“MUMMY, I WANT TO PLAY football,” Sophia sings, her head peeking out from the top of her purple and teal quilt.
“It’s Mommy, sweetie. Call me Maaahhhmmmy,” I correct, knowing I’m a jerk but hating that she gets more British every day.
“Maaahmmmy, can I play football?” Sophia’s brown gaze looks up at me with wide-eyed innocence.
Sighing heavily, I reply, “Do you mean soccer?”
“It’s the one where they kick the ball around on the grass and they wear really cool socks.”
I groan slightly. “Soph, that’s a boy’s sport.”
“No, it’s not! There are girls from my school that play.”
Smiling, I slip under the covers on her bed, turning on my side to face her. She turns to face me as well. We’re nose-to-nose in her tiny single bed. Brown eyes on brown eyes. Brown hair mixing in with brown hair. My little mini-me. I bring my hand up and brush the tips of her dark lashes. She flutters her eyes closed as I stroke her lids, marvelling at how her lashes are longer than mine, which is saying something because mine have been mistaken as fake. I trace her perfectly imperfect eyebrows in need of a tweeze if they were on anyone other than the cutest little seven-year-old I’ve ever seen.
Once upon a time, she didn’t have eyebrows. She didn’t have lashes. She didn’t have hair. I run my hand through her long strands, thick and lush. Full of renewed life.
She lived.
My baby lived through something no child should ever have to endure. The Big C is an awful thing to happen to anyone. But when it happens to a six-month-old, it’s spirit-crushing. Regardless, this bright, shining star survived and we’ve been cancer-free for four years. Now I’m laser focused on hitting that magical five-year remission milestone when I’ll finally be able to breathe again.
Four years down, one to go.
Thankfully, she rarely speaks of her time in the hospitals anymore. Her thoughts are now in the present and future…of her life here in England.
Hence football.
Hence Mummy.
Hence me having a British daughter and needing to get over it one of these days.
“Please, Mom, can I play football?”
I drop a soft kiss on her head. “Soph, let’s give it one more year. I’ve seen a couple soccer games, and they can get pretty physical. I think you’re too young to be worrying about sports quite yet anyway.”
Her furry little eyebrows pinch together in the most adorably serious way. It takes great effort to bite back my smile.
“I’m not too little. I’m big. There are kids littler than me playing already.”
Shaking my head slowly, I reply, “Not this year, sweetie. Maybe next year.” When you’ve hit the five-year mark.
She huffs out an angry grunt and rolls away from me, scowling at the wall. I kiss the back of her head and slip out of the bed. Flicking off the overhead light, I whisper, “Good night, Sopapilla.”
She sniffs haughtily. “Good night, Mummy Gumdrops,” she mumbles into the pillow.
Maaahhhmmmy, I think to myself and step out of her bedroom to close the door. Exhaling heavily, I make my way downstairs and turn right toward the kitchen, craving a cup of something a hell of a lot stronger than British tea.
“Hiya,” Freya chirps from behind the sewing machine she has set up on the long oak table in the dining area that we’ve repurposed into a sewing room.
“Hey.” I lean over the table to glance down into the coffee mug beside her. “Whatcha drinking?”
“Tea,” she responds with a smirk. “And by tea I mean chardonnay of the chilled variety.” Her round, freckled cheeks pull back into a wide smile. “Want me to get you a cup?”
“Please.” I smile graciously and take the seat across from her by my own machine. I glance down at the red Gucci shift dress she’s taking in for one of the Man U players’ wives and wish I could be working on it instead of her.
Freya makes her way into the galley style kitchen, her round hips swaying as she walks. She’s a pleasantly plump redhead with freckles everywhere as far as the eyes can see. We met when I ran an ad online looking to hire a seamstress to work for me as my client base grew beyond my means. My background is in clothing and textile design, so I know my way around a sewing machine, but I couldn’t do the alterations and the merchandising. And Freya is a whiz with a seam ripper.
She’s been a lifesaver for me the past year as both a friend and a colleague. Her constant good mood and fun zest for life have made my weeks without Sophia a smidge more bearable. Who knows the mess I’d be without her.
Freya places a matching kitten coffee mug of wine in front of me. “Mmm, good tea.” I giggle and take a fortifying sip.
Freya sits back down and nods oh-so seriously. “It’s herbal.”
I shake my head. “The best ones always are.”
We both snicker for a moment, but her face drops as she says, “Sunday tomorrow.”
I take a deep breath. “Sunday tomorrow.”
“Think you might not cry this time?”
I look straight at Freya, praying for strength that I know isn’t coming. The mere mention of the day when Sophia happily leaves me to spend seven days with Callum continually brings tears to my eyes. “No,” I croak, disgusted with myself.
I often wonder what kind of mother I would have been to a child who didn’t have cancer. To a normal, healthy child. Would I care if he or she was gone every other week? Would I mind not knowing what they eat or how they’re feeling? If their dad is checking to make sure they don’t run a fever? If they’re taking their vitamins like they should? Or is it only because Sophia was sick that I lose my mind for the entire week she’s away?
“Oh, Sloan,” Freya says with a sigh. “The Zumba class I suggested didn’t help? Those instructors are so cheerful.”
I shake my head. “No, nothing has helped.”
Since the divorce, I’ve tried eleven different kinds of exercise classes to get my mind off the time Sophia is away. I’ve tried yoga. I’ve tried meditating. I’ve tried paint and sip classes, thinking maybe what was missing was alcohol. My doctor even gave me antidepressants, but I couldn’t stick with them. They made me feel like a zombie, and I don’t want to be one of those medicated divorcées who can’t get through a day without popping a pill.
“Blimey, it’s been months of this arrangement. I thought it would be easier by now.”
“Me too,” I murmur, sipping from my mug. The only silver lining is that, despite Callum’s poor parenting skills in the past years, Sophia seems to always enjoy her time with him.
“This probably isn’t the best time to tell you this, but maybe focusing on work is what you need. There’s a new potential client who’s requesting a meeting with you on Monday.”
My ears perk up because new clients mean big, new commissions. “That’s awesome! But why does your face look like that?”
“Well, he called in on a referral from Gareth Harris.” She presses her foot on the pedal of her machine, and the noise of the motor prevents me from responding with an excuse that normally falls out of my mouth so easily.
Freya knows I’ve been avoiding Gareth for many months. Although, last week when I saw him for the first time, it wasn’t nearly as awful as I thought it’d be. I worked myself up into such a state after the night we slept together. It was unprofessional, unladylike, dirty, filthy, kinky, and a million different things. I told myself that what happened between us was because he felt sorry for me. I was crying after all.
I expected Gareth to look at me with pity from the weird night we had together. Instead, he stood in that locker room and smiled that cocky smile. Raised those serious brows. He flirted with me.
He didn’t seem disgusted by me. He certainly didn’t look like he was uncomfortable. I’d been avoiding him because I was certain I had to. But after last week, I’m more embarrassed by the avoidance than I am by the actual sex act we performed.
And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to thinking about him more this past week as a result. Replaying some of the scene in my mind. Recalling the feeling of his firm muscles beneath my hands.
Freya finally stops the machine and watches me curiously. I sit up straight and pray that the heat in my cheeks isn’t noticeable. “Where does this client live?”
“Astbury.”
I roll my eyes. “What are they, neighbours?”
“Next property over,” she replies. “But, good Lord, the estates in Astbury are enormous. It’s not like he’ll see you through the bloody windows,” Freya tuts.
She has lost all patience for the bait-and-switch act we’ve been doing with Gareth. Probably because she has to take all our appointments with him and I won’t give her any inkling as to why.
“Are you refusing to go? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I can’t do consultations anyway, Sloan!” she replies. “I don’t have style, I have skill. You are the lucky lot who has them both.”
Piercing her with a determined look, I ask, “What time does the new client want me out there?”
“It’s a couple actually,” she corrects. “A male and female footy duo.”
“They both play?” I ask, surprised because I never work with female athletes. Mostly because they don’t make enough to hire me. “How adorable. A married soccer couple.”
“They aren’t married,” Freya corrects. “But I double-checked, and the email says the consultation is for both of them.”
“Okay,” I acquiesce. “I suppose I should go prep.”
“I have a suit you need to drop off to Gareth, too, while you’re at it.”
My face falls. “No, Freya. No way.” There’s no way I can go back to his house. I can’t drive onto that property and act like nothing happened.
“You’re driving all the way out there!” she argues.
“I don’t care!”
Her shoulders drop. “Sloan, he is our nicest customer. We kit him out with an entire wardrobe change every season and he needs fitted suits practically every other month. Don’t piss off Gareth. If we lose him, we’ll have to start styling more of the beetches!”
Despite the argument on the tip of my tongue, I snicker at the way she says bitches. She’s referring to the lovely women in Cal’s circle who have wealthy husbands, no jobs, and no sense of humour.
She pins me with a serious glower. “You know I hate styling the beetches. They don’t appreciate my curves.”
“I don’t think it’s your curves they have a problem with,” I interject. “I think it’s your constant need to talk about Heartland.”
“It’s a wonderful, heartfelt family drama with horses!” she bellows, her voice cracking with emotion. “You know this because you and Sophia watch it with me, and now Sophia wants to be a trick pony rider. And screw you. I saw you tearing up when Amy Fleming got married.”
“Well”—I raise my chin to argue—“she came down the aisle on a damn horse with her dad and grandfather. It was freaking beautiful.”
“You’re bloody well right it was!” she booms. “And screw those beetches for not embracing a wholesome Canadian program.”
We both burst out laughing before pausing to sip our chardonnays.
“You know you have to do this. I was giving you time because I knew you were going through a lot with the divorce, but other than your every other week of depression, things have been settled around here for a while now.” She pauses and gives me a soft smile. “It’s time to get on with your life and, at the very least, do your job.”
“I know,” I groan and stand up from my chair, feeling too nervous to stay sitting at the table with her. It’s one thing to run into him without time to think. It’s quite another to have hours to obsess over actually seeing him again. “I’ll go…prep for Monday I suppose.”
“That’s the spirit!” She reaches out and grabs my arm as I pass by. “You’re still not wanting to tell me in great detail exactly why you’ve been avoiding Gareth Harris for the past year, right?”
“Right.”
“Just checking.” She winks.
“Love you,” I call over my shoulder.
“Mean it,” she finishes.