Free Bookends by Jane Green Page B

‘You’ll ruin your shoes, for God’s sake. You can’t just leave them there, haven’t you got any shoetrees?’
    The shoes rest on their side on the floor, daring me to look at the scuff marks I just made, so I kick them under the bed and pull on some flat boots, sighing with relief at being able to stomp around again, and run out the door.
    I pause briefly at the entrance to the kitchen, tempted to grab something from the fridge, a quick snack, but of course I am going to Lucy’s, and there is no better cook in London than Lucy, so why ruin a delicious pre-dinner snack with a piece of stale pitta from my own fridge?
    ‘Hello, Max. It looks like you’ve been eating something yummy.’ Max stands in the doorway, blocking my path, looking at me as if I’m about to start selling him dusters and dishcloths, a mixture of disdain and pity, which is quite extraordinary, bearing in mind he’s three years old and half his face is covered in chocolate.
    I’m not, as you may have gathered, a natural with children. In fact I’d go so far as to say that when God created me, he seemed to have forgotten all about my maternal instinct.
    That first time Si and I pitched up to see Lucy in hospital, the day after Max was born, Lucy sat up in bed, looking tired but radiant as usual, and gestured to this tiny, tiny, little baby, eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep in her arms.
    ‘He’s divine,’ whispered Si in awe. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, ‘look at those tiny hands, tiny feet. God, have you ever seen fingernails that small?’ Si held his hands, his feet, while I lurked in the background, smiling awkwardly.
    ‘Don’t be frightened, Cath,’ Lucy smiled, gesturing me forward with a nod of her head. ‘Here,’ and she offered the bundle in her arms to me, ‘have a cuddle.’
    Well, what could I say? I couldn’t refuse, so I took Max in my arms, hoping that I’d suddenly feel all warm and gooey, but I didn’t feel anything other than uncomfortable, and, just as I was about to start praying that the baby would keep quiet, Max opened his eyes.
    He opened his eyes, looked at me and screamed. But screamed. His face was bright red, his eyes scrunched up, and he was screaming as if he’d seen the devil. I practically threw him back to Lucy, and of course the minute he was in her arms he shut up. I haven’t picked up a baby since.
    Si thought this was hysterical. For a good few weeks afterwards he was calling me Scary Cathy , and whenever I touched him – laid a hand on his arm, gave him a hug – he’d screw up his eyes and start wailing, collapsing in giggles every time.
    It made me laugh at first, but after the forty-seventh time he did it, I started to get ever so slightly pissed off. Even Lucy told him off, which was most uncharacteristic of her, although she didn’t actually mean it.
    ‘Oh, Si,’ she’d playfully berate him. ‘Don’t be so mean. Poor Cath. It wasn’t her fault. Maxy’s just nervous of strangers, aren’t you, Maxy?’
    Si would then have to prove her wrong by smugly taking Max from her arms and making faces at him or bouncing him up and down while he gurgled with delight.
    And now, at three years old, Max still makes me feel as uncomfortable as he did when a newborn baby. But now, instead of screaming, he just has this habit of looking at me, and I find myself trying to befriend him, being extra-specially nice to make him change his opinion of me.
    ‘If you’re a good boy, Cath will give you a present. Would you like that?’ I feel ridiculous, saying these things to him, but I don’t know how else to talk to a three-year-old.
    I’ve watched Si with envy, because Si doesn’t treat Max like a child, he treats him like an adult. Si sits and has in-depth chats with Max about work. I know. Ridiculous. But it’s true. I’ve actually seen Si walk in, sit down next to Max and say, ‘God, what a terrible day. Do you want to hear about my day?’ And Max will nod very seriously, as Si proceeds