions?’