by Tina Seskis
As their eyes made contact she thought she’d pass out with dread and horror and drunkenness. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she had time to, her would-be murderer looked more shocked than her suddenly, and instead of running over and stabbing or strangling her, he turned on his heel and legged it, stifling a sneeze as he went – and as he disappeared along the path she realised it wasn’t Stephen after all, he was too slight for a start, her nerves had obviously got the better of her. But then who was he? Why had he been spying on her? Siobhan’s head restarted its spinning, sending her thoughts haywire, and she dropped back down onto the hardness of the concrete, trying to quell the nausea.
Her phone rang. She sat up and grappled in the depths of her bag, and got to it just before it went to voicemail. Her fears vanished when she saw who it was. She felt giddily drunk, euphoric, relief flooding through her.
‘Hello,’ she said, but even through her joy her voice was slurred and faintly hostile, she couldn’t help herself.
‘Hi, Shiv,’ said Matt. He paused. ‘Are you all right? Are you at your picnic? How’s it going?’
‘Terrible,’ said Siobhan, and she started to cry, despite feeling better, or maybe because of it. The man in the bushes seemed to have definitely gone, thank goodness, she must have imagined he was after her. Maybe she’d even imagined him, she was drunk after all.
‘Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t called before. It’s just that the reception here’s rubbish, and I’ve been a bit distracted lately, you’ll understand why soon.’
She panicked again, convinced suddenly that he was about to dump her. ‘Matt, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve had an awful evening. Is it OK if we talk about this another time?’
‘Of course, it’s just that, well … look, where are you?’
‘By the side of the bloody Serpentine,’ she said. ‘We all had a terrible row and I ran off like a total drama queen, but you should have heard it, the things that were said, it was poisonous. Then I thought there was someone in the bushes, but maybe I was wrong, I don’t know, and I’m covered in wine and chocolate and I look like a tramp, a pissed daft tramp.’ She began to cry a little harder.
‘Someone there? What d’you mean? Are you OK?’
Siobhan listened. Everywhere there was stillness; even the women were quiet now. She tried not to alarm him.
‘Oh, I must have imagined it, I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure, Siobhan? I don’t like the sound of it. How are you getting home?’
‘I don’t know, try to flag down a taxi I guess.’
‘I wish I could come and get you, make sure you’re OK, I wish I wasn’t in the bloody Kimberleys.’
‘It doesn’t matter, there’s no-one here now, I’m sure of it. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you after the weekend.’
‘Come round on Sunday, my flight gets in early morning. Come round then.’
‘You’ll be knackered.’
‘I’ll be OK. I can’t wait to see you. Oh, please don’t cry again. I … look, this isn’t quite how I envisioned it, but I hate to hear you so upset … so when I get back … I … Oh, fuck it … (Deep breath.) Siobhan, when I get back I’ve got something to ask you.’
Siobhan felt a hot sweet feeling course down her neck, through her back, like you get when you say hello to a stranger and they respond to you, smile at you unexpectedly. She stopped crying, stopped breathing.
‘I’ve already spoken to your father, don’t worry, I’ve done it all properly. Listen, I’ve got to go in a minute, the truck’s waiting for me.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘… Matt?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m a nutter.’
‘That’s OK, I like it.’
‘Ma – att?’
‘Ye – es?’
‘I really, really love you.’
‘I really, really love you too, Siobhan, I really, really do. I always have. See you soon. Look after yourself, OK?’
‘I will, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘The others are still here, they’d hear me if anything happened, I’m good at screaming. I love you, Matt. Bye.’
Siobhan shoved her phone into her bag and sat there for a while, stunned, savouring Matt’s words, delighted chills still coursing through her spine. Finally she pushed up on her hands and hauled her legs around, resting drunkenly for a moment on her left arm and left thigh, as if she were posing for an old-fashioned swimwear shot. She smiled her killer smile, teeth perfectly straight these days, hugged the knowledge to herself like a newborn baby. She felt totally fine about getting home now – the park felt brighter, safer, in fact the whole world felt lovelier, she loved everything about it. There were definitely no more strange men lurking in the bushes, and there was bound to be a cab up on the bridge, she’d be home in no time. She even felt more optimistic about her friends now – she’d be sure to ring everyone in the morning to make up, even Natasha. After all it was her own lapse in discretion that had kicked everything off – thinking about it, maybe it was all her fault, the least she could do was apologise to everyone. And they were all friends still, always had been, always would be, they’d been through so much together. Her mind waltzed a little, full of love and Prosecco. She’d invite them to the wedding of course – in fact, maybe they could even be bridesmaids! She’d love that. Yes, she’d sort everything out tomorrow. It would all be all right tomorrow.
Siobhan’s head spun as she fully stood up, and she tottered on her ridiculous heels, and she tripped clumsily on the trailing strap of her handbag, and as she fell she gashed her head on the rowlock of the little boat, the one that they’d left there with a hole in it, and as everything went black a splash – was it a bird or a woman – sounded into the soft summer night.
Acknowledgements
So many people have read this book along the way, but editorially I’d especially like to thank the brilliant Maxine Hitchcock at Penguin, my husband, my aunt Val Young, and my friends Claire Lusher and Tracy Morrell, all of whom had some fairly strong things to say that I at some point or another acted upon. To my long-suffering agent and saviour, Jon Elek, and to everyone else at United Agents. To Francesca Russell, Francesca Pearce, Kimberley Atkins, Sarah Arratoon, Sophie Elletson, Louise Moore, Lydia Good and all the other people at Penguin who worked so hard to bring this book out. To my friends Jackie Parker and Lisa Parsons for undertaking the essential job of vetting the manuscript, and my other friends from university who have shown such understanding and good humour about this novel, and who have supported me for so many years in so many ways. To all the people who championed the book when it was launched as A Serpentine Affair, particularly the amazing band of book bloggers, who show so much love and enthusiasm for books, and such generosity of spirit in helping promote them. To my husband and son and the rest of my close friends and family, especially my dad who still hasn’t read any of my books (although he has seen Gone Girl). And finally to everyone who has enjoyed my books, and who has even written something nice about them, thank you so much.
Reading Group Questions
Do you think it’s possible to stay friends with the people you knew when you were young, or is it inevitable that you grow apart?
Which of the women in the novel did you empathise with the most? Who did you feel least sympathy for?
Betrayal is a key theme in the novel – in what different ways did the women betray each other? In your opinion, whose actions were worse? Do you think any of the relationships could, or should, have been reconciled?
Were the women wrong to not return to the park when they heard the splash? Were they culpable by their lack of action?
Even though they weren’t at the reunion, how much are the men in the novel to blame for what happened that night?
Are any of the women victims of their own circumstances? Do you think any of them should have taken more responsibility for their own behaviour?
‘If you’d done no wrong and you told the truth what harm could possibly come to you?’ To what extent do
you agree with this statement? Should some secrets be kept no matter what?
There are two rapes in the novel – why did neither woman go to the police? Do you think things would have been different if they had?
How is motherhood depicted in the novel? How do the relationships the women have with their parents affect them over the years?
Did the final scene change your feelings about anything else in the novel?
1
July 2010
The heat is like another person to push past as I make my way along the platform. I board the train although I don’t know whether I should, after all. I sit tense amongst the commuters, moving with the carriage and the crowds from my old life into my new one. The train is cool and oddly vacant-feeling, despite the people, despite the sweltering of the day outside, and this emptiness calms me a little. No-one knows my story here, I’m anonymous at last, just another young woman with a holdall. I feel adrift, like I’m not really here, but I am, I can tell, the seat is solid beneath me, the backs of houses are rushing past the window. I’ve done it.
It’s funny how easy it is, when it really comes down to it, to get up from your life and begin a new one. All you need is enough money to start you off, and a resolve to not think about the people you’re leaving behind. I tried to not look this morning, tried to just leave, but at the very last second I found myself drawn to his room and stood watching him sleeping – like a newborn really, not yet awake to the first day of the rest of his life. I couldn’t risk even a peep into the room where Charlie slept, I knew it would wake him, stop me going, so I’d quietly turned the latch and left them both.
The woman next to me is struggling with her coffee. She’s wearing a dark suit and looks businesslike, a bit like I used to. She’s trying to get the plastic lid off her drink, but it sticks and she tussles with it until the lid comes off with a shudder and hot coffee spurts over us both. The woman apologises noisily, but I just shake my head for her not to worry and look down into my lap, knowing I should be wiping the dark stains from my grey leather jacket – it will be ruined, it looks odd that I don’t – but the eruption of coffee has upset me somehow and the hot tears mingle with the coffee ones and I pray that if I don’t look up no-one will notice.
I regret now that I didn’t stop and buy a newspaper but it felt inappropriate, on the day I was running away, to go into a newsagents and join a queue of normal people. I sit here and miss having one, miss having those closely packed words to dive into, concentrate on, chase out the evil thoughts in my mind. I’m agitated with nothing to read, nothing to do except look out the window and wish people’s stares away. I watch forlornly as Manchester fizzles out and realise I may never see it again, the city I once loved. The train rushes through sunburnt fields and the odd unknown village and although we’re going fast now the journey seems interminable, my body strains to get up and run, but to where? I’m already running.
I feel cold suddenly, the initially welcome cool of the air-conditioning has become a bone-withering chill, and I pull my jacket tighter. I shiver and look down and shut my leaking eyes. I’m good at crying silently, but the jacket continues to give me away – the teardrops land gently and spread generously across the fabric. Why did I dress up, how ridiculous was that? I’m not on a day trip, I’m running away, leaving my life, surplus to requirements. The sounds in my head and the rhythms of the train over the track fuse together. I keep my eyes shut until the panic drifts away like ghost dust, and then I stay like that anyway.
I get off the train at Crewe. I find my way to the newsagent’s, before the main concourse, and I buy papers, magazines, a paperback, I mustn’t be caught out again. I hide out for a while in the ladies, where I gaze in the mirror at my pale face and ruined jacket, and I loosen my long hair to cover up the stains. I attempt a smile and it comes, twisted and fake maybe, but definitely a smile, and I hope the worst is over, at least for today. I’m hot, feverish even, so I splash at my face and the water adds new marks to my jacket, it’s beyond repair. I take it off and stuff it in my holdall. I look absently at myself, seeing a stranger. I notice I quite like my hair down, it makes me look younger, the kink left from the French pleat renders it ratty, bohemian even. As I dry my hands I feel hot metal on my finger, and I realise I’m still wearing my wedding ring. I’ve never taken it off, not since the day Ben put it on me, on a terrace overlooking the sea. I remove it and hesitate, not sure what to do with it – it’s Emily’s ring, not mine any more. My name is Catherine now. It’s exquisite, the three tiny diamonds shine out from the platinum and make me sad. He doesn’t love me any more. So I leave it there, by the soap, in the public toilets next to Platform 2, and take the next train to Euston.
2
On an unremarkable day more than 30 years earlier, Frances Brown lay in a Chester hospital with her legs in stirrups as the doctors continued to prod about down there. She was in shock. The birth itself had been fast and animal-like, not at all typical of a first-born from the little she knew. She hadn’t really known what to expect, they didn’t tell you much in those days, but the one thing she most definitely had not been prepared for, after the head had crowned and the slippery red creature had flopped onto the bed beneath her, was that the doctors would tell her to deliver another.
Frances had known something was up, when the mood in the delivery room had changed in an instant, and all the doctors had come at once and huddled around her bed, conferring anxiously. She’d thought something must be wrong with her baby girl, but if so why were they poking around her instead of looking after the child? Finally the doctor looked up, and she was bemused to see that he was smiling. ‘The job’s not over yet, Mrs Brown,’ he said. ‘We’ve found another baby that we need to get out now.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she’d said.
The consultant tried again. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Brown, you’re soon to be the mother of twins. You have a second baby to deliver.’
‘What d’you mean?’ she’d screamed. ‘I’ve had my bloody baby.’
Now she lay there in shock and all she could think was that she didn’t want two babies, she only wanted one, she only had one cot, one pram, one set of baby clothes, one life prepared.
Frances was a planner by nature. She didn’t like surprises, certainly not ones this momentous, and apart from anything else she felt far too exhausted to give birth again – the first birth may have been quick but it had been fierce and traumatic and nearly three weeks ahead of schedule. She shut her eyes and wondered when Andrew would arrive. She hadn’t been able to get him at his offi ce, he’d been out at a meeting apparently, and once the contractions had quickened to every minute and a half she’d known her only option was to call an ambulance.
So her first baby had arrived in a gush of red and a gash of loneliness – and now she was being told to deliver a second and still her husband was absent. Andrew hadn’t seemed too keen on having even one baby, so God knows what he’d think of this development. She started sobbing, noisy snot-filled gulps that rang through the little hospital.
‘Mrs Brown, will you control yourself!’ the midwife said. Frances loathed her, with her mean features and squeaky, grating voice – what was she even doing in this job, she thought bitterly, she’d suck the joy out of any situation, even the beauty of birth, like a malevolent pair of bellows.
‘Can I see my baby?’ Frances said. ‘I haven’t even seen her yet.’
‘She’s being checked. Just concentrate on this one.’
‘I don’t want to concentrate on this one. I want my real baby. Give me my real baby.’ She was screeching now. The midwife got the gas and air and held it over Frances’s face, pressing hard. Frances gagged and finally stopped screaming, and as she quietened the fight went out of her and something in her died, there on that hospital bed.
Andrew turned up just seconds too late to see his second daughter enter the world. He seemed flustered and awkward, especially when his hopes of a son were rewarded with not one but two baby g
irls. One was pink and pretty and perfectly formed, the other lay blue and grotesque on the filthy sheets, the umbilical cord stopping the air from entering her lungs and starting her life outside the womb. The atmosphere he arrived into was intense, critical. The doctor deftly unwrapped the cord from the baby’s neck and cut it, and Andrew watched the blood swarm through her little body as the doctor took her across to the resuscitation unit, and one of the nurses held up a hoover and sucked the shit and scum from her airways. It was just moments before they heard the anguished angry howls. She was exactly one hour younger than her sister, and she looked and sounded like she’d come from a different planet.
‘My poor darling, I am so so sorry,’ Andrew whispered to his pale bedraggled wife as he took her hand, red with new life.
Frances looked at him hard, in his Dirty Harry suit and loosened tie. ‘What are you sorry for? That you weren’t here or that I’ve had twin girls?’
He couldn’t quite look at her. ‘For everything,’ he said. ‘But I’m here now and we have our ready-made family. It’ll be great, you’ll see.’
‘Mr Brown, you need to wait outside now,’ said the midwife. ‘We need to clean up your wife and repair the tearing. We’ll call you when you can come back in.’ And she shooed him away and Frances was left alone again, with her guilt and her fear and her two baby daughters.
Frances had always thought she’d be a good mother. She’d just assumed she’d know exactly what to do – that it might not be easy but that she’d get through it, she had a handsome new husband, a supportive family, a maternal instinct. But when it came to it the trauma of the birth and the doubling of her expectations left her at a loss. She had two babies, not one – and they seemed to need feeding or rocking or changing constantly – and a husband who appeared to have drifted away from her whilst the baby (babies!) had been growing inside her.
They couldn’t even think what to call their second daughter. They’d decided weeks ago on Emily for a girl, full name Catherine Emily – Frances thought the names sounded better that way round – but of course they hadn’t known they’d need a second option. Andrew was pragmatic, and suggested calling one of the twins Catherine and the other Emily, but Frances didn’t want to share the names out, they went so well together, she said, so they had to start all over again for the unexpected twin. In the end they settled on Caroline Rebecca, although Frances didn’t particularly like either name – but Andrew had suggested them, and anyway she couldn’t face thinking of any others. She held that fact secret, one of the first of many, further proof that she wouldn’t really have minded if the birth had been just a few seconds longer, if the cord had been that little bit tighter, if poor Caroline Rebecca had stopped breathing before she began. The effort of shoving that thought away (who could she ever tell?) took up years and years of Frances’s life and turned her hard inside, right in the centre of herself where she had once been soft and motherly.
