by Adele Parks
Abi leaned across the table. ‘Maybe not, but you know I would, right? I mean, what you’ve done for me, scooped me up, invited me into your home. It’s so generous. Above and beyond. I’m more than grateful.’
Mel smiled and blushed. Abi had thought Mel might have grown out of the blushing by now; it was almost cute on a teen, but a little dispiriting on a woman who ought to be more confident.
‘Well, if anyone is going to be interviewed by Hello! it’s you!’ pointed out Mel, laughingly. Then, more soberly, she added, ‘I know it’s crazy because we’ve only been reunited for twenty-four hours, but Abi, it’s like we’ve never been apart, isn’t it? And you know, I’d do anything to make things better for you. I really would.’
‘People say anything, but they don’t really mean it,’ said Abi.
Mel looked crushed. ‘Well, I mean it. Anything at all,’ she insisted.
Abi smiled and nodded. It was exactly what she wanted to hear.
11
Melanie
I’ve never fallen in love at first sight. I’m a slow-burn sort. My boyfriends before Liam’s father were mates before they became dates. I was never in love with Liam’s father; just in lust. And Ben? Well, he had to woo me in the old-fashioned way because, basically, I was terrified he was going to hurt me – or more importantly, Liam – by bouncing in and then out of our lives. His good looks worked against him; it took a long time for me to trust him. Yet, I remember back to that first moment I met Abi, I had flutters in my stomach. An instant spark, a feeling that we were meant to be together. And now, I feel it all over again. I’m not coming out here. I don’t fancy her. I’m just saying being with her is intense, wonderful, uplifting. I’ve missed her.
I can’t wait to get the girls to bed. They sense it and play up. Ben’s no help because he sees Abi’s visit as an excuse to pop to the gym and then no doubt he’ll undo the good work as he’ll nip to the local for a cold one; he rushes out the door at seven thirty.
‘You’ve got yourself a good man there,’ says Abi as she waves to him from the sitting-room window. Ben waves back and grins at her, as he dashes down the path. ‘Where is he from?’
It’s a strange non-sequitur comment. ‘Newcastle.’
‘His parents?’
‘Newcastle.’ I know what she’s getting at and even when it’s Abi asking, it’s annoying. It’s hard to see her enquiry as anything other than outright prejudice. There’s an implication that he’s somehow not exactly British, even though he was born here and his parents were born here. ‘His grandparents are Jamaican,’ I add, because this is what she’s asking and because we’re proud of the fact.
‘How fascinating. How wonderful. Do you ever go there for holidays?’
Her obvious enthusiasm makes me relax a little. I feel a bit ashamed that I thought she was being off. It’s just that mixed-race couples still raise an eyebrow and we shouldn’t. But I should never have imagined Abi would be so small-minded.
‘No. His mother once went to visit her aunt and uncle but Ben doesn’t know anyone there,’ I explain. ‘I’d love to go one day. Take the kids, so they get to know a bit more about their heritage.’
‘You certainly don’t have a type, do you?’ she muses.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully. I’m smiling because I don’t want this to be a thing but I sense it is.
‘Well, Liam’s father, what was he called? Dean?’
‘Ian.’
‘Yes, Ian. Well, he can’t have looked much like Ben. Liam is so blonde.’
‘I think he gets that from my mother,’ I reply, not prepared to confirm or deny whether Liam’s father was blonde. It’s been a long time since I’ve had these sorts of conversations. I start to head towards the kitchen.
‘Maybe. They do say certain genes skip a generation.’
‘Shall we try that grapefruit tonic?’ I offer.
‘I hope you mean with gin.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then yes.’ As I pass her the drink she asks, ‘Does Liam mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘That he doesn’t look anything like the rest of you. Does he feel separate? Isolated?’
What an odd question. It’s true that the rest of us all have brown hair and eyes. Ben is black and the girls have beautiful sepia brown skin. I pick up quite a good tan in the summer although I’m a ghostly white right now, my hair has a definite kink to it, the girls and Ben have big, confident afros. Liam’s hair is poker straight. He’s pale and blonde, as Abi mentioned. Blue eyed.
‘We’ve never really dwelt on the matter.’ I know I sound prickly. I’m trying not to be but I am.
I nervously flick my gaze at Abi. I don’t see any likenesses between him and his biological father, but then I can hardly remember the face of the young man who impregnated me. For me, Liam’s providence is an ancient story, a closed book. Ben is his dad. And an exceptionally good one. I never feel comfortable talking about the man who brought him into being. It reflects badly on me. I worry that Liam thinks it reflects badly on him, too. Obviously, it doesn’t. But kids see things weirdly. They blame themselves for things that are way out of their control.
Abi looks abashed. ‘No, no, silly of me to have brought it up. You do know I didn’t mean anything odd.’ She reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezes tightly, like a child might. Impulsively, I bring our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Weird, but she permits intimacy, somehow demands it.
‘Of course,’ I reassure her. I want to move on. Get off this topic. She smiles at me, eyes glistening with relief. I matter to her. My good opinion matters to her.
The evening races by, shimmering with laughter and shared confidences. Our lives are obviously very different, yet we find things in common. We find we watch a lot of the same TV shows and we have the same view on them, we’ve read some of the same novels and I make a note of others Abi recommends. Abi has been to several places on my bucket list and it’s fascinating to hear all about them first hand. She strengthens my resolve to travel more, when the kids are all a bit older and when there’s a bit more spare cash floating about. Abi shows me her Instagram account. It’s full of stunning, glistening, gleaming images. Her in exotic locations, in fabulous restaurants, at gigs, shows and the theatre.
‘Don’t you have an Insta?’ she asks, not even self-conscious about the casual use of the abbreviation, as though she was sixteen. She is so confident.
‘No, but maybe I should get one.’ I don’t really mean this. Or at least I do, right now, but I won’t in the morning after I’ve slept off the effect of the G&Ts. What would I post? I think about the food I prepare. Liam wolfs it down – there would be no time to photograph it. The girls pick and poke; in the end, everything I prepare looks like a Jackson Pollock on a plate.
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ says Abi, sounding bored. ‘It’s so time consuming.’
‘That’s what Ben says. He’s not a fan of social media. He thinks it’s desperate and deadening. Basically, I think he just doesn’t like his boss knowing too much about his personal life.’
‘Is that why you never post photos?’
‘I suppose.’ I take a sip of my G&T.
Abi nods, thoughtfully. ‘Ben’s quite right. Very dignified.’
Hearing her compliment Ben encourages me to add, ‘I’ve always been careful with what I post. Liam didn’t grow up in an era where social media dominated childhoods. When he was very tiny, I still had photos developed at Boots. By the time every Tom, Dick, and Harry were equipped with smartphones and everyone fancied themselves to be the next Annie Leibovitz, Liam was at the age where he point-blank refused to let me take his photo, let alone allow me to post pictures of him.’ Abi smiles and nods. ‘I never got into the habit. I still prefer printing the shots and putting them in albums. The girls grumble about this on a regular basis. They’d love to be plastered all over the internet.’
‘You’re a very special person to have such standards. It’s unusual, Mel, to hav
e such a high regard for privacy. You know the thing I don’t like about social media?’
‘What?’
‘The fact that no matter how many photos I post of me meeting pop stars, politicians or the Dalai Lama—’
‘You’ve met the Dalai Lama?’ I interrupt excitedly. She nods, smiles and carries on. ‘Yes, but even so, I’m in a competition I can’t win.’
‘You can’t possibly suffer from FOMO.’
‘It’s more FOMOOM. Fear of missing out on motherhood,’ she says sadly.
‘Oh.’
‘Social media is nothing other than an echo chamber. People are forever posting pictures of their children. Just children doing perfectly normal things, often as not – but I can’t join in. Here’s little Elliot or Harriet in a sand box, or in a hat, in the bath. It’s so ordinary, there’s a plethora of these shots, at any and every point, on my feed.’ Abi sighs then straightens her back, which was unusually bowed, sniffs bravely and admits, ‘It’s exquisitely, painfully inaccessible for me. From bump to junior school, people post practically every moment.’
‘I’m so sorry, Abi. I had no idea you felt this way.’ Why would I?
She shrugs and then tries to make a joke. ‘Although I do notice the photos tend to drop off once a kid gets a bit older. I guess the cute factor wears a little thin then. Not quite so appealing.’
‘They do go through an ugly stage,’ I say, with a laugh. I don’t mean it. I think my babies are and were beautiful, every single step of the way, but I feel a sudden need to detract from their perfection. It makes no sense but I suddenly feel aware of my glut and her lack and I’m drenched with a wave of guilt. Stupidly, I think of that fairytale – Sleeping Beauty – where the witch left off the invitation list swoops in and brings all sorts of trouble. I stare at my G&T glass. It’s empty. I need to slow down. My thoughts are bonkers. If anything, Abi is the Fairy Godmother who gets Cinderella to the ball, not a bad fairy.
‘Did you hear about that man who photographed his son every day from the boy’s birth to the day he turned twenty-one? He made a time-lapse video with the 7,500-odd photos. That’s what I’m up against,’ declares Abi. ‘Baby worship. It’s an epidemic.’
‘It must be hard,’ I admit. I love Facebook – even though I don’t post pictures, I love to read other people’s euphoric posts. The ones wishing the ‘sweetest, kindest, funniest boy/girl a happy birthday’. Oblivious to the fact that everyone else is claiming the same of their child. These utter and complete testaments of love have always delighted me. Now, I see it from Abi’s point of view. The vanity behind the posts. The insensitivity.
Abi shoots me a look that suggests she is irritated, if not outright angry. It is difficult to know what the right thing to say is, exactly. She juts out her chin and says firmly, ‘Still, I’m an absolutely awesome PANK.’
‘PANK?’ I ask, not certain I want to know the answer.
‘Professional Aunt, No Kids.’
‘Oh yes you are, the girls are already totally under your spell.’
‘And Liam too, I hope.’
I’m not sure Liam has actually noticed Abi’s existence; teens live in their own very small world but saying so to Abi would only sound as though she’s ignorant of how big kids tick. The last thing she needs to hear, right now. I nod, and then ask tentatively, ‘Did you and Rob ever try for children?’
‘Rob was the biggest child in his life. He didn’t want kids.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘He hated the idea with a vengeance.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat as she starts to brew up a new wave of invective. I wish I hadn’t brought Rob up. What was I thinking?
I try to cut her off. ‘You have plenty of time for a baby,’ I say, encouragingly.
‘I don’t have plenty of time. I’m thirty-eight. But I do have some time. Friends of mine are getting pregnant in their forties; there are options. But first I need to divorce Rob and then meet someone new. Then get pregnant. Let’s not pretend. It’s not going to be easy.’
We sit in silence for a moment. Both sobered by the truth of her words. Suddenly, Abi laughs. ‘Oh, listen to me. I sure know how to kill the mood, right?’
Coughing, I say the most honest thing I can. ‘You’re entitled to.’
She stares at me for the longest time. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ Then she asks, ‘How did we ever lose contact?’
I feel warmth seep through my stomach at her comment, the meaning implicit: how could we have let something so important fall by the wayside? Simultaneously, I feel sadness, guilt, grief. It’s confusing.
‘Well, I had Liam. You had your studies,’ I murmur, scratching the surface.
Abi brightens. ‘Bring me up to date. What have I missed?’ she says with a burst of enthusiasm and excitement.
‘Where to start?’
‘Show me the pictures. Take me through every lost year. You said you have albums, right?’
‘Well yes, but—’ I can’t believe she’d be prepared to sit through them. I mean, how interesting can they be to her?
‘Come on. You get the albums, I’ll fill the glasses.’
12
Abigail
Despite her suspicions that Rob sometimes strayed, dallied, Abigail had never felt so inclined. She told herself that he wasn’t being unfaithful, it was at worst, just sex. Someone once told her that sex was like drinking a large G&T. Pleasant at the time, forgotten once swallowed. She didn’t imagine there was ever any emotional commitment to these women, therefore there wasn’t any emotional betrayal of her. Overall, he was careful, discreet. There were hints, whispers but no evidence, no facts. Anyway, even if he was indulging himself that way, then she certainly wasn’t going to compound the issue by also doing so. She had opportunities. If not endless then certainly countless. But a marriage was a marriage. Vows were vows. If they weren’t taken seriously, then what was the point? You could just buy a white dress and throw a party, you didn’t need the solemn oath bit. That’s what she’d always thought.
But now she was questioning her own decisions, mourning the opportunities she’d missed. Now, she knew just how deep the betrayal ran.
When she found out, was faced with indisputable evidence, facts, she’d howled. She wanted to kill him, rip him piece from piece. A bolt of visceral violence surged through her being. She’d been lied to and cheated upon. It was wrong, it was cruel, it was unfair. She screamed, roared. Like a lioness. Rob was passive, almost sanguine. That hurt her more; he couldn’t see why she was so devastated. He said their marriage was dead anyway.
‘No fucking way is it dead. Don’t say that,’ she’d yelled.
‘It is,’ he insisted. ‘You killed it with wanting a baby more than anything else. You stopped wanting me ages ago. I was a means to an end and when that didn’t work out for you, you didn’t want me at all.’
‘No, no, that’s not true. That’s not true!’
‘When did we last have sex, Abi?’
She wasn’t sure. It was months, probably, maybe a year. She didn’t like to think about it. That wasn’t how she saw herself, how she saw them. She was sexy. He was sexy. People assumed there was a lot of sex. But the truth was she’d started to go off it a while back. She glared at him. How dare he say ‘when that didn’t work out for you’, as though their childless state was some awful dollop of unluckiness. It wasn’t that way. She felt fury swirl through her body, gushing like blood. She knew when she’d started to go off sex. She could give him an exact date. He should be able to work it out, if he cared to. It was the day he came home with a slight limp, told her he’d been to the hospital and had a vasectomy. Just like that, without even discussing it.
When she threw a dinner plate at him, he’d been surprised. ‘We agreed no kids, we agreed that forever ago.’ He’d said it as though it was no biggie.
No one understood. She had been thirty-six at the time, he was forty-three. When she complained to her girlfriends, they commented that he was being thoughtful, considerate, t
aking away the burden of responsibility from her. One or two of them leaned in and whispered to her that a man getting a vasectomy was an indicator that he wasn’t planning on throwing over the first wife and starting again with a younger one. She should be pleased!
She just saw a full stop. An end. A blank. If their marriage was dead it was because he killed it when he had that operation. Indiscreetly fucking other women? No longer being considerate enough to try and be careful? That was just a matter of scattering the ashes.
Besides, she also suspected that the vasectomy was not a considerate act designed to take the burden of responsibility away from her, it was so there would never be the chance of an accident. Either with her, or she supposed, with any of his other women, who all had the potential to turn out to be gold-diggers. He’d always been disproportionately concerned about unplanned pregnancies. She was on the pill and she took it regularly, never daring to skip a day because he was right, they had agreed no kids, and it wouldn’t be decent to try to trick him. Now, she regretted playing so fairly. Even though she had always known it was unlikely she would get pregnant while she was taking contraception, she always believed there was a chance, an infinitesimal hope. Then, after the vasectomy, she knew it was all over. She cried in the bathroom every month that she had her period.
So yeah, maybe things had become a bit snoozy in the bedroom, maybe even comatose. It would be impossible to exist in that crazy mental early stage, when all they wanted to do was grab one another and rip each other’s clothes off. Truthfully, she could barely remember that stage when they couldn’t see anything other than each other. When nothing else existed. She wanted more. And he wasn’t allowing her to have it. He was blocking her. It was only when she walked in on him, discovered his horrid, dirty little secret and started to yell at him – really scream, swear, shout – that she remembered feeling passion. Her indignation was so violent, her fury, her hurt so absolute that she felt something like passion.
