Dear Sasha,
I trust you are well and business is thriving.
I suppose you may be confused to hear from me after all this time. Caitlin’s short engagement to Chuck has come as a sudden but pleasant surprise to us, and we are looking forward to seeing our daughter wed an old family friend.
I must admit, you cemented a friendship that far exceeded any of our expectations, given the circumstances and difference in background. But Caitlin was always very fond of you and I recognised her wishes to remain friends with you. You were both very loyal to one another in that respect, and I do hope that loyalty extends to our agreement and that our arrangement will remain just as it has been all these years.
I would hate for it to spoil this next phase of Caitlin’s life with Chuck.
Please do get in contact and maybe we can arrange lunch, to catch up.
Good day to you, Sasha.
Ava Anderton
I sit back in my chair and let out an aggravated sigh. I let my hands find their way to my face and I begin gently rubbing my tired eyes with the soft part of my palms. I have lived with the ghosts of those Saxby days, but hearing from Caitlin’s mother, awful Ava, after all these years, makes me sick to my stomach. How can she possibly think that I would want to have lunch with her? I had watched from the sidelines as a young Caitlin was rejected over and over by her parents during the times she sought their affection and affirmation. Yet even though I know all of this about Caitlin, it still doesn’t make it any easier to be her friend. And so as always, I am torn between what I know, and what I should do.
I hear the front door opening and I look up from my desk in the corner to see the man I have shared my life with for four years now. Oscar’s strong, toned arms are laden with bags, a stuffed bear, a decapitated Barbie doll and a scrunched-up McDonald’s paper bag. Oscar looks at me, his hair still damp from swimming, his cheeks red from a day’s work outside. He gives me his usual bright and cheeky smile. He knows already what I am thinking about: it’s a highly unhealthy dinner choice for his six-year-old daughter, Immy.
I screw my face up in disgust, and Oscar just laughs silently and shakes his head.
I morph the frown into a smile as Immy barges through the door after Oscar and straight over to where I am sitting in the office chair. I quickly turn and slam the laptop lid shut; my past is embroiled in the words of Ava’s email, and I am not ready to answer any questions about that. Then I turn back to welcome the little body crawling into my arms. Immy smells of chlorine and chips. She wriggles her way into my lap, even though she is far too big for it now. I use just my eyes to emphasise my point once again to Oscar as he shrugs his shoulders.
‘It’s just a treat, Sash.’ He drops Immy’s paraphernalia on the floor next to the sofa and I suppress a tut as I stroke Immy’s damp hair and she nuzzles into my chest. I snuffle her neck and then pull her to a sitting position on my lap. ‘How are you doing, little one? Ready for a cool sleepover weekend with Daddy and Sasha?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ Immy jumps off my lap and dives onto the sofa and picks up the TV remote control. Since she turned six, she has developed extreme copycat syndrome as well as a heightened sense of sarcasm. She is basically a little adult. Completely learnt from her mother, Oscar tells me, and although I should dislike ‘the ex’ and rant about her questionable choices regarding raising her daughter, I have found that I cannot fault the woman. Kelly is always friendly towards me and clearly adores her daughter. If it weren’t for the small fact that I’ve been dating her ex-husband for the last four years, we would most likely be friends.
Oscar sinks into the sofa next to Immy and pulls her legs onto his lap. She immediately sticks her thumb into her mouth – the one thing I would like to say something to Kelly about, but I choose to say nothing. I accept that this is a phase and she will eventually grow out of it. But right now, it’s a sure sign that she is tired and it’s already past her bedtime.
‘I’ll go and run the bath,’ I say as I stand up and head to our one small bathroom. Oscar is desperate to extend and now Space is picking up, we could probably do so. But as a tidy person, the thought makes me feel that more space equates to more mess, or the tidying of. I have organised this house within an inch of its life. I know why Oscar wants to extend, but he rarely says it out loud. He merely hints at it. I can hear the tone in his voice when we’ve spent time with friends with young children and babies. ‘Freya’s a lovely little lass’ or ‘If I had a lad like Braden.’
He knows that my maternal alarm isn’t exactly ringing wildly. I know by now that, at thirty-three, women’s reproductive bits start to slow down. Oscar is two years older and wants to be running around with a toddler again soon. But only once when he was very drunk did he murmur just before he fell asleep, ‘I want us to have a baby, Sash.’ I didn’t mention it the next day, and he certainly wouldn’t have remembered.
I occasionally feel the pressure to start reproducing, but then I remind myself, I need everything to be perfect first. I need to be successful; I need to feel I
