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know. I was going to say: if it’s too much bother sorting out childcare, I’ll just come over to yours with some wine and Ribena. Or just Ribena.’

      ‘Oh, you know how to treat a girl! All that money you’re earning on Rhea Stevens?’

      A pause. Have I offended him?

      ‘Actually, I’m doing the Rhea case pretty much pro bono.’

      ‘What? You’re doing it for free? How come?’

      ‘Goodness of my heart?’

      ‘But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you using Legal Aid – surely the firm is?’

      ‘Tim talked me into it,’ Dan tells me. ‘Joking aside, he can be pretty persuasive.’

      ‘Jesus. But it must take up your time. How can you afford it?’

      ‘By offering women Ribena,’ Dan counters. ‘Come on, how about it – if you have childcare we’ll go out, otherwise I’ll come to you.’

      ‘It’s a date.’

      ‘Finally.’

      We both take a beat. Yes, finally.

      ‘OK, well I’ll see you then,’ I say. ‘Text me your mobile number; this one’s blocked.’

      ‘Will do,’ he says. ‘Just let me know what works for you.’

      ‘Great,’ I tell him.

      We end the call.

      Wow. So. A date. Have I ever even been on a bona fide date?

      Mick didn’t count.

      Mick picked me up from the trash.

      Literally.

      And I don’t count the ensuing cup of tea in the caff as a date. I certainly hadn’t shaved my legs.

      But before that, I need to look into childcare. I’d rather not have to introduce Dan and Josh just yet. They do that later on, in the films, those yoga-fit airbrushed mums (yes, I’ve seen the Hollywood version of my life. Doesn’t it all just turn up roses?). Date five or something, you go to a picnic by a lake and everyone falls in and it’s really funny. You’re not meant to introduce your kids to every man you meet or they’re weighing them up as a potential dad. Which is particularly unfair when your kid doesn’t know his real dad. Thinks he’s dead.

      I pull out my blackberry. I’m about to message Tim about the child minder details. But I see they’re already there.

Chapter 10

      The child minder comes to the law firm offices on Thursday lunchtime. It is Tim’s suggestion. I’d been shilly-shallying about inviting her to my home, with Josh there.

      ‘Look, just make the best misuse of the office space,’ he tells me. ‘Everyone else does.’

      I don’t know what he means; I haven’t heard any tales of late-night shagging on the photocopier, or skinny-dipping in the kitchen sink. But maybe they all think I’m too innocent to share that stuff with. Tim is corrupting me now though. Tim and Dan combined.

      ‘Ah, Louise!’ Tim greets the potential child minder with the warm grace of an old friend. ‘Come in, make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee? Jen, get yourself something too.’

      The woman who may look after my child is helped to a coffee. Two sugars. They match her comfy waistline. A mum-like figure. Does that make her more trustworthy? Mums can be bad people too.

      I choose a still water and sit down.

      ‘Well, I’ll leave you two ladies to it,’ Tim says. ‘Jen – I’m off to interview our friend. Got some good lines worked out!’

      I think back to the joshing with Dan about lines Tim would use to ask someone out. How I ended up being asked out, and in this interview scenario in the first place. None of it seems very funny now – our poor client facing Tim’s crass questions, the would-be child minder facing my inexperienced ones. I should just have let my minders vet someone and have done with it.

      Tim closes the door, leaving Louise and I alone.

      ‘So,’ I say.

      ‘So,’ she says, beaming at me.

      ‘I haven’t done this before,’ I tell her.

      The moment reminds me of when Chloe first arrived at the children’s home. A tough face, chin jutted up. But behind that, I’m sure there was the same vulnerability I feel now; the alarming sense of newness, not wanting to be mocked.

      This woman isn’t mocking, just disbelieving. You can see it in the arch of the eyebrow, which she may think is hidden behind the sip from the coffee cup.

      ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll go slow.’

      I try out a laugh. I can do this. I can be a woman who laughs with her child minder at clichéd innuendo over their child’s head.

      Yes, Josh. This is about Josh. Not me.

      ‘So, what qualifies you to look after my son?’ I ask her.

      This time it’s Louise’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t take it slow then!’

      ‘I’ve only got twenty minutes. And I’ve only got one son.’

      Louise nods. ‘Fair enough. Well, I’ve been looking after kiddies for the best part of twenty years.’

      ‘My son is ten.’

      ‘So you’ve half the experience I have,’ she says. I think it’s a joke, but it sounds like a challenge.

      ‘What I mean is, my son is ten. He isn’t a kiddy. How would you entertain him? How would you get him to sleep? He’s used to me.’

      ‘Love, as you said, he’s not a kiddy. He can get himself to sleep. Besides, he’ll be used to a babysitter, or your mum.’

      I shake my head. ‘Just me.’

      Another raised eyebrow, another sip of the coffee. ‘He likes Lego, doesn’t he?’ she asks.

      I stiffen. ‘How do you know?’

      ‘He’s ten,’ she says. ‘I bet he has a Lego bedspread, doesn’t he?’

      I nod agreement. Is this the twenty years’ experience talking? Or something else? Like a webcam on my son’s ceiling?

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