As we leave the restaurant, I take his arm and we walk down the road in silence. It’s a cold night but clear and the stars are out. As we wait for a taxi, I look up at the sky. ‘What does the future hold for us, David?’
He looks up from his phone. ‘Well, from the look of my emails, my future is all about firing an idiotic minion tomorrow.’ He hums again as we wait, the same tune as when he got back from work. I smile up at him, trying to ignore my internal whingeing. Look at what you have, look how far you’ve come, I tell myself. No more takeaway pizzas in scummy bedsits where slamming doors and shouting keeps you up all night; now, it’s fancy dinners and home to our big house in a nice neighbourhood.
I look back at my handsome husband, trying to take in what everyone else must see. Striking features, expensive wool coat, successful businessman. Ignore the twinge of disquiet, look at what you have. Everything you could ever want.
Hey, big spender, David hums under his breath. Spend a little time with me.
8
Once you’re a parent, everybody tells you what to do. Everyone has an opinion or a helpful experience to share. It’s a pity nobody tells you how to amuse a small high-energy boy on a rainy day in February.
Today the wrinkly fingers of winter are holding on as best they can, and rain batters against the windows. It’s Wednesday, and upstairs all the beds are pristine and glowing. The washing machine is enjoying its well-earned rest.
It’s the middle of the day, but we have the living room lights on, casting some glow on what is otherwise a thoroughly depressing day. Johnny is bored, and stands up against the back of the sofa, looking out of the window onto the street, where the rain pours down in torrents. People rush to and fro in their lunch hours, umbrellas in front of them as shields against the rain, sploshing through the puddles, their legs and arms soaked. Nobody looks at each other as they run; nobody gives Johnny’s little face, pressed up against the window, the slightest second glance.
The advice first starts when you’re pregnant. Immediately you are told what you can and can’t eat. Where you should go, who you should tell and when.
David and I went to the antenatal classes. We drove the five minutes down the road in the black BMW to the shabby community centre and sat on grubby plastic chairs, cups of weak tea and two-finger Kit Kats in our hands. David spent the majority of the hour attached to his BlackBerry, disappearing off to answer calls. He refused to change out of his suit, looking distant and bored against the backdrop of the other dads-to-be, all worried and attentive, dressed in pink and purple striped Crew shirts or deliberately faded sweatshirts from FatFace. By the last one, he had stopped coming; the other parents gave me sympathetic looks as I stroked my bump reassuringly. At that point, I didn’t care. I knew I could do it alone.
At the classes, they told us all sorts of things. That you must go to your baby the minute it starts crying or you will scar it for life. Not giving it breast milk will make it inferior both developmentally and intellectually. Having a C-section is a failure on your part and you will not bond with your baby, thus, of course, scarring it for life. Everything you did was bound up in the fear that you could damage the baby in a variety of life-limiting and detrimental ways. According to them, I do everything wrong, but still Johnny is healthy, happy and attached to me. And I to him. It’s all crap, designed to get you to do what they say. Everyone has an agenda; everyone wants you to do what they want. Everyone wants to tell you what to do. To be in control.
The subject of your pregnancy is fair game for everyone, and nobody edits their thoughts. All stories of painful and protracted childbirth are relayed to you. ‘You’ll never sleep,’ you’re told. Stories of ripping and tearing and stitches and never being able to hold pee in again. Wear it as a badge of honour, sure, well done you. But shut the fuck up.
At those classes I smiled sweetly and rubbed my belly. I knew Johnny would be different to all this shrieking and caterwauling. And I was right: I arrived in an ambulance and Johnny came out the sunroof. I can still go on a trampoline and sneeze. Everything is fine, as I knew it would be. Johnny is fine. He is better than fine, he is perfect. My perfect, beautiful boy.
And, of course, there is no greater polarising argument in the do’s and don’ts of motherhood than the decision or otherwise to go back to work. Both working and stay-at-home mothers command derision from all corners, but it was an inevitable conversation for me.
‘There’s no point in sulking about it,’ David said, over dinner. He was picking through the pasta sauce I had made, looking for bits of meat. Johnny was in bed and for once we were eating together, trying to seem like a normal couple, like people who loved each other.
‘I’m not sulking, I’m just …’ I struggled to find the words, ‘sad to see it go.’
‘We agreed it was the best thing for Johnny; now move on.’
The use of the word ‘we’ implied I had any sort of say in the process. It was hard to disagree with the argument that the best place for a baby is home with its mother without sounding like a selfish child-hating cow.
The discussion over the past few months had taken the following form:
‘We don’t need the money.’ Him.
‘But I enjoy working, I like it.’ Me.
‘Do you enjoy it more than you enjoy your son? Do you like it more than Johnny?’ Him, with an accompanying raise of the eyebrows. ‘So that’s settled then.’
Apparently so. He had even drafted my resignation letter for me. Arriving home with it neatly printed and folded in a thick white envelope. All I had to do was sign.
And so I was a housewife, struggling to come to terms with my new label.
We ate in silence for a few minutes more, David still stirring the pasta with his fork.
‘Did you put any meat in this thing?’
He stood up suddenly and went to the fridge. Rummaged around then emerged with bacon. He slapped it decisively in the frying pan and turned it on. Not a word to me.
I finished my pasta, chewing silently, each mouthful tasting like cardboard. I pushed it down, not wanting to accept defeat.
David finished cooking the bacon and brought it over to his plate, mixing it into the pasta.
‘Don’t do that again. A man needs meat.’ He didn’t even look up.
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ I replied.
‘Like what?’ David said slowly, his voice cold.
‘Like I’m your child that needs to be told off.’
David looked at me, hard. ‘You are my wife, I will speak to you any way I want.’ He paused and took another mouthful of his dinner. ‘Put meat in it next time,’ he said finally.
In the silence, I thought back to my job. Nobody phoned after I sent the letter. I kept my new mobile close to me on the day my boss would have received it, expecting a phone call, at least a text in passing to say how sorry she was I wasn’t coming back. But nothing, until David passed me an official-looking letter from HR confirming my leaving date. Redirected to his office, along with the rest of our post. Time moves on quickly in business and the woman who had covered my maternity leave had seemed efficient, hard-working. Childless. And I hadn’t been in to visit over the past nine months: I had stayed away, not wanting to take my squawking little boy into the office, a place where children and stationery mixed like Maggie and a trip to Lidl. People were busy. I couldn’t blame them. ‘Quite right,’ David said.
‘David, I’ll need money,’ I said, finishing my pasta and putting my knife and fork down carefully. ‘Now I’m not getting maternity pay, I’ll need money to buy things for the house. Like cleaning products, food, clothes for Johnny.’
He grunted. I continued. ‘Could we set up a joint account? Where all the money goes and I can use it?’
He looked at me, saying nothing, mopping his chin with his napkin. The second hand on the kitchen clock continued its journey, the fridge started buzzing. I stayed resolutely silent.
‘I’ll set up a transfer,’ he said at last.
‘I’ll move money into your account every month and you can use that for all the household stuff and Johnny. Anything additional you need, you’ll need to run past me.’
‘Wouldn’t it just be easier—’
‘No, I don’t want you to have access to my money. That’s my business. You’ll have what I give you. And I want you to keep track of what you spend, down to the last penny. This is my money and I want to know what you spend it on.’
He threw his napkin into his plate and stood up. ‘I have work to do, I’ll be in my study. Someone has to keep the money coming in.’
I sat there for a moment longer, letting his words wash over me, then stood up and stacked the empty dishes next to the sink, picking up the pan he had used to cook his bacon and slowly loading the dishwasher. I had a job to do, and this was it.
Johnny turns and looks at me. ‘Go out?’ he asks, his voice the annoying whine only a two-year-old can master. I stop my musings about a life lost and turn to my son. He is bored, and I know anything we try to do will dissolve into a perfect myriad of bad behaviour: listless boredom, thrown toys, sulking and whingeing requests for the television.
I start to say no, then look outside again. It’s not actually a cold day, just wet. How else are we going to fill the afternoon?
I rush around the house, gathering up wellie boots from the utility room, raincoats, hats. ‘Come on, Johnny,’ I say. ‘Let’s go out.’
I put him in his all-in-one wet-weather gear, instantly laughing at him dressed head to toe in blue plastic adorned with cars and trains. He has a peaked hood to protect him from the rain and his little face pokes out from the hole. His boots are similarly ridiculous, red with little blue boats on, but at least he looks impervious to the rain. He stands in our hallway smiling, his small green football tucked under his arm. My own outfit isn’t quite so convincing – I own one rain jacket and a pair of wellies. But at least the jacket has a hood.
As I pull open the door, I realise the rain has got worse. It’s pouring down in sheets, and a great river has now formed, running down the gutters, pulling leaves, branches and crisp packets with it as it goes.
Small boys do not care about getting wet. Johnny is instantly outside with a swish of nylon, and straight to the nearest puddle. He throws his football with force and the splash covers him with muddy water from head to toe. He shrieks with glee, and reaches down to do it again. He jumps about in it and stamps in it, squealing with delight, kicking water across the street. He puts his hands in it, he runs through it, he drops pebbles in it. The whole world is one great water theme park to a small boy.
I have been hiding in the shadow of our porch as much as possible, but Johnny stops and comes to me, holding out his hand.
‘Mummy do it,’ he says, and pulls me over to a puddle.
I lift a foot and plonk it down. Water flows up and out, then back again. Johnny makes another great leap into the middle, water soaking up my jeans. That’s it now, there’s no going back, and I whoop and leap along with him.
Just me and my boy, in the middle of the pavement, jumping and running and getting soaked.
Johnny looks up at me and smiles. ‘It funny,’ he says in his broken speech. ‘Mummy funny.’ I smile back at him, and turn my face up to the grey sky, closing my eyes.
9
At seven p.m., the front door slams. I hear David place his briefcase on the floor and move into the hallway. He pauses by the door to the office, and I hear a jangle of keys as he unlocks the door and places his briefcase inside. As the door clicks shut again, he comes into the kitchen, where I am standing behind the ironing board. I have paused, shirt in one hand and iron in the other. It lets off a burst of steam and I jump.
‘One of the execs brought his son in to visit work today,’ he says, ‘and suddenly everyone’s talking about what a wonderful father he is, and how he should make partner.’ He laughs. ‘It’s a good job I don’t need to worry about any of that shit any more.’
He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair while I rearrange the shirt on the ironing board. I watch him: he seems slightly twitchy and restless, uncharacteristically uncertain of himself.
‘Is Johnny in bed?’ he asks, unexpectedly.
‘He’s still awake if you want to say goodnight.’ I gesture towards the monitor, where the blue lights periodically flash.
To my surprise, I hear him climb the stairs. I hold the baby monitor to my ear as he goes into Johnny’s room. There’s a noise as the door opens, then I hear his footsteps. I imagine him leaning over the cot in the semi-darkness.
‘Daddy?’ I hear Johnny say, quietly. Then a few jumbled words, then ‘Daddy at work.’
‘Daddy’s home from work,’ David says. ‘Daddy had lots of fun at work. What did you do today?’
Johnny mutters another jumble of syllables, and then something about Rabbit and some trains.
‘That’s interesting, Johnny,’ David says, playing along. ‘One day you’re going to go to work like Daddy and make lots of money.’
I hope not, I think. I hope you turn out nothing like your daddy. I hope you become an artist or a train driver, or anything to keep you away from the ridiculous world your daddy inhabits.
I carry on listening as Johnny chatters away, but can’t make anything else out. After a while I hear David say, ‘Night night, Johnny,’ and Johnny say, ‘Night night, Daddy,’ his voice pure through the crackling of the monitor. For a moment we are a perfect family: David the loving husband and father, and me the loving wife.
I put the monitor down and turn back to the ironing, finishing off the shirt and hanging it up with the rest. David comes back into the kitchen and has a look at the pot on the stove, lifting up the lid. ‘Chilli,’ he says. ‘Nice. Have you eaten?’ He comes round to my side of the ironing board and circles my waist with his arm, kissing me on the side of the cheek.
‘I ate with Johnny. I wasn’t sure when you would be home.’ I move and flick on the kettle, glancing back nervously to where David is leaning on the counter, one hand holding the beer I’ve just passed him.
He smiles at me, his face crinkling in the way I could never resist when we were dating. Warm, genuine, loving. Odd.
Six months into my new relationship with David, I had to go away with work. I packed my little trundle case with a smile, looking forward to an all-expenses-paid trip up north.
David and I had dinner the night before I left. A quiet dinner in a simple local Italian. He had pizza, I had cannelloni. We laughed and ate and had sex at his house after. He begged me not to go; he said he would miss me.
My generic hotel room in the generic hotel chain was actually warm and welcoming. The temperature was just right. The shower was hot and powerful. The bed was firm and comfortable. Sitting on my bed watching television to pass the time, I felt a strange ache I hadn’t noticed before. I picked up my phone and scrolled through photos of David and me together. Normally, away from home, I felt a sense of freedom, but this time I actually missed it, I missed David. I had something to come home to.
The trip passed in a blur. I don’t remember what it was for; I don’t remember what I learnt or what I had to do. I just remember that when I got home, my flat seemed sad and empty. I left my bag, still full of dirty washing, and went round to David’s house, uninvited.
As soon as he opened the door, I wondered if I had made a mistake. The house was in darkness, and he seemed surprised to see me. He invited me into a room lit with candlelight; I could smell something cooking in the oven. I turned back to him.
‘What’s going on?’
David finished sending a message on his phone and turned to me. ‘I knew you would come round. This is all for you.’ He smiled. That all-encompassing smile that made me weak at the knees and stupid in the brain.
I walked into the dining room, took in the present on the table, the perfectly laid-out cutlery, glasses, red wine in the crystal decanter. Only the best.
‘How did you know what time I
would be here?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said, without missing a beat. ‘But I knew what time your train would get in, and I hoped you’d come over.’
His phone started to ring and he looked at the screen, his face clouding over.
‘Do you need to take that?’ I asked, and he glanced up at me.
‘It’s just work,’ he said quickly, his smile switching on. He silenced the phone and shoved it into his pocket.
‘Can I open this?’ I asked, and he nodded. I pulled open the richly embossed box, taking off the ribbon and the tissue paper, revealing the lace and silk inside. Instantly my cheeks were aflame.
‘I’ve never worn anything like this,’ I stuttered. I looked at the tiny piece of fabric, thinking of the cheeseburger I’d had for lunch and the bars of chocolate on the train. I looked at the size. ‘I’ll never get into these.’
‘You will,’ David said. ‘I love you, Annie North.’
My mouth fell open. I felt that someone was truly there for me. Someone who cared for me enough to notice when my train would arrive, and make dinner and somehow, magically, fall in love with me.
‘I love you too,’ I whispered, the tiny piece of lace still in my hand. I didn’t have time to even try to put it on; within moments we were in the bedroom, the dinner forgotten and ignored.
I was home when I was with him. I moved in the next day.
I move round him to pour the boiling water on the rice and click it on. I go back to the ironing and shake out the last shirt, positioning it over the board. I’m only too aware of him watching me, not saying a word, drinking his beer with that same smile from years ago. I do it perfectly, not a crease remaining as I finish off the collar.
The Dream Wife Page 6
