Page 33 of I Know How This Ends

This is going about as well as I thought it would.

Aware I’m watching, Winter pointedly opens the snack drawer, takes out an entire armful and shuts herself in her bedroom.

Just in case I hadn’t got the message, she opens the door again and says, “You are not welcome,” then closes it again, much more loudly.

“OK,” I say faintly. “Sorry.”

Anxious, I lurk in the corridor, worried that she’ll accidentally choke on a biscuit wrapper and I’ll have to explain to her

father that I didn’t realize because I was trying to “respect her space.”

“Winter?” I knock on the door quietly so as not to scare her. “I’m very sorry we weren’t honest with you. It’s... really,

really early days, and we just wanted to be sure we liked each other before we said anything.”

“Go away ,” she shouts at the door. “I am busy .”

“OK.” I move away from the door. “I’ll just be... out here, if you want to talk.”

I suppose I could go and sit on the sofa to wait for Henry—watch some telly, read a book—but I feel too guilty. This is a

lot of information to throw at a child all at once. It’s been just her and her father her entire conscious life. Plus, I’m not really sure what babysitting entails. Do you have to be directly next to them the whole time? Probably. It just seems dangerous to leave them to their own devices.

God, I feel like a warden at a very small prison.

Overwhelmed, I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor outside Winter’s room: close enough to hear if she starts

coughing in a worrying way. I have no idea what she’s doing in there, just that I can hear drawers being opened and closed

with alarming speed.

“My name really is Margot,” I tell the door, hoping she can hear me. “And I really am named after the ballerina.” A bolt of hope. “Actually, I think we can get you your very own tutu online if you just come out

here and help me pick a color—”

The door opens to my side and I breathe out: bribery worked!

But it clearly hasn’t. Because Winter is standing in the corridor, clutching a small floral purple suitcase. A suitcase I’ve seen before: the one

she uses to move into my house.

“I’m running away,” she tells me imperiously. “I do not want to live with liars.”

My nose twitches slightly—she’s so incredibly sweet—and I have to use every bit of facial control I have not to smile.

“That’s fair,” I say gently. “And logical.”

“So I think I will go and live with someone else.” She considers her options. “Granny and Grandad. Or Isabella. She’s my best

friend at school. And she has a hamster—and we’re allowed to hold it.”

Then she looks outraged at herself for sharing this intimate information.

“So I shall be leaving now.” Winter starts wheeling her case across the living room. “Don’t try and stop me. I’m leaving forever.”

I stand up and wait for her to reach the front door. I’m not entirely sure what to do: I can’t exactly explain to Henry that

his daughter flew the nest and is currently wandering around Bath with God knows what packed in a case: shells and dried flowers,

probably.

“OK,” I say, trying to hold my nerve.

“ Don’t try and stop me,” she repeats, eyeing me coldly. “It won’t work.”

“I can see that.” I nod. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

Winter puts her little hand on the door handle and pauses, gathering all of her courage. I watch her shoulders straighten

and I feel an intense pang of warmth toward her.

“So here I go,” she announces, pushing the handle down.

“Safe travels,” I say behind her.

She whips round, now absolutely incandescent. Little chestnut curls are sticking out around her ears, which just makes her

rage even more adorable.

“You’re going to let me go ?”

“You seem quite set on it,” I reply calmly. “So I respect your decision.”

“You can’t just let me run away !” Winter holds her arms out. “I am a child . I am only six years old!”

My nose twitches again. “Nearly seven, remember.”

“That’s still a child!” She looks infuriated by my stupidity. “You have to look after me! It’s the law . And you promised Daddy you would!”

“I did.” I nod. “That’s very true.”

“And you’re not looking after me if you just let me run away! You’re a liar again!”

“I’m sorry.” I try even harder not to smile, but I’m failing miserably. “You’re right. Please don’t leave, Winter. I’m sure

we can work this out together.”

“OK.” She softens in relief—homelessness averted—and holds her pointy chin up. “Yes. Well. That was very close, you know. I was nearly gone. You are a very bad babysitter. If that’s what you actually are.”

This time I laugh loudly and she eyes me suspiciously.

“Tell you what,” I say, grabbing my phone. “Why don’t we both run away for a bit? We can go on an adventure, one that maybe even runs slightly past your bedtime.”

Winter thinks about this for a few seconds. “OK. But I will probably tell my daddy that you let me stay up too late.”

I grin while texting. “That’s your call.”

Taking her for a little walk, is that OK? She has a lot of energy. Xx

A beep:

Doesn’t she just. ;) Go for it. THANK YOU AGAIN. xx

“Is there anything in your suitcase you need?” I help her put on her purple puffer coat, but she seems fixed on doing her

shoelaces herself. “To take with us, just in case?”

“Oh.” Winter eyes her suitcase with zero embarrassment. “No. It’s mostly teddies and seashells.”

“Got it.” I smile at her. “Then perhaps we’ll leave them here.”

Winter is thawing, snowflake by snowflake.

She’s trying very hard not to—and bristles when she remembers she hates me—but in the spaces between I gently ask questions

until she starts to chatter: about her best friend Isabella (she loves dolphins, but Winter is not convinced—they “look angry”),

her grandparents’ new puppy (she’s forgiven him, just) and what her favorite game in the playground is (tag, apparently still

going strong).

As we wander through Bath, I wonder briefly if this is going to be my new life: walking and talking around the West Country

with members of the Armstrong family.

I don’t hate it.

In fact—I realize with surprise—I’m enjoying it immensely.

Bath is unquestioningly beautiful, and while admittedly I’ve never spent any time with a six-year-old—apart from when I was a six-year-old myself—Winter is a funny little thing.

She feels strangely old for her years, with exactly the same clear, formal way of speaking Henry has.

At one point—while telling me that somebody took the last jacket potato at lunch and she was considerably upset by it—she uses the phrase “Alas, my potato,” and I stare at her briefly.

“Alas?”

“It means ‘Oh no,’” she explains patiently. “Like ‘Woe is me’ but not as sad.”

“Where are you getting this from?” I think I know the answer before I ask it. “Who taught you that?”

“Nobody taught me,” she says, giving me a sharp look. “Daddy reads me poetry at night and I just pick things up . I am very clever like that. Daddy says I have the memory of a pair of pants.”

I laugh. “Elephant.”

“No, Margot,” she sighs. “You must focus and improve your constabulary.”

We make another loop around inner-city Bath. It’s a small place and we’ve essentially just gone round in circles, but I’m

desperately trying to distract her, get her talking and also wear her out, like a small dog. It’s not working. Her energy

levels are considerably higher than mine. Although, in my defense, I’m wearing high heels and a red dress and she’s not.

“Hey,” I say, trying to work out if anywhere sells ice cream at this time of night. “Do you fancy a—”

Winter has abruptly stopped walking and is staring straight ahead.

“Winter?”

She says nothing, but her body has stiffened and her face is struggling: bottom lip moving, nose wrinkling, eyebrows clenched.

“Winnie?” I bend down until I’m kneeling on the ground. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

“It’s my mummy.”

Alarmed, I look up: where? What the hell is she talking about?

“There.” Winter lifts a pale finger and points at a slim red-haired lady standing on the grass in the little square we’ve paused at. “She’s right there.”

Horrified, I stare at them both. The woman smiles at us, and my stomach flips over: this can’t be happening. Has Henry lied to me? Is his ex-wife, mother of his child, actually living locally and taking casual evening strolls around the neighborhood?

That’s not a red flag: that’s as flammable as it gets.

“That lady?” I feel nauseous. “She’s your mummy?”

“What?” Winter looks at me in confusion. “No, my mummy is dead. Did Daddy not tell you?”

The red-haired lady suddenly whistles and I jump as a tiny terrier leaps out of a bush behind us and follows her jauntily

onto the path, ears bouncing. Bloody hell. Why do I always jump to the worst possible conclusion? What is wrong with me?

“Oh!” I breathe out. “Sorry. Yes. I knew that.”

“It’s the tree.” Winter points again, and I suddenly realize she’s pointing at a huge oak. “That’s where Mummy is. Daddy put

her there, after she was gone. He thinks I don’t remember, but I listen when he’s talking to Granny. He got planning permission

and everything.”

I nod faintly. “That’s good.”

“It’s not her, though.” Winter frowns. “She’s gone. But maybe a little bit of her is still there? Because Daddy makes us walk

the other way.”

My heart suddenly hurts for Henry, for this lovely girl, for Amy. I can’t blame Henry for avoiding this part of town. I moved

an entire city to get away from what had hurt me, and this is a completely different level of pain.

“Do you want to go and see?”

Winter looks up at me with such fierce gratitude it knocks the wind out of my lungs.

“Can we?”

“Of course. Let’s go and say hello.”

As we start walking across the grass, I feel her hand slip into mine: fingers so delicate and soft, like the stems of a plant.

She doesn’t even realize she’s done it—she’s focused on the tree—but my heart does something new: swells so fast it feels as though it’s straining at the edges of my chest and leaking, like a sponge.