“Shall we climb down and eat our sandwiches?” I ask. In spite of the sunny day, the painted metal of the lion is cool, and it’s seeping through my jeans, making my legs shake from the chill. I turn around to look at her and she’s smiling happily. The gentle breeze lifts the ends of her hair. The tendrils look like they’re dancing.
“What did you buy me?”
“I didn’t buy them, I made them.” I pat the canvas bag that’s slung over my shoulder. “Liver pate or cow’s tongue, take your pick.”
She sticks out her own tongue and gags until I take pity on her. “Okay, okay. Ham and cheese, I figured that’s safe enough.”
“I still prefer Happy Meals.”
Later, when I take her back to the group home, her little hand tightens around mine until her nails are digging into my palm. The tension wafts off her. It’s in the stiffness of her posture and the downward set of her mouth.
“You okay?” I whisper as we walk up the path.
Her bottom lip starts to tremble, but she tries to shrug it off. “I’m okay.”
“It’s all right if you’re sad. I’m sad too. But I’ll see you at the clinic on Monday, and we can have another trip out next Saturday.” I try to find the right words. The magic ones that will dry up her wet eyes and bring a smile to her lips. I fail miserably. Her little face crumples. The tears welling up in her eyes spill over, making shiny trails down her cheeks. I pull her close, burying my face in her hair.
“I hate it here. I don’t want to come back. Take me home with you. Please.” The last word is swallowed up by her wail, and in my mind I’m already stealing her away across London, hiding her in our house and contacting a lawyer to gain custody.
“I can’t.” My voice is thick. “I’ll call Grace on Monday, find out how much longer you’ll be here.” Her face clouds over when I mention her social worker, but she says nothing. Her shoulders slump with resignation and we press the buzzer to the house, waiting for someone to answer.
One way or another, I have to get her out of there for good.
* * *
On Saturday night I’m staring listlessly into the fridge and trying to work out what to cook for dinner. Not that I’m hungry; the memory of Allegra’s face acts as an instant appetite suppressor. I’m about to give up on food altogether and run a bath when my phone buzzes. Picking it up, I read the one-word message.
Hi.
It’s not the word that brings a smile to my lips, but the person who sent it. I reply right away.
Hi yourself.
I never said I was original. I don’t know what else to say to Niall. Even my fingers get tongue tied when he’s around.
How was your day?
I hesitate to reply. Do I tell him how shit it was, watching Allegra cry and beg me to take her away? Do we have that kind of friendship yet? I’m not sure, but in the absence of Lara, I feel the need to spill my guts to somebody.
Pretty crap. I’m going to drown my sorrows in a vat of Pinot.
Sounds tempting. Why don’t we drown together?
The thought of drowning with him—doing anything with him—is so tempting. My finger hovers over the keypad of my phone as I try to talk myself out of the ‘yes’ I’m itching to type.
It’s been a long day.
Simon wouldn’t like it.
Please don’t break his heart all over again.
The last excuse almost makes me laugh. Whatever Niall’s ma saw last night, it wasn’t adoration—pity, maybe, or kindness. I think we’re becoming friends, which I like very much, but there’s nothing more than that.
Not on his part, anyway.
He offers to come and get me, but I insist on taking a cab to his place, picking up a Chinese takeaway en route. I need that time to pull myself together. There’s a ten-ton butterfly doing somersaults in my stomach at the thought of seeing him. It’s as though I’m nineteen again, trailing after the popular kids, waiting for them to notice me. Even if I’m older and wiser, my body seems to be ignoring the fact. It’s driving me crazy.
When we pull up outside Niall’s flat, I juggle the takeaway bag and my purse, handing over a twenty pound note. The driver doesn’t bat an eyelid, just pockets the cash and thanks me when I refuse the change.