If I Let You Go

Her grass stained clothes backed up her point nicely.

“I think we should let the grown-ups play,” Danielle said. “I need a drink.”

“Me too,” Jake added, and Jayne put an arm around each of her oldest grandchildren, and led them towards Dave and the refreshments.

“I want to keep playing,” Tilly said, grabbing my hand. “Come on Maddi!”

Danielle and Jake left the “pitch” and Mel said, “We just lost our goalkeeper. I’ll take over.”

She stood in between the makeshift goalposts, which were really just markers made from Dave’s shirt and an empty water bottle. Dominic placed the ball at his feet and said, “Which one of you ladies is planning to take me on?”

I smiled down at Tilly, and she giggled. We both eyed Dominic for a second, then without warning, we started to run, fast. Surprised by our joint attack he took off with the ball, expertly keeping it away from us. Tilly stopped running, gearing up to attempt another tackle and I stopped to watch her. Even though Dominic was a much bigger target than Jake, she focused hard on his feet. When she was ready, she sped forwards, timing her attack so she’d meet the ball a split second before Dominic. Again, she skidded across the grass, connecting with the football and forcing her father to jump so he didn’t crash into her. Tilly picked up the ball and held it in the air, jumping up and down. “I beat Daddy!” she sang. “I beat Daddy!”

Her precision was astonishing, and I burst out laughing as Dominic tumbled to the floor, breathless after his defeat. I ran over as fast as I could while giggling at the glee on Tilly’s face, and we both sat down on the grass. Tilly put her hand on Dominic’s arm and said, “I think I won.”

He began to laugh. “I think you did. Where did you learn to do that?”

“I’ve seen footballers do it on TV. It’s easy!”

“Easy and messy,” I said. “Look at the state of your clothes!”

She just shrugged and jumped up, still full of energy, and ran over to Jayne. Mel, who had watched us from her place in goal, gave us a grin before heading towards them too.

“She just kicked your arse,” I said, as Dominic tried to catch his breath.

“Said with such pride,” he laughed.

“I am proud,” I told him. “Arse kicking is a great skill for a girl to have! I don’t think she’ll have any trouble sleeping after running around all day!”

“Oh about that,” Dominic said, rolling over onto his side. “I think Mungo has been replaced. Patch had to have breakfast with us this morning. Tilly insisted he have his own slice of toast. But no butter. Dogs don’t like butter.”

“Actually, Patch is more of a cereal kind of dog.”

“So I have to fight him for my cornflakes now?”

“Cornflakes? No. They are far too boring for him, he’ll only eat chocolatey cereals.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“Good,” I said, seriously. “Because you know how much trouble you’ll be in if you mistreat my dog.”

We kept up the pretence for a second longer, until it became impossible to hold back the laughter.

Just having fun with him instead of the on-going battle we’d had for the last few weeks was a relief. We used to have the kind of fun that made me think we could get over any disagreement because first and foremost, we were friends. I’d missed it.

Chapter 9

The fun times ground to an abrupt halt as soon as we got back to London. After an amazing week in Devon, during which I got to hang out with my old friends, went on a few trips with my parents, and spent time with Dominic and his family, reality hit hard the evening we got home.

Tilly’s birthday was on Thursday, and her three best friends from school were supposed to come for a sleepover. Dominic had sworn up and down that he’d be there. He’d missed everything else, and this time, he promised he’d be there for her.

So, naturally, when his office called on Sunday and asked him if he could go back to New York for the week to sort out some last details for the move, he couldn’t say no.

I was livid. Not just a little bit miffed. Outright fuming. So much so that once Tilly had – again – run to her room crying because of another disappointment, I stormed out of the flat and took myself down to the gym on the bottom floor of the building. Thumping and kicking the hell out of a punch bag really helped me de-stress. Every crappy decision Dominic made, every idiotic idea he had about New York came bursting out of me until I’d exhausted myself.

After an hour, it still wasn’t enough.

Sweaty and tired, I went back to the apartment, showered, and changed into my nightclothes – an old, oversized t-shirt with the logo of an obscure rock band emblazoned on it. I sat on my bed, waiting for the annoyance to pass. Surely, it should have gone after an hour spent physically abusing a punch bag?