‘I think you’ll find, come July, they’ll close for the summer break.’
As my eyes fall closed, my jaw clenches tight. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Can I not catch a break? ‘For how long?’
‘Six or seven weeks, usually. Sorry,’ she adds weakly.
‘It’s no’ your fault,’ I say, turning and trudging away.
At lunchtime, my mobile rings. It’s the only way I deal with people these days. Ivy, Keir, Will, my parents, and clients—we only communicate via phone. Though the latter I actually see face-to-face sparingly. Along with the staff here.
‘You haven’t fallen off the edge of the earth then?’
‘Most people start with a greeting, Keir. And I haven’t, though I have asked if the fucker would slow down a bit so I can get shit done for a change.’
‘You in the office?’
‘Aye, for another’—I twist my wrist and take a quick look at my watch—‘four hours. Four hours in which I have about sixteen hours’ worth of work to fit in.’
‘That’s what evenings are for, after they’re out for the count.’
‘If only,’ I say with a frown. ‘It takes me hours to get Louis to sleep, and when he eventually drops off, I have about two hours before he wakes up again, his head spinning and spewing green goo.’
‘Don’t say that in front of the social worker,’ he answers with a chuckle.
‘I’m not that daft.’
‘You’ll not have time for lunch, then?’
I look at the mess of paperwork on my desk, feeling a flare of discomfort in my chest. Must be the breakfast burrito. ‘I wish I could.’ Really, I do.
There was something on TV yesterday morning when I was flicking from the news, looking for some educational kids shit. It was a morning talk show, you know the type—studios made to look like someone’s living room, and some condescending arsehole asking daft questions. Anyway, the show had a segment on new mums. I fucking empathised, I really did. There’s just no time to do it all, never mind about do it right. Not according to the child-rearing manuals my mother kindly orders. As far as I can tell, the only thing the massive tomes are good for is hitting myself on the head.
‘Listen,’ Keir says, cutting into my thoughts, ‘why don’t you bring Louis to the house on Saturday? Agnes leaves me enough food to feed a small army, and I was thinking, if he could get used to me and to Sorcha, he could maybe, in a few weeks, stay with her and Agnes while we go kick a funny-shaped ball around the field.’
A lump forms in my throat. Definitely the breakfast burrito. ‘That would be grand.’ And if I sound grateful, it’s because I am. Meanwhile, Keir sounds pleased.
‘Good, that’s good!’
‘This school you recommended. Apparently, it closes down in a few weeks.’
‘Yeah, for the summer break.’
‘You might have fucking told me.’
‘It’s a school? You went to one, didn’t you?’
‘Aye, but I can’nae remember being small! What am I supposed to do for seven fucking weeks?’
‘What other people do, I suppose.’
‘Aye, and what’s that?’
‘Muddle on.’
‘That’s easy for you to say from your ivory fucking tower.’ I chuckle to lighten the unintended heat in my words. ‘But we haven’t all got an Agnes—a stand-in granny.’
‘You need a child-minder or something. You have families living nearby you could get recommendations from—the yummy mummy brigade at the local park?’
I know the type he’s talking about. We get plenty of them here at the gym, working their arses off. In some cases, quite literally.
‘Fuck knows how they stay yummy,’ I say, glancing down at my creased shirt. ‘Where do they find the time?’
‘I expect most of them have help.’
‘Christ,’ I complain, rubbing the heel of my palm against my right eye. ‘I’ll be needing derma fillers myself to hide the bags.’
‘I meant domestic help like cleaners and nannies and au pairs.’
‘I reckon a nanny or an au pair might work,’ I say, sitting straighter in my chair.
‘That sounded a little too excited for my comfort zone. Nannies don’t wear uniforms, you know? And if you’ve popped a boner under your desk, I don’t want to know.’
‘Piss off! On second thought, I can’nae see a London nanny being in my price bracket just now, but maybe an au pair would work.’ I think I’d prefer that over a child-minding service. ‘Where do I find one, do you reckon?’
‘There are agencies.’
‘Agencies,’ I repeat, scribbling the words down on an empty corner of my littered desk pad. ‘That could be the way.’
‘Glad to have helped. If you get stuck in the meantime, I could ask Agnes if she’d mind—’
‘No, you’re fine.’ Agnes is seventy if she’s a day. I can’t ask her to look after Louis and Sorcha.
‘How are you doing otherwise?’
‘I don’t have the bandwidth for anything beyond Louis and work these days.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he answers carefully.
‘You’re talking about Fin.’ My response is flat, my grip tightening on my phone.