It is this kind of moment, rain beating against the window, laughing with her kid while the delicious smells of dinner fill the flat, that Abi had dreamt about ever since Lily was born. Abi would take Lily out in the pram, given to her by a new mothers’ charity, and would ride the number 19 bus for hours. It was cheap and the rhythmic motion soothed Lily, allowing nineteen-year-old Abi to sit and flick through food magazines she’d shoplifted from Smith’s. She loved the shining photos of Christmas roasts and delicate canapés, art she could taste through the page. When she didn’t have a magazine, she’d stare out of the window, her gaze always finding the other mums who seemed like a different species, their designer prams laden with Waitrose bags, feeding their kids in expensive cafes and not caring if their toddler’s £10 macaroni cheese ended up on the floor. Those mums in their space-themed yoga leggings, sipping their green juices, made Abi hold Lily to her chest and whisper apologies into her tiny, curled ear. Because, somehow, this perfect child had been made by Abi. Abi who slept on a mattress on the floor in their bedsit, Abi whose own mum cuddled bottles of cheap Polish vodka and didn’t notice if Abi went to school or not. Abi who had tried to hide her pregnancy from the restaurant where she washed the huge greasy pans until she’d practically given birth on the floor. She apologized to her daughter for all those nights out when she hadn’t known she was pregnant, apologized to Lily for all that she was and all that she wasn’t, and then she’d stare at those other mums and her apologies would morph into promises. Promises about decorated Christmas trees, bouncy castles on her birthday and delicious, hot food made by Abi, in a real oven not a microwave. Abi promised Lily all these things, as despite her own lonely childhood she was still a dreamer and had started to feel the tug of possibility, the whisper of a better future for herself. She just needed to figure out how they were going to go from riding the number 19 for an entire day to taking a table in one of those expensive cafes.
While Margot is happily serving imaginary customers, the front door flies open.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Lily calls, the door clicking shut behind her.
Abi stops stirring the white sauce and watches her beautiful Lily, a flash of long red hair and silver jewellery. She waits until Lily’s ready before she opens her arms and holds her. She smells earthy and a little chemical from the art studio and Abi whispers in her ear the words that she never heard as a teenager, ‘Sweetheart, I’m so happy you’re home.’
Lily sits on the cheap plastic countertop, kicking her legs against the cupboards, and begins telling her mum about the other kids in art club, while Abi finishes up the fish pie.
‘You know that boy, Sam, I was telling you about?’
‘The quiet kid?’
‘Yeah, that one. Well, it turns out he’s the one who does those incredible architectural drawings.’
‘Nice!’ Abi says, passing Lily a pot of hummus.
‘And that football guy came by the art room today,’ Lily says, a little quieter, her eyes fixed on the hummus, smiling.
‘Oh yeah?’
Lily has mentioned him a couple of times already, said that the popular footballer had noticed her artwork up around the school, asked if she’d show him more.
‘What’s he like?’ Abi knows to keep grating cheese, to not look up; it’s such a fine line, showing interest but not making Lily feel pressured.
Lily pauses, thinks before she replies, ‘He’s sweet. I think lots of people think he’s just a football cliché, but, I dunno, I think Blake’s actually really cool, sensitive, you know?’
Oh fuck. Abi balks as she realizes who Lily’s first crush really is – Blake. Blake, Anna and Eddy’s son. Not only that, but Seb’s godson.
‘Ow!’ Abi shouts as heat slices through her thumb, the length of it white and clean where skin should be. Lily leans over, stares too as the blood starts to seep.
‘Owww,’ Abi wails as Lily jumps to the floor, turning the kitchen tap on and ushering her over. Abi grimaces as the cold water rushes over the cut.
‘Owwwww,’ she wails again and Lily fusses around, finding the wound spray and plasters. When Abi’s pulsing thumb is wrapped, Lily makes her a cup of tea before scattering the cheese over the top of the pie and sticking it in the pre-warmed oven.
An hour later the three of them are eating around the tiny Formica table that came with the flat. They’re taking it in turns to answer ‘Would you rather …?’ They are deep in a discussion about Margot’s question, ‘Would you rather have a tail like a monkey or kangaroo legs?’ when, on the side, Abi’s phone lights up with a call from Diego.
‘Hey, Diego,’ Abi says into her phone as the girls chorus behind her, ‘Hi, Uncle D!’
‘Hello, beautiful girls!’ His rich Mexican accent booms through the receiver. Abi tells the girls that she’ll just be a moment and moves to take the call in their boxy sitting room.
‘Have you arrived?’