Page 33 of The Pieces of Us

We’re back at the Memory Cafe, Minnie’s new favourite place.

It’s quieter than last time and Sam and Jack aren’t here, so I take advantage of Minnie’s time at the crafting table to check in on Ruby, who’s studying hard now that summer exam season is approaching.

I get a peace sign and then a long row of sweet pepper emojis in response to my How are you?

text, which I now understand is telling me the size of her eighteen-week-old foetus.

She appeared in my room in the early hours of the morning, her hair stuck to her face, suddenly looking undeniably pregnant in her striped button-up pyjamas.

‘Can you feel this?’ she demanded, sitting on my bed, rubbing a spot at the side of her belly.

‘No,’ I admitted, my hand against her skin.

‘It feels so weird,’ she said, her eyes huge, as if she was experiencing a miracle. ‘Like butterflies. My God, Mum. It’s getting real .’ Beneath the fascination with her ever-changing body, her nerves are evident.

‘Lie with me?’ I asked her, moving to make room for her in my bed.

She didn’t hesitate, curling her body against mine.

‘Just take it one day at a time,’ I told her.

‘I’ll try,’ she said, moving closer until I could feel the beat of her heart against my arm.

I smile at the bell peppers before moving on to the rest of my inbox, checking to see what messages I’ve missed or forgotten about.

I reply to Lisa’s invitation to join her for lunch yesterday with SORRY I’M A NIGHTMARE I LOVE YOU and several heart emojis.

Within seconds laughing faces and kisses arrive. She gets it.

There’s a text from Asim. He’s no longer confined to the ‘my mother’s estate agent’ box, but I don’t know what label to put on the one he’s moved into.

Since our kitchen kiss last month, we’ve exchanged messages most days, have chatted on the phone a few times and he’s nagged me until I got the chip on my windscreen fixed.

We’ve also made several attempts to meet for coffee, but it hasn’t happened yet – something always gets in the way. Always on my end.

‘I’m sorry it’s so complicated,’ I told him the last time I had to cancel because Lena had to leave early to go to the dentist.

‘Cat McAllister, I’m banning you from saying that word,’ he replied.

Today his text is one word – Maybe? – followed by a link to a Glasgow dance school website: IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO DISCOVER YOUR DANCING SHOES! WE OFFER BEGINNER BALLROOM AND LATIN CLASSES … AND YOUR FIRST CLASS IS FREE!

I smile. I told him a story earlier this week about the first and only time Minnie took me to a ballet class when I was four.

Before the class started, I squatted in the corner of the room, glowering, trying to poke my little finger through the tiny mesh holes in my pink tutu.

I wasn’t brave enough to ignore the loud ‘Gather round, dancers!’ – the mere presence of the teacher, with her perfect posture and square satin toes and ankle ribbons, commanded deference.

But immediately after the class I told Minnie, in a voice I hoped was just as loud as Miss Carla’s, that I hated dancing and wouldn’t be going back.

I close the link and text Pete, who won’t stop asking about Asim – he’s affectionately renamed him ‘the kitchen kisser’ – since I told him what happened between us: He wants me to go to a dance class!

I go back to Asim’s message, my finger hovering over the keypad.

Finally I search for a GIF that sums up how I feel better than any words I can fudge together would.

It’s perfect: a young girl in a tutu running on to a shiny dance floor, then tripping up and falling flat on her face.

I hit send. I haven’t said no, but I’m hoping he won’t push me on it.

If I can’t manage to meet him for coffee, how can I possibly commit to dance lessons?

It feels foreign to be sitting still, with nowhere to go and nothing to do apart from wait.

I look at my phone again, navigating to Ruby’s Instagram account.

Her last post is her scan photo, with a row of heart emojis as the caption.

I stare at the image until an object dangling in front of my face jerks me back to reality.

‘I made a dreamchaser.’ Minnie’s creation is so close its white feathers brush against my nose.

‘A dreamcatcher,’ I correct her, before I can stop myself.

‘No. A dream chaser ,’ she says.

‘It’s beautiful, Min,’ I tell her, sliding my phone into my pocket. I take a gulp of my lukewarm tea. ‘Here, take a biscuit for the journey home.’

As I’m belting Minnie into the passenger seat, my phone vibrates against my hip.

It’s Pete: Dancing with the kitchen kisser? Fab-u-lous, baby!

My idea of hell , I type.

That comfort zone is SO not a good look on you , he replies.

I open the glove compartment and toss my phone inside. It’s a goddamned conspiracy .

‘Look at my dreamchaser!’ Minnie shouts as soon as we step into the flat. She’s hanging her creation from one finger, watching the feathers move. ‘Where can it go?’

‘Wherever you like,’ I tell her, triple-locking the door behind us and disposing of coats and bags as I move through the hall.

My mind is still on Ruby’s Instagram post, the very public pregnancy announcement that’s considered normal these days.

‘Shit. My phone’s still in the car. We’ll need to go down and get it.

Ruby might be trying to get hold of me.’

Minnie hangs the dreamcatcher on the bathroom-door handle. ‘How about there?’

‘I don’t think so, Min. It’ll probably fall off whenever anyone opens the door. Anyway, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to hang it over your bed? So it can catch your dreams?’

She screws up her face. ‘Nobody would see it. I want people to see it.’

‘OK. We’ll hang it wherever you want.’ I remove her creation carefully from the handle at the same time as she tries to grab it. My frustration gets the better of me. ‘Minnie!’ I shriek. ‘Just leave it, will you? Stop grabbing! ’

We recoil at the same time, the force of my outburst creating a chasm between us. We’re both scared for completely different reasons.

‘Oh, Min.’ I reach out to her, my arm hanging feebly over the chasm.

‘I don’t like you.’ Her chin quivers. ‘You’re mean to me.’

‘I don’t like me right now either,’ I say through the hard lump in my throat.

It’s stuck, like a pill swallowed without water, wedged at the top of my oesophagus.

‘I’m sorry. For yelling. For being mean.

I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do it again.’ I can’t – won’t – make her a promise I’m not sure I’ll keep.

Her chin is still quivering but her eyes are angry. Her arm – stronger than mine, against all odds – snatches back the dreamcatcher before she turns her back on me and walks away.

‘Minnie, I’m sorry,’ I say, following her into the living room. ‘I’m so sorry. But I really need to go down to the car and get my phone. I can’t not have it when Ruby isn’t here – you understand, don’t you?’

‘Ruby.’ She spits out the name.

‘Yes, Ruby.’ I sit next to her on the sofa. ‘Please will you come downstairs with me so I can get my phone? It’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘No,’ she says, then picks up the remote control, turns on the television, and keeps her finger on the volume button until it hits an ear-splitting forty-four and there’s no point in me saying anything else when I can’t even hear the thoughts running through my head.

Minnie has never been on her own in my flat.

But I know that the only way I’ll get her off the sofa is by lifting her up and carrying her downstairs, fireman style over my shoulder.

I imagine her punching my buttocks with clenched fists, summoning all her strength to hurt me as much as I’ve hurt her.

‘I’m going to get my phone. I’ll be three minutes, tops. Do not move, do you hear me?’

Her response comes via the remote control. The volume reaches fifty-two, at which point the quiz show host’s voice becomes painfully distorted.

I can’t resist a parting shot. ‘You’ll go deaf if you carry on with that nonsense.’ She doesn’t hear me, of course.

I make a split-second decision to lock Minnie inside the flat and run down the stairs, keeping one hand on the banister to stop myself from falling.

Mr Johnson from downstairs is shuffling towards his flat just as I reach the bottom step; I swerve my body swiftly to the right to avoid a collision.

‘Sorry, Mr Johnson!’ I yell back over my shoulder, grabbing the steel entrance door just before it slams shut.

‘Watch yourself, lass,’ he replies.

I wedge the heavy entrance door open, jog down the path and click the button on my key to unlock the car.

Seconds later, phone tightly in hand, I retrace my steps.

It’s all good, it’s all good. I can’t see, hear or smell anything to suggest that Minnie isn’t sitting exactly where I left her a moment ago.

It’s all good, it’s all good, it’s all good.

I’m halfway up the stairs when the toe of my trainer catches on the lip of the next step.

My hands move up to protect my face, my other leg swings out behind me, and before I can comprehend what’s happening my elbows are smashing against stone.

Then I’m falling backwards, and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and curl my body into a ball.

It takes a while for Asim’s face to come into focus, partly because the pain searing through my head makes it agonizingly difficult to open my eyes.

His voice spurs me to return to the space my body occupies – somewhere hard, cold and not particularly sweet-smelling.

But staying here is more comfortable than moving I realize, as I try to raise my head.

‘Cat. Oh my God. Stay where you are for now.’ His hands are warm on mine. ‘What happened?’

‘I … fell. I think. Down the stairs. Ouch .’

He takes off his suit jacket, rolls it up and lifts my head just enough to slide the makeshift pillow underneath it.

‘This floor is filthy,’ I say.