The dated peach-coloured carpet had been ripped up and offloaded at the municipal dump. She had whooped with joy at the wide, aged timbers that were revealed, and she promptly skim-painted them with a pale-blue floor paint, which clung in some areas and yet skirted the knots and dips, making the floor look worn and yet contemporary at the same time. With the wallpaper stripped and the walls primed, she was now ready to start painting.
‘Can I help you?’ Jonah asked, arriving in his overalls and looking ready to get involved.
‘Sure.’ She smiled, tucking the loose wisps of her hair up into the scarf that she had tied in a front knot on her head. She dipped the long-handled roller into the tray and ran the soft spongy head vertically up and down. The thick paint made a delightful sucking sound as it clung to the wall, leaving a beautiful, pale, natural raffia-coloured stripe on the orange-tinged plaster.
‘What do you think?’ She stood back to admire her work.
‘I think it looks great!’ he enthused. ‘Good colour choice.’
‘I hate to admit that it was Fay’s idea and not mine. She’s so much better at this stuff than me. I’d have gone for a pink feature wall and apparently that is a massive no-no.’
‘Camille will love it. She’ll be happy to be here no matter what; a newly decorated room will be a bonus.’ Jonah dipped the short roller into the tray and ran the paint along the base of the wall, above the wooden edge.
‘Don’t let it drip,’ she instructed.
‘You are so bossy.’ He laughed. ‘I have painted something before.’
‘I’m not bossy. I’m helpful, confident,’ she corrected him. ‘I just want this to be perfect for Camille. We’ll have to do all we can to make her really welcome, encourage her to invite friends over and get her out into Queen’s Park; she’ll want to hang out with people her own age, I’m sure.’
‘Are you saying we are boring?’ Jonah pulled an expression of mock hurt.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m saying you are boring.’
‘Oh God.’ He stopped painting and stared at her. ‘I’ve just had a thought.’
‘What?’ She stopped laughing, any amusement halted by his rather concerned expression.
‘When this baby is sixteen, I will be sixty-three. That’s really old!’ He pulled a face.
‘It’s only old if you let it be. And for the record, I don’t think you’ll ever be old, no matter what age you reach.’ She walked over and stood on tiptoe to kiss his stubbly cheek.
‘Do you think . . .’ He paused.
‘Do I think what?’ She kissed him again.
‘Do you think that our baby issues, the miscarriage, was anything to do with my age?’ He avoided eye contact.
‘No! No, I don’t. No one has suggested that and you mustn’t think it. Plenty of men a lot older than you father babies.’
‘I know.’ He shrugged. ‘But I would hate to be to blame for what you went through.’
‘You are not!’ she asserted. ‘You are young in body and mind and will be a great dad to this little one.’
‘It certainly helps having a hot young trophy wife living in the house to keep me on my toes.’ He winked.
Lucy laughed. ‘Oh, that’s me!’ She leant in and kissed him again. It was mere seconds before their ardour built. ‘Not here.’ She placed the rollers on the floor and grabbed his hand, leading him from the room.
‘What do you mean “not here”?’ He chuckled. ‘There’s only us in the house!’
‘We can’t do it in Camille’s room. That wouldn’t be right,’ she chastised, leading him past the stack of furniture, now propped along the banister, and into their room.
As Lucy sat on the edge of the mattress, coiling her hair into a loose bun and retying her scarf that had worked loose, she caught her husband gazing at her profile.
‘You look beautiful.’
‘There’s no need for flattery. Not now you have already had your wicked way with me.’
‘I mean it. You are so beautiful. Being pregnant really suits you.’
She blushed with happiness.
‘I hope our baby looks just like you. A little girl, just like you,’ he whispered. ‘That would be amazing.’
Lucy turned to face him on the mattress. ‘I do think it’s a girl, Jonah. I don’t know why. I just have this feeling.’ She placed her hand on her stomach, as if this might help her communicate with her baby.
‘Well, I place a lot of stock in a mother’s instinct. What are we going to call her?’ He reached for her arm and pulled her back to him, where she lay against his form.
‘I don’t know. But I do like the name Daisy.’ She smiled.
‘Daisy? As in Daisy?’ he questioned.
‘Yes.’ She ignored his ribbing. ‘I love daisies and I like the word and the name and the way it sounds. Daisy Carpenter – that’s a good name. She’ll be bright and pretty, Daisy.’
‘I think we’ll park that and come back to it.’ He squeezed her shoulders.
‘What name do you like then?’ She leant on her side, propping her head on her hand with her elbow planted on the mattress.
‘I quite like Iris. A bolder, stronger flower.’
‘Oh, I quite like Iris too,’ she mused.
‘You do?’ he asked with what sounded to be more than a small element of surprise.
‘I do.’ She sat up and pulled on her old T-shirt that would do for decorating. ‘But not as much as Daisy.’ She blew him a kiss and made her way back down the landing.
It was a full week later that Camille’s room was finally finished. Having worked hard every evening after work and over two weekends, Lucy stood back and admired her handiwork. The fresh, clean newly painted walls gave the already generously proportioned room a feeling of even more space. At the large sash window were heavy blue linen curtains. The antique wooden bed with its wooden head and footboards was now covered with a vintage-inspired quilt that boasted a myriad of blues and whites with the slightest hint of red. The patchwork of fabrics had been artfully placed together. The ditsy florals, faded stars, weathered stripes and muted checks worked well together, creating the illusion that this bedcover might be a family heirloom, sewn with love and made from offcuts of fabric from generations past. The scrubbed pine chest of drawers in the corner now had cream aged frames on top, in which Lucy had placed photographs of Camille with her dad throughout the years. The sweetest ones were of him holding the relatively newborn baby, and the most recent showed the confident teen staring into the lens and looking a little awkward about having her dad’s arm cast across her narrow shoulders.
A battered leather trunk sat at the foot of the bed, and in the middle of the floor was a vibrant handwoven striped wool rug in red, oatmeal and blue with a thick fringe at either end. By the bedside was a simple rusting navy metal table that she hoped might be familiar to Camille, like the kind that you might find sat outside any French bistro on a lazy afternoon, usually adorned with a carafe of pastis, a jug of cool water and an enamel stovetop pot of garlicky mussels. On the table was an oversized pewter lamp base with a wonderfully tactile hammered pattern and an oatmeal coolie shade with a red stitched edging and a faded printed pattern of the stars and stripes.
She had placed a bulky mirror above the wrought-iron fireplace. Its weathered frame of reclaimed timber dotted with blackened horseshoe nails was a dominant feature in the room. On the back of the door was a set of resin and metal hooks, made to look like antlers.
‘Okay, you can come in!’ She pushed the door wide and watched Jonah’s face as he stepped inside. She noted the way his eyes wandered from surface to surface, taking in every detail.
‘Lucy!’ He shook his head, staring around the room. ‘This looks absolutely incredible!’
She felt a blush of pride at his compliment. ‘Do you think Camille will like it? I didn’t want it to be too babyish or too girly. I just hope I’ve got it right.’ She wrung her hands together, clearly a little nervous.
‘She�
��ll love it.’ He shuffled on the spot. ‘At least I think she will. The truth is, I don’t know her that well, do I? I’m a bit nervous,’ he confessed.
‘What about?’
‘I suppose I’m worried that she might not like me or might not like it here away from her mum and friends.’
‘It’s only natural that you are anxious, but we will make sure she has the best time,’ she reassured him.
Jonah stared at her. ‘I love that you have gone to so much trouble for her. Thank you, honey.’
‘I liked doing it, good practice for the nursery.’ She folded her arms across her chest.
‘The nursery? By my reckoning, we only have three bedrooms in this house. I have a sneaking suspicion that you might be referring to my study!’
‘How can you study in there? You can barely get in there with all the clutter you have.’ She pointed down the landing where the room lurked, lined with semi-industrial-looking shelving units that sagged under the weight of all manner of stationery, photograph albums, shoeboxes and files.
‘It’s still my study,’ he almost pleaded.
‘Did you hear that, Daisy? Your dad won’t give up his junk room so you can have your own pretty nursery. Instead, we shall have to let you sleep in a drawer in the corner of the room like your grandma did during the war.’
Jonah laughed out loud. ‘Okay! You win. I can’t have our little Iris sleeping in a drawer. I admit defeat – she can have my study.’
Lucy beamed. ‘I got my scan appointment through from the hospital. It’s next Friday at three-fifteen.’
‘Oh shoot!’ Jonah flicked his head towards her. ‘That’s when I’m collecting Camille from Paddington; she’s jumping on the Heathrow Express.’
‘Oh, that’s okay. I can manage.’
‘No, let me see if I can get someone else to fetch her. I’m sure one of the lads from work won’t mind, or I’ll ask her if she can get a later train; there’s plenty to do at the airport.’ He looked towards the window, trying to figure out how to solve the clash.
‘No! Don’t be crazy. I’ll be fine. It’s only a scan, not like I haven’t had one before, and I promise to remember everything they say and report back in full.’ She walked over and pecked him on the cheek.
‘I don’t want you to go on your own, not after—’
‘Jonah,’ she interrupted him. ‘I promise you I’ll be fine. I’ll jump in a cab and meet you both back here. We can’t let anything get in the way of making Camille feel welcome; it’s too important.’
‘Will we get a picture?’ he asked, looking younger with his eager, open expression.
‘We might!’ Lucy squealed with joy and beamed brightly at the thought.
Early one Saturday, I sat in Gail’s bakery on Salusbury Road with a cup of coffee and a slice of carrot cake. I was comfortable in the way that you can be at the weekend, in my jeans and a T-shirt and trainers. Jonah was having his hair cut around the corner and was going to meet me there afterwards for a catch-up. I grabbed a newspaper from the rack and took a seat in the corner at a little square table by the bathroom. The place was busy and I liked being among people and yet at the same time in my own private bubble. I took a sip of my latte and opened the paper, skimming articles about the plans for a new hospital ward, bits of celebrity gossip that I was only a little bit interested in and adverts for things to do in London, new releases at the cinema and a great recommendation for a pop-up Cuban café opening on the South Bank. I forked a chunk of moist cake into my mouth and savoured the taste and texture. Then I turned the page. And there it was.
I swallowed the cake that had turned to ashes on my tongue and laid my fork on the plate. I ran my finger along the column, devouring each word in the same way that rubberneckers stare at an accident, unable to withdraw their gaze from the sights that might well haunt them as they chase sleep around their head in the dead of night. The woman pictured on the page looked hard, her thin-lipped mouth was set in a slight sneer and her eyebrows were over-plucked on a shiny forehead. The image of the little girl next to her was cute; she had a button nose and a big smile. I leant closer to the text, as if this might help my understanding. The words leapt from the page, ‘catastrophic injuries’ and ‘one of the worst cases of violence in a domestic setting.’ And worse, the judge’s summing up, ‘beating her over the head with a heavy object or throwing her against the floor or wall.’
I didn’t realise I was crying. Didn’t realise I was making a noise at all. Quite unexpectedly, I felt a hand on my arm and when I looked up, an older lady was smiling down at me from where she stood. ‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked and I gave a small nod. It was then I noticed that lots of other people at nearby tables were staring at me too, gathering their children closer to them and shrinking against the walls in case my distress was catching or worse, a precursor to something far more troubling. ‘They broke her bones,’ I explained. ‘They hurt her and she died,’ I managed, as my tears clouded my vision and filled my nose and mouth. And then in the next instant, Jonah was there. I watched the smile slide from his face and he almost ran when he saw me crying, with the stranger touching my arm. His expression was one of curiosity. ‘Jonah!’ I called out to him. ‘Jonah, these terrible people, they wasted her, wasted that chance to be parents, they killed their little girl! They didn’t deserve her! I would have loved her . . . I would have been a good mum and they had that chance and they killed her! Why did they get her and not me? It’s not fair, it’s so unfair!’ He took me by the hand and helped me stand, cradling me against him, as we walked out of the café and on to the street. I didn’t care that people were staring at me, at us. I didn’t care about much. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see beyond her little face.
SEVEN
Lucy paid the cab driver and stepped from his taxi, gripping the key in her hand. She tried to swallow the nerves that fluttered in her chest, exhaling through her open mouth and digging deep to find a smile while trying to steady her hands.
It will all be okay, Lucy. Just take a deep breath and get through this, she reasoned, as she put the key in the lock.
The first thing she heard was raucous laughter coming from the kitchen.
‘Hel-loo?’ she called out, turning to close the front door; she shut her eyes briefly, as if in prayer.
‘Hey, love! In the kitchen!’ Jonah called out.
Leaving her jacket and bag in the hallway, she pulled her hair free from the collar of her blouse and trod the steps down into their cosy kitchen. The first thing Lucy noticed was the way Camille stopped laughing and sucked her cheeks in slightly, as if posing for a photograph. Jonah was, as ever, holding court from the stovetop, where he stirred a deliciously fragrant curry with a wooden spoon in one hand and a large glass of red wine in the other. He leant across and gave her a fleeting kiss as he abandoned his stirring. He looked happy.
‘Here she is!’ he boomed, indicating the girl, as if he had magicked her from thin air.
‘Hey, Camille, you made it!’ She stepped towards her with her arms open wide. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.’ She briefly glanced at Jonah, both knowing where she had been and why.
Camille nodded, failing to walk forward or accept the offer of a hug, keeping her willowy arms in their thin cotton cardigan by her side and her feet in their slouching suede ankle boots firmly planted on the terracotta floor.
‘S’okay. Dad was there,’ she offered dismissively.
Lucy hadn’t quite expected the girl’s accent. She let her arms fall to her sides and bunched her fists. ‘You sound American, not French!’ she said, pointing out the obvious.
‘I go to an international school, I always have, and my tutors are all American and most of the pupils, so . . .’ She kept her gaze down and widened her eyes.
‘Is this as strange for you as it is for me? I’m married to your dad and here we are only just meeting now! It’s quite surreal, but I am so glad that we are. And Jonah has told me all about you. I feel like I know
you already,’ she gushed.
Camille nodded and twisted her mouth.
‘Have you had something to drink?’ Lucy walked towards the fridge, about to recite the list of juices and sodas that she had got in specially.
‘I’m all good, thanks.’ Camille held up a mug of coffee.
‘Great. Great.’ Lucy closed the fridge door, again feeling a little uncertain of how to treat this child-woman. She let her eyes sweep the form of the beautiful girl. She was tall for her age and whippet slender, yet shapely, with chestnut hair that sat in a long, blunt bob on her shoulders. Her eyes and eyebrows were without a doubt those of her father, but her wide mouth and aquiline nose belonged to her diminutive mum. Lucy felt a stab of inadequacy at the sight of this striking, confident teen who seemed to take up more space than she actually filled in their little kitchen.
Camille reached up and opened the cupboard above the fridge. ‘Do you still keep the cookies in here?’
‘Ha! No, we are now a cookie-free zone.’ Jonah seemed delighted that the layout of the kitchen was familiar to his child; it made her less of a stranger, whereas Lucy felt it was a sharp reminder that this was Camille’s place long before it was hers. The atmosphere was not that of people who did not get along, which was the picture Jonah had painted. This was in fact quite the opposite – they seemed at ease, leaving her to feel like the interloper.
‘Anyway’ – he beamed as he resumed stirring the pan – ‘you don’t want to spoil your supper.’
‘It smells delicious.’ Lucy tried to enthuse about the dish even though she had no desire to eat it; all she wanted to do was fall into bed and hide under the duvet. ‘What is it, exactly?’
‘Thai red curry, vegetarian of course, with sticky jasmine rice and a vegetable tempura of carrot, red pepper and courgette, with a sweet chilli dipping sauce.’ He winked at her, knowing that he sounded like a pro.
‘Wow!’ Lucy remembered to smile. ‘That sounds yummy, but why no meat? I bought the chicken fillets you asked for; don’t tell me you are going all vegetarian on me?’ she asked.
The Idea of You Page 10
