‘I thought I’d get out from under your mother’s feet for a bit longer,’ he used to say when he’d appear on her doorstep on his way back from watching Chelsea play at Stamford Bridge. By then Matt would be home, and they’d all sit and watch the late kick-off on the telly together.
‘Do you think you two will have kids one day?’ her dad had asked once, ever so casually. She and Matt had looked at each other as they weighed up whether to share their desperate struggle. If any member of the family were to know about it, it would only have been him, but then Kate thought of the sadness that would cloud his features as he contemplated his daughter’s childless future. She’d discreetly shaken her head at Matt and said instead, ‘We’d love them when the time’s right.’
‘I’m going to make sure that whenever it happens and whatever it is, it’s going to be a Blues fan,’ he’d said, smiling. ‘It’ll be chanting “blue is the colour, football is the game” before it can say “dada”.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Matt, a lifelong Arsenal fan, had said, laughing. ‘I’m all right with its first words not being daddy, but if you think for one second that its favourite colour is going to be blue instead of red, then I think we might have to put a restraining order in place.’
They’d all laughed together as Kate dared to imagine her father holding the hand of his grandchild, the pair of them wrapped in blue and white scarves as they made their way to the stands. The thought of it had made her want to cry even more than the prospect of it never happening. Now, though, the impossibility of both scenarios threatens to engulf her.
Kate takes her plate into the kitchen, unable to stomach her food or the conversation any longer. She stands facing the units with her hands spread wide on the worktop. Just count to ten, she can hear Matt’s voice saying.
It would be a hell of a lot easier if you were here, she replies silently.
She pictures him in the high-rise tower of the Echo’s offices, pacing up and down, raking a manic hand through his hair as he is forced to go to the wire on tomorrow’s front-page exclusive. Will the government insider get the names to him on time? Will the prostitute want more money, now that Real Madrid are rumoured to be interested in signing her one-night stand?
Despite both of them being in the business for over ten years, the pressure never lessens, and the reliable sources were proving to be ever more unreliable. That’s why Kate had opted to stay where she was, on the Gazette’s showbusiness desk, instead of rising up through the ranks where the stakes and stress increased tenfold. She chose not to acknowledge that the bigger reason for not putting herself forward for promotion was that she’d not expected to be there for that much longer. But that was four years ago, when she’d thought that she’d have to hand over coverage of the next Oscars because she’d be too heavily pregnant to fly to Los Angeles. She honestly hadn’t expected to be reporting on the fashion faux pas of Hollywood actresses ever again, but she’d been there for the last three years in a row, without even the merest hint of a bump.
‘Are you okay, darling?’ asks Rose, coming into the kitchen to fetch more gravy. ‘You look a little pale.’
For the briefest of moments, Kate considers telling her why she might look peaky, why her temper seems to be on a short fuse and why everything everybody’s saying seems to be rubbing her up the wrong way. But no, she and Matt had decided they’d do it together, when there was something to say, and anyway, Rose has already disappeared through the side door and into the garage.
‘I don’t like vegetables,’ says Noah, spitting out a mouthful of chewed-up swede as Kate walks back into the dining room.
‘Come on darling, just a few more for mummy,’ says Lauren patiently.
‘No! Vegetables are yucky.’
Lauren looks at Kate, as if to say, Aren’t you glad you’re not me?
You’re exactly who I want to be, Kate says to herself.
Over the years, she’s fallen into the trap of gauging everyone’s good fortune and sense of self-worth on whether they have children or not; using their ability to have a baby as some kind of currency that makes them rich beyond their wildest dreams. So in her eyes, Lauren is a multimillionaire. Though when she looks a little closer, she notices the finer details of what her sister’s life might really be like. For example, the fact that her husband has almost cleared his plate whilst she is yet to start her dinner, as she’s too busy cutting up carrots for eighteen-month-old Emmy, chasing the peas that Noah is flicking onto the table, and manoeuvring baby Jude’s hungry mouth onto her breast.
The juxtaposition of the scene and her selfish thoughts jolt Kate into action.
‘Here,’ she says, moving around the table to stand behind Emmy’s highchair. ‘Let me do that.’
Lauren gratefully gives her sister a child’s plastic knife and fork whilst throwing a sideways glance at her oblivious husband.
‘Thanks,’ says Lauren, as Kate cuts up Emmy’s vegetables before kneeling to retrieve the errant peas.
It somehow feels easier to be under the table than sat around it. A place to hide from all the words that are said and unsaid. Kate can hear them forcing a conversation, changing the subject to one that isn’t deemed to be in the least bit controversial, so that nobody gets on their high horse and threatens the equilibrium again.
She’s still on the floor when the doorbell rings, and Rose huffs before putting her knife and fork down. ‘Who can that be on a Sunday afternoon? Simon, be a love and
