by Carol Mason
I imagine this is just how the place would have looked when Joe lived here, and find myself trying to transplant him into this life. Right now it’s actually easier to imagine him in this one than in mine.
She invites me to sit. At first I think I’d rather say this standing, but I perch on the sofa beside the cat and she sits on the one opposite. My eyes go to a simple watercolour of sailing boats on a slash of blue sea above the mantelpiece, flanked by two funky light sconces that look a bit like drones.
‘So . . .’ she says.
I’m aware of the hair tied back in a messy, low ponytail, the face that is devoid of make-up, the pale grey, unironed V-necked T-shirt and skinny jeans. Her feet are bare, slightly tanned, and her red toenails sink into the wool of the cream rug.
A doubt that I’m going to do this starts to worm its way in, but I try not to focus on it. Instead, I meet her eyes.
‘So I’ve come here, really, to say just one thing,’ I begin. ‘I’ve come to tell you that you need to back off. You need to rethink any idea you might still have about suing me, or reporting me to the GMC. And you need to rethink your intention to take Joe to court to change the custody arrangement.’
Her eyes stay fixed on mine, but a surge of colour comes to her cheeks.
‘Because if you don’t then you’re going to leave me with no choice.’
I try to take a discreet, steadying breath. And then I say it.
‘I’m going to have to tell Joe that Toby is not his son.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Her mouth gapes open and she stares at me, a little punch-drunk.
Then she says, ‘Where on earth did you get that idea from?’ It’s delivered confidently, but her face tells another story.
‘A man who has type AB blood can’t father a child who is type O,’ I say.
A single deep trench appears between her eyes. Some of the colour drains from her face. ‘And you would know Toby’s blood type how?’
‘From his medical chart.’ I clasp my hands in my lap. ‘I went to the hospital with Joe and I read it. I wanted to see what the doctor said about Toby’s injuries. First-hand.’
‘So you’ve come here to blackmail me with this?’ she says, after a spell of shock.
‘Yes. If that’s what you want to call it. Whatever it takes for you to rethink your actions.’
‘With zero regard for the people that will affect.’
‘Pretty much. If you think you’re going to drag me into court, make me a witness in a custody battle, you have massively underestimated me.’
I swallow, hear the nerves in my voice, the tension rising to choke me.
But I keep on. ‘Remember how you said you were surprised I didn’t seem to grasp how hard it is for women to be wives and mothers, and rise in their chosen careers, despite me being a professional woman myself? Well, believe me, I know how hard I have had to work to get to where I’ve got – and how hard I’ll have to go on working. But being a doctor is everything I am and everything I have always wanted to be, and I am good at it, and no one is going to take that away from me.’ My heart hammers. ‘You are not taking it away from me.’
The cat wakes up and staggers over, lies across my lap.
‘What makes you think Joe doesn’t already know?’ She looks down at my hand resting on the cat’s back.
‘He doesn’t. I’m pretty sure of it. But if he does, then I imagine you’ll encourage me to go right ahead and tell him, won’t you?’
We hold eyes.
‘Meredith,’ I say, as calmly and directly as I can. ‘I am broken up about Toby. I have thanked God a thousand times that it wasn’t worse. But I cannot change what happened. And I am not going to pay for it with my career and with my reputation.’
She redirects her gaze to the coffee mug on the table. ‘Fine,’ she says, almost under her breath.
I have no idea what that means, so I just sit here, wait.
Then she says, ‘You’re right. Joe doesn’t know. And if you tell him, do you think he’s going to thank you for it? Because I can promise you, that will be it for you.’
‘I can live with that,’ I say smoothly.
There is a moment where I can see this has surprised her. And then, after staring off into space for a while, her face changes again. ‘He died. Toby’s real father . . . I found out I was pregnant exactly a month after I learned he had stage four pancreatic cancer. He died just a few weeks after Toby was born.’ Her eyes tear up.
When I’m not sure she’s going to add any more, I say, ‘I know. You told Joe . . . because you were worried Lucy would get to him first.’
She blanches. The muscles flex in her long neck.
‘Good for you,’ she says, abrasively. ‘I suppose I’m not surprised Joe would have told you.’
It suddenly just comes to me now. The thing that was a bit puzzling about all this. ‘You told him it happened a long time ago because you wanted to throw him off the scent of Toby possibly not being his.’
I’m waiting for her to take issue with my remark, but instead she nods. ‘If I said Toby was Alistair’s, if Joe even suspected, I ran the risk of it all being too much for him, of him not wanting to be a father to him. Of Toby ending up with no father.’ Her dark, woeful eyes remain locked on mine.
‘Did Alistair know?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no. What would be the point? He’d have probably wanted to see him and that would have been very disruptive.’
I am actually surprised she’s being this open. ‘Did he suspect, do you think? He must have known you were pregnant.’
She says nothing at first, and then, ‘I don’t know what he knew. I wasn’t in his head. He and I hadn’t seen each other in a while. I’d kept my distance . . .’
I don’t really know what she means by this, and don’t feel like drilling any deeper.
After a time, she says, ‘It probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you why I would have an affair with Alistair when I had a great guy like Joe.’
‘Was it because Joe had also cheated at some point? Was it revenge?’
She frowns. ‘No! Joe never cheated. That’s not who he is . . . Joe is a very loyal person. He’s intensely loyal to the people he loves.’
If it’s meant to be a little dagger, it certainly pierces me like one.
The comment is left to lie there, and then she says, ‘If you tell Joe, then he’s probably never going to look at Toby the same way again. It will always be there . . .’ There is a hard, but slightly vulnerable quality in her eyes, similar to the one I’ve witnessed in Grace’s. ‘Is that what you want to do to him? To Toby? An innocent little boy? Run the risk that Joe will somehow love him less?’
My mouth is dry. I could badly use some water but don’t feel like asking for it. ‘Do you think it’s more scrupulous to have Joe go on believing a lie? Get into a bitter custody battle and go through hell for a child that isn’t even his?’
‘Knowing what you know about Joe, do you really think he’d even want to know?’
I don’t know what to say. After a spell of us sitting like this, me contemplating the sudden transparency between us, she says, ‘I think we’ve said all we need to say on this, don’t you? I think the decision rests with you. If you tell Joe, then you’ll hurt him more profoundly than he’s ever been hurt – and change his relationship with an innocent child. And then you will have to live with that.’
The way she smoothly regains the high ground reminds me we are not newfound friends, suddenly allied by our divulgences.
‘Are you prepared to do that?’ she asks. ‘Because deep down, for all your confidence in coming here, I don’t think you are.’
FORTY-EIGHT
The following night, Sophie and I go out to dinner – alone – although I’m so wrung out I can barely sit upright at the table.
And while I don’t tell her about Toby not being Joe’s child, I do tell her that I don’t know if I now see a future for me and Jo
e – even if things all magically righted themselves tomorrow – if I can put myself through all this for a man. If any man is worth it.
‘I was envious of you,’ she says, after she has listened to me sounding off. ‘I think Charlie and I both were. In fact, I know we were.’
‘Why?’ I ask, wondering why it’s easy for her to admit this now. ‘Because you just assumed I was going to go off and make babies with Joe?’
She absently plays with the base of her wine glass. ‘Two reasons, really . . . I think it was the way you met and the way he came back into your life. It was storybook.’ She blushes, smiles, looks wistful. ‘He tracked you down! He married you the second his divorce came through. It was so romantic! You both just . . . you had this tremendous, instant connection, like we all dream of having. And you never doubted it. And neither did he . . .’ She drops her gaze. ‘And my fella cancelled our wedding a week before the big day.’
I frown, look at her hands on the table, the index fingers making a pyramid around the base of her glass. ‘Because of the kids issue, right? He didn’t really reject you. He did it mainly because he worried the childlessness would later come between you . . .’
The glow has gone from her face. She shrugs. ‘Was that the reason? I mean, that’s what he said. That’s what I chose to believe . . . But we can believe a lot of things when we put our mind to it. Sometimes that’s just another word for denial.’
I think about this in relation to her saying that maybe she had to feel needed by him to give her purpose. And about denial. How I believed there was nothing about Joe and Joe’s life that I couldn’t handle. That I’d sacrifice anything – willingly – to fit into his world. How I was so in his thrall when he told me my happiness was all that mattered.
‘We were friends before we were lovers and we are friends now – maybe more than we are lovers,’ she says. ‘We never had that incredibly vital rapport and chemistry like you had. There is a part of me that will always wonder if I was the one he married because I convinced him I’d be fine with his sterility – if we both just . . . settled.’ She says it like it’s the most unpalatable word.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I mean, how’s that for overthinking it?’
She sniggers. ‘Maybe! But in our darkest moments, we can’t help how we think.’
I take a sip of my wine. ‘What was the other reason for this envy of me, as you put it?’
She blanches, pulls a cheerless smile. ‘Obviously . . . the obvious one. You acquired a ready-made family. This stunning young girl – okay, a quirky girl – but you seemed to be taking it all in your stride . . . And that adorable cute little boy! As hard as it was going to be in the beginning, one day it would all gel, they’d grow up . . . Even if you had no kids of your own, you’d have them, and they’d have you. They would think of you as their family . . .’ She looks overcome with emotion. ‘I once said to you it was a lot to take on – someone else’s kids – that I didn’t think I could do it.’ She gazes far into my eyes and I see a flicker of guilt and regret in hers. ‘At the time I was very jealous. I think I just needed to convince myself that your situation was so undesirable . . . The reality is that I’d have happily done it.’ Tears roll down her face.
I absorb all this, taken aback by her surprising admission. ‘And now?’ I ask. ‘Knowing all this, are you still envious of me, Sophie?’
She sniffles, wipes at a tear with the back of her hand. ‘No,’ she says, a fraction brighter. ‘Right now, I wouldn’t want to be you for all the money in the world.’
FORTY-NINE
‘You’re not going to believe it,’ Joe says, a few days later. He is standing at the end of the hall as I walk through the door, mobile phone in hand. ‘This is crazy . . . Good crazy. But still . . .’
I wait for him to actually look at me.
‘That was Meredith.’ He finally turns his head in my direction, his gaze seeming to take a moment to properly focus on me. ‘She’s decided she’s not going to pursue this business of changing the custody arrangement.’
‘Oh,’ I say, as I shrug off my jacket. ‘Well, that’s . . . that’s excellent, then.’ I could possibly have injected a note of surprise, but he doesn’t appear to notice. Actually, though, I am a little surprised. I went there thinking I had the upper hand and left with the ball seemingly back in her court.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It is. Really . . . truly.’ He wipes a hand across his mouth, shakes his head a little. Mozart walks over to him; he absently extends his fingers. ‘She didn’t say why. Didn’t really give any reason . . . And it’s not exactly like her to do a U-turn on anything.’ He smiles. ‘It’s all a little mysterious, to be honest.’ Then he suddenly snaps into action. ‘Can I pour us both a drink? It feels like we should be celebrating.’
Later, when I’m taking off my make-up in the bathroom, he appears behind me in the mirror. He is holding up a small box with an open lid. I stare at what’s in it.
‘It’s odd timing, I know . . .’ He smiles somewhat joylessly. ‘I bought you this for your birthday. Was going to give it to you at the dinner we never got to go to. I’ve been trying to find the right moment to let you have it ever since, and there really hasn’t been one. Not that this is really it . . .’
I turn around, take it from him, inspect it.
‘It’s bronze and baroque pearl.’
I admire the block-like, architectural-looking pendant, the richness of the metal, inset with what appears to be a warm, roughly cut stone that I wouldn’t have immediately identified as a pearl – my traditional birthstone. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He’s right – it does feel like odd timing, as though we are now healed because of Meredith’s decision and a belated birthday gift. ‘So very unique.’ I note the delicate nature of the chain. ‘Fragile but deceptively strong.’
‘That’s what I thought, too . . .’ His voice takes on a sentimental quality. ‘It’s a one-off piece made by an up-and-coming designer who got his big break through the Alexander McQueen foundation. The minute I saw it, it just sort of had your name on it.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, wishing the gesture could undo the all the negativity I will forever associate with turning thirty. ‘I like it. It was thoughtful of you.’
On Saturday morning, time seems to either shift back or shift forward. It’s like it’s all behind us, or it didn’t happen at all. Just like any other weekend, Joe walks in with Grace and Toby after picking them up from their mother’s.
Toby sees me. His face lights up. ‘How is Russell Crowe doing?’ He runs over to me and throws his arms around my thighs.
He no longer needs the dressing on his hand. It bears the pink of new skin: a lingering reminder of how bad it all was, but also of how much worse it could have been.
‘Russell is great and the wildlife centre returned him to his family!’ I say, even though I know from my phone call yesterday that the crow is dead.
He frowns, his bottom lip jutting out. ‘I thought we were going to return him together! I thought I was going to see him again.’
I drop on to a knee, make him look at me. ‘I have a feeling that when we go back to the park he’ll still be around.’ I tell him about how crows have great memories, how they always remember faces – especially those of kind people who tried to help them.
He smiles and I pop a kiss on his forehead.
‘I do have another idea though,’ I say, glancing at Joe, who is fondly observing us. ‘I had a word with your dad a few days ago, and, well, we’ve decided we should get you a budgerigar!’
Joe shoots me a look that says, Huh?
Toby’s eyes widen. ‘A budgerigar! That’s so great.’ And then he frowns. ‘What’s a budgerigar?’
Joe and I chuckle.
We take Toby to look at budgies, and then Joe takes him to the lido for a swim. I watch them walk out of the door, hand in hand, Joe having first stopped and crouched to remove Toby’s glasses and clean them on the hem of his jumper. While they’re gone I run a few errands,
conscious as I trot up and down the high street of a lightness to my stride, a loose sense of relief in my bones.
When I get back to the flat it’s around six and I’m not expecting anyone to be here, but as I walk in I see Grace’s Doc Martens on the front door mat.
And then I hear what sounds like voices coming from down the hall. Wondering if she brought her friend over, I creep towards her room door but quickly realise the voices are actually coming from the bathroom.
And there’s really only one of them. Grace’s.
She is singing in the bath. My song. The Billie Jo Spears, ‘(Hey, Won’t You Play) Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song’.
You’d be hard-pressed to believe it’s not actually Billie Jo herself. She belts out the lyrics with jaunty confidence, hitting all the notes in soulful harmony, and she knows every single word.
She’s singing like no one can hear her. I stand there a bit like an interloper, and smile.
FIFTY
A week or so later, Meredith asks to meet me in a coffee shop in Chalk Farm.
She is almost done with her large latte by the time I arrive. And she doesn’t say, Aren’t you going to order something? so I know this is going to be short.
‘You might as well sit down,’ she says, as I hover by the table. When I perch on the end of the chair she fixes me with a cool, though not entirely hostile, stare. ‘Toby’s hand is healing very well, according to his doctor. There’s not going to be any scarring. I thought you should know.’
I nod – though I’d managed to come to that very conclusion myself. ‘I’m glad.’
Her eyes comb over my face and I know that’s not all she wanted to tell me. And then she says, ‘Look . . . I’m prepared to give all this another try.’ She says it with a certain begrudging benevolence. ‘Mainly because I don’t believe there’s any choice, and moving on from all this is probably the best path forward – for all of us.’ There is a suspense-filled pause and then she adds, ‘I believe I underestimated you.’
