The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson

rest my head in the crook of his arm. ‘You know that series of Barcelona maps I’ve been asked to do?’

      ‘Uh-huh?’ While Danny seemed to regard my job as a hobby, Jack expressed a keen interest right from the start. All his questions, and requests to browse through my work; it almost made me squirm, the way he was so complimentary and enthusiastic.

      ‘Well, I could do them without actually going there,’ I continue. ‘That’s what I usually do. But I thought it’d be more fun to really immerse myself in the city – so why don’t we go together?’

      ‘On a sort of research trip, you mean?’

      ‘Exactly. We could get to know all the different neighbourhoods, so each map would have its own distinct feel … Could you get some time off work, d’you think?’

      ‘I’m sure I could,’ he replies. ‘Helen used to manage the shop, and she’s usually happy to come back and do my holiday cover. I’m not taking Lori away until August, so … when were you thinking?’

      ‘As soon as possible, really – after Alfie’s headed off on his travels …’

      ‘But won’t you be busy sketching and making notes? I don’t want to get in the way of your work. I shouldn’t distract you …’

      I laugh and kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘You can distract me anytime you like.’

      ‘And what about Molly?’ he asks. ‘She’s here all summer, isn’t she?’

      ‘Jack, she’s nineteen. She’s lived independently for nearly a year now so she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.’

      He nods. ‘So she wouldn’t mind us nipping off to Spain together …?’

      ‘Of course not,’ I say, grinning now. ‘She’ll probably be glad to have the place to herself for a week or so …’ I squeeze Jack’s hand. ‘Neither of my kids particularly care what I get up to these days,’ I add, ‘and even if they did …’ I tail off and kiss him again. ‘Well, I’m a fully grown adult …’

      ‘Of course you are,’ he says firmly.

      I beam at him. ‘Anyway, it’s a research trip, remember?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘A vital part of your work—’

      ‘Actually,’ I cut in, smiling, ‘I just want to go away with you.’

      I get up, and fetch our dressing gowns from my bedroom – my boyfriend keeps a dressing gown here! – plus my laptop and diary (I still use a proper paper one; I’ve never managed to switch over to digital). Back on the sofa now, wrapped up in our gowns, we peruse dates and apartments in Barcelona. We shortlist three in El Raval, a district close to the Ramblas that was once, apparently, a bit on the shady side but is now peppered with cool coffee shops, bars and galleries. Jack texts his friend Helen, who agrees to cover the shop for the dates we’ll be away. We book flights, having our first minor tussle over money – Jack is insistent about transferring his share of the cost to my account immediately – and that’s all done.

      ‘That was simple,’ I remark, setting my laptop on the coffee table and snuggling back into his arms.

      ‘Eerily simple,’ he says. ‘I guess it is, when it’s just the two of us.’

      ‘Yeah,’ I agree, still thrilled by the novelty of it all. ‘God, the debates we used to have, when it was Danny and me and the kids. He didn’t believe in package holidays. Said he’d rather have sawn his hand off than go anywhere with a kids’ club …’

      Jack chuckles. ‘Those terrible kids’ clubs with all their toys and games and enthusiastic staff …’

      ‘“I’m not parking our kids in a facility,” he used to say. A facility!’ We laugh, and then we are kissing again on the sofa, our gowns tossed onto the floor as he holds me closer and— he stops abruptly and pulls away.

      ‘What is it?’ I ask.

      ‘I thought I heard something?’ He frowns.

      ‘Just someone on the stairs,’ I remark, unconcerned until I hear another, more distinct sound: that of a key being poked into a lock. No, not a lock, but my lock. And now my front door is opening …

      I shoot a look of alarm at Jack. ‘Is that someone coming—’ he starts.

      ‘Who is it?’ I call out. Thoughts shoot through my head: I’m being burgled. No, burglars don’t have the Yale key for my door. Is it Danny? Has he held on to his keys all these years, and if so, how can he possibly think it’s okay to let himself in?

      Jack and I scramble up. ‘Hello?’ I call out, more forcefully now as footsteps sound in the hallway. The front door closes with a heavy clunk, and Alfie’s voice rings out: ‘Hey, Mum, are you there? It’s me.’