what she was letting herself in for. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s not coping. She can’t be bothered to brush her hair or put on make-up, and she wears the same grey joggers and purple fleece every single day. As my grandmother would have put it, she’s letting herself go. I wonder what George makes of that …
Her orbit is small, consisting of trips to the tiny supermarket at the end of the road, the pharmacy and the health centre. She always takes the same route, cutting across the park. Off she sets with the buggy, head down, eyes fixed on the path. Other mothers talk on their phones while they’re walking, or bump into other parents they know, or sit on a bench and take their babies out to play, but not Amber. She avoids making human contact with anyone. For her, leaving the house is a necessity not a pleasure. It’s as if she’s been ordered to have fresh air, but doesn’t want to breathe it in.
I’ve never seen her at weekends, not once. I think she must spend them in bed. She and George don’t go out together; you’d never know they were a couple. They share the childcare and there are no overlaps, no doubling up. George seems to like being a dad a lot more than Amber likes being a mum. He loves the park; he can’t get enough of it. He puts Mabel in a baby carrier, which he wears on his back, reminding him of his trekking days, perhaps, when he used to go travelling to far-flung places. Occasionally he takes her to the family-friendly pub on the high street, presumably to meet his mates and watch football. I don’t follow him inside, because that would be too risky. Too obvious.
I stare at number 74, willing the front door to open and Amber to emerge. I haven’t seen her for a few days. It’s worrying, not to say annoying. Soon the park gates will be shut. Time to make my way home, I decide.
It’s a short bus ride to my flat, which is in a less fashionable and therefore cheaper area than Lilac Park. I hate the place, but I needed somewhere to live at short notice and it was all I could afford by myself. The living space looks onto a brick wall and there’s black mould in the bathroom that I can’t get rid of, no matter how hard I try. The staircase is shared with other tenants, most of whom I’ve never seen, and nobody bothers to clean the common parts – least of all me.
I let myself in and climb the filthy stairs to the top floor. The door to my flat has a dent at the bottom where somebody has tried to kick it in. There’s one bedroom and an open-plan kitchen/diner/living room. The furniture is all cheap beech laminate, badly assembled, and the sofa is hard and uncomfortable.
I haven’t had the motivation to make the place more homely. There have been no jolly dinner parties, no weekend guests – no visitors at all, in fact. It has been my secret hideaway, my self-imposed prison. I don’t see old friends any more and have little desire to make new ones. I came off social media and got rid of my smartphone. I’m virtually off the grid; it’s easier that way. Nobody can ask how I’m feeling or what my plans for the future are. Nobody can track me down.
Hanging my coat on the peg, I walk into the living area and stare at my dismal surroundings. The coffee table is stained with mug rings. Boxes of books and ornaments are still stacked against the wall and my pictures remain in bubble wrap. When I moved in, I couldn’t be bothered to unpack, and now the boxes have become makeshift furniture, surfaces for dirty plates and junk mail or to rest my feet on.
Taking a bottle of wine from the fridge, I pour myself a large glass. I can’t go on like this; the situation is killing me. I’ve become a ghost of myself, haunting a life that never was and can never be. If I had any sense, I’d leave London altogether and start afresh. I even have somewhere to go to.
I should leave Mabel behind too. The trouble is, I’m not sure I can.
Chapter Two
The weekend before
Amber has never been a morning person. Seven months ago, she’d have only countenanced waking at 5 a.m. for a