‘I think I might go and lie down, have a nap. I’m tired and sad.’ She laid her head against his shoulder.
‘That’s a good idea, my love.’ He kissed her sweetly before she stood. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘No.’ She shook her head.
Spying the suitcase in the doorway, Lucy laid it flat on the floor and undid the zip. She removed the dog-eared baby book and walked over to the bookshelf, placing it behind the French Revolution titles.
‘We are not going to lose heart, remember? We are lucky,’ Jonah reminded her.
‘I don’t feel that lucky right now,’ she murmured, as a stab of pain gripped her lower gut. She held her breath until it had passed.
‘I was just thinking, we can get a referral now, Lucy – isn’t that what Dr Millard said? That is, if you want to. It’s up to you. I will support you either way. You know that.’
Lucy nodded, then trod the stairs slowly, not entirely sure that she did know that.
Monday morning proved to be a welcome diversion. The routine of preparing for her working week meant she didn’t dwell on everything that had occurred at the weekend. The moment she set foot inside the building on Victoria Street, however, she remembered that she had confided in Tansy, and in the next instant there she was, beaming at her and waving surreptitiously from the other side of the foyer.
‘Shit,’ she muttered.
Tansy walked speedily towards her and then linked her arm around Lucy’s, as if they were besties walking into their school prom. She chaperoned Lucy to her office. Lucy shrugged free from her grip as soon as they were inside and walked to the chair behind her desk.
‘So? How are we feeling today?’ Tansy’s voice was higher than usual and reverberated with excitement. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all weekend. It took my mind off the fact that Michael and his friends had invaded the house, playing Call of Duty and staying up until the small hours, making noise that woke Benedict. Oh the joy!’
‘I’m not so good, actually,’ she began.
‘Oh?’ Her friend’s gaze narrowed.
Lucy looked at her computer screen and concentrated on entering passwords and opening documents while speaking; it was the only way she could guarantee keeping her composure. ‘I started bleeding on Friday night and went to UCH on Saturday.’ She swallowed and shook her head. ‘My pregnancy is not viable, gone, done, so . . .’ She bit the inside of her cheek, still without looking up.
‘Oh, Lucy! Oh no!’ Tansy placed her hand at her chest. ‘I am so—’
‘To be honest, Tans, I can’t cope with you being nice or offering sympathy, so I would really appreciate it if we could not talk about it and just crack on with work. I’ve got a proposal to look over and some annual leave to okay. I need to get my head down.’ She was aware of her dismissive tone, but knew it was that or lose her composure.
‘Sure.’ Tansy turned and made for door. With her hand on the handle, she smiled at her friend and boss. ‘But if you do need to talk, you know where I am.’ She paused. ‘And I just want to say, and I know this might be hard to hear right now, that there are times when I feel a punch of envy at the fact that your time and your body are your own. I will never get the big office, Lucy, or the big bucks, because my time and my thoughts are divided and sometimes I think I would like to be able to concentrate on one thing and be the best at it that I possibly can be. You know that old expression, “The man who chases two rabbits, catches neither”? That is what it can feel like sometimes, trying to have it all.’
Lucy gave a brief nod. Her friend’s words, meant to soothe, caused a flicker of irritation. She returned her eyes to the screen.
The atmosphere in the house in Windermere Avenue was more still than it had been in a long while. It was as if emotions had calmed a little. Camille’s broken heart meant she carried an air of reserve and contemplation that Lucy welcomed, considering this far nicer than the petulant mood swings that had been commonplace before. She no longer lived in fear of potential outbursts. When Dex came over, Camille would rush to greet him, as if it were their last contact, holding him with such ferocity it was slightly awkward for any observers. Even Dex seemed a little thrown by it.
As Lucy prepped the asparagus and mangetout that they would have with the herb-crusted side of salmon that baked in the oven, Camille came into the kitchen and sat at the table.
‘Hey,’ Lucy greeted her, as she busied herself with the mountain of green veg on the worktop. ‘I always hear my mum’s voice when I’m preparing food; she used to say that we needed over half the plate to be covered in vegetables no matter what the meal, and one day Fay got a tiny plate from her doll’s house and put a single pea on it. Job done.’ She smiled at the memory.
The girl flopped down into a chair at the table. ‘Fay is funny.’
‘Yes, she is.’
Camille drew shapes with her finger on the tabletop. ‘Do you like your mum?’ she asked, out of the blue.
Lucy gave a nervous burst of laughter before answering. ‘That’s a funny old question. Yes, I like her, I love her, but we are very different people.’ This was the most tactful way she could find to say that they weren’t close. ‘Why do you ask?’ Lucy felt a throb of fear that Camille might have witnessed something in her relationship with her mum, quickly calming herself with the fact that she had only ever met her mum at Fay’s, where their interaction had been minimal and pleasant.
‘My mum doesn’t like me.’ Camille’s whispered aside, spoken to the tabletop on which her fingers fidgeted nervously, caused Lucy to put down the paring knife and walk over to the table.
‘What do you mean? You are so close, you and your mum!’ She wiped her hands on her jeans. ‘Are you fretting because she hasn’t called? Because you mustn’t. It’s probably because she misses you too much and finds it difficult, or because it’s expens—’
‘No.’ Camille cut her off mid-sentence, shaking her head. ‘It’s neither of those things. I just don’t think she likes me.’
Lucy stared at her, at a loss to understand where this sentiment was coming from, knowing by the girl’s own admission that she and her mum were the best of friends.
‘Do you know, I often felt like that about my mum,’ Lucy confided.
Camille looked up at her with interest. ‘Did you?’
Lucy continued: ‘Yes, absolutely. Fay was always funny and cute and chatty and I always felt that my mum didn’t get me.’
‘Does she get you now?’ the girl asked hopefully.
‘No. Not really,’ she confessed, and they both laughed. ‘It can’t be easy for your mum having you over here. It’s possible she feels a bit abandoned or that you have chosen your dad over her, and I know that sounds nuts, but when you love someone that much, you can take things to heart and misinterpret them sometimes.’ Her words jarred in her mind. Was this what had happened to her and Jonah with Camille?
‘I guess.’ The girl brightened a little. ‘But sometimes, I feel like she . . .’
‘Like she what?’ Lucy pushed.
‘Nothing.’ Camille gave a wide if forced grin. ‘What’s for supper?’
‘Oh.’ Lucy was a little thrown by the change in topic. ‘A side of baked salmon and lots of lovely vegetables and sautéed potatoes.’
‘Can I have some salmon?’ Camille asked, sheepishly.
‘The salmon with a face?’ she questioned.
‘Yes, but just give me a bit without a face and I won’t feel so guilty.’ Camille laid her head in her hands.
‘You shouldn’t feel guilty; you can change your mind whenever you want to. Eat healthy, eat salmon, do what you want; you are seventeen and the whole world is at your feet and the whole of your life is ahead of you and it’s going to be a great life, Camille, trust me.’
Lucy stood up to continue prepping the vegetables, but noted the heave of her stepdaughter’s shoulders followed by the unmistakable sound of her crying.
‘Oh, Cam!’ she soothed. ‘You could always call your mum,
you know, make the first move?’ Her suggestion only seemed to make the girl cry even more.
Jonah heralded his arrival by whistling from the hallway. He stopped short of the kitchen door.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ He looked from his wife to his daughter. His stern expression told her of his suspicion that they had been ‘bickering’ again.
‘Cam’s feeling a bit low, but the good news is, we are all going to enjoy salmon for supper.’ She tried to rally them all with positivity.
‘But it has a face?’ he queried. ‘I thought things with faces were off the menu?’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’ Lucy winked at Camille, who now sniffed into a square of kitchen roll. ‘A girl is allowed to change her mind, don’t you know?’
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 loved me. Because it did, without a doubt. It changed it forever.
And it changed me forever too.
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 close by for comfort. He had been gone for a week, already halfway through his business trip to China, an expanding market for vehicles just like the ones he sold. He was set on opening a garage in that faraway land, and his enthusiasm for the project was infectious. She had watched him come alive when detailing their dive into the unknown.
‘I shan’t be away for long, I promise,’ he had consoled her before he left.
‘Whereabouts will you be?’ She liked to picture him.
Taking her by the hand, he had led her up to the study and pulled the dusty globe down from a shelf. He turned it gently. ‘Here.’ He pointed to a spot on the vast land mass.
This ball that represented the whole of the earth fascinated Lucy. She had placed her hands on its surface and let her fingers dance over continents separated by vast swathes of sea.
You are somewhere on this tiny planet . . .
‘Penny for them?’ he had asked.
‘I’m going to miss you. That’s all.’ She had forced a smile, unwilling to admit that she pictured their planet spinning on its axis, going faster and faster, with her still no closer to having her baby. It had felt like more than she should burden him with as he left home to travel so far away.
‘Oh, my Lucy, it’ll fly by. You’ll see.’ He had kissed her passionately on the mouth.
Her feet ached. She felt as if she had been running all day, and she couldn’t wait to get inside, kick off her heels and sink under the bubbles of a full bath, with a cup of tea cooling on the side and her music on for company. Even picturing the next hour of abandon filled her with a warm, happy feeling. With no sign of life at any window, she quietly hoped that Camille had gone out with some of her new college friends, though the girl’s descriptions of them had been a little lacklustre: ‘She’s okay’ and ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’
Jonah was confident that time would prove to be the magic balm, and that by the end of term Camille’s pining for Dex would have waned, and some other handsome beau with a penchant for fashion would be cluttering up the sofa and devouring their snacks. She hoped he was right, but worried that he might be underestimating the pull of that first love. Lucy saw the way her stepdaughter leapt up at the sound of the postman, rushing to the door to see if Dex had written – which he had, once or twice, to supplement his daily email.
The little blended family of three had settled into a routine of sorts. Camille seemed more at home. She had put up some pictures in her room, including the framed card that Lucy had given her for her birthday, and on her chest of drawers stood a jewellery rack holding her vast collection of vintage beads and bangles, all of which gave the sand-coloured wall an alluring splash of colour. She had also added patchwork cushions to her bed, picked up for a song from a backstreet stall in Camden Market. These too helped Camille put her own stamp on the decor.
Lucy jostled her bag on her knee and waved to the lady with the dogs down the street before putting her key in the door. A bundle of post had been pushed to the wall. She stooped to gather it in her hands, visually dismissing the unappealing brown envelopes and flyers for the usual nonsense, food delivery services, gardeners with a good daily rate, and a new window-cleaning service. It was as she straightened and cast her keys on to the sideboard in the hallway that she heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing.
‘Hello?’ she called into the darkness, her heart racing. ‘Camille?’
Making her way into the sitting room, she noted that the chairs and sofa were empty, so where had the sound come from, upstairs? She flicked on the lamp on the table by the sofa and her eyes immediately flew to the corner of the room.
‘Jesus!’ she shouted, her breath coming in short bursts as fear leapt in her throat and turned her bowels to ice. As her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, she realised that the hunched figure lying in the small gap on the floor between the sofa and the wall was Camille.
Even without the sound of her crying, it was obvious from the shake of the girl’s shoulders and her laboured intake of breath, muffled by the wet wheeze of tears and snot, that she was consumed by her distress.
‘Camille?’ she spoke softly as she rushed towards her, wondering what might have caused this breakdown. Slowly the girl unfurled her arms and legs and it seemed to take superhuman strength for her to pull herself into a sitting position.
Lucy took a step closer and sank down on the floor next to her. She placed her hand on Camille’s back. ‘What is it, Camille? What on earth is wrong?’ She swallowed, fearing the girl’s response as her mind raced. Had someone hurt her? Had they been in the house? Was Jonah okay? Her tone was kind and yet pressing.
‘Talk to me, love. What’s happened?’ It occurred to her then that it must be Dex. Her muscles slackened a little and she sat back, fully expecting to hear that Dex had ended their relationship. The girl was taking it hard, and this level of heartbreak took Lucy right back to herself at a similar age.
‘I never want to wake up . . .’ she had yelled in all sincerity.
Her stepdaughter opened her mouth to speak. Lucy watched as the next torrent of tears fell, and Camille battled to compose herself.
‘It’s okay, you take your time, try and get your breath,’ she cooed. ‘There’s no rush.’
The two of them sat still, waiting. It w
as some seconds, though it felt like an age, before Camille managed to compose herself enough for speech. The two shifted to get comfortable on the cold wooden floorboards. Camille raised her head to reveal her blotchy, tear-stained face, her skin mottled with purple dots of anguish.
‘It’s . . . it’s true what I said about my mum . . .’ she began. ‘She, she doesn’t want me there. She’s never wanted me there, and the older I get the worse it’s got.’ Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘I’m sure that’s not true. You said yourself that you and your mum were great friends, your trips to the cinema – goodness me, I never did anything like that with my mum. You are lucky.’
‘I’m not lucky,’ she countered. ‘We never went to the cinema.’ Her tears forced her to pause. ‘We never did anything. I made it all up.’
‘Oh, Cam.’ Lucy narrowed her eyes and let her head drop. It was the saddest thing. She was full of self-recrimination for not seeing the boasts for what they were: the wishes of a very insecure little girl.
Camille continued. ‘My stepdad, Jean-Luc, he’s really nice, but if he says one nice thing to me or offers to give me a lift, or anything, she flips and . . .’
‘And what?’ she coaxed.
‘When my mum’s drunk she says terrible things – that I’m a slut and that I am after Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc! He’s been my dad since I was a baby.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of it and banged the floor in frustration.
Lucy felt her gut flip with the horror of her stepdaughter’s words and could not imagine what it must be like trying to manage that situation. Camille was, after all, still a little girl.
The Idea of You Page 23
