by Amy Bratley
I’ll talk to Mel and see how she feels. Honey Hill – does Eeyore live there, too?
Then another one from Coco:
Just come on your own. I didn’t tell you everything when we met— x
The reply from Leo:
I’ll talk to Mel.
Then, finally, from Coco:
Seriously, we should talk. Things aren’t quite as they seem in Honey Hill— x
Mel read the emails twice more before closing down the computer. Honey Hill? Was that some kind of joke? Only someone as beautiful as Coco could have an address like Honey Hill. Mel’s blood boiled. How dare she try to lure Leo to Honey Hill? Mel tried to calm herself. Seriously, we should talk. Things aren’t as they seem in Honey Hill . . . it sounded like the name of some dodgy porn flick. And Leo had made a joke about Eeyore! Did that count as flirtation? Mel stood up and put her hands on her hips. Staring at the computer, she kicked the office chair. Serves you right for looking came her mother’s voice in her head. But did it serve her right? If Leo and Coco were conversing, didn’t she have the right to know? Mel had never been the jealous type, but this situation was completely different. And, since having Mabel, Mel didn’t feel quite as confident as her old self. No one could ignore the fact that Coco was so . . . so . . . incredibly beautiful! Only eight weeks after giving birth, sleep-deprived Mel felt hideously unattractive. With bags like aubergines under her eyes, her face looked drawn and defeated. Her maternity blouse was billowing and shapeless. And her trousers? She knew she was being ambitious putting them on. The seams were about to split. She sucked in her stomach and clenched her bottom, thinking of Coco and Leo together, smirking at how mumsy Mel had become already. Leo rarely complimented her these days, did he? And as for sex? That was a big no-go area. Maybe Leo didn’t look at her in the same way since seeing Mabel emerge from the depths of her body? Stop, she told herself. You’re being stupid, he’d never think that. Would he?
‘Oh, God,’ said Mel, her hands on the side of her head. ‘What should I do?’
Mabel started to whimper and so Mel picked her up, kissing her head and cuddling her close then shaking a rattle in front of her. She took a deep breath. I will not cry, she instructed herself. I will not cry. I will not laugh. Feeling tears spring into her eyes, she closed her eyes and breathed. Leo’s not actually done anything wrong came her mother’s voice again. At last – a voice of reason! Her eyes pinged open.
What’s happening to me? she thought, as if she could suddenly see herself like she was watching herself on television. I’m falling apart! I’m acting like a loon.
Dismayed, Mel stared at the soil from the pot of the plant that had scattered on the floor. I used to be the lead graphic designer at Yellow. I used to be the star of the agency. I used to get asked to take on the most important jobs. Deal with the biggest clients. I’ve won awards! I’ve endured labour, for God’s sake! Now I’m behaving like a simpering idiot. What’s got into me? Mabel was wriggling in her arms, restless, Mel sensed, to get out of the flat. Mel checked the clock. She was due to meet Rebecca in ten minutes.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ she said, her hands clammy with anxious sweat. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s go swimming.’
Stuffing a bikini, too small and years old – her swimsuit had disappeared into the same place all her knickers, except for her massive, apple-gathering, post-birth ones, had gone – into a bag with a towel, nappies, wipes, a change of clothes for Mabel and a couple of swimming nappies, Coco’s words ran on a loop in her head. Things aren’t as they seem in Honey Hill. Come on your own. With Mabel in her arms, cursing Coco under her breath, she made her way out of the flat, locking the door and collecting the buggy from the top of the stairs. Gingerly carrying Mabel, the pushchair and two bags downstairs with her, images of them both tumbling to their deaths as she walked and chastising herself for not doing two journeys, she breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the bottom and opened the front door. Checking she had her wallet in her pocket, an idea flashed into her mind. A very bad idea. I’ll go and see Coco. She surprised me. Now it’s my turn to surprise her. No, she told herself. That’s ludicrous. You can’t possibly go. Striding up the street, pushing Mabel in the pushchair to meet Rebecca on the crossroads, the swimming bag dangling off one handle, the changing bag off the other and knocking against her knees, she repeated to herself that she couldn’t possibly go. Only forty-five minutes on the train. Speak to Leo, that’s what I should do. Wait. But then he’d know she was spying on his emails. Then he’d think she was crazy. Maybe she was. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she dialled him. When he picked up, she didn’t even say hello.
‘Have you got anything to tell me?’ she asked brusquely. ‘Anything about Coco?’
A lump rose in her throat as she waited for his answer. She hated being like this, but couldn’t help herself.
‘What?’ he said, sounding confused. ‘Do you mean because I’ve heard from her? I said we’d visit her some time. Of course I’ve said not right now, but I would like to talk to Jacques properly and tell him who I am, in the future. I wanted to leave it until things had calmed down a bit.’
‘How do you think her husband feels about that?’ Mel asked.
Leo was silent for a while, then he answered. ‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I get the feeling her husband isn’t on the scene any more.’
‘Right,’ said Mel, as calmly as she could. Inwardly, she was screaming obscenities at Coco. Her mind was made up. ‘Well, look, if I’m late tonight don’t worry. I might go round to Rebecca’s to talk about her wedding.’
Silence. She cringed, knowing that he must be guessing what she planned.
‘Oh,’ said Leo, disappointed. ‘So you won’t be there when I get home from work? I’m missing Mabel. And you.’
Incredible. Why were men so thick-skinned? It wasn’t even occurring to Leo that she might be planning to go to see Coco. That’s because he was sane. And she wasn’t.
‘No, but we’ll talk later,’ Mel said firmly before hanging up.
Waving at Rebecca, who was waiting on the corner, leaning against a red brick wall like a model in a trendy jeans advert, looking as if she might start street dancing at any moment if she hadn’t been carrying Elvis in his sling, Mel felt her resolve grow stronger. One part of her brain told her she was being teenaged, another part told her she was being brave. A final part told her she just wanted to avoid putting on her bikini.
‘Fancy a trip to London?’ asked Mel. ‘I’ll get the tickets.’
Rebecca looked bemused, but smiled at the same time. There was a glint in her eyes.
‘Err, yeah?’ said Rebecca. ‘But why? I thought we were going to Little Swimmers. I’d rather go to London, though.’
‘I’ll explain on the way,’ she said. ‘If we walk quickly we’ll make the twelve o’clock.’
Smile, Katy told herself. Go on. Smile now. As she sat in the GP surgery’s waiting room with Rufus in the car seat, asleep, a young mother, tall, with long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and dressed in a long, flowery dress and a mohair cardigan, holding her baby in her arms and pacing back and forth, smiled at Katy.
‘Is your baby poorly?’ said the woman, standing still but rocking from side to side to soothe her baby.
‘No,’ said Katy with a brief smile, though she felt like curling up into a ball. ‘He’s fine. How about yours?’
Katy really didn’t want to listen to this woman. She needed these few minutes to psyche herself up. Speaking to a perfect Mother Earth type would only make matters worse. Make the fear swallow her up in one gulp. If I don’t make eye contact, she thought, maybe I’ll be left alone.
‘Oh, she’s fine,’ said the woman. ‘I’m the one with the problem. Since she’s been born, I can’t stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be so upbeat, and now I can barely drag myself out of bed in the morning.’
The woman let out a duck-like laugh. Katy felt surprised. She smiled at the woman sympathetically. M
aybe she wasn’t alone in the world.
‘I know what you mean,’ she said briefly.
‘Do you?’ said the woman. ‘Because so many people I talk to don’t. Sorry, I think I’m venting.’
‘No,’ said Katy hesitantly. ‘No, you’re not. Actually, well, I’m not too good either. I had a horrible birth and, well, it’s scarred me, in more ways than one.’
There. She’d said it. Admitted to a perfect stranger that she had a problem. That wasn’t so hard. No one laughed. No enormous arrow inscribed with ‘failure’ fell from the sky and pointed at her. She felt shaken but also buoyed up, ready to see her GP. But she knew her mood could change at any moment. Glancing at the electronic board, she willed her name to flash up next. It’s unbelievable how nervous I feel, she thought. Christ, my hands and legs are shaking.
‘I go to a brilliant group,’ said the woman. ‘It’s for women who had a tough time in labour. I did, too. We don’t all sit around analysing our births, but you can talk about it if you want to and it’s just good to be with other women who understand. All my friends seem to have had ideal births and, though I’m glad for them, it can be a little galling when it’s literally all they talk about. Here, have my card.’
The woman handed her a business card. Katy scanned it: Shereen Blake, Events Organizer. They’d probably come across each other professionally before now. Then the electronic board bleeped and Katy’s name came up. Room number 3. She smiled at Shereen, picked up the sleeping Rufus and carried him down the corridor to Room 3. As she knocked cautiously on the door and entered the brightly lit room, her heart was beating too fast and too loudly. She felt light-headed. Christ, she thought, can I do this?
‘Hello, Katy,’ said Dr Wallace, a female doctor Katy had been to on the few occasions she’d had to see the GP during pregnancy. ‘How can I help you?’
Sit down, she told herself. Take deep breaths. Closing her eyes for a few moments, she took a long deep breath and did what she’d never had to do in her life. She asked for help.
‘This has come as a surprise to me. I’m a successful businesswoman and director of a company. Everything in my life used to be ordered. My wardrobe is colour-coded, my books alphabetically shelved,’ she said, choking on her words. ‘I had a healthy pregnancy and really looked after myself. But, now that Rufus is here, my life feels like it’s spiralling out of control. I’m not coping very well.’
She swallowed, blinking back the tears in her eyes. She thought of the way she’d spoken to Alan that morning. They’d argued so viciously – about what? The way he’d made the porridge, of all things! She blushed remembering how she’d shouted at Alan for using full-fat milk and not her organic skimmed milk. She’d refused to eat breakfast, pushed the bowl away and folded her arms like a moody teenager. Alan had shouted back and dumped the porridge in the sink. Rufus had started to cry, his face turning bright pink. In a vision of the future, Katy had been hit with a flash-forward of ten years: Rufus in his bedroom with his headphones jammed against his ears, door closed, to drown out Mum and Dad screeching at each other downstairs. Her blood had run cold and she’d picked up the phone to make an appointment at the surgery. Now or never.
‘I think I need help,’ she said. ‘I’m not myself. At all.’
Dr Wallace was nodding at Katy knowingly, and smiling sympathetically.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘A lot of women feel like this, which may comfort you. If you could tell me more about your feelings, I will try to help you. And, Katy, I’ve been there myself. I know what you’re going through.’
Katy’s eyes grew wider. Dr Wallace was a smooth-skinned, cool, lively young doctor she instinctively admired. She looked as if she’d never had a problem of her own in her life. Katy gave her a small nod, to acknowledge her sharing. She took a deep breath and started at the beginning, when the nightmare began.
‘The birth didn’t go as I had planned,’ she said, her eyes on Rufus. ‘I had an emergency C-section, but it wasn’t the C-section that was the problem. I could get my head around not having a natural birth. No, it was the fact that I didn’t know, when he came out, if he was alive or—’
The journey to London was the length of Rebecca’s breastfeed, much to the apparent distaste of a businessman sitting opposite them. Mel was so angry at that moment, she didn’t give a fuck what he thought and, every time he looked at Rebecca, she glared back at him, daring him to say a word. If he says anything, she told herself, I will ask him why Rebecca’s breasts offend him and those on page three of his newspaper don’t. Perhaps it’s because he thinks Rebecca’s breasts should be there for him to appreciate and not Elvis? I might even suggest she squirt him in the eye with a jet of milk. That would silence him. When he got bored with staring at Mel and Rebecca, the man immersed himself in his newspaper and Mel gazed out of the window at the changing landscape. The Sussex Downs were so surprisingly green compared to Brighton, and the sight of all those fields made her think of her childhood. They’d lived in a small house that backed on to the fields, so she’d spent many hours rambling across them alone or with pals. After her dad had died, Mel’s perspective on the hills changed. They seemed empty and lonely, somewhere she didn’t want to be when she grew up. She had quietly planned out the rest of her life. She would earn money from drawing pictures, because she was best in her class at art. When she was old enough, she would have a family with lots of children running around her house by the sea. There would be a happy ever after. There had to be. What of that happy ending now? Was Coco going to ruin it?
‘So, the plan is,’ Rebecca said nervously, from beside Mel, ‘we go to Coco’s house, or flat, or caravan, or whatever she lives in, and take her by surprise and tell her to stay out of Leo’s life.’
‘I don’t think it’s a caravan,’ said Mel with a smile. ‘From what I’ve witnessed of her, she probably lives in one of those amazing London town houses. Or a palace even.’
‘Okay,’ said Rebecca. ‘So we’ll storm the palace and take her by surprise! Good plan.’
Mel laughed. She didn’t actually have a clue what the plan was. In fact, by the time the train pulled into London, the strong urge to kill Coco she had felt after reading her email conversation with Leo was fading slightly. And by the time they’d spent twenty minutes travelling on two different tube lines and sitting in a clump of warm, stringy, chewing gum (during which, the babies, mercifully, slept), her reason for coming almost eluded her. Walking in the direction of Honey Hill, Mel passed the lush green Hampstead Heath, but she was too absorbed in what she was about to do to notice her surroundings. What. Am. I. Doing. She chanted it in time with her steps. Catching sight of herself in a car window, she was mildly horrified. What was that top all about? She looked as if she’d walked into a kite, or a banner that had fallen from a shopfront. And those trousers! Was it really possible to have been wearing size twelve jeans just a year ago?
‘I can’t go,’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘This is ridiculous. What am I doing?’
Rebecca, probably wishing she’d never agreed to come, put her hand on Mel’s arm.
‘Just go and talk to her,’ she said. ‘You can always say we were in London for another reason and decided to look her up. At least if you talk you can get an idea of what she really wants. One thing I think now, since my mum told me about her illness, is that you have to tell the truth. Be open.’
Mel rubbed the back of her neck and checked on Mabel, who was still fast asleep. She was going to wake up screaming for food any minute.
‘She’s going to think I’m crazy, but you’re right,’ she replied. ‘I can’t read an email and freak out like this. Why do I feel so totally threatened by her? I’m sorry about your mum, Rebecca.’
Rebecca smiled in acknowledgement. ‘It’s probably because you’ve just had Mabel and everything is new and fragile and difficult, but underneath all that you’ve got a baby with the man you love and you don’t want anything or anyone to threaten that. I understand that.’
/> Mel smiled at Rebecca and hugged her, avoiding Elvis, asleep in his sling.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks for coming. You’re the only one I could have asked. Lexi, Katy and Erin would have stopped me.’
‘They probably have more sense than me,’ said Rebecca with a grin. ‘Come on, let’s just go and get it over with then sit on the heath and get an ice cream.’
Outside Coco’s address, Mel and Rebecca stopped at the ornate iron railings and gawped. In the garden, pruning roses, the image of a breathtakingly pretty Catherine Zeta-Jones in The Darling Buds of May, her hair up in a loose bun, tendrils falling around her jaw, dressed in denim hot pants, wedges and a white blouse tied at the waist so her tanned midriff was visible, was Coco. On the grass nearby, a slim woman with short blonde hair dressed in a striped top and jeans sat with a young boy: Jacques. Adorable. Mel’s legs almost gave way. He was the image of Leo. The woman lay on her back, reading, while Jacques played on some kind of computer game. Mel shook her head at Rebecca and pointed in the direction they’d come. Grabbing her by the elbow, she steered her away from the iron railings, wanting to run away as fast as her legs would carry her. But, at that moment, Mabel woke up and let out a piercing cry. Mabel’s cry woke up Elvis, and he, too, began to cry. Coco, the woman and Jacques all looked towards the sound. Shit. Mel’s stomach flipped.
‘Mon Dieu!’ said Coco, waving her pruning shears in the air. ‘Mel? What are you doing here?’
Mel smiled a watery smile. She attempted to arrange her features in a ‘Fancy that, you live here, do you?’ type of expression. And failed miserably.
‘Mel?’ Coco said again, sashaying over the grass towards them then opening the garden gate and gesturing that they should enter. ‘What are you doing here? Is Leo with you?’
Mel froze. No words came. She suddenly had no idea why she was there or what she wanted to say. Slowly, she walked in through the garden gate. She shook her head in answer to Coco’s question. Jacques, Leo’s boy, was staring at them and all Mel could think was that he and Mabel were half-brother and -sister. Staring at Coco, she thought she could still pass for seventeen, so fresh-faced and bright-eyed was she. Mel had never looked like that, not even when she was seventeen. A goth, she’d been. Hair dyed blue-black, black nail varnish, lashings of black eye make-up. They would never have been friends. Rebecca elbowed her in the ribs and Mel blinked.
