by Woolf, Emma
She let herself into the flat and exhaled in relief, resting her head against the closed wooden door. She ran a bath and lay there, reading. It was a collection of poetry which Harry had given her a week before he killed himself. It was called Staying Alive. On the final page was a poem she kept going over and over, wondering why Harry had given her this, whether he meant her to read it after he was gone. What the hell was he thinking?
I want you to keep
stubbing your toe
on the memory of me . . .
Lily got out of the warm water, wrapped herself in a bathrobe, and poured out a glass of Elderflower bubbly. She unpacked the shopping bags—fresh tagliatelle, pesto, parmesan—but didn’t feel like eating. She opened the book again, sipping at the champagne, reading that final poem:
I want you to drive yourself crazy
with the fantasy of me,
and how we will meet again, against all odds . . .
In the flyleaf of the book, Harry had written: Lily . . . love hurts x.
She went and lay on her bed, staring into the darkness. The loneliness swept over her; she felt almost unable to stand it. For the first time since Harry had died, she found herself face-to-face with the most painful questions: Could she have done something? Had she not cared enough to see what was happening to Harry? Could she have stopped him? Could she have saved him?
Hours went by, her mind taken up with these compulsive, unanswerable thoughts. She must have fallen asleep at some point for when she woke, fireworks were exploding all over London. She sat up, shivering in her damp bathrobe, and turned on the radio. They were playing the chimes from Big Ben; it was just past midnight, just the new year.
She opened the skylight wide and leaned out, the winter air cool against her face. The window was high, but not as high as the cliffs where Harry had jumped. She whispered that she loved him and missed him, that she would do her best for their baby without him. The fireworks went on and on across the rooftops, red, green, and gold from neighbouring parks and gardens; cars were blaring their horns in the streets; people were cheering outside the pub at the end of the road. The sky was ablaze with the start of a new year and Lily was crying because it looked so much like hope.
She drifted through the flat, aware that she was hungry but unable to face food. There were texts and emails on her phone, but she didn’t check them. There was only one person she wanted to hear from. Lily thought of the final messages Harry had sent her, from the mobile they would have found with his body.
His dead body. Rotting in a grave. Stop this, Lily thought, just stop this. Something had opened the floodgates to these terrible images, macabre images, which she had been suppressing for months. The violence of Harry’s death frightened her. Lily felt panicky and then more panicky when she thought about being pregnant. She knew this panic wasn’t good for the baby. She went upstairs again and lit a scented candle beside her bed. She lay down, trying to concentrate on her breathing and on the sound of fireworks in the distance.
She woke around six a.m. with a feeling of relief. It was over. She looked at the candle, burned down now, the scattered photographs and the book of poetry on her bedside table. She looked again at what Harry had written on the flyleaf: love hurts. He’s wrong, she thought, smiling sadly. It’s death that hurts, not love.
Slowly she stood up. She hung her bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door and pulled on blue tracksuit bottoms, a grey hoodie, and a pair of thick warm socks. She went into the kitchen and pulled a cedarwood box from beneath the sink. She took the Valiums out of the box—seventy of them now—and wrapped them tightly in a plastic bag. She took the bag down to the rubbish bins outside and stuffed it beneath a couple of black bin bags. She looked up and down England’s Lane, silent and deserted. The whole world was sleeping and it was the start of another year. Standing on the front step, her arms wrapped around her, Lily took a deep breath. “Happy new year, little one,” she whispered.
It was only January, but Lily felt as though she’d lived ten years in the space of a few months. Strange how quickly things could fall apart; strange how quickly one adapted. She was nearly five months pregnant with Harry’s baby and he was dead, so what on earth was she going to do? She tried not to think too far ahead, focusing instead on the practicalities of the near future. Making plans for the baby was good; it made her happy, excited. But any further down the line—a year, two years—that was impossible.
Once Cassie had the bit between her teeth, she had got Lily organised. Her diary began to fill up with routine blood tests, check-ups, and scans, and both Cassie and her midwife nagged her to enrol in antenatal classes. Whether it was delayed shock or just denial, Lily found herself putting off the inevitable and refusing to plan for the birth itself.
Thinking rationally, she knew that there was no sense in being frightened. Anticipating a difficult labour and unbearable pain would only make it worse. Hundreds of thousands of women gave birth every day, they had been giving birth since the dawn of time. Their bodies were designed for that purpose, and she would manage it too. Whatever happened when she went into labour, she’d be in safe hands.
The other reason she was reluctant to join the local antenatal class, despite her midwife’s reminders, was precisely the element of “joining in.” She assumed that all the other women would be with their partners, in a happy heterosexual middle-class mummy and daddy unit. Lily was not ashamed of being a single mother, and she didn’t mind what others thought. All the same, those coupley birth classes sounded off-putting.
This was one of the few downsides to Belsize Park. If she’d lived somewhere more appropriate to her means, she probably would have found mums of all social classes, ages, and incomes in her antenatal group. But Belsize Park was an affluent area, and Lily was surrounded by wealthy smugness. In the cafés, delis, and parks, everywhere elegant blonde women held hands with their handsome banker husbands, dressed their pregnancy bumps in designer maternity athleisure wear, and pushed their other babies in expensive Bugaboo prams.
Also, she wasn’t desperate to meet people—her life was quite busy enough as it was, what with work and exercise and the flat and her family.
“For God’s sake!” Lily said to Cassie, mutinously. “She makes it sound like once the baby is born, my whole world will revolve around parent-toddler groups. I’ll be condemned to coffee mornings and baby-swim and mummy-massage and we’ll discuss nappies and nurseries and that’s it—no more real life for me!”
Harry’s absence seemed even stronger now that she knew she was carrying his baby. She found herself wanting to talk to him about everything and nothing, mundane daily news, questions she had about work matters, books she wanted him to read, music she wanted him to listen to. In the first few weeks after his death, she had wondered how she’d ever feel whole again. Gradually she began to see that there was a way to carry on without him. Or rather, she just found herself carrying on. No matter how shattered your world was, life went on; you could keep going or you could give up, and that was that.
Then the letter arrived. Lily had almost given up waiting. So much had happened since she had written to Claude, she felt like a different person.
His timing couldn’t have been worse. It was a grey Saturday morning, and she was feeling low and aimless, but trying to ignore it. She knew the letter was from Claude because it had a San Francisco postmark. She left it on the kitchen table all morning. Suddenly she was reluctant to open it. Even glancing at it stirred up difficult emotions. Why had she contacted him anyway, what had she been thinking? She’d spent most of her life without a father; why was her long-lost father suddenly contacting her? And how the hell was she going to cope with another abandonment? She didn’t want to be his daughter—what was he writing for anyway?
Lily started crying and couldn’t stop. She feared the letter in the kitchen and couldn’t bring herself to read it. She felt terribly alone. It was a mild day but raining heavily, the first rain for week
s, a strange heavy thunderstorm, and she felt the weight of it pressing her down. She kept thinking about the waterlogged earth and a churned-up grave, filling with water, with mud.
Dear Lily, she read, later that evening, having cleaned the flat, tried not to think about Harry, worried about the baby, and then about the future and being alone. In the end, she thought she’d go out of her mind with the overthinking. She made herself go out for a walk, shopped for groceries, washed her hair, painted her fingernails, and steeled herself for the letter. Nine months! It began. How can it take nine months for mail to be redirected? At first she wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
Your letter from England has just this morning arrived! Which means that I didn’t write back sooner—I wish I could have done. After many years in the same house we finally moved, and it appears to have taken a very long time for this letter to make its way seven blocks north. I’m so sorry.
Lily, I know nothing about you, and probably you know nothing about me. I live in San Francisco with my second wife, Marie, who is a fellow professor at UC Berkeley. She has two grown-up sons (twenty-seven and thirty-three). We divide our time between California in term time, teaching and writing, and France, where we spend half the year. We have a farmhouse not far from Marie’s sons. We leave for France in March and we’ll be there until the end of September.
I’d love to see a photograph of you—would you email me one? Even better, would you come for a visit? France isn’t far away. Claude
She read his letter again and again, examined the paper and the handwriting (large, generous loops, black ink). She put down the letter, picked up her tablet, and scrolled through possible photos to send him. By herself, with her siblings? She got as far as typing his email address and attaching a couple of pictures before she made herself slow down. She stood at the open window. It was cooler and fresher now after a day of thundery showers. She picked up her phone to call Cassie then changed her mind. She considered ringing Celia, then she thought about going downstairs to see if Susan was around for a gin and tonic. She touched her stomach: damn, not G and T. Herbal tea, then.
For the time being, her thoughts of Harry were gone, the grief replaced with other concerns. Lily felt as though a gulf had opened up in front of her. Did she want to meet Claude? Writing to him was one thing, but she hadn’t thought as far as a meeting. She’d tried so hard not to be bitter about the past, but now she was confronted with the possibility of a future filled with—what?
All evening she drifted around the flat, unable to settle. It felt so strange to hear from her father like this. Was she happy or scared? She imagined a possible meeting with Claude, her mind full of conversations, outcomes, reconciliations, disappointments. Could she forgive a man who had walked out on them without a word of apology or explanation? What kind of a man could do that?
David rang and she let it go to voicemail. He had been supportive and kind these past few months. He seemed to understand that in some way she blamed herself for Harry’s death, after that terrible final scene outside the flat. He rang her every week or so to talk or offer to pop round, but he didn’t pressure her. Her mind was so full of other things.
And now this letter from her father. Lily lay down with the bedroom windows wide open to the darkness, unable to drop off until, around three a.m., she heard the gentle patter of rain.
* * *
I actually feel sick. I’ve just had the strangest, most horrible news. I thought things couldn’t get much worse over the past few months and now—this.
So, I had to drive over to Amersham to see the funeral director today. The grave is ready for a headstone—they leave it a few months for the earth to subside, so we just marked it with a wooden cross—now I have to choose a design and work out the exact wording and all that. I’d been dreading that for ages, since the funeral, but actually it was OK: weirdly I find the practical things around Harry’s death easier than the huge blank empty spaces. Like, I can talk to our financial advisor about his life insurance and what to do about the mortgage, but sitting here alone in the evenings after the boys have gone to bed, with my bottle of red wine and just one glass and Harry not coming home . . . It’s so much harder to bear.
I came out of the funeral director’s and went into the deli next door; they do the most divine fresh salads and soups and mini quiches. I had Polly coming for lunch and thought it would be a nice treat for us both. Just in front of me in the queue was Donna, who used to be married to Lee, who’s been the marketing director at HEP, like, forever. Lee and Harry were pretty good friends, and back in the day when I used to go to their social events and conferences, Donna and I got on OK—although I never trusted her really. Anyway, she and Lee had a bad divorce a few years ago. We still bump into each other around Gerrards Cross sometimes and always say a fake-friendly hi, although she hasn’t bothered to contact me since Harry’s death. She looked awkward at first and did the usual “I’m so sorry for your loss” thing, then we both got served at the same time and unfortunately ended up walking back to the car park together.
We were just saying fake-friendly goodbyes when she blurted out, “By the way, have you heard the rumour from HEP?” I went cold all over because I know Donna’s way of squirrelling away bits of information and repeating them, and usually her gossip isn’t harmless . . .”
“Rumour? No, but then I’m sort of out of the loop these days.” I tried to sound totally unconcerned and turned away to my car.
“Well, according to Lee there’s rumours that Lily—you know that young woman who worked so closely with Harry?—apparently she’s pregnant.” Donna stared straight at me and my stomach turned over. I clutched my car keys tighter, trying to keep my breathing steady. After a dramatic pause, she went on. “And the thing is, everyone’s saying she doesn’t have a partner, so whose baby is it?”
She really is the vilest bitch. If I didn’t get out of there I thought I might punch her so I mumbled something about it being none of our business and got into my car and drove off. Fast.
Polly was a lifesaver. After lunch, we had a whisky (I know, but it was an emergency) and talked it all through. She calmed me down and reminded me that the worst has already happened; there’s nothing I can do now. She really helped me get things in perspective: “If you want to, we can call Colin’s wife. She was always a good friend to you and I think she’ll tell you the truth—not that Donna-bitch’s malicious rumours. But it’s not necessarily a good idea.”
She poured us both another large whisky. “Clearly a lot of things went on in Harry’s life over the past year or so . . . and it’s painful and humiliating finding all this out. Maybe you need to draw a line, Pip. For your own sanity now, maybe you should focus on the good times with Harry, preserve those happy memories before things went downhill.” She took a sip of whisky. “Forget about Lily, she’s nothing to do with you.”
She’s right, I know. It made sense earlier on when she was saying it—but it doesn’t help right now. The thought of Harry making love to someone else, the thought of her carrying his baby . . . I’m the mother of his children, me, us, our family. I’ve given birth to three of his children, our boys, our little girl who died. I’m his wife, not her. Can it really be Harry’s baby? How am I supposed to cope with this?
It was curious how the reactions of the people closest to Lily reflected the different emotions she was feeling. Her attitude to the baby was contradictory and constantly changing—equal parts excitement, ambivalence, and fear. It was reassuring that the reactions of her loved ones could be just as diverse as her own.
When her brother, James, heard from Celia that she was pregnant, he had sent a text: Just heard the news—wow—Mama Lily! Mad props to you, sis. Take care x. The message was typical of her brother: brief, witty, to the point. Knowing him as she did, knowing that emotional communication wasn’t his strong point, she was touched. Celia often said that James was like their father, a man of few words.
Olivia’s rea
ction was at the other end of the scale. They met for breakfast in one of the trendy organic cafés on England’s Lane. Olivia was just back from a fortnight in Rome visiting Giovanni—things were back on between them, and she could only be described as “loved-up”: sun-kissed, dewy-eyed, and bubbling with plans to move to Italy in the spring. When Lily finally managed to get a word in and told her about the baby, Olivia shrieked and grabbed her sister’s hands across the table, almost knocking over their cappuccinos in the process. Her eyes were wide and she kept saying, “Oh my God, really? Oh my God, Lil, are you terrified? That’s like, amazing, but so . . . scary . . .”
Lily didn’t mind. Olivia was right, it was scary. Her little sister was simply, in her own tactless way, bringing up what Lily had been avoiding facing: the whole business of going into labour, the terror of giving birth, the mystery of becoming a mother. The reality of it all. Life was scary. Whatever happened next, she’d survive.
PART
TWO
“Now, I’m going to run you a bath.” Susan bustled around the flat while Lily lay on the large sofa feeding Stella. It was early summer and the sun streamed in through the large open windows. “I’ve got a thermos of coffee in the hamper and some chocolate biscuits, and I’ll keep an eye on her while you have a soak.”
A soak! Lily smiled. Most mornings, she showered quickly with Stella in her baby seat on the bathroom floor, so to have a bath alone, to put on a facemask, to wash and condition her hair, would be a rare treat. They always shared a bath together before Stella’s bedtime, which was one of the best moments of the day, but it involved more splashing than actual washing.
“Susan,” Lily said. “Sometimes I don’t believe you’re real. This flat is heaven and you’re a guardian angel.”
