by C J Parsons
‘What will the surprise be?’
Tara pressed a finger on Sofia’s nose, like pushing a button.
‘Now, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?’
Sofia giggled in spite of herself. She was trying to cling on to being mad but her bad mood seemed to be breaking apart and blowing away, leaving only a vague sense of injustice.
‘I still don’t understand why you can’t stay here like last time.’
‘Well, we could, but then I wouldn’t be able to get your surprise, would I?’
Sofia considered this. She did like surprises.
‘Why don’t we finish getting you ready for bed, and before you know it, you’ll be waking up again and your mummy will be home, and the special surprise will be waiting for you, right here.’ She tapped the bedside table.
Sofia felt her mood lift at the thought of waking up next to a present. Tara picked up the pyjama bottoms and crouched in front of her, holding them at her feet, the same way Mummy had. This time Sofia put her feet through the holes and stood up to let Tara hitch the pyjamas around her waist.
‘There you go, beautiful girl.’ She smiled. ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’
Sofia looked at the door again to see if Mummy was just outside, listening to make sure everything was OK. But she wasn’t there. Didn’t she even care about Sofia being sad? A surge of the old hurt came back.
‘I wish you were my mummy instead of her,’ Sofia said, in a rush of temper. Shame followed close behind, because it wasn’t nice and it wasn’t true. She waited for Tara to tell her what a terrible thing that was to say, because her Mummy loved her so much. But, instead, Tara leaned really close and whispered right into Sofia’s ear.
‘I wish that too.’
‘She’s an odd one, isn’t she?’ Josh said, bending to pick up a pair of Playmobil figures from the floor beside the coffee table.
Carrie looked at him from her station at the bottom of the staircase, where she was standing with one hand on the bannister, ears straining for the sound of shouting or crying from above: signals that Tara’s approach wasn’t working and Carrie should go up and take over.
‘What do you mean?’
Josh deposited the toys in the wicker basket full of plastic figures and Lego. ‘Just that it’s a bit unusual for a visitor to insist on trying to calm an angry child when the mother is right there and perfectly capable of handling the situation herself.’
‘She’s not just a visitor. She’s my friend. And I thought what she said made sense.’
Josh retrieved the Moroccan throw cover puddled behind the armchair (Sofia had been trying unsuccessfully to make it into a tent), folding it carefully. He was always tidying. She couldn’t recall the house ever looking so neat.
‘If you say so.’ He laid the throw over the back of the sofa.
Carrie returned to her vigil at the bottom of the stairs, wondering how things were going up there. She heard footsteps, then the sound of water running in the bathroom. Muffled laughter. A good sign. Perhaps she should go join them? But Tara had seemed so sure, had spoken with such authority.
She just needs a chance to cool off. It would make sense for you to stay down here and let me handle it. I’m in a better position to turn her mood around, since the negative emotions she’s experiencing right now aren’t directed at me.
More footsteps. Then a long silence. Carrie crept up a few stairs, listening intently.
‘For God’s sake, Carrie, she’s your child! Go up there if you want to! Don’t let Tara make you feel like an outsider in your own home!’
‘That’s not what she’s doing.’
But Carrie did feel as though she was breaking a rule of some kind as she crept up the stairs, pausing when she reached the top. The door to Sofia’s room was ajar, letting Tara’s voice drift out.
‘I’m going to fill my hungry, empty tummy, with something yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy!’
Carrie recognised the words: Roald Dahl’s The Enormous Crocodile. The tale of a ruthless predator who assumed pleasing shapes to prey on children. The thought brought an uneasy feeling. She had never really considered the story’s plot before. She would get rid of the book in the morning.
‘The Enormous Crocodile crept over to The Picnic Place. There was no one in sight. “Now for Clever Trick Number Four!” he whispered to himself.’
Tara’s voice stopped. Silence in the corridor.
Carrie tiptoed down the hall to the bedroom door and peered through the gap. Sofia was fast asleep. Tara was on the edge of the bed, closing the book slowly, silently, placing it on the floor. She switched off the bedside lamp and turned on the starry-sky nightlight. Pulled the duvet up around Sofia’s shoulders. Then she bent over and kissed her on the forehead.
Watching that kiss gave Carrie an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach.
When Tara turned and spotted her in the doorway, she clutched at her chest.
‘You scared me,’ she whispered, as Carrie stepped inside the room. ‘How long have you been standing there?’
There was a moment of silence as Carrie stood looking at her, trying to move past the feeling that her new friend had just crossed an invisible border, trespassing on places meant only for her and Simon.
‘Not long. I came to check that everything was OK.’ Saying the words made Carrie feel oddly defensive, as though she’d been caught doing something wrong.
‘Of course. Sorry, I should have popped down to let you know that I was putting her to bed, but everything was going so well, I didn’t want to risk breaking the mood.’ They stood and looked at each other. The nightlight scattered blue stars up one side of Tara’s face. ‘Shall we get going?’
‘Yes.’
But before she left the room, Carrie leaned over the bed and put her lips to her daughter’s forehead, placing her kiss on top of Tara’s.
The Good Mix was centred around a large, circular space with an octagonal bar as its nucleus. Cave-like alcoves fed on to it, like spokes in a wheel. Lamps were set into the back of each one, splashing the walls with coloured light that slowly changed from red to blue to green every few minutes.
Carrie was halfway through her third whisky when Tara prodded her arm with a stir stick and said: ‘So-oooo . . . tell me all about Josh.’
She ran through a mental list of information, trying to present it in order of relevance.
‘He is founder and editor of London Architects’ Monthly. He studied at Cardiff University. He is thirty-six years old. He owns a flat in Clapham.’ She was aware of Tara’s eyes still on hers. Did that mean she was waiting for more? She cast around in her memory. But most of their conversations had been about architecture, and she was fairly sure that wasn’t what Tara had in mind. ‘He doesn’t like seafood.’
Tara burst out laughing and Carrie wondered why. What could be humorous about an aversion to fish?
The light in the nook faded out of green and into red.
‘OK, that’s not quite what I was aiming for. What’s his romantic history? Has he ever been married?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You mean you’re not sure?’ Tara’s eyebrows went quite high as she asked this.
‘He has never mentioned a wife.’
‘Hmm. What about his most recent relationship? Who was she? Why did it end?’
‘He hasn’t said anything about that. He has spoken about his mother, though, about her work as an architect. She died in a fire when he was a teenager.’
‘Ah, yes, the famous mother whose house filled half the magazine. What about other family? I’m assuming he doesn’t have any children from a past relationship?’
‘No.’ She blinked. Was she absolutely sure about that? ‘He hasn’t mentioned children, so I assume he doesn’t have any.’ Carrie took a sip of whisky, thinking as it burned
its way down her throat, warming her stomach. She hadn’t noticed the gaps in her knowledge of Josh until now. With Simon, there had never been any need to ask about family members or past relationships; personal information had flowed out of him in a stream of chatter. She had spent a Christmas with his endlessly bickering family (the ‘pathologically selfish’ sister and the elderly parents, with their bridge games and their casual racism).
Now she found herself wondering: should she have made a greater effort to learn more about Josh? Had he been waiting for her to ask, wondering why she hadn’t? She sipped her whisky as the lights slowly turned blue. ‘Do you think it’s a problem, that I haven’t spoken to him about these things?’
‘Well, yes, frankly. But one that’s easily resolved. Just ask him.’ She picked up her cocktail, which was decorated with a chunk of pineapple impaled on a plastic sword. ‘Have you met anyone from his family?’
‘No.’
She sipped the cocktail’s pink liquid.
‘Does he have any brothers or sisters?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Tara stared at her over the cocktail glass as the lights turned her face from blue to green.
‘What about friends? Has he introduced you to any?’
‘No.’
‘Does he talk about them much?’
‘No.’ Carrie felt off centre as she drank the last of her whisky (now mostly ice). How had she failed to notice the absence of friends? It was such a sharp contrast to Simon, with his pub quiz posse and his football chums, the old uni mates forever crashing on the sofa.
‘Do you think it’s strange, that Josh hasn’t shared his social circle with me?’
Red light seeped up the walls of the alcove as Tara put the blade of the plastic sword in her mouth, sucking off the fruit.
‘Let’s just say I think you need to know more about him, given that he’s currently staying in your house. I guess maybe you’ve just skipped over the fact-finding stage of the relationship because things have moved so quickly.’ She placed the sword on the table. ‘Do you start all your relationships on fast-forward like that?’
‘No. Simon and I went out on dates for six months. Then I got pregnant. Then he moved in – when Sofia was one. Then we broke up.’
‘Why did you break up?’
Carrie thought back to that time, and was surprised to discover that the memory still brought a bruised throb.
Simon: facing her across the kitchen counter, voice full of strange tones and sharp edges, face twisting into patterns she’d never seen before.
‘God, you just don’t get it, do you, Carrie?’
‘No. Explain to me.’
‘You know what? I’m tired of explaining. I’m tired of my life. Tired of being nothing.’
‘Nothing? But . . . you’re Sofia’s father. How can you be nothing when your role is so important?’
‘Yeah, right. And you’re her mother. But you’re also a successful architect.’
‘What does my being an architect have to do with . . .’
‘You know what, Carrie? Forget it. Just forget it.’
‘Forget what? You haven’t explained—’
Then the front door slamming as he walked out, the bang loud enough to wake Sofia in her cot, filling the house with the sound of crying.
Carrie flagged down a passing waiter and ordered another whisky before answering Tara’s question.
‘We broke up because I was unable to read situations and respond appropriately.’
Tara sipped her cocktail, crunching an ice cube. ‘What do you mean: “read situations”? What kind of situations are we talking about?’
‘Simon told me on several occasions that he was unhappy with his life with me and Sofia.’
‘What exactly was he unhappy about?’
‘He wouldn’t say. He thought I should be able to work that out for myself. But I couldn’t.’
Tara waved a hand in front of Carrie, palm turned ceilingward. ‘Of course you couldn’t. You’re an emotional agnostic.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry, that’s clearly not the right word. Remind me what it’s called?’
‘Social-emotional agnosia.’
‘That’s the one. Telling someone with . . . your condition to “read him” is like shouting at a blind person for not being able to see. If you ask me, Simon behaved like a total dick.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Simon had told her, months after they’d split, that the breakup wasn’t her fault – that his behaviour had been unfair and inexcusable. But she hadn’t believed him.
‘I one hundred per cent know so.’
Carrie felt suddenly lighter, as though a weight inside her had evaporated.
‘A total dick,’ she repeated, feeling naughty as she said the words out loud. ‘You’re right. That’s exactly what he was.’
‘Men!’ Tara rolled her eyes. ‘Just promise me you’ll never let Josh treat you like that.’
The whisky arrived and she took a slug, felt its warmth spreading outward from her core.
‘I promise.’
Twenty-three
Carrie’s boss was a patient man. Osman Baig was tall and slim, immaculately groomed and improbably dressed in a buttoned-down shirt decorated with cats silhouetted in various poses (‘What can I say?’ he’d smiled, when he saw Juliet staring. ‘I love cats.’). He sat beside her in Wescott Architects’ tiny security office, taking her through the CCTV footage, reeling off the names of almost every person Carrie and Sofia had come into contact with on their journey from one ‘activity station’ to the next.
‘That’s Lars Eigman, with his wife and daughter. And that’s Tobias – I can’t remember his surname, he helps out around the office twice a week for work experience, but I can find out if you need it. The blonde is Lucy Kelmann and her son: bit of a tearaway, that one.’
He clearly had a good memory for faces and names, because he was even able to identify most of the spouses. Juliet watched the footage closely, keeping an eye out for familiar faces, or anyone paying special attention to Sofia. The girl’s image moved jerkily through the activities: drawing pictures and constructing buildings out of blocks, playing with the architects’ models, eating ice cream. But the adults surrounding her just looked like ordinary people doing their best to entertain, or at least work around, the influx of children. Disappointingly, the AV room wasn’t near a security camera, so she could only scour the nearest available footage for potential suspects. No luck so far. She scrolled through the images until Carrie and Sofia crossed the main lobby of the building and left together. She watched for a few more minutes to see whether anyone followed them out.
Nothing.
She switched off the machine and gave Osman a tired smile.
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Did I help? Have you found what you’re looking for?’
She stifled a yawn. The security office was stuffy, which, combined with the semi-darkness, was making her sleepy.
‘It’s hard to say at this point. But I’d like to make a copy of this footage.’
‘Of course.’ He spread his hands, revealing silver cufflinks shaped like cat heads. ‘Whatever you need. I hope you catch the man who did this.’
‘Or woman,’ Juliet said immediately. Then smiled to herself. Dutoit must be getting to her.
‘What?! No, of course I don’t have any children,’ Josh said. ‘Obviously I would have mentioned them if I did.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Carrie said, relieved. ‘I told her I was pretty sure you didn’t have any.’
They were at The Moon and Spoon: a small, family-friendly restaurant whose main selling point was a children’s play area in the back corner. It was busy, but they had been given the lone table tucked into a nook beside the bar.
Josh lifted an eyebrow. ‘Told who?’
‘Tara. She asked me what I knew about you and suggested I find out more.’
There was one of those pauses that felt like it meant something. Then Josh said in a quiet voice: ‘Oh, she did, did she?’
‘Yes. It’s a good idea, isn’t it? Getting to know each other better?’
A shriek of childish laughter drew her eyes towards the ‘Kid Zone’ behind him, where Sofia and a boy she’d just met were building a tower out of blocks. Josh turned in his chair to follow Carrie’s gaze, watching the two children.
‘Speaking of Tara, weren’t the two of you supposed to have a playdate this afternoon?’
Carrie poked at her root salad with a fork.
‘Yes, that was the original plan. But we drank a lot of alcohol last night and she’s feeling sick today. So we’ve rescheduled.’ Tara’s voice had sounded hoarse and croaky on the phone that morning: genuinely unwell. So Carrie had pushed her disappointment into a corner and said: of course, no problem, next week would be fine.
‘I see.’ He took a mouthful of soup. ‘So instead of finally introducing you to her son this weekend, she took you out, got you drunk and convinced you to interrogate me.’
The facts were essentially correct, but the wording made Carrie feel uneasy. She speared a baby carrot.
‘I wouldn’t say “interrogate”. She simply suggested I find out more about you and your background.’ She put her fork down with the carrot still on it. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Of course not. My life is an open book.’ He selected a sourdough roll from the bread basket on the table, tearing off a piece. ‘Ask me anything.’
‘OK.’ Carrie’s mind travelled back to the questions Tara had raised. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No. My mother didn’t like children.’ He dipped the bread into his bowl. The soup must have been hot, because she could see steam rising from it, twisting past his face. ‘She didn’t want to be distracted from her work.’ He took a large bite of bread, watching her as he chewed.
