‘This one first,’ he said, crawling onto Simon’s knee. ‘“The Magic Crayon”.’
At the end of the third story, Simon closed the book. Nico made Piglet dance up and down on his father’s arm.
‘Did you have lots of ill cats today?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a great army of ill cats. This many.’ Simon held up the fingers of both hands. ‘And dogs. And a snake. And a very fluffy hamster called Vodka. He had bed hair. It stuck up all over the place.’
‘Did you make all those animals better?’
‘Most of them.’
‘I want to be a wet, when I grow up,’ said Nico.
Simon nuzzled his nose into the pudding-basin haircut. ‘You’ll be a very good wet,’ he said. ‘And now it’s time for bed.’
Nico had an armoury of delaying tactics. ‘Mummy said “ow” today, when my baby bruvver or sister kicked her.’
‘Poor Mummy.’
‘Will you read this story now?’ Nico opened the book again. ‘It’s just a teeny one.’
‘Tomorrow. How about a flying lesson. Ready for take-off?’ Simon stood up and swung the small boy into the air, twirling him around before landing him back on the bed.
‘Granny was on the phone,’ said Nico, scrambling under the duvet. ‘She’s got a present for me. I think it’s probably another car. I couldn’t talk to Grandpa, though, because he doesn’t live there anymore.’
‘Night-night, don’t let the bed bugs bite. Give us a kiss.’
‘Is he gone because you told him off when I gave him flowers?’
‘I didn’t tell him off.’
Nico’s brown eyes were wide. He knew a fib when he heard one. ‘You did. I heard you. You shouted like THIS!’ He opened and closed his mouth, silently imitating a lot of shouting. ‘Poor Grandpa.’
Simon felt a sickening mix of shame and fury. ‘I didn’t really shout. There are things you can’t understand, and you just have to let the grown-ups worry about those. Time for sleeping now. Goodnight, Nico; goodnight, Piglet.’
As he turned out the light, he looked back. Nico was lying down, holding Piglet at arm’s length above his face. He was speaking in a deep, angry growl.
‘Getchor hands off my son,’ he said. ‘Getchor hands off my son.’
In the kitchen, Carmela had made a pot of camomile tea.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes, thank you. The hot water bottle worked like magic. I wasn’t a happy banana before.’
He carried her tea and his gin back to the sitting room, turned down the lights and put Elgar on the stereo. She lay on the sofa with her feet across his knees, her toenails painted the colour of opals. He wondered how she could even reach them nowadays.
‘I should phone Mum,’ he said. ‘Find out what happened at the solicitor’s.’
‘Don’t do that now.’
It was peaceful in the mellow light and rippling music.
‘I heard you reading,’ she said. ‘I like “The Magic Crayon”.’
He stroked her ankles.
‘What really happened in Luke’s flat that day?’ she asked.
‘I found him wearing women’s clothes.’
‘I know that. But what happened next?’
‘I left. I went to the pub and had a couple of pints. I came home.’
‘Mm?’ She wiggled her toes. ‘Since that day you have not slept, you have not eaten, you have not smiled. I wish you would tell me why.’
‘Because I’ve lost my father.’
‘And he was your wise friend.’
Simon tipped his head back against the sofa, half closing his eyes. The gin was finally taking effect. The pain was dulled. ‘No, he was a fraud. Shh. I don’t want to talk about him.’
He felt her feet gradually relax, and knew she was dozing off. So was he. They ought to get up, get changed and go to bed. They would. In a minute. The music flooded around him, lifted him up and floated him away.
The lights were flashing. Disco lights. The DJ put on a slow song: ‘Nights in White Satin’. Jessica had the sexiest, longest legs he’d ever seen. She leaned close, melting against him. Her mouth was warm.
He kissed her again, and again, as they meandered through the summer-scented night, back to the hotel where she lived and worked. They laughed and talked—nonsense, mostly. They were on the same wavelength. His speech was slurred, he knew, but it didn’t matter. He’d fallen in love in the space of an evening, as only a drunk and lustful nineteen-year-old can do. This girl was special. She said he should come travelling with her. He said he would, bugger his career, he didn’t want to be a vet anyway. They dreamed of living on a beach in Thailand. He imagined exotic music and flickering lamplight, and the sound of waves on sand, and Jessica lying naked in a bamboo cabin. They’d be so happy.
When they reached the hotel, they fell into the darkness of the doorway. He ran both hands up the smooth curves of her thigh.
‘Stop right there,’ she laughed, taking hold of his arms.
‘Can I come in?’
‘D’you want me to lose my job?’
He was going to explode with desire. He didn’t want the night to end; he certainly didn’t want it to end without him shagging this girl. ‘Come home with me,’ he begged, as she slid her key into the lock.
‘Phone me tomorrow, once you’ve got over the hangover. Promise you’ll phone?’
He promised. The door clicked shut behind her. Her perfume lingered on his clothes.
As he staggered away across the street, he heard somebody groaning. It sounded like a woman, but it couldn’t be Jessica. It came again, louder. Somebody was in pain. Somebody was crying. He looked up and down the empty pavement. Who was here? Who was in such distress?
‘Simon.’ It was Carmela’s voice. She was struggling to speak. ‘I think something is wrong.’
Eilish
People think of childbirth as routine. Some pride themselves on being blasé. After all, they point out, billions of women have done it. Everybody’s mother has done it. Sure, it occasionally goes wrong, but we’re so lucky: we live in the developed world, in the twenty-first century. They spout made-up statistics: one in a thousand infant deaths, one in a million. A childless man once blithely told me that it’s safer to give birth than it is to put up the Christmas tree lights. I could have socked him.
I know differently, you see. I know it can happen. I know what it’s like when your baby is limp; when the midwife grabs her back from you, lays her down and tries to resuscitate her. I’ve felt blind panic as the little body turns that horrible colour of the dying. I’ve gabbled out prayers, begging God for help, moaning in terror. I’ve felt the milk coming, ready for a child who will never drink.
So when Simon phoned me from the hospital and said that Carmela was in labour at thirty-four weeks, I didn’t feel excited. I didn’t feel happy. I just felt very frightened, because I knew that the lungs of babies who are born prematurely struggle to work properly. And, of course, the first thing I did was phone Luke. I didn’t think twice. I wanted him to help carry the fear. He was entertaining Kate and her friends at the flat. I didn’t mention the fact that I’d been to the solicitor. Too much of a coward.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely! It’ll be fine. Lots of babies are born this early. I just thought you’d like to know.’
‘Shall I come out there to be with you?’
‘No need,’ I said. ‘I’ll be turning in soon. After all, there’s nothing I can do. No doubt Simon will let me know when there’s any news.’
It was a charade. He knew I wouldn’t sleep. I knew he wouldn’t, either. We’d both keep vigil through the night.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you,’ I blurted, ‘but I do miss you.’
I decided to avoid alcohol in case I needed to drive to the hospital. I drank tea, then more tea. I turned on the radio. I checked my emails. I tried to read a book. All I could think about was the new grandchild who was struggling into the world. I
considered lying down, but I dreaded that empty bed.
At midnight I picked up the phone to call Luke. Then I put it down again. It was over. I was going to divorce him. I had to manage alone, and so did he.
At about three, I found myself outside. The air felt clean after the rain; the temperature had dropped at last. The world was very still and very, very dark. There were no stars. I made my way across the wet lawn and stood between Charlotte’s tree and Robert’s sapling. Perhaps those two dear people knew what was happening; perhaps they had some influence with the powers that be up in heaven, and would put in a good word for this newest member of the family. I felt as though the night were hiding me in its black cloak. It understood me. It let me think my thoughts.
In the end, I said a kind of prayer. There was nothing else for me to do. I begged two favours of the God I hoped existed: I asked that Carmela’s baby arrive safely in this world, and breathe, and be strong; and I asked that Luke might be my Luke again, and come home to me.
Luke
Still no news. I’d rearranged all the things Kate had dropped off; I’d ironed a week’s supply of work shirts and a silk blouse I’d bought online. I tried to concentrate on drafting some documents, but got nowhere. Perhaps this was a punishment. Perhaps Carmela, Simon and the baby were paying for my depravity. It wasn’t a rational theory, but at three in the morning anything can make sense.
It’s hard to imagine being a grandparent until you are one. Why do we care so deeply about our children’s children? It used to irritate me when my father fretted about Simon and Kate—he used to say we shouldn’t let them use the lathe unsupervised, and he nagged me to fence off the pond. I thought him an old fusspot. Now I paced around the flat, worrying about a small human being who shared my genes. I imagined horrors. I’d seen horrors.
Charlotte was born at home, but I’m not convinced things would have turned out differently at the hospital. Eilish went into labour without warning, and before we’d understood what was happening, the baby was on her way. Our midwife came tearing over. ‘It’s all right,’ she cried as she rushed up the stairs, ‘the cavalry have arrived!’ She thought everything looked good. It wasn’t the quick births she worried about, it was the ones that were too slow. I saw Charlotte’s head appear in this world and a few moments later we were welcoming our little girl with tears and laughter. Then, suddenly, something wasn’t right. The midwife had taken her back from Eilish. She was trying to make her breathe, snapping at me to call an ambulance. I’ll never forget how I fumbled in my panic. I’ll never forget the helplessness.
And now my grandchild was arriving too early. It was all happening again. By daybreak I was climbing the walls. I called the hospital and was put through to the maternity unit. A female voice answered, sounding friendly and helpful.
‘You’re a relative?’ she said. ‘Oh yes, the grandad. Carmela Livingstone. Okay, just wait a minute.’
She was gone far longer than a minute. I waited, and I waited. Perhaps the nurse had been called away to some emergency. The sky was lightening outside.
Then she was back, but she didn’t sound so chirpy. In fact, her attitude had changed completely. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked, with buttoned-up formality. ‘Um, I’m afraid I can’t give you any information.’
‘But you must be able to tell me something,’ I protested.
‘You’ll appreciate we have rules about this. Confidentiality. We can’t go handing out information to everybody who calls.’
‘Carmela Livingstone is with you, isn’t she? She went into labour last night.’
‘I can’t actually confirm that we’ve admitted a person by that name.’
I sat down on the bed. Something was very wrong, that much was obvious.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ll appreciate—’
‘That you have rules. Yes. Yes, I do see that. But I’m rather anxious, you see. This baby isn’t due for another six weeks. My wife and I lost a baby once, so we tend to be . . . and the fact that you won’t tell me anything seems a bad sign. I’m . . . well, I’m very frightened.’
There was a pause, followed by a sigh. ‘Look, all I can say is that we’ve had a quiet night,’ she said. ‘No problems we couldn’t handle. The five babies born in the past twelve hours are safe and well, and so are their mothers.’
It took me a few moments to understand her meaning. When I did, I felt immense gratitude.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’
I had a conference call booked for eight, and a partners’ meeting over lunch. They couldn’t be put off. I was dressed in a suit and tie, and was about to leave the flat when the phone rang. I pounced on it.
‘You have a new granddaughter,’ said Eilish’s voice. ‘Rosa Catalina. Four pounds, two ounces.’
‘Thank God. All well?’
‘She’s in the neonatal care unit, but she’s breathing by herself. Carmela’s fine.’
‘When are you going to see her?’
‘Once everyone’s had some rest and settled down.’
I walked around the table, carrying the phone. ‘Rosa . . . ?’
‘Rosa Catalina. It has a rather classy ring to it, don’t you think?’
We talked. We were just two tired, relieved, joyous grandparents. Eilish relayed all she knew about the events of the night—Carmela’s waters breaking, and Simon getting the neighbour to babysit Nico; their dash to the hospital; what time this happened, and that happened, and how long it all took.
‘She was born just after five,’ said Eilish.
‘I called the hospital at half past! They wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘I know you did. I know they wouldn’t.’
The penny dropped, heavily, with a hollow clunk. Simon had had me blacklisted.
‘So I’m an outcast,’ I said.
She sounded exasperated. ‘What in heaven’s name did you expect? You’re never going to meet this child. You’ll never have anything to do with her or Nico.’
‘Surely Simon and Carmela wouldn’t be so harsh.’
‘No, Luke. Never. Not unless you stop what you’re doing. They’re adamant. They don’t want Rosa and Nico to have a . . . I don’t know what to call it.’
‘A tranny granny.’
‘Why do you joke about the destruction of our family?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it’s funny. Perhaps I’ve finally had enough of Simon’s anger. Perhaps I feel a little angry myself? I’m those children’s grandparent. I love them like any other grandparent, whatever gender I am or think I am. Why does it matter so much? I’m not evil and I’m not dangerous. I’ve been fretting all night, just the same as you. I want to play with my grandchildren. I just want . . . you know.’ My voice was cracking.
‘Then give up what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘It’s not too late. You can have it all, everything, just the way it was. But give it up now, or Rosa will never even hear your name.’
Twenty-seven
Luke
It was difficult to forget everything else and concentrate on the acquisition of one massive financial institution by another. An associate solicitor and a trainee were with me during the eight o’clock conference call. Afterwards I told them about Rosa, and the news soon spread. All morning, colleagues were punching me on the shoulder and congratulating me on my new granddaughter; all morning, I felt a weight in my chest. You asked for this, I told myself. You chose it.
Judi Wells, who headed our HR department, dropped by just as I was calling the florist. I wanted to send flowers to Carmela. After all, what harm could it do? In years gone by, I might have asked a secretary to organise this for me—but times have changed. Judi saw I was on the phone and hesitated, but I waved to her.
‘What message would you like?’ asked the woman taking my order.
‘Um . . . hang on.’ I hadn’t thought about the message. When Nico was born, Eilish and I went together to see him. We bore gifts, like two wise men. ‘Let’s go for:
Congratulations on the safe arrival of Rosa. With love from Luke.’
After I’d finished the call, I saw that Judi’s eyebrows were up.
‘When are you going to see this little angel?’ she asked.
‘Not till she’s out of the neonatal unit.’
Judi had recently turned fifty—I knew that for a fact, because Eilish and I had been invited to her half-century bash. I was cheered by the sight of her spray of curls and flowing clothes. She was on the borderline between plump and very plump, but she wore her curves with panache. She could walk elegantly in high heels, something not many women can do, and that I was sure I never would. She and her long-term partner spent all their holidays going on gastronomic tours of Europe and came back with eye-popping descriptions of the menus they’d sampled. I’d never heard Judi talk about dieting, or aerobics classes, or changing herself in any way. She was completely happy with herself. I couldn’t imagine such a luxury.
She stood in the doorway, eyeing me. She was wearing a chiffon kaftan today, with a dark blue necklace to match.
‘So, these flowers,’ she said.
‘Mm?’
‘They’re just from you.’
‘Just from me.’
‘And you’re living at your London pad nowadays.’
‘Um, yes. At the moment.’
She slid the glass door shut behind her, and leaned her back against it. ‘Have you got something to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Sure about that?’
I really shouldn’t share intimate secrets with Judi, or with anyone in the firm. Not yet; not until I’d told the management team. So I began to lie, as I always had. It felt awful, as though I were lifting my burden again.
I stopped in mid-sentence. I was finished with lying. I put the heavy burden down.
‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘There is something I should tell you.’
‘This may disappoint you,’ said Judi, as we sat in her favourite French cafe, ‘but I’m not surprised.’
‘You’re not?’
To my astonishment she was looking faintly smug, rather than shocked. ‘Completes the jigsaw. You know how there’s always one piece missing, down the back of the sofa or in the Hoover bag? Drives you nuts. Well, I’ve just found it. I knew you weren’t gay. I knew you weren’t having an affair, because I’ve seen that many a time and I know the signs. But I was bloody sure you were hiding something fundamental about yourself. And I was right.’
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 19
