by Adele Parks
It was time for them to go public. He wasn’t gauche, he’d know how to behave in a decent restaurant, he wouldn’t need advice on which cutlery to use, she wouldn’t have to tell him to put his napkin on his lap, rather than tuck it into his shirt. This wasn’t a Pygmalion story. But the fact was, they were not in a position where he might suggest they visit a restaurant that a colleague of his had dined at, or one he’d read about in a Sunday supplement. She didn’t mind. Well, not much. Sometimes she felt the responsibility of him weighing a little heavily. She had to make the money, the choices, the decisions. It seemed like a lot to shoulder. But that was probably her hormones making her feel a touch more vulnerable, a lot more exhausted. She wondered whether she should have encouraged Liam to stay on at college instead of doing the opposite. But there were risks involved. She’d always encouraged Rob to reach for his dreams and goals and that hadn’t worked out too well for her. Ultimately, he’d reached for a sexy younger woman with smouldering eyes and sashaying hips.
‘How about The Shard?’ suggested Abi.
Liam kept his eyes trained on the video game. The cars zoomed around the track, throbbing, roaring. ‘I thought The Shard was like apartments, with a viewing platform. There’s a restaurant?’
‘Multiple, actually.’
‘Cool, yeah cool.’
‘You can’t wear trainers.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do we need to go shoe shopping?’
‘I guess.’
Abi booked the Aqua Shard because it served British cuisine which she thought would appeal most to Liam; he hadn’t seemed too sure about the concept of Asian fusion. The restaurant was on the thirty-first floor and offered spectacular views of London. She expected it would be romantic to watch the blue sky turn blush pink, then vibrant orange and finally blue-black. She imagined them watching the lights of London glitter beneath.
Her bag was scanned and they had to go through an airport-style sensor before they could get to the restaurant. Abigail wondered whether the sensor might affect the baby. She thought it was silly to ask, to make a fuss, because of course there would be warnings if it was unsafe, but she couldn’t stop herself. There was no point in taking a risk. She’d already rung ahead to ask about the menu – she needed to avoid soft cheeses, oysters, pâté, raw eggs. The woman on the phone had been very accommodating, very patient.
‘I’m pregnant, is it safe to pass through?’ Abigail demanded of the security guard, even though she’d just told herself it was an unnecessary question.
‘Metal-detector scanners use a low-frequency electromagnetic field to look for metal objects, or anything that generates or uses electricity – you don’t have to worry unless your baby has superpowers like Blanka, Black Lightning or Electro.’
Abi stared at the smiley, chubby man but didn’t understand.
Liam laughed. ‘They’re superheroes, Abi. Ones that use electricity. Come on, let’s go eat.’
Sometimes that sort of thing happened: he didn’t know what Asian fusion food was, she didn’t have an encyclopaedic knowledge of superheroes.
In the lift, Liam hit the button three or four times. ‘I think it’s automatic,’ commented Abi. He stared at her doubtfully until a voice piped through a sound system confirmed as much.
Up they sped. He grinned, ‘My ears have just popped. Yours too?’ It was charming, the things he took delight in.
Abi noticed that the hostess that greeted them and asked if they had a reservation was all flashy-eyed and flirtatious with Liam. It was her job to be pleasant and he was delicious but it was a bit annoying. Abi wanted to wave her Visa card and yell, ‘Hey, I’m paying. I’m your customer.’ Liam didn’t respond, he kept his eyes on the view of London. This should have been a relief, but Abi couldn’t help but think his non-noticing of the attractive hostess was a little too purposeful, almost an effort. She felt a slither of irritation run up and down her spine. She was being unreasonable. Liam had shown her nothing other than devotion and loyalty, yet she couldn’t help but occasionally be whipped by the panic of how long that commitment would last. She was not unrealistic; she realised that Liam might lose interest at any point, despite the baby, because of the baby. The fact was, she was more than twice his age. The trick was to get him into a position whereby when he did lose interest, he had no alternative but to stay anyway.
‘This is incredible,’ he gushed. Turning to her with a wide, broad grin. She smiled back at him. Allowed herself to relax. Why was she looking for problems? They were blissful right now. It was her hormones ambushing her reason.
‘Shall we have a cocktail first? Or go straight to our table?’
‘Cocktails, definitely.’
He bounced towards a small table for two, close to the window. His keenness to bag the seat outweighed his usual display of good manners. She trailed behind him. There was an extensive cocktail list; Liam read over it carefully and then selected the one called C’est La Vie, lime juice shaken with Cîroc vodka and French pear brandy. Abi was secretly grateful, relieved, that the waiter didn’t card Liam but simply nodded discreetly. She had doubted that they would be questioned for ID but there had been the risk, and while he could now legally drink, no one wanted the embarrassment of attention being drawn to his age. Or, more accurately, the age gap.
Abi less enthusiastically selected a mocktail. She didn’t resent giving up alcohol for her baby, she didn’t resent anything that the baby needed, it was just hard to be excited about a drink that was basically an expensive fruit juice. She had enjoyed getting drunk and irresponsible with Liam these past few months. She missed it. Abi had found that since she discovered she was pregnant she was less and less interested in going out; why bother when she had everything she wanted at home? Part of her would rather have been curled up in front of the TV right now – she’d only made the effort because it was Liam’s birthday and naturally that had to be celebrated.
They sipped the beautiful cocktails that Abi had to admit were works of art: colourful, fruity and in Liam’s case potent. If Liam would have preferred a simple, thirst-quenching lager on this hot evening, he didn’t say. He simply beamed at her, gazed around the room, made the right noises about the views. There was music playing, gentle murmuring of polite chatter and the clink of glass against glass and from the restaurant cutlery against crockery. Abigail began to relax as they talked about places they might want to go on honeymoon. Once married, they were returning to America so it made sense to honeymoon there. Abi was relieved that Liam didn’t suggest Vegas but seemed interested in going to Chicago or Boston. They ordered a second drink. This time Abigail agreed to have a glass of champagne.
‘French women do it all the time,’ said Liam. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
She wore a new glistening diamond on her left hand now. It was large and pure. She’d chosen and paid for it herself but that didn’t matter, Liam had come along with her. Abigail had wanted to be in control. Abigail felt eyes upon them; she wasn’t unused to this experience, far from it. She smiled, generally, rather than specifically. They no doubt made a striking couple. Liam looked good in the blue Boss suit she’d chosen for him. It wasn’t necessary to wear a suit to dine here; some people were dressed less formally but Abi had wanted to know what Liam would look like in a suit. He looked good. Very good. Older. She’d also bought him a shirt from Jermyn Street, a Paul Smith belt and shoes, and a Tag Heuer watch. His face as he opened each package had been a study. Overwhelmed, excited, animated. Although she’d noticed that he’d been almost equally exuberant about the birthday gifts his mates had bought: a pair of underpants that had the word ‘Vintage’ emblazoned on the butt, an inflatable giant football and a magnetic dartboard. Still, that just went to show how appreciative he was by nature.
In his new gear, he could pass for twenty-one, maybe even twenty-three.
By the time someone came over and said their table was ready, Abigail was floating in a general sense of wellbeing, of
bliss. She put her left hand on her belly and spoke to her baby. She did this often. She told her baby everything was all right, it had all been worth it, she’d made the right choices. That she was justified.
They took their seats. It was a relief Liam didn’t do any of that hovering-around-her-chair-until-she-sat-down-before-he-would-sit business. It was antiquated. The waiter pulled out Abigail’s chair and then he handed her the wine and cocktails menu. Momentarily she thought that she’d have preferred it if he’d at least made a gesture of passing the list to Liam, but then she reminded herself that assuming the alcohol choice was the male prerogative was dated and sexist too. It was much cooler and more equal if that sort of assumption was not made.
‘What is rainbow chard?’ Liam asked.
‘It’s a leafy vegetable. The stalks are often red or orange.’ He pulled a face; generally, he was not impressed with vegetables.
‘How is cornmeal porridge a main meal?’
‘I bet it’s delicious.’
‘What do you think I should have?’ He looked at her, his eyes bright and beautiful but maybe not as cheeky and confident as they were when they lay in bed together, dizzy, heady, lusty. Now, he looked unsure.
‘I’m having the sea bream.’
‘I’ll have that then, too.’
‘Do you want a starter?’
‘I thought maybe dessert.’ He had a sweet tooth.
‘We can have all three,’ she said, although she knew she wouldn’t, she’d have a coffee. She hadn’t eaten pudding since before Liam was born.
Liam grinned. ‘Excellent. OK, so I should have the duck salad, right? Do you think I’d like that? Even though it’s a salad, there will be plenty of meat, yeah?’
She smiled and nodded and tried not to wonder whether she should have taken him to Bill’s for a burger instead.
The waiter came back for their wine order.
‘You pick for me,’ Liam urged.
‘Duck, then bream,’ Abi mused, glancing down the impressive array of wines.
‘Yeah, tricky because red with duck, white with fish,’ Liam commented with a smile, clearly quite proud of his knowledge.
‘Or do you want another cocktail?’ asked Abi, snapping the wine menu closed.
‘Good idea. I think I want to work my way through them.’
Abi doubted the prudence behind this decision but didn’t want to say so.
‘Special occasion, is it?’ the waiter asked.
‘My eighteenth,’ confirmed Liam.
‘Congratulations, mate.’ The waiter smiled at Abi. Casually, confidently. ‘Great treat, Mum.’
Abigail froze. The moment was stamped onto their history. Staining. The joy of the evening snapped. Abi felt it being wrenched out of her; it snagged around her throat, temporarily stopping her from forming words or even breathing evenly. Liam saw her shock and pain.
‘We’ll just have what we had before,’ he said quickly.
The waiter left them alone. ‘I look old enough to be your mum?’ Abi asked, stunned.
‘I have a really young mum,’ Liam pointed out.
‘But I thought you looked about twenty-three tonight, and me maybe around thirty, thirty-one.’ She’d always thought she could pass for twenty-nine, but it was too embarrassing saying so. She was clearly very much mistaken. Abigail’s head was assaulted by a memory of Mel complaining that when she took Liam to playgroups when he was a baby, people didn’t think she was his mother because she looked too young, and now, here Abi was, Liam’s lover being mistaken for his mother. Mel was such a bitch. She had all the luck.
The waiter returned with the drinks. Liam nervously downed his cocktail in one, then leaned across the table and kissed her passionately. The kiss was all tongues, teeth and hormones. It was all hurt pride and a desperate attempt to educate the waiter.
It was sweet of him.
It was humiliating.
She let it happen and, when he finally pulled away, she smiled and told herself that his eyes were still glazed with lust; it wasn’t the fact that he’d drunk too much, too quickly and couldn’t quite focus.
52
Melanie
Sunday 17th June
‘Hello, it’s me.’ I instantly recognise her voice, although I’d like to pretend I don’t know who ‘me’ is. She’s called on a Sunday evening. It is the most irritating time she could have rung, that’s why she’s chosen it. People are never sharp on a Sunday evening – we are at our most vulnerable and defenceless, dreading Monday.
‘Hello, Abi.’ I try not to sound breathless, even though I feel there is a lorry parked on my chest. I don’t want her to hear the panic, agitation, stress.
‘I thought it was time we talked.’
I don’t want to talk to Abi. I wish I never had to hear her voice or even her name again. I would ideally like her to disappear altogether but I know that’s not going to happen. I force myself to mutter. ‘About what, specifically?’
‘The wedding!’ She sounds gleeful, joyful. The way brides are supposed to sound. I hate her for it. ‘I am so glad the girls are going to be flowers girls. They’ll look adorable.’
‘Yes.’ They will. It’s strange that there is this unalterable fact among all this mess. No matter what the circumstances are of this wedding, Abi can and will make it a beautiful-looking event; my adorable girls will be part of that.
‘I have had the dresses sent directly to you. You’ll get them tomorrow.’
‘Right.’ Obviously, I’ve had very little to do with the preparation for the day. Liam sent Ben a text saying that Abi wanted to take the girls dress shopping. I knew they would have loved that but I also knew I’d have to go along too and I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. I couldn’t stand in a bridal shop and simper and smile, hear the compliments that would inevitably be showered upon Abigail – what a wonderful friend to have asked my daughters to be flower girls – or worse still, listen while she explained to the assistant that I was the mother of the groom. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I made an excuse. End of term, sports days, concerts, special assemblies and school trips, there wasn’t time. I couldn’t resist pointing out that the engagement had been so particularly short. I half-heartedly suggested they wait a while, postpone the wedding, everyone take a breath. If Ben even texted back my message in its entirety – which I doubt – then my suggestion fell on deaf ears. I knew it would. Liam (which meant Abi) simply sent a text back asking for the girls’ shoe and dress sizes.
I wonder what sort of wedding this is going to be. I imagine it will be stylish, no expense spared, the catering will be impressive, the bride will look beautiful, the heady scent of flowers will be intoxicating. Exactly the sort of wedding I would normally love. Indeed, I love any sort of wedding; a knees-up in a barn would usually have me jumping for joy.
I’ll hate this wedding.
I know I must go; how can I not see my son married? But I’m dreading every moment. He’s too young, she’s too old, she was once married to his father and although she doesn’t know this, I do. The whole thing is weird from start to finish. And now there’s a baby involved. I wonder who she will invite. She’ll have had to vet the guest list carefully. Avoiding the squeamish and judgemental. There must be so many people stomping in on their relationship, which up until now she’s managed to keep private. What do the registrar, the florist, the band members, the hotel chef, think of the age gap, of the groom’s youth, of her pregnancy? Is she used to seeing eyebrows raised, snickering behind hands? Or am I being silly? These people probably couldn’t care less, if they are being paid. But her American friends, her relatives, her colleagues and contacts, his school, college, and football friends – those people must have a view. Will things change when they see each other through their guests’ eyes? People barge in on fragile new relationships, asking questions and offering opinions. Will their voices shrilly tear at this tissue of the romance? I hope so. I know that’s terrible of me. I’m mean and bitter. I’m frustrated. I don
’t like myself at the moment.
But I like her even less.
I can’t imagine the conversation when she introduced my son to her mother. Mrs Curtiz must have been shocked, disappointed, she probably said something like, ‘Well, I’m glad your father isn’t alive to see this.’ It’s dreadful to think that my beautiful son is the cause of distress and dissatisfaction. I’ve always imagined that he’d be the sort of boy that would make a potential mother-in-law proud and relaxed. That she’d be pleased her daughter would be safe and happy.
‘How are you? The girls? Ben?’ asks Abi, as though we are simply two old friends catching up after a few of weeks of not seeing one another, nothing more harrowing or traumatic.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, in a manner that clearly means the opposite.
She doesn’t care anyway. ‘Good, good.’
There’s a beat and I’m compelled to ask, ‘And how are you?’ I aim to be crisp, efficient and civil, or at least not outright rude, but I don’t really want to know anything about her life.
‘We’re getting used to each other. I’m learning all about his little quirks.’
I feel momentarily jubilant. Quirks? Something she finds distasteful, irritating, a deal breaker in the making. ‘Like?’
She laughs, girlishly. Girlishly! It’s as though he’s making her younger. ‘Oh, you know, like the way he absolutely piles his toast with jam, inches of it. Adorable.’
Adorable then. Not irritating. I do know of Liam’s jam habit. The other day I opened the cupboard and noticed I had three jars of strawberry jam in there. I’ve continued to automatically pop a jar in my trolley every week. I hadn’t realised that consumption had slowed so significantly now Liam isn’t living with us.
