Page 21 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Well, we’ll have to do this again properly,” Neil says, pulling up to the curb.
“You’re sure you’ll be able to deal with the…face issue?” I ask while wondering if I should be calling the police
“Yeah, it’s a scratch.” He shifts his body toward the passengerseat, then looks bemused to find me already on my front step, giving him a brisk wave.
“Good luck then, must dash, desperate for the loo. Thank you for today! So, so sorry again about the hook-in-the-face situation.” I call down the steps as I fumble with my bag, looking for my house keys.
Shutting the front door behind me, I take a long deep breath, then google “How to anonymously report a crime in the UK.” Of all the information I’d hoped to be researching after a first date, this is not it. I find a number for Crimestoppers. Should I pretend to be one of the cyclists, report the incident along with his registration plate? He might get a warning. Only I don’t know his registration plate because I’m not Nancy sodding Drew. Plus, if he gets a call from the police, he might know it was me. He might lose his license, it might jeopardize his custody agreement, so that he’d get to see Tilly and his son even less than he does now. He might kidnap Ethan in revenge. The whole plot ofTakenflashes through my mind. I would not be as skilled as Liam Neeson in getting my child back. I take another deep breath. Was hereallygoing to hurt those cyclists, or was he just trying to impress me? Maybe the hook injury skewed his judgment. Perhaps it’s best I give him the benefit of the doubt.
The children aren’t back from Dan’s yet. Still feeling rattled, I pace the hallway then find myself opening the door to the garage. I’ve hardly been in here since Dan left; it holds too many negative associations, reminding me of all the evenings he chose to spend in here rather than with me. Surveying the dusty floor, I try to envisage this as something other than Dan’s workout space.
I am seized by a sudden need to be busy, to distract myself from thinking about Neil and those cyclists. On a whim, I pull down a huge turquoise all-weather rug from the rafters. I bought it years ago to cover our chipped patio, but Dan deemed it “toogirly.” Unfurling it, coughing at the dust, I lay it out on the garage floor. It instantly softens the room. In the far corner, beneath a tarpaulin, I see a wooden chair leg that I recognize.My chair.I found it in a junkyard. It had these beautiful carved wooden legs and a high round back, though the material was stained and threadbare. After watching some online tutorials, I reupholstered it in bright blue Liberty-print fabric. It’s shoddily done, the fabric too baggy around the seat, but seeing it makes me smile. I remember being so proud of this chair. When we repainted the living room, Dan moved it out here “for safekeeping,” then never got round to putting it back.
With a burst of energy, I clean the dust off, then heave the chair through to the living room. I pack up the play kitchen and all the long-forgotten toys, then move them out to the garage. Pushing my Liberty-print chair into the empty space, I add my TBR pile onto the empty shelf beside it, then stand back to admire my new reading nook. I feel a disproportionate sense of achievement.Why have I not done this before?I make a promise to myself—I will only use the nook for reading, no scrolling.
An empty picture hook hangs on the wall above the chair. There used to be a photo of Dan and the kids here, but he took it with him, and I haven’t replaced it. Suddenly inspired, I go to the downstairs cupboard and find what I’m looking for. It’s a framed photo of Lottie and me on our bikes as children. She had it enlarged and framed for me when she found the print in an old album. We’re probably eight and four, both freewheeling with our feet off the pedals. It’s a great snapshot of childish joy, but I never hung it because I don’t like how I look in the photo. You can still see the fading bruises on my face from the cycling accident I’d had a few weeks before. But now I look at it with fresh eyes, and I see a girl who got back on that bike, even though she’d been hurt. I hang the photo above my chair, to remind myself that bruises heal, and I do not hate bikes.
Google searches:
Home decor inspiration on a budget
How to make your own secret-door bookcase
Can you safely remove a fishhook from your own face?
Chapter 8
The children come back fromDan’s house with a bin bag full of dirty clothes. I bite my tongue as he ushers them through the front door. He never does their washing. They return as though from holiday, clothes ready to be laundered by yours truly.
Dan doesn’t usually linger when he drops the kids off on a Sunday night. But tonight, as Jess and Ethan race inside, vying to be first to the TV remote, he pauses on the doorstep.
“Can I have a quick word?” he asks, scuffing his trainers against the step. I still can’t get used to how different Dan looks. His muscles now bulge from beneath his Aertex shirt, and he must have had his teeth whitened because they look brighter than they were before. “Why isn’t Ethan doing football this term?” he asks.
“He doesn’t like it.”
“So, you just let him quit, without telling me?”
“He doesn’t like football, he likes field hockey,” I say tightly. This is the first time Dan has expressed any interest in the children’s extracurricular activities.
“So, we’re raising a quitter?”
“We’re raising someone who has the right to choose what they’re interested in.”
Dan rolls his eyes, then takes a step backward. “Just consult me in future.” He bounces down the steps, then pauses on the street. “Did you see there’s a new series ofPort, Starboard, Murderstarting tonight?”
“Is there?”Port, Starboard, Murderis a crime drama we watched religiously for four series. It’s one of the few TV shows we both enjoyed.
“It’s on Apple TV,” he says. “Use my log-in, if you like. I’ll text it to you.”
And then he’s gone. And this is what an ex-husband is: one minute exasperating and petty, the next, reminding you why you loved him in the first place.
“Hey, where are all my toys?” Ethan yells from inside, and I walk back through to the living room.
“I moved them to the garage. They’re all toys you don’t play with anymore.”
“What! I play with them all the time!” Ethan cries as I pull him into a hug.
“I haven’t thrown anything away, just had a sort-out. You have all that room in your cupboard if you want to move any of them upstairs.”
