'That sounds lovely, darling."
"What?"
"I said, that sounds lovely." I'm in Paris, in a shop doorway on the Rue des Archives in the Marais, on a sweltering Sunday morning, sweaty and hungover. I have ducked out of the shop, which sells slightly fetishy men's underwear, to call the children.
They have just set off on holiday with X, for three weeks. It seems a very long time, but this is the arrangement we have come to: three weeks for him, three for me, and a few fiddly days here and there still to sort out. I have not had time to start missing them yet, but I know it will get harder.
To stop myself staring mournfully at their discarded socks and crying every time I step on a Lego brick, I have come to Paris with my friend Jamie and his new boyfriend. They are wonderfully, intoxicatingly in love, and it is casting a rosy glow over our weekend. That should feel awkward, but they are so expansively, inclusively joyful I feel entirely at ease. We've had a lot of fun.
I am also not feeling like a spare part because I've given them plenty of space: I spent last night with a man I met at a party a few months ago. I was quite proud of myself for plucking up the courage to ask him if he wanted to meet up, and relieved when he said yes. It seems like a new development for me, a new streak of bravery.
As it turns out, we have almost nothing to talk about, so instead we have lots of cocktails and some tapas. Later, he drives me on his scooter to his flat, through the illuminated Place de la Concorde. If you crane your neck, you can see Sacre Coeur from his kitchen window. When I leave in the morning, and walk back across the silent city, I feel exuberantly happy for the first time in ages. I doubt I will see him again, but it was fun.
Now I am talking to the children, though, I feel a bit peculiar. They seem a terribly long way away.
It has been one of the stranger small adjustments of separation, learning how to talk to them on the phone. Sometimes they seem pleased to hear my voice, sometimes not, but either way they don't have much to say. For them, I think, a parent on the phone is largely useless: we can't see what they are doing, can't understand the game they are playing, can't even give them a hug. I've seen how they react when X calls, how hard they find it to drag themselves away from their comics or video games. Even so, it feels important to call, a way of showing that I'm thinking of them.
"What?" I'm talking to the youngest. I can hear his attention wandering. They are on their way to the beach, X has told me. "I said, is it sunny?" I am practically shouting into the phone.
"What?"
"Never mind. Are you having fun?"
"Yes".
Silence.
"So you're OK?"
"Yes, bye."
He has lost interest. I look at the window display and wonder if I should hang up and try again. I am surrounded by pictures of men in their underwear. There's some rustling, then his brother comes on the line. "Hi, Mum."
"What have you been up to?"
"I caught an enormous crab."
"Wow! Did it nip you?"
"What?"
"Did it nip you?"
"No."
We both lapse into silence. Inside the shop Jamie is gesturing at me, waving two packets of pants, with a questioning look. I point to the one on the left. "OK, sweetheart. I'll call you soon."
"OK."
"Have fun."
I hang up. After a moment's pause, I go back inside. "All OK?" asks Jamie, giving my shoulder a kindly squeeze.
"Fine."
