Some days, he was just vacant, like he’d been emptied out. Today was clearly one of those days.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, politely curious.
Gigi pulled a footstool nearer to James and sat down on it, taking his hands in her own. ‘It’s us, James. Richard and Grace.’ Everyone in the world but him called her Gigi, and they had for as long as she could remember. He never once had. Grace was such a beautiful name, he had said, right from the start. The name her parents had chosen for her. And the name he would use. And he always had. She was better at the voice, she knew. Years of practice, pitching her tone right with labouring women. That bit, at least, was not so very different. James nodded ponderously, as if he knew, but that was just a reflex. Three minutes later, he might well ask again.
For a long time, too long, Richard had persisted in painstaking explanation. Who he was, why his father was here, how long his mother had been dead. James might grasp the news for just a moment, his face crumpling in tears and shock. Then forget. Then ask again. Maybe it was easier for Gigi to give up on that lucidity because James wasn’t her father. Maybe it was just how the two of them were. Eventually she’d persuaded Richard to stop endlessly going through it. It broke James’s heart each time, she told him. Why would you do that? They would visit and sometimes he would know them and sometimes he wouldn’t, and, either way, he would most often accept the visit happily enough, and sometimes make small talk and let them sit with him while he watched television. When they left, he never once turned his head to watch them go.
Richard read the newspaper now. He might point out the odd story, fish for an opinion on something – but really he was hiding behind the broadsheet because it was too hard. It wasn’t as hard for Gigi. She’d never needed much of a reply in order to keep chatting. Hell, she quite often talked to herself while she did housework. This wasn’t so different.
And she’d noticed, this last while, that Richard was more affectionate with her after they’d visited James. ‘You’re brilliant with him,’ he’d say, admiringly. Sometimes, he’d just hug her, or spontaneously take her hand as they walked back to the car. It definitely wasn’t why Gigi kept on coming. She came because she loved James and she wanted to see him and because it was the right thing to do. But it was a nice perk. She never told anyone. How to say that visiting the dementia ward of the old people’s home was a kind of romantic foreplay? Something got lost in translation.
They went to the pub on the way home. Em and Chris had taken Ava visiting, and Megan was in a different pub, so there was nothing to rush home for, except a fridge full of leftovers to conjure into something for supper later. She’d suggested it. He never would have done. But he acquiesced easily enough.
‘Is he getting worse, do you think?’
Gigi shrugged. Richard was obsessed with gauging his father’s state. He said this every time. ‘I think he’s getting worse.’ He confirmed his own suspicions, without Gigi having to offer an opinion.
‘Poor bugger.’ He shook his head. But this conversation was depressingly familiar, and Gigi wanted to talk about the fully living. She swept imaginary dust off the round oak table, then tapped the surface gently once to bring the meeting to order.
‘So … are we going to talk about Olly and his bombshell?’
‘Bombshell? Was she that good-looking?’
‘Hilarious. You know what I mean. Be serious, will you? The m-bombshell. Marriage. What d’you think?’
Richard took a long swallow from his pint, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’ll happen.’
‘They seemed pretty sure.’
‘Olly was pretty sure he was going to be an architect.’
‘Oh, come on. That’s different. And that was years ago. Not the same thing at all …’
‘But I think it is the same thing. Olly’s all about the great idea. Not the follow-through.’ Richard was always a bit hard on their middle child. Gigi always compensated. That was the muscle memory of their parenting.
‘What about Caitlin? They’re a couple. It isn’t all Olly …’
Richard shrugged. ‘I didn’t really talk to her much, one to one.’
‘She didn’t really talk to any of us.’ That was her point. This conversation was like playing tennis with someone whose returns always hit the net.
‘True.’ Gigi waited for him to say more, getting quietly infuriated when he didn’t.
‘That’s kind of the whole point. Do you remember when Emily first came home with Christopher?’
‘Not really.’ Richard looked sheepish.
‘You do. She was warm and friendly and she fitted in immediately. I knew, straightaway, that she was right for Chris.’
‘They were very young …’
‘I still knew.’
‘And you’re saying you don’t know about this girl?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying … I mean, I didn’t expect to right away. We were lucky with Chris. I know that. But something. Something.’
‘They seemed happy together.’
‘Did they?’
Richard smiled indulgently, which was irritating. ‘You don’t think, my darling, that this is a bit more about you?’
Richard always looked pleased with himself when he said things like this – like he’d figured out something clever. Clever, insightful, emotionally continent Richard. She’d like to punch him in the face. The frustration of being misunderstood washed over her.
‘What do you mean?’ She knew her tone had changed. It was too subtle for him to hear, because for that he’d have to have been properly listening. But she heard it.
‘You’ve always been different about Olly.’
She didn’t want to admit that he was right. She sighed and picked up her drink, letting her eye wander to the dancing flames of the fire in the grate.
Sometimes, these days, Gigi felt like she and Richard were two complete strangers on a blind date in the Tower of Babel.
Tess
Tess felt like she and Sean were playing themselves through the rest of Christmas. As if an invisible director with a script – not one written by her – was whispering instructions in their ears. Something had shifted, when he’d proposed and she’d blurted out her counter offer of parenthood – she couldn’t define exactly what, except that it made everything feel pretend. He’d pulled her into an instant embrace, but she’d had the very odd feeling that it was like a soap opera hug, where the camera settled on the hidden face of the hugger, which conveyed their full spectrum of emotions, and the hug-ee saw none of it. He hadn’t repeated his proposal, and the offer, not repeated or retracted, hung like smog in the flat. He’d said it was amazing – shaking his head – but he hadn’t said it was wonderful. He hadn’t said any of the things he’d have said if she had written the script – there was no stroking of her still-flat stomach, no singing ‘My Boy Bill’ in the shower. When he’d popped round to Sainsbury’s, he hadn’t come back with flowers. He hadn’t even told her not to lift anything heavy.
But he hadn’t rejected her either. He hadn’t said he didn’t want a baby.
She willed herself not to push. It was a lot. She’d had the time to get used to it, and she knew even she wouldn’t have been able to articulate, at first, everything she felt. It wasn’t like this baby had been planned and longed for. Babies had been at the very edge of her imagining of her life. Something vague and abstract for the future. Falling pregnant had been what made her want to be a mother – the ambition was very wrapped up with this particular child for her. It hadn’t done that for him. That much was clear. She forced herself to wait for him to speak first. He’d given her that chance for New York: she owed it to him.
It was strangely easy to avoid the subject between Christmas and New Year. She knew that that in itself was very wrong. There were drinks parties and dinners with friends, where by mutual agreement neither marriage nor children were discussed, and where gaiety – albeit other people’s – just carried them along. Everything was
fairy lights and bonhomie, and you could hide yourself in it. And there were her quiet, sad visits to Iris. Donna sent a quick text or two – she’d arrived safely … a picture of the beach … Sean worked on the 28th, 29th and 30th, staying late at the office on the pretext of catching up on paperwork. When he got home, he feigned tiredness, claiming exhaustion every evening as a preamble to an early night, or, worse, letting himself fall asleep on the sofa in front of television shows he wasn’t watching, so that she was in bed asleep before he got there. Once there, he didn’t try to kiss her deeply, offering instead a peck on the cheek and turning his back to read or endlessly check his phone.
By New Year’s Eve, Tess was ready to explode. Five days. Five long days when they hadn’t properly talked about any of it. They were supposed to be meeting some old university mates of Sean’s in a West End hotel for New Year’s Eve. It was a big black-tie do, with a three-course meal, a band and dancing. Normally, she’d have been excited, but she couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm. Sean spent the afternoon with his friend Tim, over from Dublin for the party. Tess went to visit Iris.
She told her about the baby. She had to tell someone.
Iris was awake, sitting up in bed. She looked much better. When Tess approached the bed, she smiled vaguely at her. No recognition, but no distress either. Tess had taken flowers – some vibrant orange ranunculi.
‘Aren’t they beautiful,’ Iris had exclaimed. ‘Ranunculi. I always loved those. How did you know, dear?’
I know because I’ve always known, Tess thought sadly. They’re my favourites too, because they remind me of you. You always said they were one of the only flowers that got more beautiful as they got older in the vase, not fading or dropping their petals. You joked that was how you wanted to age. You used to buy them pretty much whenever you saw them, and they always made you disproportionately happy. I know like I know you like Garibaldi biscuits, not Rich Tea, and Earl Grey, not English Breakfast. And like you used to know I preferred strawberry sherbets to lemon ones, and would eat a bagful, even though I’d get those slightly sore ridges on the roof of my mouth from eating too many at once.
‘I’ve got some exciting news,’ she offered, leaning over, speaking in a whisper, close to Iris’s ear.
Iris didn’t react.
Tess sat on the chair next to the bed.
‘I’m pregnant, Gran. I’m going to have a baby.’
‘Baby?’ She said the word vaguely, as though it was foreign, and unfamiliar.
‘Yes. A baby. I’m pregnant, Gran. The baby is coming in the summer.’
Iris stared at her. And it would be hard to describe to anyone else, but it was as though the clouds parted, and the sun suddenly shone through on her grandmother’s face. For the first time in ages, she said her name. ‘Tess! My goodness. A baby? You?’ Her voice was full of emotion. ‘My darling girl. That is so wonderful.’ She reached her arms out and Tess stood and bent into her embrace. There was normally no strength in Iris’s arms but now she clung to Tess’s neck. When Tess straightened up and pulled back to watch her grandmother’s face, Iris dropped one of her arms to touch Tess’s stomach. ‘It’ll be a beauty, Tess. Boy or girl. You were the most astonishing child. Those enormous eyes. And so much hair. We had to brush it off your forehead, right from the start.’ She lifted her hand and pushed Tess’s fringe back from her eyes, staring straight into them. She was completely lucid. As if the import of Tess’s news had dragged her back. Tess wanted to stay that way forever, with Iris’s hands on her.
The moment passed. Clouds blew back across the sun. ‘That’s nice, dear. Babies are very happy news.’ She patted Tess’s hand gently, but anonymously, as though she was someone she was sitting next to on the Number 9 bus. ‘That’s nice.’
Tess’s eyes filled with grateful tears. ‘It is nice. It’s very, very nice.’ But the sun had gone down. Tess stopped being Tess. Iris stopped being Iris. But Tess had had the moment, and it mattered more than anything else.
At home, later, Tess stood for ages in front of her dressing-table mirror, sideways, staring at herself. Thinking. Sean wasn’t back until 6 p.m. – they were due to leave at 7 p.m. Tess was in the bedroom when she heard his key in the lock.
‘Sorry. We went to the driving range to hit a few balls. Traffic was monstrous on the way back. I had to drop Tim at his hotel – he didn’t have his gear with him … Better jump in the shower …’
He came into the bedroom. Tess was sitting, dressed in jeans and a sweater, in the armchair in the corner.
‘You’re not dressed.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘How can you ask me that, Sean?’
He sat on the edge of the bed nearest to her.
‘Come on. I thought we’d agreed we’d sit with this a while …’
‘Do you have any idea how strange that sounds?’ Her voice sounded flat and dull to her. She was exhausted by the charade.
‘To whom?’
‘To me. It’s ridiculous. You have to talk to me –’
‘Everyone’s expecting us.’
‘I don’t give a fuck.’ Now she was finding some energy, some fight. She hardly ever swore. Iris hated it when women swore. She hated that word almost worst of all. But it fitted the mood. ‘I can’t sit there for another night and not know what you feel, Sean. I won’t do it.’
He rubbed his face, exasperated.
‘You want to know what I feel?’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course I do.’
Sean took a deep breath, and ran both hands through his hair, rubbing his head too hard.
‘Okay. I feel like the timing is all wrong for us.’
Tess felt like he’d winded her. ‘The timing?’
‘Yes.’ Another deep breath. ‘I don’t think it’s the right time for us to have a baby.’
She could barely breathe.
‘I love you. I want to make a life with you. Right now I want that life to be in New York. I want to enjoy you, enjoy us.’
‘And you don’t want a baby.’
Sean shook his head, sat back, deflated, against the bed. ‘Not this baby. Not now. I’m sorry. That’s how I feel.’
For a long moment she didn’t look at him, and neither of them spoke. She could hear her own breathing, weirdly loud in the room.
She turned to him: he was looking at her intently, wild-eyed. He knelt up, came close to the chair.
‘Say something, Tess.’
She held her hands up, incredulous, feeling herself shrinking from him into the back of the chair. ‘I don’t know what to say. You’ve shocked me. You’ve completely and utterly shocked me.’
But he hadn’t. Not really. His silence across the last week had been almost as eloquent, almost as blunt, as what he’d just said. What was shocking was hearing it out loud. What was shocking was realizing he was prepared to say it.
‘See? That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s not an easy thing to say to you. To explain.’
‘Seemed easy enough, in the end.’ She was trying to keep her voice moderate.
‘That’s not fair.’
She threw him a warning glance. ‘We’re talking about fair now?’
‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’
‘So that’s how you’ve felt from the very beginning?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve just been trying to figure out how to break it to me?’
‘No. Not like that.’
‘Trying to time it right.’ She could hear the heavy sarcasm in her voice over the word time.
‘No. I don’t know. I didn’t mean that. It was a shock. We were taking precautions …’ The phrase was awkwardly formal.
‘They don’t always work.’
‘I know. I’m not accusing you of anything.’
She gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s something.’
‘Tess, don’t be like that. Listen to me. We have years and years. We can have a ton of babies. As many as you
like.’
‘But not this baby?
‘Can you just take a moment, and think about what I’m saying? Would it be so terrible, to wait?’
‘Do you know what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. Of course I do. I’m not an idiot.’ He looked at the carpet.
‘What you’re asking me to do?’
‘How pregnant are you? It’s a few weeks, isn’t it?’ He’d put his hand on her knee. The inference was obvious, and monstrous.
‘You bastard.’ She shoved it roughly away and stood up.
‘Tess …’
She’d never slapped a person before, but she slapped Sean now, with the full force of her rage.
‘Do you know, Sean, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it either. Not at first. I was just as shocked as you. Just as scared. But I never’ – she put her face close to his – ‘I never once thought of getting rid of it. Never.’
Sean rubbed his cheek, swinging his jaw from side to side. She’d hit him hard.
‘It’s a baby. It’s our baby.’ She corrected herself. ‘It’s my baby.’
He reached for her again, but she couldn’t let him touch her.
‘You can’t possibly love me and ask me to do this.’
‘So how come I do, then?’ His voice was almost surprised, wistful.
‘And how can I possibly love you?’
‘Don’t you?’ And now wheedling. The whiff of manipulation prompted another surge of rage in Tess.
He touched her arm. ‘Get off me. I can’t be near you. Just go.’
Sean took two, three steps back from her.
‘Don’t do this to us.’ Sean’s eyes were full of frightened tears now. ‘Please, Tess.’
She sank on to the bed. He stood in front of her.
‘Who’s doing it, Sean?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded like a boy. Imploring.
‘Me too.’
He left her there after a minute of silence. Through the open door she could hear him in the kitchen. The kettle boiled; cupboards were opened and closed. She couldn’t move from the edge of the bed. Eventually he reappeared and gently put down a mug of tea by the side of the bed where she was sitting. She couldn’t look at him. Something had changed, and she knew it couldn’t be changed back. Whatever happened now. Whether she understood, whether she forgave, whatever he did or said.
Love, Iris Page 8
