The Little Things (10 page)

‘Is everything okay, Hannah?’ he says gently, as we finally turn down Suzy’s road.

I nod silently. Then shake my head, as I feel my tears well up.

‘I’m supposed to be getting married to someone,’ I whisper.

He pulls the car into the kerb, puts on the handbrake and turns to me. ‘Hannah, don’t worry. Absolutely nothing happened.’

I sniff and look up. ‘Nothing?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘But . . .’ I shake an image of him unbuttoning his shirt out of my brain.

‘I wanted to,’ he continues. ‘But you wouldn’t. Your virtue is intact. So please don’t worry. We just came home and you were tired so we went to bed. But that was
it.’

‘Really?’ I ask. I feel an odd mix of relief and – ashamed as I am to admit it – disappointment.

He nods. Then he takes a deep breath and faces the road again. ‘Right, I’d better get you home,’ he says, putting the car into gear and driving me towards Suzy’s
house.

I push open the door, attempting to do my best impression of a stealthy professional art thief in a slinky black catsuit. It almost goes according to plan, until I trip over a
plastic Optimus Prime Transformer on the landing, perform a knock-kneed, flick-flack-type movement and proceed to hop about as if my toenails were on fire.

‘What are you doing, Auntie Hannah?’ Noah is at his door, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

‘Just getting a glass of water,’ I whisper.

‘Why have you got those funny shoes on?’ he asks, peering at my three-inch heels.

‘These are my new slippers,’ I inform him, ushering him into his room and tucking him into bed, trying not to breathe alcohol fumes on him.

Then I stumble into my room, pull on my pyjamas and lie in my cold, lumpy bed for the next hour, crying silently, until the alarm rings.

As the morning mayhem unfolds, I can pinpoint the precise moment when I go from being drunk to hung over. It is not a gradual process, but one that takes place with such
lightning speed that it feels as though someone’s shoved a knitting needle in my ear.

It happens after I’ve showered, dressed and emerged downstairs to discover Justin on his hands and knees in the living room trying to find the remote control – because Leo has turned
the volume up to its highest setting, resulting in what sounds like Thomas the Tank Engine at a rave.

Suzy, meanwhile, is shrieking over the noise because, as she was on her way out, Ollie toddled into the hall, having helped himself to a six-pack of Petits Filous from the fridge, and smeared
the lot over his head.

‘QUICK! Hannah, help!’ She grabs Ollie under the arms and races upstairs, two steps at a time. I stumble up to the bathroom after her, as she strips off his T-shirt, holds him
horizontally under the shower, and tells me to hose his hair down with the showerhead.

Ollie reacts as though this were the prelude to a hilarious new game that may culminate in a water slide and a wave machine. ‘I’ve got to go!’ Suzy hoots, kissing him on the
head, before thrusting him on me to towel off his hair. ‘I’m
so
sorry to dash – it’s absolute carnage down there.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reply, gesturing to her to get out. ‘Just go.’

She races to the door, before spinning round. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes, why?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t hear you come in, that’s all. You must’ve been late.’

‘Just a good night out.’ I shrug, hoping she doesn’t notice the green tinge of my skin.

She disappears again, before popping back. ‘I forgot to say, James tried to Skype you last night. I had a quick chat with him. He’s really missing you, isn’t he?’

I blush to my roots. ‘I’ll catch him later,’ I reply, focusing firmly on Ollie’s hair.

We are late for school. Obviously.

Even if I hadn’t been so hung over that I can barely see straight, the various catastrophes that beset the family this morning would have led to this outcome, anyway.

We eventually pile into the car, before realising Max has left his homework behind. So we have to turn round – there’s no other option because otherwise he’ll ‘GET DOUBLE
SATURDAY DETENTION AND PUT IN THE BEHAVIOUR BOOK IF I DON’T TAKE IT!’ Apparently
.

Homework retrieved, I realise when we’re almost at school that I’ve forgotten to pack the pushchair in the boot, so have to carry Ollie in my arms to drop the kids off. You would
never guess to look at him just how heavy he is: it is like carrying three bags of King Edwards – except potatoes don’t wriggle as much as Ollie does.

I am eventually forced to let him walk. But Ollie doesn’t
walk
anywhere: he runs, his little legs scuttling so fast you’d think someone had wound up a little handle on his
back. As he weaves through pedestrians, horrifically close to the road sometimes, I scurry along behind, my arms held out with a look of constipated desperation on my face.

We reach the school gates, the end in sight, and say our goodbyes, when I remember with a jolt of despair that I omitted to check my file this morning – and the twins’ first lesson
of the school day is swimming, for which they need their kits.

I explain my predicament to the snub-nosed school secretary, attempting to give the air of a woman for whom this is the rarest of misdemeanours – as opposed to someone who’s done it
twice before and is probably giving off pungent vodka fumes at 8.15 a.m.

She manages to dig out one spare swimming kit, before informing me curtly that I will have to go home and meet the coach at the leisure centre with the other one, ‘as they don’t have
an endless supply, you know.’

I grab Ollie, refusing to let him run this time. I’ve become woefully familiar with his response. ‘HELLLLLPPPPPPP!’

I reach the car, strap him into the seat and switch on the ignition as my phone starts to ring. I answer with an uncompromising ‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, madam, my name’s Ashley and I’m phoning from the Bureau of Accident Claims Specialists regarding some compensation you may be eligible for after your
accident.’

This is approximately the twentieth call I’ve had from one of those companies in the last four weeks. I simply cannot imagine who’d be gullible enough to be taken in by them.

‘I haven’t had an accident,’ I pant, glancing at the clock.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely certain.’

‘Nothing at all in the last two years?’

‘Nothing. Nothing
in the slightest
.’

‘Only, if you
had
had an accident you could be eligible for up to £5,000 in compensation.’

‘Yes, but you’re not listening to me. I
haven’t had an accident
!’ I shriek.

‘It’s just that, according to our records—’

‘Listen to me,’ I growl, putting my car in reverse and slamming my foot on the accelerator. ‘Listen very carefully: I HAVE NOT HAD AN ACCIDENT.’

At which point I crash into the vehicle behind.

The thud reverberates throughout the entire chassis and the first panicked thought to explode in my head is whether I’ve given Ollie whiplash. But he just looks at me, shocked, before
pulling himself together and grinning. ‘Again! Again!’ he pleads.

‘I don’t think so, Ollie,’ I mutter, ending the call to race round the car and examine the catastrophe I’ve caused. And it
is
a catastrophe. There’s the
tiniest of scratches on Suzy’s 4x4 – the sort of mark Tinker Bell might cause if she’d given it a boot with her satin slippers. The crumpled bumper of the other car, though
– a Panther no less – is horrendous.

‘Oh, hell, you’re not having a good morning, are you?’ I look up as Gill walks towards me.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’ she asks brightly.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say, feeling bilious.

‘Well, you’re not the only one. Poor Laura’s been hauled in to see the headmistress after Scarlet bit another little girl.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘She can be a complete horror. Laura’s lovely and she’s my friend, but that business with Caroline Rogers and her daughter Ceri wasn’t
quite
how she told it.
Scarlet had been picking on Ceri for ages. Right, I’d better run!’ she adds, as I realise she’s beaming from ear to ear.

‘You look happy this morning.’

‘Is it that obvious? Okay, I’ll let you into a secret.’ She leans in and whispers. ‘I got a text from Michael this morning.’

A frigid chill runs through my bones. ‘From Michael?’

She giggles. ‘Don’t tell anyone but he’s asked me out next week. Oh, I know he’s got a reputation and everything, but he
is
gorgeous, isn’t he?’

I can’t bring myself to answer. I’m too shell-shocked from the fact that, having woken up in a man’s bed less than five hours ago, I learn that already he’s managed to
ask out another woman. I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

‘We’re only going for a few drinks on Allerton Road. But you never know where things could go from there, do you?’ She grins. ‘Which reminds me: I must go for a wax this
weekend. He’d get the shock of his life if he was confronted by what’s down there at the moment – my front lawn’s tidier. And the gardener’s been off sick for five
weeks!’

I force a smile. ‘Oh, don’t be too down about the car,’ she adds. ‘I’m sure your insurance will cover it.’

‘It’s Suzy’s insurance,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll be footing the bill myself. Once I can find out who the car belongs to, anyway.’

‘Oh this? It’s Caroline Rogers’s.’

Having waited at the car for ten minutes, during which time Ollie was getting increasingly fed up, I am forced to flee the scene of my crime, leaving a note under the
windscreen.

I drive away in a cloud of neurosis about whether I could’ve phrased it in a more diplomatic way. Then I remind myself that she’s going to return and see her bumper crumpled up like
King Kong’s plaything, so diplomacy would probably be an irrelevance. As is, I’m sure, any prospect that I might ever work with her.

I return home and have carried Ollie into the living room when Julia phones.

‘You okay?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I reply stonily.

‘Oh, Hannah. I’m
really
sorry I goaded you into getting together with Michael. I could just see how much you fancied each other and my moral radar went out of the window the
more pissed I got. I know you’ll be racked with guilt this morning. But, if it makes you feel better, just keep telling yourself that it was all Julia’s fault. Honestly. I’ll take
the heat.’

‘Julia, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who went home with him. You won’t tell a soul, will you?’

‘Of course not!’ She hesitates. ‘So was it good?’

When I finish the call and take Ollie into the house, a text arrives from James. ‘Are you free to Skype? Really need to talk to you. J x’.

The thought sends a throb of anxiety through me, as if I’m worried he’ll know just by looking at me that I spent the night in another man’s bed.

‘Great! Give me 15 mins x’, I reply, though in truth I doubt that would be long enough to conceal my dehydrated, hung-over complexion this morning, even if I were to use Polyfilla. I
don’t even bother to tidy the house first, I just set about slicing a few grapes for Ollie and setting him up with some toys, before giving myself a cursory tart-up and opening my laptop.
James’s video call comes through seconds after I’ve logged on, his handsome face beaming through the screen.

‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he says, heroically stretching the definition of the word.

‘Hi, James,’ I reply, failing to conjure up any terms of endearment for fear that this will only serve to expose my hypocrisy and betrayal. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he announces. ‘That’s what I am.’

My skin prickles with self-loathing. ‘Don’t say that. I’m the one who should be sorry.’

‘No, I overreacted. I understand why you wouldn’t want the job at Harry’s. I’m just disappointed you’re not going to come, that’s all. I miss you.’

I swallow. ‘Did you tell Harry that it was a no? About the job, I mean.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet,’ he replies. ‘I will, though. I’ll phone him tomorrow and tell him it’s out of the question. Then we’ll
just have to keep looking and—’

‘James stop,’ I interrupt, looking at him through tired, disoriented eyes. ‘Tell Harry I’m in. I’m coming to Dubai to be with you. Whatever it takes.’

The weekend passes in a blur as I start making arrangements to fly out to Dubai in just over three weeks. I speak to Harry Bonis on Saturday and suppress my instant dislike for
him, reminding myself that James is right: he
could
open doors. And, more importantly, given that I’ve nearly screwed up my relationship with a man who’s casually working his
way through the school mums, I’m not exactly overflowing with options. I need to get out of the UK. Like, yesterday.

I can’t deny, though, that, every time I think about leaving the boys, I feel unexpectedly awful. Obviously, I always knew I’d miss them, but the thought that these kids are going to
grow up without me in their life – apart from at the end of a video call – feels more of a wrench than I ever imagined it could.

I’ve got used to tickling Ollie in that spot that makes him giggle so uncontrollably he can barely move. I’ve got used to tucking Noah in every night, in the exact right way –
with the quilt stuffed right underneath his arms so he’s as cosy as can be. I’ve got used to firing general-knowledge questions at Max, feeding his insatiable appetite for quizzes.

Once I’ve made the decision to go, I find myself savouring every moment with them, sometimes more enthusiastically than others – so, when Ollie and I are walking back to the car hand
in hand and he wants to sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, who am I to argue?