by Sarah Clarke
Chapter 20
AUGUST 2005
Phoebe
I lean over the suitcase and push the top down with my elbows. The teeth of the zip move together easily – there’s plenty of give in Charlie’s soft clothes and toys – and I fasten the case without a struggle. My own case will be harder. I found it difficult to work out what to take, what I would need. It’s full to the brim, with another layer of clothes perched on top of that, so I sit on it, and luckily my weight, my increasing weight, is enough to force it shut.
‘Mummy, is it tomorrow yet?’
I turn to see Charlie standing in the doorway, mindlessly flicking the floppy ears of his cloth rabbit against his cheek. ‘Well, did you go to sleep and wake up?’
‘I think so.’ But he doesn’t sound convinced.
‘Did you maybe just close your eyes in front of Peppa Pig for a minute?’
‘Um, maybe.’
‘And do you think you need to sleep in your big boy bed for it to actually be tomorrow?
‘I s’pose so,’ he relents.
‘But do you know what will make tomorrow come faster?’
‘Chocolate?’
‘No, not chocolate.’ I walk over and pick Charlie up, prop him on my left hip. He may be three now and losing his toddler chubbiness, but his legs still fit snugly around my waist and his instinct to nestle into my neck hasn’t gone away. ‘The sooner you go to bed, the quicker tomorrow will come. And you know what happens when you wake up, don’t you?’
Charlie nods solemnly, as though the responsibility for sharing all that good news has suddenly forced him into silence.
‘What happens then, Charlie?’ Dan walks into the room and gently pulls our son off me. The reproachful look he gives me is fleeting, but I acknowledge it, smile, give him an apologetic one back.
The change of position clearly helps Charlie find his voice. ‘We’re going on holiday!’ he shouts into Dan’s ear.
‘Easy, mate!’ Dan rubs his ear in mock pain, but Charlie doesn’t appear perturbed. Just laughs a bit harder and wriggles out of Dan’s arms. ‘Crete, here we come,’ Dan continues quietly, looking across at me. There’s so much meaning in his expression that my eyes well up. We came close to losing our marriage, but things are different now. There’s still the odd late night at work of course – I can’t change everything – but Dan is much more present now.
While I hate admitting it, even to myself, his affair and the argument that followed proved to be a turning point. Against all the screaming voices in my head, I gave him a second chance. And so far, I’ve had no reason to regret it. Overnight, Dan became much more attentive, and for my part, I threw away the ovulation sticks and let nature take its course, which it did a few months later. Funny how these things work out.
‘And you’re sure the plane ride will be okay for the baby?’
I swat him with a dress that didn’t make it into the suitcase; even at eight weeks my belly is starting to protrude, like it knows the deal this time round and is impatient to get on with the task of growing, so I’m already feeling the need to avoid slim-fitting outfits. ‘Of course it’s fine, you idiot.’ This is also new, his fussing over me, and I can’t help basking in the warmth of his attentiveness.
‘We should leave at six, definitely no later than quarter past.’
Our flight isn’t until eleven; leaving that early will mean hours wandering around the departure lounge at Gatwick Airport, trying to keep Charlie entertained. But I don’t question his timings because this is part of the deal too. Accepting his imperfections. ‘Well in that case, I think all of us should go to bed early, starting with the littlest in the room. Now let me see …’
Charlie starts giggling and scrambling for the doorway. He looks over his shoulder and I know what he’s expecting. I raise my tickling fingers and he screams in delight, slowing down his escape to make double sure that I get to him before he reaches his bed, universally accepted as the safe zone. I catch up with him just inside his room, and we tumble onto his small bed together. Eventually the tickling stops, and we hug for a few minutes before I quietly extract myself. He’s already fast asleep.
*
‘Just try it.’
‘Will I like it?’ Charlie doesn’t sound convinced as he pulls a piece of fried halloumi cheese apart. His neoprene T-shirt is damp after a morning in the sea and the sand still stuck to it shimmers in the sunshine.
‘Well, I like it.’ Dan picks another slice off the sharing platter in front of us and drops it into his mouth. The beach bar is no more than a shack really, and the menu is limited to a few Greek staples, but it hasn’t stopped us coming here for lunch every day of our holiday so far. ‘Mmm, delicious.’ He gives me a look of encouragement, but the thought of eating the rich salty cheese makes me want to vomit – again – so I pretend to ignore his signal and pick up a bread roll instead.
‘If I don’t like it, can I spit it out?’ This is when I see Dan in our son. The measured decisions, taking all possibilities into account. These moments always give me a sense of relief, that the impulsiveness of my family has been diluted by Dan’s more careful genes.
‘How about if you eat it all, I’ll get you a Coke?’
‘Wow, I can have Coke?’
‘As a very special holiday treat. And only if you eat the whole slice.’
I watch my two men take up their adversarial positions. Dan leans back as far as the bar stool allows and crosses his arms. Charlie runs his tongue over both lips and then screws up his face. The challenge is on. He retches slightly after his first bite. I can see that he hates it, but amazingly he doesn’t stop. Bit by bit the slice of halloumi disappears until finally Charlie’s face erupts with a look of pure triumph.
‘I’m finished! Can I have my Coke now?’
Dan laughs with a mixture of admiration and pride. ‘I definitely think you earned it, buddy.’ He kisses Charlie on the nose and heads towards the bar.
‘Can I get one too?’ I shout after him, and he gives me a languid thumbs up. We’ve all relaxed so much on this holiday; it really is the paradise island that the travel agent promised. Charlie has loved sitting at the water’s edge, collecting seashells and drawing patterns in the wet sand. And Dan and I have had time to talk, to reminisce, as well as to plan our future. We don’t talk about her anymore. It was Dan’s idea to give ourselves a week to get all the anger and blame out. Nothing was off limits as long as we both promised never to mention it again once the week was up. So I ranted, goaded him about her, begged for an explanation. He rode it out, answered some of my questions, pleaded ignorance on others. At the end of the week I was so exhausted that it wasn’t difficult to close that door and open a happier one. And booking a holiday was the first thing we did.
*
Dan places three Cokes on the table and we all reach for one. The icy cold sweetness tastes delicious and I gulp it down, although not quite as quickly as Charlie.
‘Hey, slow down, buddy. You’ll be burping all afternoon.’
Charlie responds with a deep belch and immediately bursts into laughter. I can almost see the sugar working its way into his bloodstream and know there’s going to be a burst of energy any minute now. The beach bar is hardly a confined space, but I still feel our son needs more freedom to work off his first fizzy drink experience.
‘Do you want to head back down to the beach?’
‘Yes! Daddy, can we build a castle? A big one for my knights?’
‘How big?’
‘Bigger than our house. Bigger than the biggest castle.’
Dan laughs at Charlie’s enthusiasm and his eyes crinkle with love. As I watch Charlie slip his soft hand inside Dan’s much larger one, I let my own drop onto my tummy.
‘Are you going to help us build this enormous castle?’
‘I think Mummy needs a rest.’ Charlie pulls at Dan’s hand. He wants his father all to himself for a while and I can’t blame him for that. Time with Dan is precious for both of us.
/> ‘I might stay here for a bit, in the shade.’
Dan reaches down and kisses my cheek, and it’s like we’re young again, lost in each other. Then he turns his attention back to Charlie and they’re off, striding down towards the sea. I sip the last of my Coke and let my hand explore the new swell above my bikini line. It’s warm in the Greek sunshine, and I imagine cells busy multiplying with the easy familiarity that thousands of years of practice bring. I know my baby is just a tiny thing, and that statistically the chance of miscarriage is still real. We haven’t told anyone – including Charlie – and our first scan is still a month away. But deep down, I know this baby is a girl and that she will survive. She’s strong; she came to save us after all.
Chapter 21
DECEMBER 2019
Ben
Ben looks down at the plate.
‘To be honest, Marco, I’m not sure one candle stuck in a stale croissant really says Happy Birthday.’
‘I think she’ll love it! It’s ironic, you know? You Brits love your irony, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I guess. But Hana’s Czech. Not sure they do irony so much over there.’
Marco joins him in staring down the drab offering, the red candle now sloping dangerously to the left. ‘Oh, Posh Boy, I guess you’re right. But it’s also the only edible sweet thing left in the kitchen. The muffins went ages ago and I took the last bit of Jo’s mum’s banana and walnut cake.
‘So on Hana’s birthday, you took the last slice of cake?’
‘I didn’t want to, but it was calling me, you know? The little baby walnuts just squeaking, eat me, eat me.’
Ben looks up at his manager’s lopsided grin, the sparkle in his eyes only semi-obscured by the strands of black hair falling over them. How did he manage to be so happy all the time?
‘It’s the thought that counts though,’ Marco needles on, still not willing to give up on the idea of birthday croissant instead of cake.
Ben considers his options. He could just go along with it. What does he know about girls anyway? Hana might think it’s funny, ironic or whatever. But she might also be disappointed that they hadn’t made more effort.
‘That’s not for Hana, is it?’ Fiona asks, looking over his shoulder with the same doubtful expression that his own face had shown moments earlier. Fiona, not Phoebe, as she’d politely confirmed when Marco asked, after he’d made some joke about her being a double agent for Starbucks. She’d blushed at that, then explained that only her parents still called her by her first name. Weirdly, Ben had quite liked Phoebe, thought it suited her better. But then the only Fiona he knows is a stuck-up horsey friend of his mother’s who snorts when she laughs, so the name doesn’t hold the best association for him.
‘It’s ironic apparently,’ he explains.
‘Really? Okay.’ She draws the second word out to highlight how unconvinced she is. Ben takes it as a friendly warning.
‘I could try Martha’s Bakery, see if they’ve got any cakes left?’
‘Okay, Posh Boy, you win. My birthday croissant isn’t good enough for your la-di-da tastes. But you better go quick. Martha’s closed five minutes ago.’
Ben looks at his watch, swears under his breath, and races out of the café door, the jingle of the bell only partially drowning out the sound of Marco crying, ‘Maybe another banana and walnut cake?’ Martha’s is only five doors up so he’s outside the artisan bakery in moments. The sign has already been turned to Closed so he waves at the girl behind the counter. He’s not sure if it’s the bright smile he forces on to his face, or the Bittersweet apron he’s wearing, but she wanders over and unlocks the door.
‘You short of something over there?’
‘Something like that. I need a cake.’
‘Ah, don’t we all,’ she sighs with more intensity than the comment deserves, until Ben notices the slimming magazine lying open on the counter.
‘It’s a birthday. My coworker. Have you got anything left?’
‘Well, there’s that red velvet cake,’ she says, dipping her eyes longingly towards the glass cabinet in front of them. ‘It’s been staring at me for hours now.’
‘Did it squeak eat me, eat me?’ Ben mumbles sarcastically, not expecting an answer.
‘Did you hear it too?’
What is it with cake? Ben thinks to himself. He’s never really been a fan. There would always be a massive one on his birthday, either following his party theme or favourite hobby of the moment. For a few years he’d assumed Lucy made them, but just before his tenth birthday, he’d opened the door to a dishevelled woman with a cake tin in her arms; and that’s when he’d discovered the hard work was someone else’s. It didn’t really matter though. He would always be loitering around the crisps and mini sausages anyway.
‘Red velvet cake sounds perfect, thanks. How much do I owe you?’
‘Have it on the house. You’re doing me a favour.’ Ben watches the woman stare wistfully at the cake before placing it inside a Martha’s Bakery branded cake box and tying it closed with a piece of ribbon.
‘Uh, that’s great. Thanks.’ It’s awkward. This level of feeling for a slab of sponge. Ben takes the box from her without making eye contact and retreats quickly. It’s a relief when the door locks again behind him.
The free cake means he’s still got some money in his pocket. He looks at the off-licence across the road. Champagne might be out of his budget but maybe he can stretch to something that passes for it with a tenner. He checks if the fake student ID card that Jake got him is still in his wallet. It’s there. The name isn’t his of course – Harry Wood – but the photo looks so much like him, it’s hard to imagine any shop worker questioning the ID’s legitimacy. The thought that there’s a double of him walking around, living a completely different life, freaks Ben out at times. Makes him jealous as hell at other times, of course.
As he pushes the door open, his mind wanders to his school friend, although ex-friend is probably a more accurate description now. Not that him and Jake have fallen out; they’re just keeping their distance from each other. As it turned out, the fallout from Ben’s pathetic scream during that fight was kept to a minimum. The girl who got kicked in the head – Becca apparently, of course everyone knows her name now – was taken off to hospital in an ambulance and diagnosed with concussion. The two boys were balled out in front of everyone and then suspended for a week. So there was plenty to gossip about that didn’t involve him.
But it’s different with Jake. He got every decibel of Ben’s scream full pelt, and would have also seen the terror in his eyes. Ben can’t risk the ridicule that Jake would no doubt throw at him if he got the chance, or even worse, the possibility that he might be sympathetic. So over the last few weeks, he’s stayed away from the sixth form centre as much as he can, preferring to head to the art studio during study periods. He can’t say he hasn’t felt lonely at times, but his portfolio has definitely benefited. His painting is finished and he’s now researching for his final piece. He may screw up his other A-levels, but at least he should do well in one – the only one that matters to him anyway.
The bald man sat behind the counter of the small off-licence apparently recognises the Bittersweet apron too because he lets Ben exchange his tenner for a bottle of prosecco with a twelve-pound price tag. Although the layer of dust he has to wipe off the bottle as he leaves the shop hints at a different explanation.
Ben doesn’t want Hana to see what he’s carrying, as much for keeping his effort hidden as for the surprise element, so he looks through the window to check where she is. Watching his coworkers gives him a rare pleasant sensation. The café is still busy with commuter drop-ins – some people just never seem to get enough coffee – and Hana and Fiona are both behind the counter. Fiona’s got her back to him, and he can see her move along the coffee machine. Hana is taking the orders, chatting to the customers, while running the till with subversive efficiency. Neither of them are grumbling about where he is; not bitching about him running out
on them. The only time he feels close to happy is in this place. With these people.
Marco walks out of the kitchen and spots Ben straight away. With an exaggerated wink, his manager puts his gangly arm around Hana’s shoulder and manoeuvres her into the kitchen. The coast is clear. Ben quickly walks inside, shoves the prosecco into the fridge with the craft beer, and hides the cake box behind the milk steamer.
‘Bubbles too, nice work,’ Fiona whispers under her breath as Hana ambles back, spots the stale croissant, and with a slight tut, slides it into the bin.
*
The meeting of glasses is more crash than clink as the four of them start the birthday celebrations. With the café empty by 8.30 p.m., they’d been able to clear everything away before it officially closed and as soon as the sign was flipped over and the blinds pulled down, Marco had declared the party started.
‘Happy birthday, my little Czech mate! Did you get that, guys? You know, like in chess? Checkmate?’
‘Yes, Marco, we get the joke,’ Hana groans with a smile.
For all her casualness, Hana had seemed quite touched by their birthday surprise, the three of them lining up, holding out cake and prosecco like it was some kind of tribal offering. Marco had insisted they sing happy birthday to her as well, although it was mainly his voice that rang out across the café.
‘So how old are you today, Hana, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Fiona never wants to talk about herself, so perhaps it’s not surprising that she includes a get-out clause in her question to Hana.
‘I’m 19. God, that sounds so old!’
‘Not to me.’
