On a Beautiful Day

by Lucy Diamond

  The three women rocked with laughter and Laura felt the smile on her face become clenched. Thanks, Life, for this particular slap-down, she thought, pretending to consult her list of questions. As if it wasn’t enough that she was never going to become a mother herself, due to the ongoing Husband Says No stalemate; now her boss, Deborah, had thought it a good idea to set up a panel of pregnant women to collect feedback for the new product range. And guess who’d been asked to coordinate this? Lucky, lucky Laura!

  She stared down at her notes, feeling like crying at the words she’d written so far. Precious cargo. Treasured. Blossoming. Miracle. Talk about rubbing a woman’s nose in it.

  ‘Moving on,’ she said, keen to get through the session as quickly as possible, ‘in terms of toiletries, what are you looking for at this time, ladies? Is there anything in particular you appreciate more, now that you’re pregnant? Anything you don’t like?’

  ‘I feel so tired all the time,’ the first woman said. This was the one who didn’t like to be touched. She was seven months pregnant, apparently, and had a high rounded bump on which she was balancing a biscuit between mouthfuls, as if it were a useful shelf. ‘Really exhausted by the end of the day. So anything that feels luxurious is welcome. Anything where I feel like I’m treating myself, and not just squirting – you know – bog-standard Superdrug own-brand bubble bath into the water, or whatever.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ the second woman agreed. This was Mrs Turbo-Sperm, who was younger and more giggly, with long blonde hair in two plaits around her head, as if she were some kind of fecund milkmaid. ‘And you feel kind of . . . Well, I don’t want to sound up myself here, but you do feel this sense of importance, like I said earlier, about carrying a baby. And you do really want to look after yourself. So, for me, I’m like “Only the best”. Does that sound awful? But I’m thinking of the baby, too. I don’t want to slather cheap chemical crap all over myself when I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Not least because of the parabens that some companies use, which can cross straight into the bloodstream,’ added the third woman. She was the oldest and most earnest of the three, Laura guessed, and had been the most rapturous about the miracles of nature. Perhaps, like for Laura, conception had not been quite so easy for her. ‘For that reason, I’ve been looking for very pure toiletries. Organic ingredients, not too highly perfumed, you know.’

  ‘Okay,’ Laura said, scribbling these comments down. Luxurious – a treat. High-quality – only the best! Pure, natural, organic. The campaign was practically writing itself. ‘And in terms of packaging, if I could just show you a couple of different styles . . . ?’

  Maybe the universe wasn’t completely against her, she thought, returning to her desk later on, because a text had come in from Matt while she’d been away. A text that said: I’ll cook us dinner tonight, and which felt as if it might just be the olive branch Laura had been waiting for. Goodness knows how she’d slogged through to Thursday this week, when things had been so awkward between the two of them, after his ultimatum; but maybe . . . just maybe he was going to back down at last.

  She sent back a cheerful reply and felt the clouds lifting a fraction from where they’d hung damply around her mood for so long. Every relationship had its bumps in the road, its difficult times, right? That was what you signed up to – for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer – and now they’d find a way back again, she and Matt. Together.

  ‘This is a lovely surprise,’ Laura said as she walked into the kitchen later on with a bottle of wine and a box of chocolate mints. It was a novel experience, opening her front door and being greeted by the smell of browning meat and roast garlic, and even more unusual to see her husband wearing a striped pinny amidst a faint air of panic. He had set the table for them, with wine glasses and their wedding-present cutlery (so posh you weren’t supposed to put it in the dishwasher) and there was an impressive sizzling as he flipped one steak in the pan, then the other. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, pulling the oven door open to check something inside, and then straightening up hurriedly as a foaming pan of carrots threatened to boil over on the hob. ‘Um . . . it’s all fine, I think,’ he said, remembering to give her a kiss in a flustered sort of way. ‘It’s a dinner-for-two thing from Marks & Spencer,’ he added distractedly, as an alarm on his phone started beeping. It was a good fifteen-minute schlep across town from Matt’s office to the nearest M&S, so clearly this was him Making An Effort, Laura realized. This was Big. ‘Hmm. I think that means the potatoes are done,’ he said, frowning. ‘Or was it the veg?’

  By the time Matt had served up their food, Laura was starting to feel a bit trembly with anticipation. Please let him have changed his mind, she thought, nibbling at a lukewarm forkful of potato dauphinoise. Please let this be the night when things turn around again. ‘Delicious,’ she remembered to say. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, sawing gamely at his steak. Then he cleared his throat, like a nervous groom about to launch into a wedding speech, and Laura felt her heart accelerate. ‘So I was talking to Elaine today at work,’ he began, at which she promptly deflated again.

  False alarm. Still, small talk was okay. They would chat, take the edge off things for a while, and then get down to the real matter of importance: their baby. She hoped.

  ‘And she’s been in touch with the guys at Head Office again, who made all the right noises, she reckons,’ Matt was saying. ‘So I need to go and meet them, chat things through, but basically, yeah: the job’s mine.’

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. Rewind a second. Job? What had happened to the small talk?

  ‘What?’ she asked in confusion. He was looking at her warily, his shoulders hunched as if he was braced for having to fend off an attack. Perhaps with their best cutlery. ‘But I thought . . .’ She’d thought they’d put this whole Newcastle business to bed last week, that was what she thought.

  ‘I really want to do it,’ he said quietly. ‘And . . .’ He put his fork down and looked at her, his expression anxious and apologetic. ‘I’m really sorry, Laura, but I think we should make a clean break. When it comes to us, I mean.’

  The potato turned to paste in her mouth, the room seemed to lurch around her. ‘What?’ she repeated, her voice rising. Her hands started to shake and she swigged back the rest of her wine. Bugger it, this was an emergency. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying . . .’ He paused, anguish in his eyes. ‘I’m saying I think we’ve reached the end of the road, Laura. Don’t you? Deep down?’

  Oh my God. The end of the road? Never in a million years had she expected him to tell her this. This was not steady, safe Matt, the man who’d been her ally and best friend for eighteen years, the man who always let her choose the furniture because he just wanted her to be happy. ‘You want us to . . . split up?’ she ventured in shock. It was like a bad dream, the very worst kind. He couldn’t seriously be saying these words, could he? ‘You really think that?’ She felt a sob in her throat. ‘And you . . . you cooked us dinner to tell me that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I’m truly, truly sorry. But after Friday – what we both said . . . Look, we want different things, don’t we? Such different things. And this job: I mean, I love it here in Manchester, I’ll always love it, but I think that Newcastle could offer—’

  ‘I don’t care about your stupid job!’ she shouted. ‘Stop talking about your job!’ Then she buried her face in her hands, weeping as if she’d never stop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, but there was a new determination in his voice, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to change his mind, that this fish had already decided which way to swim.

  ‘I could come with you,’ she said, tear-streaked and feeling increasingly desperate. ‘I don’t mind. We could go together.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘The thing is, I feel as if we hit a wall last week. And I know the baby thing was a deal-breaker for you, so . . .’

>   She had never felt so far apart from a person, even though they were facing one another across their small kitchen table. The baby thing. The fact that he’d referred so glibly to all her fervent hopes and yearning as ‘the baby thing’ spoke volumes. It said everything, in fact. But yes. He was right about it being a deal-breaker for her, unarguably. Unfortunately it seemed that ‘the baby thing’ had become a deal-breaker for him, too.

  They sat without speaking for a moment, the air thick with misery. Laura’s heart was thudding inside her, so loud she half-expected him to comment on it. She couldn’t believe this was happening. They had never had such a dramatic, high-stakes exchange about their relationship, never. India and Dan were always joking about not being able to stand each other, bickering and teasing one another so publicly that Laura had at times felt uncomfortable. ‘Right – that’s it. DIVORCE!’ India would declare whenever Dan did something she didn’t like: accidentally breaking one of her possessions, buying the wrong kind of cheese, failing to top up her glass over dinner. Jo and Greg too had often rowed, followed by Greg plunging into an almighty sulk. ‘He drives me mad!’ Jo would groan, clutching the sides of her head. But Laura and Matt had never been like that. They barely disagreed about anything. Until now, this evening, over dried-out steak and undercooked potato dauphinoise.

  She pushed her plate away, unable to contemplate another bite. ‘So . . . that’s it?’ she asked. ‘You’re leaving me, just like that? Don’t you love me any more?’

  He bit his lip; he felt terrible about this, she could see it on his face. ‘It’s not so much me leaving you,’ he said, ‘as us going our separate ways. And of course I love you. But . . . But it’s different now. We were so young, Laura. We rushed into getting married. Don’t you think?’

  ‘But it worked out!’ she felt compelled to remind him. ‘For years and years, it worked out.’

  ‘It did,’ he agreed, with almost unbearable gentleness. He’d always been a kind person. Even now, when he was breaking up with her, he was looking at her with such concern she could hardly bear it. ‘For years and years, it worked out.’

  ‘And it still could!’ she cried, but she could tell from his expression that she’d already lost him, that he was halfway to Newcastle, that he was thinking, No. No, it couldn’t. We’re done. She felt hot and cold all over suddenly, she was trembling uncontrollably with the shock. ‘Oh God,’ she sobbed, not knowing what else to say. We’re over. We’re splitting up. This is actually happening, right now, and there’s nothing I can do. He wants to have a clean break. We’re never going to have a baby. I’ll never be a mum.

  Matt rose to his feet, still apparently unable to resist trying to look after and comfort her, even though he no longer wanted to be married to her. ‘Come on,’ he said, putting his arms around her and holding her close. He smelled of steak and aftershave, of the end of a long day. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  How? Laura wanted to scream, feeling like pounding her fists against his chest. How will any of this be okay? But instead she let him hold her for several long minutes while she cried herself out. And then, once her breathing was slightly less ragged, and her tears were shuddering to a halt, he released her and mumbled something about going to stay with a mate.

  She heard him tramp heavily upstairs and into their bedroom, presumably to pack a bag of clothes. So he couldn’t even stand to stay another night with her, she thought, numb with despair. He was moving out of their house and out of the marriage in one fell swoop, no time to waste: you’re on your own now, love. He hadn’t even finished this unappetizing meal he’d cooked, so keen was he to go.

  Wait! she wanted to yell. Not yet! There was still so much left to talk about, there were still so many things they hadn’t said. He couldn’t just leave!

  But leave he did, minutes later, coming into the kitchen where she was still frozen in her chair to tell her that he’d ring her in a few days, that they both needed a bit of space to think things through. They could do this like grown-ups, he said, sounding increasingly apprehensive when she didn’t respond. ‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll be off then.’

  She was staring at the wall, not wanting to look at him, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  ‘Laura,’ he said helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I know this has come as a shock, but . . .’

  She clenched her jaw. ‘Just go,’ she said without turning her head.

  Chapter Sixteen

  India had just walked into Sainsbury’s when she saw the news. It was Saturday morning, and she’d woken up with an absolute belter of a hangover, following the emergency wine-and-more-wine night at Laura’s, called due to the shocking news that Matt had left her. (India still couldn’t believe it. She’d actually had a tear in her eye two minutes ago, wrestling to unclip a shopping trolley, because a man with the same brown hair and bouncy gait as Matt had walked past, and she’d immediately thought of her friend last night, sobbing to them that she would be a dried-up old spinster for the rest of her life, that she’d never have a baby now, never. India had vowed there and then not to whinge about her own children again, a vow that had promptly been broken at six-thirty that morning, when Kit woke her up by tunelessly playing a recorder in her face.)

  But all thoughts of Laura’s blotchy, broken-hearted face vanished from India’s eyes as she entered the supermarket and her eye fell on the blaring headline of the local newspaper: CRASH GIRL DIES.

  It was as if the world had telescoped down to her, one stricken woman and one single news story, detailing how poor, young, beautiful Alice Goldsmith had passed away the day before, following the horrific injuries she’d received at the city-centre crash, three weeks earlier. She’d been just twenty years old. ‘No,’ gulped India, staring and staring at the photo of her, as if there might have been some mistake. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Tragic, isn’t it?’ an older woman with a mauve rinse clucked, overhearing her. ‘Very sad.’

  India made a choking noise in her throat, abandoned her trolley and whirled back out through the doors, where she leaned over, hands on her thighs, trying to breathe in and out. Alice had died, she thought numbly. She had died. And then, before she knew it, she was scrabbling for her phone and clicking through to Facebook, to Alice’s page, where the sorrowful comments were flooding in thick and fast. There were photos – lots of photos – of Alice as a child, pigtails and school uniform; Alice as a teenager, black eyeliner and studiedly cool expression; Alice as a student, dressed up as a chicken; in a nightclub, at a festival, on some foreign beach . . . There were messages, too, from friends and family, people she’d been to school with, neighbours, former teachers and holiday employers – it was as if half of Manchester knew her, as if they’d all been touched by the tragedy. As had India herself, of course.

  Chloe Conway: RIP. You were a brilliant friend – so funny, kind and clever. I’ll never forget our nights out together – Glastonbury – Madrid!! – the gigs, parties, mornings after, the gossip, the laughs. Love you forever, Alice.

  Tess Sweeney: We’ve been praying for you, darling. Uncle Bri and I are just devastated to hear the news. A light has gone out in our world. Sleep tight, angel.

  Amy Fraser: All the hockey girls are in bits, hon. Can’t believe you’ve gone. Love to your family and everyone affected by your passing. You will be so so missed.

  India found herself blinking back tears. Stupidly, she’d always believed that Alice would get better, that there would be a happy ending to this story: the happy ending that she herself had been denied all those years ago. What an idiot she was. What a fool, to hope so naively, to keep telling herself that no news was good news; to have gone to the hospital herself like that – her selfish, lunatic pilgrimage, with Sylvia Plath and Margaret Atwood in a crisp Waterstones bag – as if that would change anything. And now the worst possible kind of update had come, and the girl was dead. So much for redemption. So much for second chances.

  Standing there beside the sn
aking metal row of trolleys, she found herself typing her own message:

  India Westwood: So very sorry you’ve gone, Alice. You were loved. More than you know.

  She could hear Dan in her head, ordering her to pack it in, to stay away, to stop interfering in other people’s lives. But you don’t even know her, she heard him cry, exasperated.

  But I sort of did, she thought to herself, pressing Post. And this Alice had come to symbolize so much for India, had become so real to her, so alive, that . . . Oh, but Dan wouldn’t understand. If she tried to explain it to him, he would give her that blank look of his, that scrunched-up face that said, Is my wife really this nuts?

  She blew her nose, gearing herself up to go back into the supermarket and hoping that someone hadn’t pinched the trolley she’d left abandoned by the newspaper stand. But just as she was about to put her phone back in her bag, she saw that a new post had been added at the top of Alice’s page:

  David Goldsmith: Thank you so much for your kind messages. We are finding comfort in them, on such a dark and terrible day. Alice’s funeral will be held on Friday, at Middleton Crematorium. Details TBC.

  Oh goodness. Alice’s dad. The funeral. Should she go? Say a final private goodbye?

  Don’t even think about it, Ind, said Dan at once, shaking his head forbiddingly in her imagination. Not your place, not your business.

  India blinked him away and gave one last sniffle. That was what he thought.

  ‘The Lord is righteous in all his ways and kind in all his deeds. The Lord is near to all who call upon him, to all who call upon him in truth. He will fulfil the desires of those who fear him; he will also hear their cry and will save them . . .’

  A stout black woman was intoning a psalm at the front of the room and the atmosphere in the crematorium’s hall was solemn and subdued. Alice’s parents were in the front pew, their body language that of those who had struggled across a bloody battlefield, only to find they’d lost the war anyway: heads bowed, shoulders heavy, expressions of shell-shocked grief.