Page 22 of The Pieces of Us

Minnie’s new morning ritual is counting the mint imperials Asim found in the cupboard under her stairs, which are now stored in glass jars under her bed.

When I brought them home she pounced on the bag like it was treasure she’d spent years hunting for.

It was Ruby’s idea to put the mints into jars, arriving home from school with an armful of them from the pound shop.

‘It’ll keep them clean,’ she explained, reminding me how thoughtful she is, how much she cares about people.

It’s not difficult to see her as a mother – a role with the purest form of love at its crux.

Her maternal instinct was there from a young age, when she wouldn’t go anywhere without a baby doll with inexplicably long hair called Sue.

She took Sue everywhere, handling her with the gentlest of tiny fingers.

I force myself to snap out of the precious memory of a time when the only baby my daughter had was made of plastic.

Maternal instinct or not, I can’t get my head around the thought of her becoming a mother at this age.

She’s become increasingly tight-lipped in the few days since she shared the news, answering most of my questions – Have you spoken to Sean?

Is he coming to the scan next week? Are you feeling OK?

Do you want to talk about it? – with Not now, Mum .

Minnie arranges the mints in eight rows of eight on her carpet, touches each one and says its number under her breath, then returns it to its jar with a clink. It’s only after sixty-four clinks that she’ll leave her room.

Through trial and error, we’ve established another morning routine.

We’ve determined her perfect breakfast: a spoonful of scrambled eggs on a slice of toast, which she can eat with her hands while she watches morning TV.

This keeps her occupied while I tidy up and have a quick shower.

Then it’s her turn to wash. Weeks of experimenting have led to a system that works most of the time, involving towels laid on every surface of the floor, three inches of warm water in the bath, a door open only an inch and a Spotify playlist of classical music.

If she doesn’t like a particular piece, she yells NO and I skip forward to the next one.

Only after the final note of ‘Nessun Dorma’ will she drain the water.

The bang on the door tells me she’s out of the bath and in her dressing gown, ready for me to dry her hair. She closes her eyes while I use my large round brush to curl the ends of her silver bob, the calm curve of her mouth telling me that she feels at peace.

‘I have an idea,’ I say casually as I unplug the hair dryer. ‘Since your hair looks so great today, why don’t we go somewhere special?’

Minnie narrows her eyes at me. ‘Aldi?’

‘No, not Aldi. Much more exciting than that. It’s a cafe – a new cafe we haven’t been to before, with lots of friendly people.

A friend of mine is going to meet us there, in fact.

’ Describing Asim as a friend still feels odd – accidental, almost – and I don’t want to try to work out why in case the only answer is that I’m wondering whether he could be more than that.

Whenever my mind goes there, I shut it down.

That’s yet another complication I don’t need right now.

In the weeks since his flat white delivery, he’s called a few times with updates on the house – regular viewings, still no offers – and occasionally he’ll throw in a funny story, mainly about the weird and wonderful people he meets at work, like the guy who consulted with his astrologist before agreeing on a completion date and the couple who brought their King Charles spaniel to every house they viewed.

‘I think the dog had the final say.’ He laughed.

‘Now I think of it, they never did offer on any of the properties I showed them.’

‘There will be fun things for you to do at the cafe,’ I tell Minnie brightly. ‘It will be good for you, getting out of the house. Meeting new people.’ The truth is, today is for me just as much as her.

She has her hands on her hips, her dressing gown gaping at her chest. ‘What kind of fun things?’ she demands.

I draw the towelling edges together, concealing the collarbone that looks like it would snap if I so much as breathed on it. ‘Let’s go and find out, yeah? First, we need to get you dressed. What do you want to wear?’

‘I can choose?’

‘Of course you can choose. Don’t you always choose what you want to wear?’ I follow her to the wardrobe.

‘Absolutely not,’ she says. ‘You never let me wear what I want to Aldi.’

Yesterday, she put a pair of Ruby’s denim shorts over her trousers. It was a valuable reminder to pick my battles. ‘She can have them,’ Ruby said. The unspoken words linger between us: They might not fit me in a few months if I go ahead with this pregnancy .

‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say to Minnie now, stroking her arm. ‘You can wear whatever you want today. But not from Ruby’s wardrobe. And we’re not going to Aldi.’

‘We’re not? Where are we going?’

‘To a cafe. With nice people and fun things to do, like games and crafts.’

‘Will there be cake?’

‘I think there will be, yes.’

‘What will go with these?’ She yanks a pair of red trousers off their hanger.

I look through her sparse wardrobe. ‘What about this?’ A silky coffee-coloured blouse with an ivory spot pattern that I remember from decades-ago birthday dinners and Sunday lunches.

‘That old thing,’ she says, but she shrugs off her dressing gown and lets me ease the blouse gently over her arms and shoulders, then fasten the buttons from top to bottom. It’s far too big for her now, of course, but we can make it work.

‘Pop on your trousers, and I’ll grab a belt,’ I tell her.

A few minutes later, she’s cinched in at the waist. She smiles at herself in the mirror, not noticing the excess material bunched around her hips.

I hope, for her sake, that what she sees is in her reflection is her forty-something self with silky fabric clinging beautifully to her curves.

Minnie turns to face me, looks me up and down. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you going to go out looking like that?’

I look down at my black leggings and grey hoodie, then back at the woman who’s my mother again, disapproving of what I’m wearing.

‘Fair enough,’ I admit. ‘Want to help me pick something out?’

‘Absolutely.’ She grins. ‘I’ll give you a makeover.’

She’s an eager stylist, hauling all sorts of unsuitable garments out of my wardrobe. A strappy summer dress, a black funeral-ready pencil skirt, a dress that’s been gathering dust since I was Lisa’s plus-one to her cousin’s wedding ten years ago.

‘All good options,’ I tell her brightly. ‘But what about this?’ I hold up a dark green fine-knit sweater with a V-neck.

‘Hmmm. I prefer the lilac thing with the floaty bits. But the green might be OK. Try it on.’

After further discussion, she lets me put my formalwear back behind closed doors and switch my leggings for black jeans.

‘You’re very attractive when you make more of an effort,’ she says. Her eyes rest on my face. ‘And always such a pretty face, whatever you wear.’

I blink away tears. ‘Thank you, Minnie. That’s a lovely thing to say,’

I let her choose my accessories – a pearl necklace, a shoulder bag that’s just too small to hold a fraction of the supplies I need to take on an outing with Minnie, and Ruby’s battered red Converse that she insists are the perfect finishing touch.

‘You should wear more colour,’ she says. ‘You’re always in black. And these match my trousers.’

I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a character in a flip fashion book Ruby used to have: part librarian, part art student.

My phone buzzes, a text from Asim: Cat, I’m so sorry. Jeedo had a really bad night and isn’t up for the Memory Cafe. Hope you and Minnie have a blast. Ax

‘Are you ready yet?’ Minnie nudges me with her elbow. ‘You don’t half take your time.’

I laugh, still looking at my phone, unable to deny the disappointment I’m feeling. ‘Yes, Min.’ I send Asim a quick reply, telling him I hope Jeedo is OK, and that he is too. ‘OK. I’m ready.’

‘Ready for Aldi,’ Minnie says.

By the time we get to the Memory Cafe, there’s only forty minutes left of the two-hour session.

As soon as we arrive, Minnie pulls a woolly hat out of her pocket.

It’s an old one of Ruby’s, bright yellow with a bobble on the top.

She tugs it down over her ears, making sure it won’t budge.

Paired with her red trousers, she looks like a children’s entertainer.

‘Min, I don’t think you’ll need to keep your hat on,’ I whisper.

‘Look – everybody else has taken their hats and coats off. It’s nice and warm.

’ I point out the electric heaters in each corner.

The large room in the community centre has been transformed: bistro tables and chairs in primary colours in the middle of the space, larger tables forming a rectangle around them.

Each table seems to have a theme: I see paint pots and sponges, magazines, baskets of cuddly toys, large over-ear headphones.

‘Nonsense.’ Minnie folds her arms across her chest. ‘It’s November. It’s bloody Baltic.’

‘It’s not November for a long time yet,’ I mutter, but quickly rearrange my mouth into a smile as Mandy appears before us, armed with a clipboard. I recognize her from the charity’s Facebook page, and she seems as smiley and warm in person.

‘Hello, ladies. Welcome to our Memory Cafe.’

‘Hi. I’m Cat and this is Minnie. I’m so sorry we’re late. Getting places on time can be difficult.’ Right on cue, Minnie wanders off.