All That and Then Some

ALICE - Heart of Glass

BUDDY HAS FINALLY MADE his way back to Toronto and reclaimed his daughter, although not before I had to escort Angel to a Toddler Tumblers class which I can only describe as a cross between gymnastics and...hell.

As far as I was able to understand it, the misguided premise behind these "classes" is that toddlers are somehow both interested in and capable of becoming Olympic gymnasts. The theory that their underdeveloped brains and perpetually moving limbs will in some way be honed by running in screaming disorganized circles around a set of gym mats seems... optimistic at best.

I would never say this to Buddy, but it was clear to me that the future Nadia Comaneci probably wasn't among Angel's group. Angel herself seemed utterly disinterested in the activities, with the exception of the mini-trampoline, which she enjoyed so much she actually pooped herself. One minute she was jumping and squealing, and I was thinking, okay, it was worth coming to see her having such a good time. The next minute, she had a geyser of crap emerging from her OshKosh, and the other parents were looking at me like it was going to be my job to clean the equipment. And, of course, being a full decade past this kind of child-crapping-up-its-back situation that parents find so commonplace, I wasn't prepared for a full-scale geyser of crap emergency. I didn't have a diaper bag full of wet wipes and sanitizer like a regular parent would.

After I'd cajoled an unwilling Angel off the trampoline and sequestered her into a corner, I rooted through my purse for something to clean up the mess with. All I could come up with was a crumpled Tim Hortons napkin and a Ziploc sandwich baggie full of baby carrots (green plan!).

I did what I could -- which was to wipe the trampoline with the napkin and stuff Angel's soiled pants into the sandwich baggie. We left pantless (her) and humiliated (me).

Buddy met us at the cafe around lunchtime. To his credit, he didn't even bat an eye at his child's pantless legs. Instead, he swooped her up in a big Daddy bearhug and said some Dad nonsense like 'oh I missed you, you stinky little Angel, were you good for Aunty Alice?'

To which I chirpily (and falsely) replied, "Of course!" which, actually, now that she isn't my charge any more, I can almost believe was true. She wasn't that hard to handle.

He mouthed 'thank you!' at me and promptly left, not even commenting on the growing pile of loot that I have earned as a top influencer. Parents can be really self-absorbed.

MAEVE HAS JUST STARTED walking me through the incredibly boring contents of a stack of black elephant-clipped papers sent over by Joss Carvil's lawyers.

"Could you just summarize it for me, Maeve?"

She purses her lips at my lack of interest and says, "Well, in the cover letter he's inviting you to visit the head office and meet the team. That's nice. But the rest of it is a pretty heavy-handed agreement which gives him 51% of the cafe in exchange for an investment of one million dollars—"

"One million!" I exclaim, suddenly realizing that being an influencer can net a person much more than a silly basket full of botox.

"—no, hang on, Mum. The devil is in the detail when it comes to contracts. You'd be handing him control. There are some clauses in here that you want to have a lawyer—"

"Of course, of course!" I exclaim, patting her hand. "A lawyer! An expensive one! I'll get Joss to recommend someone."

"No, that wouldn't be advisable. You want your own—"

Which is when Vivian walks into the cafe — lurches in, more precisely — and distracts everyone (TikTok dancers included) from our million dollar conversation with her Eeyore-shaped cloud of depression, dull eyes, and sharpie-scribbled face.

"I have to go home to pick up some clothes. I need you to come with me, Alice. I can't be there alone."

I rush over to hug her and she leans into me. I have never in my life seen Vivian like this. She's the dumper. Love ya and leave ya is practically her raison d'être. I don't think she's ever shed a tear over lost love in her whole life. But here she is... reduced. And by Leslie. Who hates me for spilling wine on her carpet (and accusing her of sleeping with my husband) (and, I suppose, offending her by insinuating she drives a Subaru) (and giving her lice).

"I feel like my heart is broken into little tiny shards and all those little tiny shards are now embedded in my soft tissues," she moans.

"Oh, Viv. I'll go with you. We'll get in and out — clean escape."

VIV AND I ARE standing in her/Leslie's livingroom, having just crept in via the front door and feeling like burglars despite having a key.

"She's at work, right?" I whisper, eyeing the new white shag rug.

"I assume so. She hasn't answered my texts since the night I left," Viv whispers back.

I squeeze her hand and clear my throat loudly.

"Leslie..." I call out into the quiet house. "Vivian has come to retrieve some belongings. If you're here, don't be alarmed. We are NOT burglars."

No response.

"This is Alice, by the way," I add, still shouting, just to be thorough.

"Her jacket's not in the closet. Come on, let's get my things and get out. I hate being here right now."

Vivian's already moving up the stairs so I follow behind.

In the bedroom, which is painted a surprisingly on-trend navy blue, I watch as Viv pulls a big gym bag from under the bed and throws it open. She starts in her overstuffed closet, pulling out hanger after hanger of impractical, sparkly clubwear. Vivian is obsessed with fashion and runs a vintage-chic pre-loved clothing store where she sells only what she can't fit in her own wardrobe.

"Shouldn't you focus on essentials for the moment?" I ask, starting to pull drawers open in search of normal things like underwear, bras and t-shirts.

She looks back at me, aghast (which is hard to take seriously considering the sharpie lines that look vaguely mustache-y). "These are essential, Alice."

I shrug and leave her to it. A moment later, I come across the 'normal stuff' drawer and helpfully take handfuls of cotton basics and shove them into a black canvas backpack that I find in the closet. I know she thinks she needs Alexander McQueen, but I know about heartache... what my friend really needs in a time like this is the Gap.

Behind me, I hear her gasp. Turning to look, I see that she's eying the bedside table.

"What?" I ask stupidly as if I don't see the torn-up photo and can't assume that it was a picture of Viv and Leslie, probably at their happiest, now signalling the complete disintegration of everything.

"I can't believe her," says Viv, eyes sparkling.

I decide to give her a moment. Leaving the room, I venture across the hall into the bathroom to find Viv's toiletries.

"Viv?" I shout across the hall. "Which toothbrush is yours?"

"Take them both," she shouts back. "Serves her right."

I shake my head but comply with her small act of toothbrush terrorism. If a woman is in the state of mind to steal her ex's toothbrush, it's going to do nobody any good to try to prevent it.