Page 83 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Ah, that sucks.’ Neil’s voice was sympathetic, his eyes kind. ‘Those cute kids. You must be gutted.’

Beatrice nodded. ‘It’s just – I’m so worried they’ll miss me. Slate worries about monsters under his bed at night – what if the nanny in New York forgets to check for them? And Parker will only eat her toast if you put the butter on when it’s hot but then wait for it to get cold. But she’s too little to explain that – I only found out by trial and error.’

‘Hey.’ Gently, Neil punched her bicep. ‘Parker’s not going to starve and Slate’s not going to get eaten by monsters. You know that.’

Beatrice sniffed. ‘I know.’

‘Still sucks though,’ he said.

Beatrice nodded, then she said, ‘Neil? Remember you asked a while back – you said maybe we should go for a drink sometime, and we did, but I said I didn’t want it to be a proper date?’

Neil laughed. ‘That feels like quite a long time ago. I mean, we’ve basically been on holiday together since then.’

‘I know. But that was just as friends, right? I’d like… I’d like to see if we could be a bit more than friends. If you would. I know I’ve been shitty to you and I’m sorry, and I’ll understand if you say no.’

His face lit up in a grin, and Beatrice had her answer.

Half an hour later, she arrived back at the house on Damask Square. The comfort of Neil’s company gone, sadness had settled over her again like a damp, heavy blanket. She knew she’d get over it; she knew the kids would be all right, loved and cared for by their parents and Juanita, who’d known them long before Beatrice had. But the sense of loss was still raw, as painful as anything she’d ever known.

She slipped her key into the lock and pushed open the door, hoping she could steal unnoticed up to her room and cry, alone, until the worst of her sorrow had passed. But as soon as she stepped into the hallway, she stopped.

The house smelled different. It was as if she’d been transported somewhere else – back to her childhood home. She could almost feel the rug beneath her feet, although she knew it was bare floorboards. The music she could hear coming from the kitchen was Radio One on Orla’s boombox, but at the same time it was her mom playing Mozart on the piano in the living room.

It was the smell that was confusing her. A smell of childhood, rich and warm and comforting, sweet and savoury and spicy. As eagerly as she had when she was a little girl, Beatrice followed it through the house.

Orla was in the kitchen, cocooned by warmth and light and that familiar childhood aroma.

She smiled when she saw Beatrice, though uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re home early.’

Beatrice felt the scent surrounding her, almost as if she could reach out a finger and touch it. Cinnamon, nutmeg, butter and brown sugar – the exact smell that had filled her mom’s kitchen every autumn. She felt saliva fill her mouth at the same time as tears sprang to her eyes, and stood frozen in the doorway. All her emotions – sorrow at the loss of the children, regret at how she’d treated Neil, anger at Orla – swept over her in a wave. But as quickly as it hit her, the anger vanished.

Orla had never been her mother: never had the chance to buy her presents or dry her tears or bake her favourite things. But she was doing so now.

‘I made a pumpkin pie,’ Orla said, then added hesitantly, ‘I thought you might be homesick, as it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow.’

Beatrice dropped her bag and crossed the kitchen in three quick steps, throwing herself into Orla’s arms.

FIFTY-ONE

I was in my bedroom, folding the washing I’d taken to the launderette earlier and putting it away in my drawers, when I heard Luke come home. I recognised the sound the door made when he closed it – not a gentle click like Orla’s nor a vigorous slam like Beatrice made, except when she made no sound at all – and the tread of his boots on the wooden floor. Over the months, I’d become attuned to the noises of him in the house, and each one brought me joy.

Now, though, I heard him speaking to Orla: the note of excitement, almost wonderment, in his voice and her soft responses, congratulating, questioning, comforting.

I knew what had happened and I knew what I was going to do.

I scooped up the last of my underwear and threw it into the drawer, followed by my unpaired socks, sat down on the bed and waited. A few minutes later I heard Luke’s feet on the stairs and a tap on my door. He didn’t wait for me to answer but opened it instantly, bursting into the room, his face alight with happiness in spite of the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

‘Rachel had the baby,’ he told me. ‘A boy, obviously, like we knew it was going to be. She’s called him Charlie, after her grandpa.’

‘Congratulations.’ I got up off the bed and hugged him, feeling the strength of his arms around me. ‘Is she okay? Is the baby okay?’

‘Mother and baby doing well, like they say in those swanky birth announcements in The Times. Me, not so much. I’m knackered and starving. I’ve ordered a pizza – you want some?’

‘I’m all good. Was it… Did it take a long time?’

‘Thirteen hours from when she went into hospital.’ He sat down on my bed abruptly, as if imagining what Rachel had gone through had sucked the last of the energy from his body. ‘Apparently that’s about average for a first baby. Her mum was with her the whole time and I waited at the hospital, but I got to give him a cuddle afterwards. I’ve got some photos on my camera but I left it at Rachel’s mum’s place. He weighs seven pounds four ounces and he’s eating like a champion. Takes after his dad.’