by Rebecca Reid
Zadie’s face lit up with a huge smile. Her teeth were white, with a tiny gap between the two front ones, an imperfection that would have spoiled someone else but only stood to make this girl more beautiful. ‘You’re so right. They’ll think I’m trying to hide something if I’m too tidy. I used to get about fifty demerits a term for having a messy room at school.’ She turned to look at the neat collage of photos above Chloe’s bed and the fairy lights wound around her bedframe. ‘You’re tidy,’ she said. It didn’t sound like a compliment.
‘My mum is a neat freak,’ Chloe admitted. ‘It wasn’t much of a choice in my house.’
‘Mine, too!’ exclaimed Zadie. ‘She fires every cleaner we have because they don’t do it like she would.’
Chloe’s mother would never have allowed anyone else to do their cleaning, even if they could afford it. ‘So does mine,’ she heard herself say. Why had she said that? Stupid, she scolded herself. If Zadie ever met her mum, she’d know they weren’t the sort of people who had a cleaner. That was an even more stupid thought. Why would Zadie ever meet her mum? She only needed Chloe’s help to fool her parents and then she’d disappear again.
Lissy, the girl down the hall, had explained one evening in the pub about the kind of people who lived off campus. There had been a group of them at the bar, ordering bottles of champagne and laughing. Lissy said that there were a few of them, boys who were only at college here so they could row or play rugby, and their girlfriends. People with money and country houses who went away most weekends and considered the town a little low rent. Lissy had given her a conspiratorial smile, as if to say that she and Chloe were a different, lower sort of person.
‘I’ve got a lecture in a bit,’ Chloe said, taking her books down from her shelf. ‘I should get going.’
‘Is there any chance you might be able to come back later?’ Zadie asked. ‘When my parents are around?’ Her eyes were big and her face pale. How could someone so confident and beautiful be that scared of her parents?
‘Of course,’ said Chloe. ‘I’ll be back by three.’
‘You are the absolute best.’ Zadie threw her arms around Chloe. ‘I mean it. You’re the best room-mate I’ve ever had.’
Chloe returned on the dot of three o’clock, but Zadie’s parents, clearly full of suspicion, had turned up early. They looked exactly as Chloe had imagined. A rail-thin mother with a razor-sharp bob and a fur gilet. A smiling father with a round stomach encased in a navy jumper and with Gucci loafers on his feet.
‘Hey!’ said Zadie, a little too loudly, as Chloe opened the door. ‘I was just going to make some coffee, but I can’t remember where I’ve put the cups.’
Afterwards, Chloe would replay this afternoon in her mind, bathing in the glory of getting it right, for once. ‘Yours are in the dishwasher in the kitchen,’ she said, without missing a beat. ‘We can use my ones – I think you put them in that cabinet?’
‘Zadie,’ said the older woman, pointedly. Chloe tensed, thinking she was about to call their bluff. ‘You haven’t introduced us.’
‘Sorry, sorry. This is Astrid,’ Zadie said, pointing at her mum. ‘And this is Bob.’ Chloe flushed at the idea of calling Zadie’s parents by their first names and resolved not to call them anything at all.
‘Hi, I’m Chloe,’ she said shyly. She caught a flicker pass over Zadie’s face and realized that Zadie hadn’t known her name until that moment.
‘Nice to meet you, Chloe. How’s living with Zee?’ asked Zadie’s father.
‘It’s great,’ Chloe said. ‘She’s a fantastic room-mate.’ She noticed a slight frown on Zadie’s mother’s face. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind if she was a little bit tidier …’ she added, smiling. The Listers laughed. Why was it that people liked to bond with strangers by saying mean things about the person they had in common?
‘You let me know if her laundry basket starts taking over the entire room,’ said Mrs Lister, gesturing at the basket in the corner of the room which was in fact stuffed with Chloe’s clean clothes with a couple of Zadie’s most garish garments on the top.
‘I will.’
After a quarter of an hour the Listers made their excuses, citing a weekend party a few miles away with friends. Chloe could just picture them driving away in their four by four, smiling to each other, all the panic they had been feeling about Zadie having broken her word washed away by the visit. Mr Lister pressed a wad of £20 notes into his daughter’s hand as he left, instructing her to ‘buy your lovely friend a drink at the pub tonight’.
The girls watched as they disappeared down the hall, and once they were safely gone Zadie jumped up and down. ‘You were fucking brilliant!’ she exclaimed. ‘That stuff about me being messy – urgh, you were just so great.’ She squeezed Chloe tightly. ‘I owe you.’
She began stuffing things back into her bag.
Chloe felt her face fall. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I had fun.’
Opening the door, Zadie turned back. ‘Wait,’ she said. She pulled out a surprisingly old-fashioned phone and held it out. ‘Call yourself, so I have your number? And come over to the house some time. You should meet Max. He’s the best, you’ll love him. Everyone does.’
A warmth spread through Chloe’s body as she put the number into Zadie’s phone.
3
Now
Rav had been in a bad mood all day, and while Chloe was usually quite happy to jolly him along, since his announcement that they were going to see Max she had rather lost her taste for it. And, anyway, it was his own fault that he was hung over. He and Guy had hit the bottle hard, Guy presumably because it had been so long since he had been allowed out, and Rav in solidarity. He had spent the day lying on the sofa watching cricket with the sound turned off and the curtains closed, complaining that his head hurt and asking Chloe to bring him glasses of cold water. Eventually, she had gone into the bedroom and shut the door, told Rav to have a sleep on the sofa until he felt better and told herself that she was going to spend the afternoon Marie Kondo-ing her wardrobe. But then she’d found a black silk dress buried under some old jumpers. It had Zadie’s name taped in the label. All Zadie’s clothes had been labelled, because she had gone to boarding school. She took the dress out, and before she could stop herself she was peeling off her clothes and putting it on. She hadn’t worn it since Zadie had disappeared. It was dated now. And too small for her. But running her hands over it felt like going home.
Did Zadie still dress in the mad, beautiful way she had when they were teenagers? Or would she have turned out like her mother, neat in cashmere and silk, buying her clothes from a handful of boutiques and having them all tailored so that they fitted perfectly?
After she had given in to the dress, it seemed pointless to try to resist all the other cravings. Her fingers were itching. So she peeled off the dress, hung it back in the wardrobe then let the floodgates open. As usual, she started by typing various different Zadie-related search terms into Google – her name, her full name, her full name with her date of birth – then had a little look on the major social platforms. Five minutes, tops. Nothing ever came up. But because Rav had been so resolutely grumpy and she had nothing else to do it was too hard to resist going in for a proper deep dive, the sort she had stopped allowing herself years ago. She looked up all Zadie’s siblings, whose privacy settings were up to the max. Searched for her parents, her cousins. She even read the newsletter of the village she grew up in, as if Zadie was going to be mentioned for winning a cake-baking contest or growing a really big carrot. Still nothing came up. Then it occurred to Chloe that some people had their social media accounts under nicknames, so she had tried out various ideas. An hour later she was exhausted, and faintly ashamed of herself for getting sucked into such a hole.
She went into the living room. ‘I’m going to have a glass of wine,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Rav. ‘I don’t know how you can.’
‘I didn
’t drink as much as you did last night.’
Rav got up and immediately stubbed his toe on the coffee table. He swore, then kicked the table, which obviously hurt even more. ‘This fucking flat.’
‘Is that what this is really about?’
‘What?’
‘The sulking. The mood. Is it because of the stuff Guy was saying last night, about them having the extension done and turning the basement into a gym?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re jealous. Of the house. You get upset because they’ve got that huge place and we’re renting this one.’
Rav frowned. ‘I don’t care that they’ve got a big house. I’m happy for them.’
It took all Chloe’s self-control not to roll her eyes. Rav was not happy for them. At all. He and Guy had been casually competing with each other ever since they’d first met in their last year at uni, gently spurring each other on. One of them would edge ahead by getting promoted or shaving five minutes off their run time, and the other would be inspired to do better, to earn more, to move faster. But then Guy’s ancient grandfather had died and left Guy a small fortune, which, combined with Lissy’s not insubstantial salary, had secured them a breathtaking town house, the likes of which Chloe and Rav could only drool over on Instagram.
Chloe didn’t care especially. But Rav did. And the unspoken echo that surrounded Rav’s misery was the fact that if Chloe earned proper money like Lissy, rather than the pittance (Rav’s word, not hers) she took home from teaching, they would be able to afford something much more impressive.
Chloe decided that today was not the day to get into an argument about it. ‘It’s normal to be jealous of other people. They both had shit tons of help from their parents. We don’t have that. My parents haven’t got any money, and yours don’t want to give us any, which is completely fine.’
‘They offered.’
‘What?’
But Rav had gone into the kitchen and didn’t seem to hear. He reappeared a few minutes later with a mug of tea for him and a glass of wine for her.
‘Thanks. Your parents offered what?’
Rav was looking into his mug, avoiding her gaze. ‘My parents offered to help us get a house.’
This was the first she’d heard about it. She reached for the remote, trying to keep her tone casual and light. ‘But that’s good news, so why do you look so miserable?’
‘If we get pregnant.’
Chloe’s finger hovered over the ‘on’ button. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘They said they’d buy us a place if we get pregnant.’
‘If I get pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘We don’t get pregnant, I get pregnant. You get an orgasm. I get fat feet and a ripped-up vagina.’
Rav winced. ‘You said you wanted children.’
‘I do.’
‘We’re in our mid-thirties.’
‘I’m aware.’
‘They’d help us get a place. Somewhere around here. Somewhere like Guy and Lissy’s.’
‘In exchange for giving them a grandchild.’
‘I know, it’s not exactly the most “no strings attached” offer.’
Chloe put the remote down. ‘It’s the Pinocchio of offers.’
‘But if we were planning to have a baby anyway, why don’t we just take them up on it, get the house, get on with having kids, get our life moving?’
‘I like our life.’
‘I like our life, too, but come on. All our friends have kids. We love kids. We’ve always said that we want children. Your job is stable. My job is stable. How could it possibly be a bad idea?’
He was right. Obviously, he was right. If two healthy people in their mid-thirties who had some disposable income and the prospect of a stable home really wanted children, then it was a no-brainer. But recently Chloe had felt herself getting restless. Feeling trapped by their flat, her job, their friends. All of it was so … neat. So identikit. It was a slightly cooler, more urban version of what her mother had chosen for her life. They were increasingly able to share conversations about gardening and bedlinen. At some point in the past she had stopped being young-young and slid into the strange twilight world where people referred to her as ‘the lady’ when they were instructing their kids to move out of the way for her, where she never got ID’d when she was buying wine. Having a baby felt like the last nail in the coffin, an admission that she really was an adult. And she would not just be an adult, but a mother.
It was fine for Rav. He would be a cool dad. Disneyland, and endless games. Breaking the rules that Chloe made. She could see it all perfectly clearly. She would be in charge of making things run properly. The glue that held the entire thing together. And Rav would be the one the child wanted cuddles and stories with. The glitter that made life fun.
Chloe knew she wasn’t the most exciting person in the world. She wasn’t even the most exciting person in most rooms. But there had been a time when it felt as if that might change. As if there were some sparkle inside her that just needed to be released. Glitter potential. Somehow, having a baby felt like the final admission that the magic wasn’t going to happen. She sighed.
‘Okay. Let’s start trying.’
The look of hope on Rav’s face twisted her heart. ‘Really? You’re really ready to start trying?’
‘Not exactly ready, no.’
‘Well, no one’s ever really—’
‘Ready. Yes, I know.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Rav wrapped his arms around her and inhaled, breathing in the smell of her hair like he used to when they were young and completely obsessed with each other. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He rubbed her back suggestively. ‘Maybe we could start trying right now?’ His hangover seemed to have magically healed itself. Chloe laughed and leaned in to kiss him, wondering how long it would take her to come to regret what she’d just promised.
4
Now
Every Saturday afternoon since they had moved to London Rav would disappear on to the Heath with his friends from school and play cricket in the summer or rugby in the winter. He would only be gone for three or four hours, leaving her to get her marking done during term time or just revel in the bliss of being alone during the holidays. Long, silent baths, dedicated excavations of her sock drawer, Saturday afternoons held the boring joys she’d once watched her mother indulge in and sworn she’d never take to herself.
She felt obliged to watch Rav play one cricket and one rugby match a year – ‘socials’ organized by some ham-necked friend of his (or rather, the ham-necked friend’s wife). On these occasions she turned up, stood on the side-lines looking pretty and made polite conversation with the other wives. To Rav’s credit, he never asked for more, and didn’t ever complain that, unlike his friends’ wives, she bought their contribution to the match tea from Sainsbury’s. Nor did he ever try to embroil himself with the people she worked with or crash their trips to the pub. He came to every production her school put on, clapped until his hands hurt and told Chloe it was brilliant even when it wasn’t.
The system worked. It was a square of fabric in the middle of the patchwork quilt of their marriage. And yet today, for the first time in as long as Chloe could remember, Rav had cancelled. He’d made an excuse that morning about his back hurting, giving too many details about the twinge in his lower spine. And rather than leaving her to her lovely, peaceful day, he had stridden around, getting ready too early to go out and making her nervous. Chloe wanted to ask why dinner with Max was so important that he was willing to cancel something he never, ever cancelled, even when she wished he would. But Rav was (quite rightly) embarrassed about his slavish admiration for Max and would lash out if she pushed the point.
She unscrewed the lid of the gold pot and pulled out her eyeliner brush. Was it worth the risk? The rest of her face was finished, skin painted with a foundation which was the right shade in winter but a little to
o pale now, and dusted with bronzer. Eyes a combination of four almost identical shades of gold-brown. Lips painted away by her foundation then drawn back on. She put the brush to her lid and drew it across the lash line, a perfect graphic black stripe. Admiring her work, she smiled. She wasn’t dressed yet, still sitting on the bed in her knickers and bra. But her hair was behaving and if she could just make the second eye match the first one she’d be pleased with herself.
Max would love this, came a bitter mewl from the back of her head. He’d love the idea that you’re sitting here, painting yourself for him. Thinking about an outfit for him. Trying for him.
‘It’s not for Max,’ she said out loud, as if saying it into the room made it any more true. ‘It’s for Rav. It’s for me.’
She put the brush back to her lash line and was beginning to pull it across when a voice sounded from behind her.
‘Well, hello sexy,’ said Rav.
Instinctively, Chloe turned her head, to see her husband standing in the doorway. ‘Fuck!’ she yelped, realizing she’d put a black line across the side of her eye. ‘Fucking fuck.’
‘Bad time? Was that my fault?’
‘Yes,’ ground out Chloe from between her teeth. ‘Very, very your fault. You shouldn’t sneak up on me.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, resting his head on the door frame. He was so tall the top of his head almost brushed it. ‘You look great, though.’
Chloe made a noise a bit like a laugh. ‘I look like I’m in Brighton Rock.’
‘A Clockwork Orange.’
Chloe scrubbed at the side of her face, looking into the mirror. She got the eyeliner off, but it took all her foundation with it, leaving an oddly pink patch of skin behind. ‘What?’
‘You look like you’re in A Clockwork Orange. That’s the one with the fake eyelashes. Brighton Rock is about gangs in the thirties.’
