Her Last Tomorrow

Chapter 1

1 Nick

The combination of burnt toast and cold coffee has never been my favourite, but it’s growing on me. It does that after a while.

I’ve given up even bothering to scrape the black bits off the toast, but the coffee still goes in the microwave. Iced coffee I can understand, but lukewarm coffee might as well be dog’s piss. Having to live off caffeine is bad enough, so it might as well taste good in the process.

The microwave bleeps three times to tell me it’s done, the shrill sound piercing through my skull as I chomp down on another bite of toast, sending large black chunks crumbling to the floor.

The nagging thought at the forefront of my mind is that this damn book is never going to be finished. It’ll be a year next week since I started writing it, and I’m already on my third deadline. Pete tells me it’s my last deadline. I know he’s serious this time. I’m really starting to wonder if it might just be better to scrap the whole thing and run with another idea. Any book’s better than no book.

Tasha drags Ellie kicking and screaming into the kitchen and I long for the sound of the microwave.

‘Now, you be good for Daddy, alright? He’s been under a lot of stress lately and he needs you to go easy on him.’

Tasha has never been able to accept that sometimes I’m actually annoyed at things she does. She just makes out it’s my fault because I’m ‘stressed’.

‘She’s five,’ I say, through a mouthful of crumbs as I sit down at the table. ‘She doesn’t know what you’re saying. If you want to have a dig, do it to me.’

‘Hey, fine. Give him hell, girl,’ she says, ruffling Ellie’s hair and smiling at me. Ellie’s still not happy. I don’t blame her. I’m a grown adult and I can’t handle being up at this time. As Ellie’s wails begin to build, Tasha takes the Rosie Ragdoll down from on top of the kitchen clock and hands it to her. Ellie stops crying immediately.

‘I wish you wouldn’t keep giving her that, Tash. It’s not a toy.’

‘Of course it’s a toy, Nick. It’s a rag doll.’

Tasha will never have it. Ellie loves the Rosie Ragdoll, but I’m not keen on Tasha handing it her way every time she throws a strop. It sits on top of our kitchen clock, looking far too much like a freaky version of the fictional scarecrow Worzel Gummidge for my liking, with bits of glued-on straw poking out of its trousers and sleeves, a straw boater slightly askew on its head. My mum used to have it in her kitchen. We bought it for her shortly after Dad died. One of those stupid ‘saw this and thought of you’ gifts, but it meant the world to her. Every time Ellie went over she’d want to play with it, even as a small baby. She was fascinated by it. We had to make sure she was careful with it, as it wasn’t meant to be a toy – despite what Tasha says.

I don’t have a whole lot to remember my mum by, but the Rosie Ragdoll (God knows why she called it that) is one small token that sits up out of the way, looking over us all. Mum died shortly before Ellie’s second birthday, from the same cancer that took dad eight years earlier. So to see Tasha casually chucking the Rosie Ragdoll to Ellie like some sort of pacifier or comfort blanket really rankles.

‘I just think we should be careful with it,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

She walks over and kisses me on the top of the head. ‘She’s fine. She’s a good girl. Anyway, it worked, didn’t it? Now, you get that coffee down you and stop being such a grumpy puss.’

‘What else do you expect, Tash? It’s five in the morning. I don’t see why we all have to get up just because you’ve got to go to some bloody conference.’

‘Trust me, Nick, it’s better than having me worrying all morning about whether you’ve woken up and actually remembered to take Ellie to school,’ she replies, pouring sugar-coated cereal into a bowl for Ellie. Great. Just what an emotionally unstable five-year-old needs at this time of the morning.

‘Any idea what time you’ll be back?’

‘Late. If it finishes on time I should be out of there by six, home by ten with any luck. As long as the trains aren’t full of suits.’

I raise my eyebrows momentarily. She’d never have it that she was one of them. Her job was far more important than whatever it was they did for a living, and it always would be.

‘Right. Must dash,’ she says, grabbing her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and planting a kiss on Ellie’s cheek. ‘You have a good day at school. Work hard and be good. And you have fun,’ she adds as she does a childish little wave to me across the table, her fingers bending and straightening in one unit.

Within seconds she’s gone and it’s just me and Ellie. Same as it always is.