by Adele Parks
‘That’s very difficult,’ admits Jen. She is the only person, other than Ben, that I have confided this much in. We’ve known each other since our boys were five years old; I know that she won’t gossip or gloat, she will resist being scandalised or sanctimonious. She’ll just want the best thing for Liam.
‘What should I do?’ I beg.
Jen sighs. It’s a long, slow sigh that acknowledges she’s unsure, confirms there are no easy answers. Eventually, she says, ‘That’s up to you, Mel. I’m afraid I can’t make the decision for you.’
‘No, I know,’ I mutter, despondently.
‘But if I can offer you some advice . . .’
‘Yes, yes please.’ I’m desperate for some direction.
‘Don’t lose him.’ She hangs up.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, shaking, and do the thing that we all have to do from time to time: I take a deep breath in and then let it slowly out. Once more. In and out. Don’t lose him.
Since I saw that video of Abigail and Liam doing . . . well, you know . . . I have felt such grief. Because I did lose him. My boy vanished from in front of my eyes. I’ve even felt that I’ve crashed through some of the stages of grief. First denial – no, no. Not my boy. My sweet, hardworking, well-intentioned son wouldn’t do something so irresponsible, so stupid. He wouldn’t throw away all his chances. Then anger. I have never considered myself an angry person; I didn’t know I had such depths of fury to spew up at Liam, Abigail, Ben, Rob, and myself. Mostly myself. I lingered and wallowed in that stage for longer than was healthy. But I see now that there is no time for bargaining or depression – I need to fast forward to acceptance. Things are not ideal but they could be a lot worse. They could be irredeemable. I know Jen would do anything to swap places with me. She wouldn’t care whom her son was marrying if only he was alive. My son is alive.
And there’s going to be a baby.
New life. A new soul. Someone who will need all the love and support possible to find their way through. Because the world is tough. Bad things happen. Family, friends, they are there to compensate, to comfort. And Liam is young, that’s my whole objection, the source of my fear and disappointment. He is young. He still needs me. Us. I can’t change where we are at. I can just stand with him. My son. My unexpected baby. The being who changed me from a carefree student to a Boudica. I promised to look after him, no matter what came hurtling our way. Now Abi has her own unexpected baby. I think of her telling me about her longing for a child and now she is going to have one. I concentrate on what is important. Abi must love Liam. He certainly thinks he loves her. I don’t approve, I don’t like it, but it is what it is. They may be OK, if they love each other and if they are braced and buoyed by us. If they don’t waste any energy or lose focus, for example through arguing with me, then maybe they’ll have a chance.
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with an intense need to tell Liam that I love him. That I will always love him. No matter what. I send a text.
Beautiful weather! Mum x. It’s so horribly British. Next, I’ll be offering him a cup of tea. I wait just a beat. Then I send a second one. I love you. Because that’s it. That covers everything. I wait.
And wait.
Breathe.
Wait.
My phone pings. Good to know. See you later.
Good to know! Good to know! Liam’s standard ‘all is right with the world’ response. My shoulders seem to cave towards my chest in relief. We’re OK. It’s going to be OK.
‘Come on girls,’ I yell through the bedroom wall. ‘You need to get up.’ I hear them screech and giggle. They don’t have to be asked twice.
55
Abigail
So, Mel had forgiven Liam. The emotion of the big day has got to her and she’d dug deep, found the resources to forgive him and he, in turn, had melted. Instantly. The thought infuriated Abigail. That was not part of her plan. Despite what she had led Liam to believe, she had no intention of being part of one big happy family. That was not what she’d come to the UK to do.
Liam had called her the moment he’d received the text from his mother. He’d tried to pretend the call was about finding a YouTube video on how to tie a Windsor knot but she could hear it in his voice, he was almost giddy with excitement.
‘Oh yeah, and Mum texted. I think we’re all OK there now.’
‘Really? Why? What did she say?’
‘That she loves me.’ He sounded relieved, shy, as though he’d doubted it. Abigail had never doubted it. She’d depended on it.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Abigail lied. ‘How did you respond?’ She needed to know everything. Luckily, Liam was in the habit of sharing. Until she’d come along he’d told his mother more or less every detail of his life. He wasn’t the secretive sort by nature – she’d had to foster that skill. Abi wasn’t saying she had replaced his mother – that would be creepy – but she had to admit, he probably shared more than a man in his forties would ever deem necessary.
‘I texted back “Good to know.”’
Abi was pleased. He hadn’t given Mel the reassurance she must be craving; he hadn’t said ‘I love you too.’ But then he added, ‘“Good to know” is our thing. Like a code.’
Abi seethed. She didn’t want them to have ‘things’, ‘codes’.
‘Well, I’m glad. It’s going to make our day so much more comfortable and enjoyable if your mum isn’t still being nasty,’ she pointed out.
‘Right.’ Liam laughed, a little uneasily. ‘I think it’s going to be fine.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ Liam replied. They didn’t have a thing. They just said what everyone said.
Abi rang off.
56
Melanie
We arrive at the hotel at five to ten. Ben goes to park the car but Imogen, Lily and I hop out and linger in the reception, holding the huge box of wedding flowers. The girls are hyper, skipping, jumping, hopping, twirling, chatting, giggling. It’s lovely to watch. I’m not sure what’s exciting them the most: the thought of being flower girls or the thought of seeing Liam. The hotel is in the centre of town and even though it’s early the heat is intense. All the doors and windows are open, someone is dashing about looking for electric fans. There’s a small courtyard that has clearly had the benefit of a clever gardener. We wander out there, hoping to find some shade or a breeze. I breathe in the sweet-smelling flowers and listen to the whisper of the rough, rustling grasses. They’ve been watering recently and the scent of damp woodchips and plant leaves lingers in the air. I allow the fragrant whiff of lavender and eucalyptus to calm and soothe me – progress, because yesterday I thought I’d need a heavy-duty cocktail of Valium and alcohol to see me through this ordeal. Ben appears and says he’s going to track down Liam, who apparently is somewhere in the hotel with his friends, the best man and groomsmen. I ask at reception for Abi and I’m told that she’s in the suite on the fifth floor.
Abi opens the door; she looks dazzling, luminous. She’s already wearing her wedding dress. My eyes sweep from top to toe. An elegant empire-line dress that only the very svelte ever really suit. She’s all softness, a waterfall of chiffon and lace. The girls take their excitement to a new level. They leap about, shrieking; she swoops down to them, gives them kisses, tells them they look glorious. It gets us over the threshold.
‘Come in, come in.’
I enter with good intentions. ‘You look lovely.’ She looks stunning, gorgeous, beautiful. I’m only up to lovely. She touches her stomach. Subconsciously, I think, or maybe a reminder to me of her state, as if I could forget for a moment. I try harder. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ Her response is a little cool. I thought she’d melt at the first sign of my warming to her, to the situation, but apparently not.
The hotel suite is enormous – it stretches across the entire top floor. More like an apartment than a hotel room, really. It’s tastefully decorated in pale greys, w
hites, and silvers. The girls bounce about, twirling, giggling, repeatedly drawn to the full-length mirror, enchanted by their own reflections. The dresses Abi chose for Immie and Lily are undeniably wonderful. They’re a pure brilliant white – kids with paler skins would struggle to carry off that colour but they look sensational on my girls. The simple, sleeveless bodices are embroidered and give way to enormous calf-length tulle skirts; the satin sashes are lime green and tie in the most enormous bows at the back.
Abi looks me up and down. I know my outfit falls short. I had no enthusiasm for shopping for anything new and, at the last minute, I pulled out the first thing that came to hand from my wardrobe, a navy shift dress. Now I wish I’d made more of an effort; partially to appease Liam when he sees me and partially to avoid falling so woefully short in comparison to Abi’s level of glamour. Not that it’s reasonable to compare a bride and a guest, but maybe as mother of the groom more was expected of me.
This isn’t going to be easy.
I think of Jennifer and Austin. I count my blessings and smile, determined.
‘I didn’t know if it was a hat sort of wedding,’ I say, apologetically.
‘You could have called to ask,’ replies Abi, but she doesn’t confirm whether it is or it isn’t, so I’ve no idea how underdressed I am. She obviously isn’t planning on making this easy. I follow her through to the sitting room. Her veil is laid out over the sofa, delicate, beautiful. I am still carrying the huge box of flowers containing her bouquet, headdresses, posies and rose petal baskets for the girls.
‘I’ll put these in the bathroom. They’ll stay cooler and fresher in there,’ I offer.
In the bathroom, I quickly put my wrists under cold running water; it’s a tip my mother taught me to keep temperatures down. I emerge and instruct the girls to calm down. I give them each a glass of water and ask them to sit quietly in front of the TV in the bedroom while I talk to Abi. They don’t look keen but they agree. They’ve been bribed and threatened with everything under the sun and know that today it is paramount that they behave impeccably.
Once I walk back into the living room, I launch into my prepared speech. ‘Look, Abi. I’ve had some time to think about everything. And what with the developments,’ I nod towards her stomach. It’s just slightly swollen. Some women start to plump out immediately, but I knew Abi would not be that sort. No doubt, she’ll have a basketball bump at nine months and no other signs of pregnancy; no swollen ankles, no saggy bum, or sign of multiple chins. I push that out of my mind. I should stay on brief. ‘I think I owe you an—’ The words stick in my throat.
‘An apology?’ She sashays towards a console table that has an ice bucket on it, inside of which there is a bottle of champagne chilling in ice.
‘Yes, perhaps.’ I’m not sure I’m ready for an all-out apology, I mean she’s the one who— I stop my train of thought. ‘I’d certainly like to press the start-over button. I want this to work.’
‘Do you now?’ She looks sceptical. I can hardly blame her. I don’t entirely believe myself. ‘Is this Ben’s idea?’
‘No, but it’s certainly what he wants and I know it is what Liam wants, too.’
‘Has he spoken to you about it?’ she demands sharply.
I shake my head, sadly. ‘No, we haven’t spoken yet, but I do know it’s what he must want, so . . . ’ I shrug. I can’t lie. It’s not exactly what I want. It’s the next best thing. It’s what will work in the world I find myself in. It’s a compromise.
‘So, we’re going to turn the page. A clean sheet?’ she asks.
‘I’d like that.’
‘And you honestly think we can live happily ever after?’ She stands in front of me, a bride in all her finery. Beautiful, but her gently blooming radiance has been replaced now with a new, charged expression. She looks more alive than anyone I’ve ever seen before. There’s a biting sharpness to her that unnerves me. Despite my goal to be friendly, I find I’m thinking of vampires in horror movies, after they have fed on someone’s blood. She picks up the champagne bottle and then efficiently eases out the cork. The pop sound makes me jump.
‘I honestly don’t know, but I think we should try, for Liam’s sake,’ I reply.
‘Honestly. Mel and honesty. Now there’s a conundrum. Do I mean conundrum or do I mean oxymoron?’ She laughs and shakes her head as she starts to pour a glass of champagne. ‘So, tell me, honestly, does Ben know?’
I’m confused. ‘Know what?’
‘About Rob being Liam’s father?’ she says calmly.
‘You know?’ I stop dead. Caught and wrong footed, it’s horrifying but suddenly, it makes sense. It’s the opposite of seeing the light. I’ve walked into a dark shadow, cold and bleak.
57
Abigail
‘Of course, I know. That is why I’m here. In your life.’ Abigail didn’t add ruining things but the implication hung in the air. ‘Would you like a glass of champagne? You look as though you could use a drink.’
Abigail took delight in watching Mel blink repeatedly. Shock or battling tears? Either response was a result. Mel trembled. Stumbled backwards and slumped into a chair. Abigail thought of one of those pool toys when it was punctured. Shrivelled, deflated, wrinkled, and useless.
‘How did you find out? I never wanted you to know,’ Mel stuttered, stunned.
‘Really?’ Abigail was sceptical.
‘Never,’ Mel insisted. ‘As soon as I realised I was pregnant my first reaction was shock that it had happened, and my second was fear that you would find out.’
‘Find out what a bitch you are, you mean?’
‘That you’d find out and be hurt. That’s why I left uni, lost all those chances, sacrificed all my friendships.
Sacrificed my friendship with you. I didn’t want to cause any trouble.’
Abigail wanted to throw the champagne at her. She gripped the stem so tightly she thought it might snap in her hands. ‘You slept with my boyfriend. I’d say that constitutes causing trouble.’
Mel hung her head, the very picture of shame, but Abi didn’t buy it. Not for a minute. Mel was simply regretting that the past had finally risen to meet her. ‘Tell me – not that it matters, but just out of interest. How long did your affair last?’
‘It wasn’t an affair. It was a one off. A dreadful mistake.’ Abi tutted, disbelieving. Mel pushed on, ‘I didn’t want to steal Rob away from you. That was never my plan.’
Abi scoffed. ‘Yes, you did. You just couldn’t.’
‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’ Lily asked. Both girls had emerged from the bedroom, uninterested in cartoons when there was a real-life bust up right here, right now. They hung on the door frame. Their smiles faltered for the first time in their magical day.
‘Go back in the bedroom, Lily, and close the door.’ Lily didn’t move. Abi liked the girls well enough but she had often noted that Mel really didn’t have a grip on discipline. ‘Now!’ Mel shouted, which caused Lily and Imogen to scurry away. Abigail stroked her stomach. When she was a mother she would never resort to shouting. She’d reason.
Mel stretched out her hand for the champagne glass. Abi handed it over with a cold smile. ‘If you didn’t want to cause trouble why did you send Rob a photo of Liam?’
‘Sorry?’ Mel froze. She looked like someone had thumped her. Although no one had. Not yet.
‘The photo of Liam clutching the list of GCSE results. I found it.’
Mel looked as though she was going to pass out. She probably wanted to. Pass out. Block it all out. All her nasty betrayals. ‘It was an impulse. A stupid, ill-thought-through impulse. Just one photo in seventeen years,’ she gasped, panicked.
‘Really?’ Abigail was relatively confident that there hadn’t been an ongoing correspondence between Mel and Rob because she had searched their homes, his office, his computer and phone with forensic precision and she hadn’t found any evidence that he’d been sending money to Mel or supporting Liam in any way. She didn’t discover any other pictures,
emails, or texts. Just the one. But Abi didn’t believe Mel that the sending of the photo was an impulse. Not for a second. She’d probably been plotting and planning on how to win Rob’s attention for ever. Of course she had. Rob was magnificent. Handsome, powerful, intelligent, obscenely rich. Abigail couldn’t believe Mel wouldn’t want him.
The email had been entitled, The boy done good, if you’ve been wondering. There was nothing written in the body copy. Awful grammar. Quite shocking. No doubt Mel thought she was hitting a jocular, pally note but she just showed her ignorance of Rob’s mindset and sensibilities. He couldn’t stand those sorts of idiom. He thought they were common. To start with, Abigail hadn’t understood what she was looking at. She often snooped around his computer, just to keep an eye on him. Which wife didn’t mooch about from time to time? The name on the email – Melanie Harrison – wasn’t immediately recognisable to her. For some time, she’d stared at the picture of the handsome boy – square jawed, tall, laughing – he was somehow familiar. She’d thought he must be an intern and this was perhaps a mother thanking Rob for placing him, giving him an opportunity. Even that was enough to make her suspicious; Rob wasn’t known for his acts of altruism. She’d googled the woman’s name. Images popped onto the screen, an array of Melanie Harrisons on Facebook. Then she recognised her. Melanie Harrison was Melanie Field – they were Facebook friends, as it happened, but Abi had over twenty thousand Facebook friends; she couldn’t be expected to recall every name. Melanie Field was someone she had been friends with thousands of moons back, someone she hadn’t thought about for years. A silly girl who had fallen pregnant and had to leave university.
And then Abigail had understood.
The bitch.
Abi employed a private detective, who hired an IT specialist – they could be more thorough than she could ever hope to be when searching for evidence of a relationship. They didn’t find anything more. Just the one photo and his altered will.
