The Perfect Mother by Margaret Leroy Read Free Book Online Page B

friendship problems.’
    ‘I really don’t think it’s that,’ I say. ‘Daisy’s had flu, it’s like she can’t get over it.’
    ‘I used to send my daughter in with a nice snack for break time. One of those muesli bars, or a packet of raisins. She seemed to find it a comfort. Perhaps you could try that with Daisy.’
    ‘It’s a good idea,’ I say politely. ‘It’s just such a problem finding anything that she’ll eat.’
    ‘Well, keep up the good work,’ she says, and weaves her way out through the mass of parents. I feel uneasy, as though I have been reprimanded, although I’m sure she was only trying to be helpful. The rain collects in my parting and splashes down my face like falling tears.
    In front of me the women shift and move. I see Fergal, just ahead of me, the unruly fair hair at the back of his head, the dark wet gleam of his jacket. He has a large umbrella that says Assisted Evolution.
    I edge forward. He turns and sees me, eyes wideningwith recognition. I admit to myself that this is what I meant to happen. He makes a slight beckoning gesture with his head. With a huge sense of inchoate relief I move in under his umbrella.
    ‘Catriona.’ He smiles. I feel that something in me amuses him.
    We have to stand close to stay out of the wet. He’s chewing gum: I can smell his wet hair and skin. I’m suddenly aware of how pink my face must be, of my hair all plastered down, that I’m wearing my oldest coat and the cuffs are fraying.
    ‘I don’t often see you here,’ he says.
    Maybe, I think, he has been looking for me. I remember that fantasy I had, of moving my hands across his face and his head. My skin is suddenly hot.
    ‘I’m not here very often,’ I tell him. ‘Daisy’s ill.’
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘I don’t know. Nobody seems to know.’
    He’s listening, waiting.
    ‘Richard tells me not to worry—he thinks it’s just flu—you know, some kind of virus.’
    He looks me up and down, taking me in.
    ‘It makes it harder really,’ I tell him. ‘I know this must sound stupid—but the more he says I mustn’t worry, the worse I seem to feel.’
    ‘Poor kid,’ he says. ‘Poor you.’
    He puts his hand on my arm, leaves it there perhaps a second too long. A hunger opens out in me. I would like to peel back my wet sleeve and feel his hand warm on my skin.
    We stand there for a moment, watching the children, while the rain beats down like a drumming of many fingers.
    ‘By the way,’ he says then, ‘I know why I know you.’
    ‘Oh.’ I feel that I am falling.
    ‘Aimee Graves,’ he says. His tone is easy, as if it’s the most natural thing.
    He hears my quick intake of breath.
    ‘I’m right, then,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry—perhaps I shouldn’t have talked about it here.’
    He turns toward me: he has a frown like a question.
    For a moment, I don’t answer, I don’t know what I think. There are two things at once: this fear that makes my pulse so thin and fast and jagged, and a strange voluptuous sense of relief, of wanting to open myself up to him completely.
    ‘You know her?’ I say.
    ‘I met her once,’ he says. ‘It was a story I was researching.’
    ‘She’s alive, then, she’s OK?’
    ‘She’s OK,’ he says.
    ‘So you know all about me,’ I say, quite lightly.
    ‘I didn’t say that,’ he says.
    I can see Daisy coming; it’s the end of the conversation. Daisy is with Megan, who has her arm around her. She looks so pale, so different from the other girls. She says goodbye to Megan and comes to me. I hug her, she sinks her face into me. Fergal pulls away a little, but holds his umbrella above us.
    ‘OK?’ I say, my mouth in her hair.
    ‘Mmm.’ She’s trembling a little.
    I take her bag, as you might with a much younger child. She doesn’t protest at this indignity.
    ‘Catriona, if you want to talk some time,’ says Fergal. ‘I mean, I could explain.’
    I nod. He moves off to find Jamie.
    The rain is easing up now. There’s a gleam of