I like to think that we would be great friends and that we would want to spend time together, just hanging out. I like to think that I would be able to fix every little thing that worried you and make it better, smoothing your path through life, be your go-to gal for everything from a spider under the bed to a bad dream. I would hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay, and it would have been okay, because I would be your mum and I would never let anything harm you. Never.
NINE It was a mere three days later that Lucy arrived home to a distinct hubbub in the kitchen. She was glad of the distraction, the change of tempo, a refreshing change from the whine of the television and the sight of Camille slumped on the cushions that usually greeted her. This was different, and she welcomed the sounds of laughter that filtered under the door of the kitchen. Her boss had hauled her over the coals not an hour ago; he was, apparently, less than happy at the lack of progress on the eco company job. Tansy and John, it seemed, were so busy bickering about their roles that they were failing to get things done, and this, she rightly understood, was her fault. ‘You only get to wear the big-girl shoes, Lucy, if you are willing to make the tough decisions. That’s what we pay you for, right?’ her boss had asked, sitting behind his desk with his legs splayed and his overpowering cologne stinging her nose and the back of her throat. She had nodded, deciding not to reply that s
I think it’s fair to say that I never think about the negative aspects of you. I never picture telling you off or feeling pissed off with you in any way. I can only ever see you as a smiling, beautiful, happy girl. I think about you and I sitting at the table in the kitchen and poring over prospectuses for colleges and universities, trying to decide over a mug of tea what might be best for your future. I watch you tap the pencil against your teeth, still undecided between architect, veterinary surgeon and lawyer. We weigh up the pros and cons of each and, exhausted by the task, we take a break for a tea refill and a piece of flapjack. And I feel like your friend as well as your mum, and that feels amazing.
TEN Lucy took her time, walking home slowly with a layer of upset and confusion sitting on top of the emptiness she had felt since her visit to Dr Millard. She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer for strength before putting her key in the door. The first thing she heard was Camille’s crying, huge gulping sobs that came from the sitting room, interspersed with the sound of Jonah cooing his words of comfort. ‘Don’t cry, Cam! Don’t let anything spoil your first day at work; this should be a happy day,’ he soothed. ‘It was a happy day!’ Camille shouted. Lucy let her bag fall to the floor and walked into the sitting room with a feeling of dread. Jonah’s expression was one of confusion. He looked torn. His body twitched, as if he wanted to jump up and talk to her but knew that when Camille was crying his rightful place was by her side. She felt the cold creep of exclusion wash over her once again and it wasn’t pleasant. Camille looked up at her with tear-stained eyes and sank furt
Things between us were strained. I knew I loved Jonah, that he made me happy and that I wanted to be married to him. I also knew he would be the best dad ever, I saw evidence of his kind nature every day, but it was like someone in the distance was slowly banging a drum that only I could hear. It was a low, slow, deep, heavy boom that resonated in my mind, reminding me of the passing of time and distracting my thoughts. I could only focus my mind on one thing, the fact that I was desperate to be a mother. It was an overwhelming, all-consuming sensation that flavoured my food, coloured my opinions and influenced my choices. I was also battling with the thought that Jonah didn’t feel the need for a child as strongly as I did and I didn’t know how to manage that. And this will sound extreme, ridiculous even, but when I got my period it was with such a sense of sadness that I would lock the bathroom door and howl, as surely as I had when I miscarried. These two events were, quite obviously
ELEVEN The car journey out to leafy West Malling was pleasant. Camille sat on the luxurious back seat of the off-road Porsche. It was one of the perks of Jonah’s business, being able to rustle up a fabulous car when the need arose. With her headphones plugged into the sound system, her stepdaughter alternated between snacking on sweets and singing out loud. Every time her tuneless caterwauling filled the small space, Jonah laughed and Lucy joined in. She felt like they were any other family out on a jaunt, creating memories that would inevitably help build their shared history, and that could only be a good thing. Lucy tried to ignore the stir of concern that Camille might be rude or offhand in front of her family, not quite knowing how she would handle that. ‘This is so pretty!’ Camille sat forward and looked out the window. Lucy was glad that the traditional English high street – with its ivy-covered buildings, timber-beamed pubs, Georgian terraces, double-bay-windowed shopfronts and
I sometimes think about my future and realise that not being a mother isn’t a temporary sadness, something that will pass. Without you, I never get to see my child graduate, never get to sit at the front of a church when you marry, never have the chance to lay my arm across your back whilst trying to figure out how to fix your broken heart, and I never get to hold my grandchild. In later life, probably as the pain has subsided a little and I have patched the holes in my life that you would have filled, with work, with Jonah, with holidays and all manner of happy distractions, I will then have to go through it all again. Not only have I had to watch my friends and family holding their babies, but I will then want to slope off to a dark place while they press pictures of grandchildren into my palms and regale me with the achievements of the cleverest, cutest kids ever born, beaming with a pride that I can only dream of. It’s as if the punishment for me will go on and on until my dying da
TWELVE Lucy stood in the shower, lamenting the arrival of her period, soaping her body with vigour and disliking her inability to do anything about the situation. She considered this monthly event, knowing that for some it brought sweet relief. For others it was just an irritation to be suffered, an inconvenience during any holiday or special occasion. But for her, it was a tangible sign of her failure, and it was hard not to let it get her down. You’ve got to be patient, Lucy! Her little pep talk did little to alleviate her disappointment. She watched her loss snake along the shower tray in a thin, dark, winding tributary, and cried quietly into the deluge. Dressing quickly, knowing that time was of the essence, she towel-dried her hair, creeping down the stairs before Jonah woke and Camille surfaced, happy that Camille’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday. She had decided to go to town. This was a chance to build a bridge, and not just any bridge, but one that sparkled with pizazz and
Oh, your birthday! What a day that would be. I would make you a cake and decorate the house with banners, before creeping into your room with a fistful of balloons and confetti and a cupcake with a single candle in it. This would become one of our traditions, so no matter how old you got, you’d always wake to a cupcake, with pink frosting of course, and a single candle. If for any reason I couldn’t be with you on that day, you’d make one for yourself or someone you loved would buy you one, and holding that cupcake would make you feel close to me wherever you were in the world. Your birthday would be a day for great, great celebration, the day my life changed. The day I got you, the day I gave my heart away . . .
THIRTEEN Lucy took her time in the bathroom, spending an age cleaning and flossing her teeth, removing her make-up, cleansing and toning her skin, and even giving the toilet a good bleaching. She did anything she could to delay having the next conversation with her husband. She knew that for them, when it came to Camille, it was a bit like being friendly supporters of two neighbouring teams that never played each other, making amicability and gentle ribbing possible. But boy oh boy – when they did eventually meet on the field, she knew they could expect a good fight. The birthday tea had been nice, the fancy cake a great success, and Dex very good company. The second bottle of champagne that she and Jonah had shared before the kids left the house for the late-night cinema also helped their Saturday pass in a
slight haze of fuzzy happiness. But the effect of the alcohol had long since dulled. It was now bedtime, and they were going to be alone, free for the first time to discuss Camille
High school sweetheart. Jonah used this phrase and, as ever, it set my pulse racing. I sometimes think about that first flash of love and lust that can shape you in ways in which you can never imagine. I have friends who, even as their years advance, have confessed that to escape from the chaos of family life they stop, elbow-deep in suds at the sink or with a mountain of paperwork awaiting them, and stare out of a window into the starry sky above and imagine, just for a second, what a life with that boy might have ended up like. They remember the glorious bubble of happiness that filled them morning, noon and night. The way he smelled, the things he said, the first time he touched their skin and the fact that they knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that no one else in the whole wide world had ever, ever had a love like that before. They were Romeo and Juliet, or Scarlett and Rhett, and they were confident that this unique love would never falter . . . For me, it’s a little different. I
FOURTEEN Lucy had stayed in close proximity, as requested, hovering in the background in the kitchen while Jonah spoke to Geneviève. She had watched him sweat over making the call to his ex, drawing breath and rehearsing the words. In the end, the woman gave her immediate blessing for Camille to start college at the end of September. His relief had been swift and evident. Lucy, however, had hoped at some level that Geneviève might veto the idea, leaving her off the hook and free from blame should it transpire that Camille had to go back to France. Lucy had, in light of this new development, adopted a new strategy: avoidance. She hoped that she would feel better about things the more she got used to the idea, but until that point she worked later in the office, gaining nods of approval and praise for her dedication and results on the eco energy project. At the other end of the day, she was up with the lark, pounding the pavements with a new-found energy to her running that helped her to
I told Camille that a year would pass quickly and I meant it. A year passes so quickly that when ten have passed you have to count on your fingers to check that you haven’t got your calculations wrong. And then twenty years, two whole decades, now that requires a double-check going over your fingers twice. So yes, it will pass quickly, so much so that when it comes to the end, the speed at which it has gone will leave you completely stunned. Two decades? How is that even possible? Sometimes it feels like no time at all and at others, a whole lifetime . . .
FIFTEEN Lucy was woken bright and early the next day by the doorbell. It took a full second for her to remember where she was and why. She pulled her sweatshirt over her pyjamas and slid along the pale tiles in her socks. A quick peek through the spyhole revealed Jonah. She felt a quake of nerves at the sight of him. Opening the door, she stole nervous glimpses of her husband, wary of his reaction and intentions, knowing she didn’t have the energy for another discussion about Camille, and feeling a flicker of aggravation that he had invaded her space. She placed her hand on her stomach. ‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ He walked in and swept her into his arms. ‘Shit, Lucy, that was a crappy night’s sleep,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘There was no one to chat to me just as I was preparing for sleep and prevent me from nodding off, and no one stealing the duvet in the middle of the night or warming their feet on me. No one disturbing me with noisy trips to the bathroom – where’s the fun in tha
I understand why Mum and I aren’t close, of course. I was the golden girl, the one with all the hopes and dreams of the things she never got to do stacked neatly on my shoulders. And I didn’t mind it, not a bit. I felt special, chosen. I wanted to do all those things and make her proud. Plus, there was something quite comforting about seeing my life plan stretched out before me in an orderly fashion. It meant that no matter what the day threw at me or what boulder landed in front of me, I only had to sidestep it and take a deep breath to be back on track. Fay was the naughty one. The one who asked ‘why?’, broke the rules, played ball in the house, fed the dog titbits from her plate, ran through the sprinklers in her Sunday best, broke a window, answered back. That was her role. But me? I was the steady hand on the family tiller, the good girl. Or at least that was what my mother believed. I guess that was why she was so shocked, hurt, and why what happened changed the nature of how she
SIXTEEN It was late September. Camille had been ensconced in college for the last two weeks, Dex had departed for life on the other side of the pond, and, after her most recent setback, Lucy’s body seemed to have found its rhythm. She sighed at the sight of the wilting brown heads on the potted geraniums that lined the wall of the garden. They were confirmation that summer had ended. It always made her feel a little down, this rather grey time between the glorious warmth of the summer months and the beautiful burnished hues that autumn brought with it. Autumn was her favourite season; for her it held close associations with real fires, hot toast, mugs of cocoa and starchy meals eaten by lamplight from the comfort of the armchair with warm socks on her feet to ward off any chill. The house stood forlornly in the encroaching darkness; it was as if, with Jonah away, it mourned a little for his cheery presence, as did she. It felt very different climbing between cold sheets without him clo
My stepdaughter fell pregnant, and I can tell you: it felt bittersweet having a pregnant woman in the house who wasn’t me. I didn’t have the chance to tell my husband immediately. I thought it would be unfair to do so while he was so far away on a business trip, but the fact that I knew this thing about his daughter was a horrible burden and one I disliked. It felt disloyal. My stepdaughter was adamant she didn’t want her mum to know, and with greater understanding of the strained nature of their relationship, this made more sense. I would wake in the middle of the night and think about the thirteen-week marker, picturing the scan picture of that little baby, and I’d put my hand on my tum, before waking more fully and remembering that it wasn’t me that was pregnant and it wasn’t my child. I’d lie back on my pillow and cry myself to sleep. That sadness was always lurking and manifested itself in a variety of ways. I couldn’t bear to see former colleagues come into the office, passing ar
SEVENTEEN Lucy arranged the large glass jug of flowers on the table in the sitting room, while Camille paced the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. ‘You need to try to keep calm,’ she reminded her, while trying to ignore the slick of sweat on her own palms and her flustered pulse. ‘I feel sick and I don’t know if I can do this. Can’t I just hide upstairs and come down when you’ve done it?’ Camille pleaded, as she folded and unfolded her arms. ‘No. If you and I sit side by side, it not only shows that you are supported, but that you are strong enough to sit and face him. I know it isn’t an easy thing to do, but it’s exactly those qualities that will get you through this tricky time. You are stronger than you think.’ She twisted the Peruvian lilies so that they looked their very best, and she stoked the fire with the wrought-iron poker before returning it to the little stand on which it hung next to a mini shovel. She then popped another seasoned log on to the glowing embers, ensuri
I am nearly forty-one, but saying those words out loud, admitting for the first time ever that I had you, took me back to that time when I was a frightened girl. I felt instantly guilty for sharing it, after swearing that I would never tell a soul. I felt the hot, uncomfortable cloak of shame that I had worn for all these years, but right then, it was no longer hidden under layers of laughter, achievement or any other number of diversions. It was a brightly coloured shame, there for all to see. Now, it feels as if a burden has been lifted and I want to shout at the world: ‘I was sixteen when I had my baby, when I had you, my little girl!’
EIGHTEEN The hot shower went some way to restoring her body; it brought feeling back to her hollow limbs, but could do little to stop the gripping sadness that sat in her gut and the feeling of weakness that clung to her, dragging her down. Lucy stood facing the warm deluge, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts of self-recrimina
tion. What would Jonah do now? Where did this leave their marriage? And what would Camille think? How was she coping alone in the house with only her angry dad for support? Working her hair into shampoo lather, she lifted her arms with some difficulty and tried not to think too far ahead. It was only when she felt the wrinkly touch of her finger pads to her face that she switched off the tap and stepped into her towelling robe. She pictured the beautiful green silk kimono that she had left on the arm of the chair, wondering if she would ever get to feel it against her skin. After this short window of time, mere hours, the house in Windermere Avenue and the
I heard them talking in the corridor. And with hindsight the fact that so many decisions were taken and so much planning was done without my consent, it seems inhuman, staggering. But at the time, I was used to being told what to do at school and at home, and this was just another big municipal building full of adults who all told me that they knew best and I didn’t question anything. I didn’t know I could. But when you were only hours old, I overheard a nurse saying to my mum, ‘It’s best that she doesn’t feed her. It won’t do either of them any good to bond in that way.’ Hearing these words fired something inside me. That was it, my one chance for us to bond, for me to imprint myself on to you, and even though I was little more than a child myself in so many ways, I was determined. And I did it. I held you close and I fed you, Bella, and it was . . . it was something that I think about in my darker moments. It hurt, but I thought that was part of my punishment and it didn’t matter. I
The Idea of You Page 2
