The Family Friend by C. MacDonald (love story novels in english txt) 📕

exclusion zone around the two of them. Perhaps she would have been better keeping them both inside.

Bobby tries to bend over to pick up a piece of Duplo, his tentativeness making him look like an old man picking up a dropped coin. There’s no doubt that not having her phone to turn to has made her feel closer to him. He’s been in pain, with his teeth or a rattly chest, she’s not sure, and he’s had moments of being miserable, but Erin hasn’t found herself getting as tense as she used to. She’s found herself holding the boy into her, shhing rhythmic comfort into his ear as he cries or struggles against her, patiently, until he relents and gives himself to the comfort of his mother’s shoulder. Oddly, she has Amanda to thank. It seems she’s osmotically absorbed some of Amanda’s calm with him, some of her ability to withstand her son’s torrential emotional responses.

Amanda’s still around. She offered to come to the group with them but Erin declined. She’s not sure what she’s been up to but, with the responsibility of Bobby taken away after Erin’s various commitments were struck from the calendar, she’s seemed listless. Trying to cook, trying to clean around them, but she also spends hours at a time out of the house, doing God knows what. It also seems clear that Raf hasn’t spoken to her yet. Which Erin hasn’t brought up, because he’s been in a much better mood with her, much more loving, more caring, and she doesn’t want to shatter the veneer of balance that’s fallen over their home. But she wants to know why nothing’s been said, their deal was crystal clear, and so far, however hard it’s been to go cold turkey, she’s the only one who’s kept up her part of it.

She looks up to see Bobby on top of a tower of soft-play blocks that some large toddlers have been building. The tower begins to lean to one side. Erin rushes towards him and just as he begins to tumble off, Bronwen, the lady who runs the group, manages to grab at him. She doesn’t get both hands on him but she manages to manoeuvre him to land on one of the gym mats rather than the floorboards below. As Erin picks him up into her arms before he has a chance to start properly crying, she notices a dozen pairs of eyes watching her – no wonder she’s not watching her baby – they all seem to be thinking.

‘Thanks, thanks so much, Bronwen.’

‘Boys will be boys.’ There’s something in her eyes too. A coldness, disdain. Lovely, kind, Christian Bronwen. Can she know too? Has someone snitched to Bronwen about the photos of Erin, about the picture of Erin screaming at her baby? Bronwen glances down at Bobby. She’s always loved him, always lavished extra kisses and games of peekaboo on him. She always tried to defend him whenever Erin would complain about his screaming to her. Erin catches more glances around the room. She feels like a car crash everyone’s desperate to see so that they can feel safe, content with the calm mundanity of their lives.

Without thinking, she bursts through the double doors leaving her buggy behind. She had to get out of there. She has to get out of this town. She needs to be in London. She needs to be anonymous for a few hours, she needs to soak up the collective energy of thousands, to escape the scrutinising eyes down here, just for a while. As she pounds the streets towards the train station, Bobby bouncing on her chest, grinning from ear to ear, she thinks about how uncomfortable she’s always been here. She grew up with the bustle of Croydon, the teeming life of London. It’s too quiet here, too bland. There’s no colour, no culture. No wonder when the local populace found someone remotely well known, even just on Instagram, they took to her with such parasitic zeal and no wonder they’re now enjoying her downfall so much.

She reaches the station, goes to one of the machines on the street and selects a ticket to London. She puts her debit card in the machine and pumps her pin into the keypad. It seems to be taking a long time, Bobby’s getting heavy in her arms and restless. The screen on the machine says:

CARD DECLINED

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS

Before it cancels her transaction.

‘Fuck!’ she says. An old dear waiting at the bus stop turns 180 degrees to see who’s swearing so loudly in the street and shakes her head when she sees she has a baby. Erin extends a hand to apologise before trying the joint account card in the machine. She gets the same message. Raf normally makes sure there’s money in it, but he’s obviously forgotten to.

The train is in two minutes. She considers crossing the footbridge to the platform and getting on, hoping that she’ll somehow be able to blag the inspector, or phone Raf to put money into the joint account, but she can’t. She can’t be thrown off a train with a one-year-old and she can’t expect Raf to pay for this if money’s as tight as he says. She watches the train trundle to a stop across the tracks, then watches it leave. The old woman at the bus stop gives her a disgusted look, then at Bobby. She’s not even on Instagram and she’s judging whether Erin’s fit to look after her child.

She gets her phone out as she turns and makes her way home, and calls Grace Fentiman. This isn’t fair. She’s given everything on Instagram to try and finally make herself some money, her safety, her sanity potentially. The funds from Phibe have presumably been given back, but she must have earned at least a few grand from the various sponsored posts she’s done, as much as ten maybe. All the other influencers moan about how long it takes to get paid, but it seems