I Invited Her In

by Adele Parks

  We concentrate on giving the girls the most stable, steady environment we can. Naturally, they miss Liam. They are bewildered that they haven’t seen him for what feels like for ever to them.

  ‘Doesn’t he miss us?’ Lily asks one day. It is hot and sticky; even ice-lollies can’t distract or cool sufficiently.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I reply.

  ‘Then why doesn’t he come to see us?’ Imogen asks, grumpily. ‘He’s not actually tied up, is he? Like a hostage. He could come if he wanted.’

  I miss and love Liam but I’m also angry with him because Imogen is right. He is not being physically restrained by Abi and, no matter how furious he is with me right now, I’d have thought he wanted to see his sisters. He must know that his sudden absence is baffling for them. We had been preparing them for him going to university in the autumn, that they understood, but his sudden and total absence is agonising for them. For us all.

  I try to explain the situation. ‘You know at school when you might fall out with one of your friends?’

  ‘Yes,’ Imogen nods, very familiar with this situation. Lily shrugs – she doesn’t tend to row with people, she’s the sort of person people fight for.

  ‘And then, sometimes, people take sides. Even if they weren’t part of the row in the first place. Like when Clara fell out with Denni and you didn’t want to be Denni’s friend anymore either.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well, it’s a little bit like that. Abigail and I aren’t friends anymore and Liam is Abigail’s boyfriend now, so he doesn’t think he can be my friend either.’

  ‘But you said that falling out with your friends is silly.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you said taking sides with Clara was silly, because it wasn’t my fight and it wasn’t nice,’ points out Imogen.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ It’s tricky when your kids quote your good sense back to you and you have nothing to offer them.

  ‘Can’t you make friends with Abigail, Mummy? So that Liam visits us again.’ Imogen’s voice is full of longing and need. She puts her ice-lolly down on the garden wall, uninterested, and sighs. I watched the sticky red juice drip and splatter on the patio. It looks like blood.

  ‘I would darling, if I could.’

  And that’s the truth of it. I don’t want my teenage son to be marrying a thirty-eight-year-old woman because she’s having his baby, but he is. So yes, I would do anything to be ‘friends’ again, given a chance. I don’t want to be locked out. But I don’t think there is going to be a chance. I don’t know how to reach him.

  Tanya visits me one afternoon. She isn’t wearing make-up and has her hair scraped back into a pony tail; she looks fresh but also exposed. She tells me that her A-level exams have started, that she sat her first maths paper the day before.

  ‘I don’t suppose he . . .’

  ‘Turned up? No.’

  ‘Oh, Liam.’

  I still can’t believe my son has jacked in his studies. I can hardly comprehend that the world has continued to turn. I feel I am living in some alternative universe. I want to live in the world where Liam sweated over the paper and came out of the exam with a cautious sense of optimism. He’s been so conscientious for so many years. I think of the small boy who stayed up late to finish making an abacus out of dried pasta. I think of the time he dashed home, flushed with excitement, because he’d been chosen to be on the Junior Mathematical Olympiad team. They didn’t do too well, and I had to resort to the well-worn phrase that it was the taking part, not the winning that counted. And do you know what? He believed me. He was just so excited to see what was possible, where he might go, what he might do. I think of his absolute triumph just two years ago, when he collected his GCSE results.

  ‘Well, I hope you do really well in the rest of your exams, Tanya.’

  She has been offered a place at Liverpool University but the grades she needs to secure are high. She’ll make a wonderful vet. She’s shyly confided that she now thinks she wants a country practice somewhere. Maybe in a Yorkshire village. I can imagine her striding around the countryside in muddy wellies, her no-nonsense manner a comfort to the farmers. If she’d stayed with Liam maybe she’d have tailored her ambitions – maybe she’d have limited herself to a city practice, looking after pooches that spend too much time in handbags and not enough time in fields. Tanya and I have become something like friends. I guess we’re a cross between comrades in arms and survivors. We are both devastated by the loss of Liam. We are both clouded and concussed by it.

  ‘Try and put all of this out of your mind.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that, Mrs Harrison?’ She stares at me with such blunt defencelessness that I ache for her.

  ‘I don’t know, but if you can.’

  ‘That’s what my mother says, too. “He’s not worth your head space.” Like I have a choice in what I think about.’ I guess her mother says a lot more about Liam and I imagine it’s vitriolic. I know I would have plenty to say if the shoe was on the other foot. ‘Have you heard from him?’ Tanya looks hopeful, shy.

  I shake my head. ‘You?’

  ‘No.’ She sighs.

  I squeeze her shoulder. ‘Just try and stay focused, if you can. You know. You owe it to yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care about myself.’

  ‘Then do it for me.’ I couldn’t bear it if Abi robbed another young person of their future.

  50

  Ben

  Thursday 7th June

  The thick silver envelope arrived on Ben’s desk at work; it was in among a batch of direct mail approaches. He almost missed it but as he threw the unsolicited marketing in the bin, he recognised Liam’s handwriting – large, loopy, with a tendency to slant upwards. He carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. It was far from understated or traditional. The card was a lime green and the crazy writing was silver, embossed. The invite looked like a kid’s party invite – he’d have thought Abigail would have opted for something more classic. He wondered whether she was deliberately trying to appear more youthful, avoid looking at all staid, or perhaps the pregnancy hormones were affecting her decisions. As he read the invite Ben thought the wording was likely to infuriate Mel. He considered that it was perhaps designed to do so.

  Liam and Abigail joyfully invite you to join as they celebrate their wedding day.

  They’re in love and they want everyone to know it!

  At Hashtag Hotel, Northampton

  On Friday 22nd June 2018

  12 noon

  He hadn’t believed it was really happening. He thought perhaps they would change their minds but, whatever the typography choice, the fact was his son was getting married in two weeks’ time. Sooner than ideal perhaps, by about a decade in his opinion, especially as Liam had only known Abigail for fifteen weeks – Ben had checked in his diary. But it was as it was. Ben was determined to go to the wedding; he hoped Mel would go too. The wedding of their son – how could they not go now they had been asked? There was another, smaller envelope inside the first, addressed to Imogen and Lily. Ben didn’t feel too awful easing that open and reading the note. He loved Liam but no longer trusted his judgement; he didn’t want there to be anything that might distress the girls further. It was an invite for them to be flower girls. Hardly likely to distress them. Indeed, it was what they wanted more than anything on earth.

  Dear Imogen and Lily.

  I’m sorry I haven’t seen so much of you both, recently, I’ve been thinking about you. The thing is I’m really busy getting things ready for our wedding and baby. Busy times!

  Ben tutted at that. What exactly was a seventeen-year-old boy’s role in arranging his wedding? How long precisely did it take to paint a nursery, if that was what he was doing?

  Abigail and I are getting married in a hotel in Northampton. It’s not going to be a big wedding but it’s going to be very cool. We’d love it if you were both there. Abigail is hoping you’ll be flower girls for her. She�
�s seen some gorgeous dresses. You’ll get to carry bouquets, get new shoes and maybe wear a flower in your hair, I guess. You’d need to talk about this with Abi. She’s asked me to include these pictures from a bridal magazine she’s read. She thinks this is the sort of dress you’d both suit.

  What do you say? Fancy it?

  Love you both,

  Liam and Abi

  He’d signed it from them both; even though it was his handwriting Ben felt it was clear that Abi had exercised some influence and input. Ben wondered what Mel’s reaction to this would be. He had a fair idea.

  That evening, Ben helped bath the girls, then popped them in front of the TV. They were watching ‘Beauty and the Beast with Hermione’ as they’d explained it. He poured a glass of wine for him and Mel before he slid the invite and the letter across the kitchen table.

  He watched as she read it. Her face a dance. She was not able to hide her emotions; her frustration, her sorrow, her disappointment, her relief.

  ‘Is this really happening?’ she asked.

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘“Getting things ready for our baby.”’ She quoted the letter. ‘I can’t imagine it. Somewhere there is a cot, a changing mat, maybe a mobile waiting for this baby.’

  ‘For our grandchild.’

  Mel nodded and asked. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then we must go.’

  He let out a sigh of relief. Mel didn’t sound what anyone might call enthusiastic but he’d settle for resigned. ‘Yes. We must.’

  ‘It’s something. A way back to him.’

  ‘Yes, I guess we have to find a way of accepting her into our lives. She’s older than him but she doesn’t know why you are objecting so viciously. She doesn’t know he’s Rob’s son.’

  Mel nodded. ‘I need him in my life. That above anything else.’

  ‘I know you do. We all do.’

  ‘What do you make of the separate note to the girls?’ Mel ran her fingers across the words of the letter. The words Liam had written. It was obvious she wanted to feel close to him.

  ‘Well, they’re going to be delighted,’ Ben pointed out.

  ‘Yes, I can’t decide if he’s an idiot or manipulative.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to deny them the opportunity. I mean, if he’s going to go ahead with this then they might as well support him and fulfil their dreams of being flower girls.’

  ‘Yes. I still say he’s too young.’

  ‘And I absolutely agree.’

  ‘I feel so helpless.’ Mel sighed.

  He was turning eighteen tomorrow. A man. He could and would make his own decisions and however dreadful his parents thought those decisions were, they didn’t have much sway.

  ‘He’s alive and well, at least the invite tells us that,’ added Ben.

  Mel nodded. She squared her shoulders, seemed to make a decision. ‘It’s enough. I know that having the responsibility of parenthood thrust upon you at such a young age is not a walk in the park, but he’ll cope. We all will. I don’t like Abi. I believe she’s trapped him but I am not the first mother-in-law to disapprove of her son’s choice. I must stay quiet. If I want to stay in his life I have to stay silent. She must love him, right? I need to believe that.’

  Ben stood up, moved around the table and crouched by Mel’s chair. He pulled her into his arms. ‘Well done, Mel. I’m proud of you. You know I love you.’

  ‘I do know that and I love you, too.’

  They stayed like that for a while. Allowing the heat of one another’s bodies to merge and comfort. Until Ben broke away and asked, ‘Now, do you want the fun of telling the girls they’ve been invited to be bridesmaids?’

  Mel shook her head, ‘No, you do it.’

  51

  Abigail

  Friday 8th June

  Liam’s eighteenth birthday was of course a cause for celebration. He was now legally allowed to do as he liked. Leave school, visit a pub, vote, marry Abigail. However, Abi did not know how to approach the day. It surprised her to discover that she felt a tiny bit uneasy, almost prim about this official marker that said Liam was now quite definitely a man. It highlighted the fact that up until that point there had been some ambiguity, just as Mel claimed. Abigail asked him what his friends had done to celebrate the milestone. While he was one of the biggest in the year, he was one of the youngest, so he had seen many friends cross this threshold.

  ‘Varied,’ he replied vaguely, stretching his arms above his head. His T-shirt rose a fraction. She saw his flat stomach that she found so attractive, but this time the twinge of lust was countered by a more overpowering sense of nausea. The strangest thing had happened in the last week or so: whenever she felt aroused, her morning sickness seemed to intensify. She’d looked it up in all the pregnancy books but couldn’t see reference to other women complaining of similar. She was thirteen weeks pregnant now and really thought that she’d be through the morning-sickness stage; wasn’t that supposed to be the first trimester? Morning sickness was a crazy name for it anyway – she felt sick at any time of the day, most times of the day, except when she was eating. She didn’t mind really, it was a small price to pay for such a blessing. She had got into the habit of carrying around a packet of crackers to nibble on. She delighted in sliding them out of her bag and eating them while she stood in a queue at the local artisan bakery, in the coffee shop, or sat in the back of a cab, because then she’d have to grin and explain, ‘I’m pregnant. I find eating is the only thing that eases the sickness.’ Then she’d smile bravely. Adorably. Wait for people to congratulate her, praise her, reassure her. Make her feel special.

  She loved saying those words: ‘I’m pregnant.’ She said them in her head and out loud whenever she could. ‘I’m having a baby.’ ‘I’m expecting a child.’ She stopped just short of ‘I’m with child,’ because that sounded totally crazy. She loved the fact of it and the response it caused. People were always so delighted and solicitous. They’d offer her a seat, ask when the baby was due, told her she had an extremely neat bump, as though she’d done something wonderful, which of course she had.

  Once or twice, well, maybe more regularly than that, she had pulled out the crackers even when she wasn’t feeling nauseous, just for the thrill of being able to announce her fecund state.

  ‘Well, how do people celebrate their eighteenth birthdays, nowadays? Give me a scale?’

  She hated it when she used the term ‘nowadays’; it was a mistake. Normally, she managed to avoid it. Nor would she be caught dead saying, ‘in my day’ or ‘when I was younger’. She wasn’t fully on her game or she’d never have made that slip. The truth was, no matter what she’d said to Mel, Abigail rarely managed to forget how young Liam was. Often, she delighted in his youth; occasionally, she found it a little inconvenient. Liam’s age was glaringly apparent to her when he communicated poorly. Or maybe that was just a man thing.

  ‘Like I said, varies.’

  ‘How does it vary? Give me an idea. Are we talking anything from lavish parties to a beer in the pub?’ She sounded prickly, naggy. She knew she did and that just irritated her further. It was a hot summer and heat always made her snappy. Abigail was infuriated that decent summers still seemed to take the British by surprise. Although she was British, she’d lived in America for long enough to have forgotten that the UK was not equipped to deal with mercury rising; no air-conditioning in shops or restaurants, no clue how to dress. People slouched about, hot and sticky. Herself included. She couldn’t wait to get back to the States.

  ‘Yup that’s about right, parties, beer garden.’ Liam smiled. If he’d noticed her tetchiness, it didn’t seem to bother him. He was settled in front of the TV, playing some sort of racing-car game. She didn’t know which one; she was just glad it wasn’t COD. She couldn’t stand the sounds of gunshots echoing around the apartment. In fact, she’d bought him a high-end pair of Beats headphones to use while he was playing the more violent or noisy games. He’d loved the gif
t; she loved it more.

  ‘What would you like to do? Do you want a party?’

  ‘No, don’t think so. There’s a lot of hassle and we’ve enough on, planning the wedding and stuff.’ She was relieved. She didn’t want to throw a party either. He was a mature guy for his age but not all his friends were similarly disposed. She remembered when she was living at Mel’s that Liam had gone to a party and she’d heard Mel discussing the party prep with the hosting parents. The discussion did not centre around streamers and music choice; they’d talked about supplying white spirits only, ‘because the vomit was easier to deal with than red wine or darker spirit vomit’ and they’d bought six plastic buckets and strategically placed them around the house; it was all very basic.

  ‘We could go out for dinner. Somewhere special. Maybe in London?’ Abi suggested.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Where might you like to try?’

  ‘I don’t know, you decide.’

  Until Liam and Abi had got together Liam had only eaten in horribly touristy restaurants in London; The Hard Rock Café and the Rainforest Café. He explained it was because his trips had been with his sisters. But really, they could have done better than that. London was the perfect city for lovers. The place was chock-full with charming bookshops and interesting galleries. They wandered around hand in hand and sometimes fell upon pretty fountains or unexpected squares with trees and benches, where they might briefly pause to passionately kiss.

  Liam had been impressed with the places she took him – Little Venice to see the narrow boats, Richmond Park to see the stags and Shoreditch for the street art and street food – but they hadn’t been to a restaurant together. Not a formal one. It just wasn’t something they did, preferring instead to grab a sandwich on the run. Mostly they’d spent their time in hotels and ordered room service that they fed to each other, sometimes ate off one another’s bodies. In public, Abi liked to keep on the move because they attracted less attention that way. Not that she was hiding from anyone but, if she had been, London would be the perfect place to do so. The wine bars they went to were dimly lit and no one ever asked for ID. It was easy to be anonymous there because it was a hedonistic city and nobody cared what anybody else was up to.