I Invited Her In

by Adele Parks

  She smiled. She had very white teeth, red lips. ‘You’re so obviously a wonderful man, taking on another man’s son, that’s quite something. I’d hate to disturb the delicate balance that relationship needs to thrive.’

  Ostensibly, it was a compliment but Ben felt wrong footed. Neither his relationship with Mel nor Liam was delicate. They were sound. Real. Huge. They couldn’t be sent off kilter just because an old friend visited. He didn’t know how to say as much, at least not politely. He wondered whether he had to remain polite.

  ‘I suppose everything that Mel was before she met you, must seem like a bit of a mystery,’ mused Abi.

  Ben felt a prickle of irritation run along his spine, the hairs on his body stood up, shuddered. ‘Not really,’ he lied. ‘It’s not as though she’s secretive about it. She often talks about the early days of motherhood, filling me in on what I missed.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest she was being secretive,’ Abi laughed, sounding surprised. Again, Ben felt he’d said the wrong thing. ‘I was just thinking it must be very hard to imagine her as a carefree student, razzing around campus. Or to understand her years as a single mum, because you weren’t there.’

  It was a fact but it sounded like an accusation. Together, Ben and Mel had been through two births, done all the family stuff that is the privilege and pain of any normal family. They’d made dashes to the A&E to check out bumps and breaks, they’d tended itchy heads with fine-tooth combs, they’d changed pungent nappies and pulped carefully prepared organic dinners to mush (just to see it smeared across foreheads and over highchairs). They’d sat in the audience at school shows and held their breath through ballet exams. They’d talked to their kids about manners, bullies, stranger danger and exactly how it was possible for Father Christmas to circumnavigate the world in one night. He knew what it was to be a parent with Mel, but yes, Abi was right, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for her doing all that on her own.

  He’d tried to. He wanted to. He regretted that he wasn’t there.

  It struck him once, in the middle of the night, when Imogen was about eighteen months old and sick with a particularly vicious tummy bug. Now, they took turns with getting up to comfort whichever child was having a nightmare, or throwing up, or running a temperature; back then, when the kids were tiny and appeared painfully vulnerable, they got up together. Dashed towards the heart-searing shrieking. That night, they’d stripped Immie’s bed, cleaned her up, soothed her until she fell back to sleep. Then they crawled back to their own bed – the usual routine, familiar to every parent – only to be disturbed thirty minutes later when she threw up for a second time, then a third. Together they bathed her, steeped sheets, frantically searched the internet and then called the NHS helpline, just in case it was something more than a regular tummy bug. They took turns in cradling her hot little body, soaked with sweat and tears. Sponged her limbs to try to lull and cool her. They felt the waves of emotion wash over and through them in unison: sympathy, frustration, panic, fear, and then finally relief. When they eventually sank back into bed, only an hour before the alarm was due to go off, Mel noticed Ben was quiet and distracted. No doubt she presumed he was just shattered and worried, but he turned to her and confessed that his heart was aching. Those were the words he used.

  ‘My heart is aching.’

  ‘It’s OK. She gave us a bit of a fright but she’s fine. She’s asleep now,’ Mel murmured sleepily.

  ‘No, it’s not Immie.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s the thought of you doing that on your own for the first six years of Liam’s life. You know, I’d literally give anything to turn back time and be with you both from the very first moment. It isn’t a biological thing. You know I don’t care that I didn’t physically bring Liam into being; it’s an emotional thing.’

  Mel had shrugged. ‘Some things just can’t be changed, though. We’re fine as we are.’

  He knew that. They were fine. But it was just how he felt.

  When the girls were very little and reached milestones, a tiny part of Ben found he couldn’t one hundred per cent enjoy those moments because he knew no one had shared the equivalent occasions with Liam and Mel. He’d sometimes admit, ‘I just wish I’d seen Liam stumble through his first steps or utter his first words.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mel insisted. It was irrational of him, but he couldn’t help but think he’d somehow let them down by not finding them sooner. ‘You can’t beat yourself up about stuff that happened before we met.’

  ‘I know. I just mean, I wish I had been there. I wish you hadn’t had to do it alone.’

  He’d liked it when they hit Liam’s firsts together, not walking and talking, but joining cubs, being picked for a football team. He liked it when the girls got to an age when he and Mel could look back and say to one another, ‘Do you remember when Liam first went ice-skating/did a sleepover/cut a big tooth?’ It felt solid. He loved them all to distraction. He didn’t believe he loved or raised his girls any differently than he had Liam, and Mel would say the same.

  ‘Mel and Liam share such a special bond, don’t they? I noticed it straight away. It’s very precious,’ said Abi, bringing Ben out of his memories and back into the kitchen. Abi stood up, poured herself a second glass of wine. She tilted the bottle towards him. ‘You sure?’ This time, he nodded. What the hell.

  Ben sipped his wine and didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Well observed, Abi. He thought that had to be something to do with her job; she was a people reader. She scrutinised, delved. It was true: the love Mel felt for Liam did seem to be different from the love she had for the girls. It was not more or less – just distinct. Mel was too much of a feminist to mother differently depending on gender. It was because they had been alone together. He knew that. The deep, impenetrable closeness that there was between his wife and son was mysterious. There was something so intuitive about their relationship, almost animalistic.

  He’d seen flashes of primitive instinct throughout their married life. They’d never had any teenage problems with Liam, well other than that dreadful time with Austin, but no one could have predicted that and they’d dealt with it as well as possible. They’d had a relatively trouble-free ride because his mother knew him inside out. She pre-empted every crisis, avoided every disaster. They talked a lot, practically all the time, way more than the average teen, and even when he couldn’t articulate what it was that was on his mind, Mel somehow knew. ‘It’s his grades.’ ‘It’s a girl.’ ‘It’s his hair.’ ‘It’s Austin.’ She was always able to identify exactly what was niggling him, whereas however hard Ben tried (and he did try) all he could see was a distressed teen, unable or unwilling to say what was up.

  Liam was more like Mel in temperament than either Lily or Imogen were, even though he didn’t look much like her. They had the same weird, sharp, slightly teasing sense of humour; this normally delighted the other three but, just occasionally, it rattled. Ben was more of a pun man and the girls got giddy over knock-knock jokes. He remembered Liam at Imogen’s age – he was pretty sure the boy was already too sophisticated for knock-knock jokes by then, although he’d always laugh politely when Ben told them. Liam got his good manners and kindness from Mel, too. They had the same reaction to politicians who outraged them (fury, swiftly followed by a brief dose of depression, then an energetic rally of local do-gooderism). They had the same reaction to movies that moved them (raw passion). OK, they were different movies – Liam’s favourite was Inception and Mel preferred Brokeback Mountain (they agreed that Toy Story was awesome but Ben didn’t read too much into that; everyone loved Toy Story). They were both horrendously impatient about slow internet connections or traffic jams but always had time to strike up conversations with tardy serving staff in a restaurant. They liked and disliked the same people, often drawing their swift, unshifting character appraisals within minutes of meeting. They finished one another’s sentences. Sometimes they didn’t even have to speak but still seemed to understand
each other’s plans as though they were passing symbiotic signals. It was like they were locked in their own little world.

  Best to think of it that way, because no one ever wanted to be locked out.

  Not that there was anything wrong with Ben’s relationship with Liam, far from it. His relationship with Liam was phenomenal. He thought so, Liam thought so, everyone thought so. It was often commented upon; how close they were. Ben had found it easy to fall in love with Liam from the get go. There hadn’t been a power struggle between the man and the small boy; Liam had clearly been looking for a dad, whether he was aware of it or not. Ben was more than willing to be that. They had their things, too. Some of the happiest times of Ben’s life were when he was stood on the sidelines of a footie game on a Saturday morning cheering Liam on. Mel never came to the matches and although both the girls had been encouraged to play football, neither were interested. It was Ben and Liam’s thing. As were podcasts, supporting Aston Villa, Marvel superheroes and Lego (although Lily did show some interest in sharing the latter two with them).

  Ben stared resentfully at his now-drained glass, which had gone down far too quickly, and then at Abigail. Why were his thoughts going in this direction? It was as though she was making him think these things, feel these things. What things, exactly? Like an outsider. A little out of step. He reached for the bottle of wine; Abi did too. Their fingers touched one another. He let go of the wine instantly. She was making him feel uncomfortable in his own home. She smiled, a slow smile that started on one side of her mouth, the other taking a moment to catch up; then she picked up the bottle and poured wine into both their glasses.

  ‘Wow, we’ve made light work of that,’ she commented, staring at the now-empty bottle. Ben told himself that he must not drink that second glass. ‘This is nice, isn’t it? You and I getting to know one another a little.’ He didn’t comment. What could he say? Abi stood by his elbow. Close. Too close. ‘So, what are you working on?’ She stooped a little to read what was on his screen. Her left breast was just centimetres away from his ear.

  ‘Just emails.’ He shifted his body away from hers.

  She was certainly eye-catching. Quite incredible, actually. It was impossible not to notice. Ben loved his wife. He thought she was beautiful. Her beauty was subtle, delicate perhaps, even faded if he was brutally honest. Or at least submerged because she didn’t have time to take care of herself as well as she ideally might.

  There was nothing discreet about Abi’s attractiveness. She had big eyes and boobs, long legs and lashes, glossy hair and lips. She was a TV presenter; her larger-than-life shininess came with the territory. Those sorts of people had to be glistening and out there. But she had to be kidding, right? This was a seduction prototype for dummies. Flush from a bath, silky robe, sharing a bottle of wine. Or was he imagining it? Was he fooling himself? Flattering himself? Maybe she was just being friendly. Someone coming on to him happened from time to time. He knew how to close it down. He knew the importance of doing so. He was not the sort to flirt or experiment with infidelity. Loyalty was a choice.

  He closed his laptop and stood up.

  ‘You know, I think I’m going to have to pop back to work.’

  ‘What now?’ Abi looked amused, as though she knew he was running away from her. As though she expected it.

  ‘Yeah, now. I’ve forgotten a file I need.’ He knew his excuse sounded weak. What file? Was he living in the last century? Obviously, anything that he might need was on his computer.

  ‘You’ve had a glass of wine,’ she pointed out. ‘You can’t drive.’

  Ben held his computer across his chest like a shield, picked up his jacket and headed towards the kitchen door. ‘I can get a cab, or even a bus.’ He planned to sit in the pub around the corner for half an hour. He was relieved to hear his wife’s and daughters’ voices just the other side of the front door. It swung open and they fell in, chattering, laughing, bringing with them a sense of reprieve, escape. The girls simultaneously started to tell Ben about their day. Mel kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, you’re home. Great. Have you put tea on?’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t know what time you’d be back.’

  Mel shrugged. ‘Same time every week. What shall we have? How many are we?’

  ‘Ben’s just heading back to work, actually,’ said Abi as she emerged from the kitchen. Mel look confused, a beat as she looked from her husband, agitated, twitchy, and her friend, languorous, semi-clad.

  ‘No, no, I don’t have to,’ said Ben quickly. ‘Madness at this hour. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Right.’ Mel turned away from him, started pulling off Lily’s shoes.

  ‘So, we’re five, Liam’s out,’ added Ben, quickly. As he said so Liam came clattering down the stairs.

  ‘I thought you said he was out,’ chastised Mel playfully as she made her way to the kitchen. ‘Abi, you missed the cutest thing.’ He never heard what it was that Abi had missed because his wife’s voice was lost in the white noise of their domestic set up. Water gushing into a kettle, the girls and Liam chatting, the sound of the TV being switched on.

  And blood whooshing around his ears.

  His son had been upstairs. She’d practically waved her breasts in his face. Proffered herself on a plate and his son was upstairs. He’d never have done anything. Never, he told himself.

  And yet he felt sick with guilt and uncertainty. The room quivered with a sense of relief at escaping a close call.

  19

  Melanie

  Thursday 8th March

  I like my body. Not in a wow-I’m-a-hottie way. Far from it. I like it because it functions well. I rarely catch a cold, I have never broken a bone and, most awesome of all, I’ve given birth to three healthy babies but, facing facts, I’m not the sort of shape that’s considered typically desirable. I only stop traffic if I press the button and the lights change. Undeniably, I have breasts, hips, tummy, bum, even a hint of bingo wings – all the curves. Some of them are in the right places, some are certainly surplus to requirements. I’ve just mentioned, three babies. Have some understanding. My body has been through the biological equivalent of the hokey cokey. In out, in out, shake it all about. The first time, I snapped back into shape. After all, I was still nineteen when I had Liam, but the last two (and the constant eat-up of fish fingers, pesto pasta and shepherd’s pie), means Ben definitely has more to love; that’s the way I look at it and, as I say, I’m fine with that. I like my body.

  Or I did, maybe not so much now Abigail’s body is so present.

  I know, it’s immature to compare. Counterproductive and pointless. But! She’s so tight and toned, it’s unnatural. Abigail has tits. No way would anyone look at them and think of calling them anything as motherly as breasts. They are (literally) outstanding tits. The sort that men dream about. Maybe not her actual husband, as things have turned out. Poor woman. But other men, I’m pretty sure, must appreciate them. Ben said that she’s most likely had some work done. I know he said this to cheer me up but it didn’t cheer me up, it just highlighted the fact he’d noticed her amazing bod too. How could he not? He swears that toned, tight, surgically enhanced bodies don’t do it for him but, obviously, he’s lying. Her body does it for me and I’m a confirmed heterosexual, I never so much as had a crush on the head girl. Actually, I went to the local comp, we didn’t have a head girl. But you get my point. Abi is hot. Her boobs are pert and full and forward pointing. Like they know where they are going in life. I don’t for a second think anything would ever happen between Ben and Abi. I trust him. I trust her. Even if she is prone to drifting around the house in her scanties. I see that as a compliment; it shows she’s relaxed with us.

  Just this morning, I bumped into her on the landing, dashing from her bedroom to our bathroom wearing nothing other than a towel (which I’m sure was intended to be a flannel). We have two bathrooms in our house but I couldn’t ask her to share the kids’ one – there is no telling what she’
d find, plus it would make Liam uncomfortable. It’s awkward enough for him that his sisters are constantly banging on the bathroom door when he’s in there, demanding to know, ‘Why does Liam take so long to poop, Mummy?’ A question I’m not sure I can answer. So, Abi has had to use our en suite. I admit this is awkward at times. She needs to come through our bedroom to get to it. It was no problem at first because she isn’t a fan of early mornings and so Ben and I had cleared out to work before she needed to shower, but the past few days she’s started to get up with us and the kids, so it has become a little more problematic. She often knocks at our door, but doesn’t wait for an answer, just trails through our bedroom before we’re out of bed. This is tricky on a couple of counts. One, we tend to sleep naked and Ben gets hot at night so doesn’t always stay under the duvet. Obviously, we’ve now started to wear pyjamas. Two, Abi has a tendency to stay in the bathroom for over an hour. Once she’s woken us up, Ben and I are hostage to nature and so have to scramble to the kids’ bathroom for a wee.

  At least she usually wears a robe (hers is silky and floaty, she looks like a 1920s starlet in it) but this morning, she just had the tiny towel to protect her modesty. It didn’t. I was taken aback and you should have seen poor Liam’s face. He just happened to stumble out of his room at that point. He turned scarlet, practically climbed into the airing cupboard to get out of the way. I must say something to her about appropriate dress in front of the children, even if doing so will make me sound provincial, a nude-prude. Still, I ought to tackle it. Since Liam’s interview is done, now Ben has started mumbling about when Abi will be moving on. I don’t want that, I like having her to stay, so I need to keep the peace.

  My boobs. What can I say? Think sports socks with a cricket ball pushed to the toe. Hanging, loosely, forlornly. Swinging about, likely to take an eye out if you come at them from the wrong direction. I blame breastfeeding. True, none of my kids suffer from allergies or food intolerances but sometimes, secretly, I wonder was it worth it? I mean yes, yes, absolutely I know it was worth it but, well (whisper), was it?! Imogen was practically attached to me twenty-four-seven for fourteen months; I had to prize her off. I was worried that I’d have to go into her primary school to give her a top-up at break time. Yuk. Not judging, just saying, not my thing. Why couldn’t she have been a little more temperate? Forget I asked that one. Temperate and Immie are not two words that ever go together.