The Confession

by Jessie Burton

  I found myself putting my hand on top of hers, and holding it there for a good while. We hadn’t touched much, and it surprised me how warm her skin was. She took my hand and tried to squeeze it, but her power was not strong.

  ‘Whatever you decide to do, Laura, you can always call this place your home,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, my voice barely a whisper. Never in a million years would I have envisaged this: me, in Connie Holden’s front room, holding her hand as she offered shelter for me and an unborn baby.

  Connie looked up at me, her expression almost bashful. ‘You’d be a good mother.’

  ‘I don’t have any precedent,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I looked her in the eyes. The words, and the timing of them: finally, it felt right. ‘I never knew my mother,’ I said.

  Connie stared at me, then frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘She left when I was a baby.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘My god, Laura, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So I guess I don’t exactly understand what’s involved.’

  Connie couldn’t stop staring at me. ‘But your father?’

  ‘He brought me up.’

  She gathered herself, the downward turn of her mouth appearing to push away the weight of my words. ‘He did a good job, Laura. Just follow his example.’

  I could have laughed. How easy it felt, in the end, to tell her this truth of my life. It was not the whole truth, of course – but it was a beginning. And now, Connie knew – not everything, not yet – but something fairly substantial. She looked thoughtful and I knew I’d sharpened her curiosity. Perhaps now she would be the one to come to me with questions, and I would be the one deciding when to reveal a truth.

  ‘Con, can I – ask you something?’ I said. I did not let go of her hand. ‘I know you don’t like questions.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll make an exception for the pregnant lady.’

  ‘You can absolutely tell me to shut up. But – was there a reason you didn’t you have children?’

  I regretted my question immediately. I saw her almost brace herself, the question flowing over her like a cold breeze. Her back straightened, her arm reached again for the champagne glass. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That is quite a question.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘Among many factors,’ Connie said, ignoring me, ‘there was the slight issue of my dislike of sex with men. We didn’t have all these options you have nowadays. Either my partner or I would have had to have sex with a man, I suppose.’ She made a face, then stared into the unlit fire. ‘We wouldn’t have been allowed to adopt, either.’

  ‘Did you and your partner – want them?’

  Connie turned the glass awkwardly in her hand. I thought the remaining champagne inside it was going to slosh out, but she replaced the glass on the table. ‘In the main, no,’ she said. ‘I only met one or two children that nearly made me change my mind.’ She paused, smiling down at the rug as if a child were there, sitting on their small rump, staring up at her. ‘But generally, I’ve always been very much someone who needs to do what she needs to do, answering to as few people as possible,’ she went on. ‘If you’re worrying about being a bad mother, I think I’d have been the perfect candidate, not you. Then again, the amount of fussing and nannying that goes on these days, it’s a wonder these children grow up past the age of five. Perhaps my neglectfulness would have been a blessing. But still; I am a neglectful person. I can’t, or won’t . . . adapt myself.’ She sat back in the armchair, her hands resting in her lap. ‘I’d spent too long fighting to be the woman I wanted to be, to ever hand her over, to cash in my autonomy.’

  I sat down myself, lying against the back of the sofa. I closed my eyes, exhausted.

  36

  Kel was keen when I suggested a walk on Hampstead Heath. I need to move, she texted. I don’t think I’ve left the house for eighteen days.

  I was sitting on a bench when I saw her walking slowly towards me up Parliament Hill, with that unmistakable pregnancy waddle. Behind her, London was virtually invisible. It was late January: the BT Tower was the only landmark you could see in the mist, a vertical smudge of milky grey, a satin pallor of drizzle hanging over the entire city. We could have been anywhere. We could have been up in the atmosphere. Tourists gathered at the view, only to murmur their disappointments before moving off.

  ‘How was Christmas?’ I asked her, after we embraced.

  Kelly grimaced, holding her sides. ‘I’ve turned into a Christmas pudding.’

  ‘You’re lovely.’

  ‘Do you know there are apps now that tell you how your foetus is the size of a cress seed?’

  A shot of panic rushed through my body as I thought of the dot inside me. ‘A cress seed?’ I said.

  ‘Then a coffee bean, then a grape. Probably a potato.’

  ‘King Edward or new?’ I said, and Kelly laughed. ‘Why is a foetus a foodstuff?’ I asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Kelly. ‘Recognizable shapes, I guess.’

  ‘Well, for fuck’s sake, Kel. When men have bodily growths we say, It was a lump the size of a golf ball.’

  ‘Bodily growths? Did you just call my baby a bodily growth?’

  ‘Or – a hole the size of a ten-pence piece! Sport and money, Kelly. No one wants to eat a dollar or a golf ball. What’s with all this cannibalization, of making women seem edible?’

  She looked at me. ‘You’ve been with your feminist novelist, haven’t you? It’s OK. When you’re up the duff, you can say your baby’s the size of a rabbit shit.’

  ‘Ha ha. Chop many logs, did you?’ I asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘Oh boy, did I chop some logs,’ Kelly said. She stood away from me and gave me a hard look. ‘You look really good, Rosie.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  She wiped her nose against the cold air. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know. In the end, I did actually do what I wanted for Christmas,’ I said as we walked towards the ponds. ‘Maybe that’s it?’

  ‘You went to France?’

  ‘No. I had a fight with Joe and I stayed with Connie,’ I said. My hand moved towards my bare neck; I had left the necklace on the bedside table at Connie’s house. I didn’t think I could withstand Kelly’s nosiness about such a gift; she might not be as willing to let it drop as Joe had been.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ said Kelly. ‘I was right. You have been spending loads of time with her.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And how was that?’

  ‘Pretty wonderful, actually,’ I said. ‘Revelatory.’

  ‘So you told her who you really are?’

  ‘No.’ Kelly rolled her eyes. ‘Kel, me and Joe broke up.’

  Kelly stopped walking. She turned to me, her face pale, her eyes wide. She put her hands on either side of my arms and held me tight. ‘Are you OK?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  Kelly nodded at me. ‘Wow,’ she said.

  ‘Single at nearly thirty-five. What a loser.’

  ‘Er, no. What a hero.’ Kelly paused. ‘I’m jealous.’

  ‘Oh shut up, you are not jealous.’

  ‘I am. You’re free.’

  ‘Kel, how am I free?’

  ‘You could go anywhere, do anything – any other bombshells you wanna drop on me?’

  I hesitated. Kelly had often said how cool it would be for us to have children at the same time. Suddenly, I saw a vision of myself being interviewed on the @thestellakella page, talking about birth plans. It didn’t feel right. What might she think of me if I told her I didn’t know what I was going to do? In that moment, I didn’t trust our love enough, which was wrong of me. I just didn’t want her to think I was a coward. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just that.’

  ‘How’s Joe about it?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t really know. I mean, I’m not in the flat. But he seemed sad, when it happened. It’s scary
, really – the way you can just fall away from someone.’

  ‘It’s been a long time coming, Rosebud. And women are always like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, all the women I know who’ve left long-term relationships in their thirties checked out of it long before they actually did. They went through all the grief when they were still together with the guy. Played through all the scenarios, processed their feelings – so when the split actually happened, they just felt light and free. Men take it worse. They pretend not to, but they do. They haven’t laid any preparations.’

  ‘Right. I think it was a shock, Kel. I hope he’s OK. I think part of him thought we were going to get back together.’

  ‘He’ll be fine, Rosie,’ she said gently. ‘He was born to be fine. You have to think about yourself right now.’

  ‘I don’t hate him.’

  ‘I know you don’t. Just – give yourself some time, OK?’ She patted my arm. ‘There’ll be a lot going on, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Your mind, your heart, your body – they’ll all be dealing with it at different times. Just be gentle.’

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to think about my body today. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s get you a hot chocolate.’

  ‘You mean let’s get you a hot chocolate,’ I said.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Kelly, and we began to walk.

  *

  We holed up in a little cafe on the edge of the Heath. ‘Mol starts school this September,’ said Kelly. ‘Can you believe it? I mean, she’ll be dating soon and I’m going to have a nervous breakdown about it.’

  ‘Kel, that’s at least, I dunno, two years away.’

  ‘Ha ha. But I swear a few weeks ago she was in nappies. You know what she said to me this morning?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘“Have a calm and relaxing day with Rosie, Mummy. Enjoy your you time.” She’s four.’

  ‘She’s hilarious.’

  ‘I know. I don’t think I said things like that when I was four.’

  ‘Kel, what is it actually like, being a mother?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, Rosie mine. You seriously want me to answer that?’

  ‘Yeah. You write about it every day. Come on. Give me the non-social media exclusive. Tell me.’

  Kelly loved challenges like this. She pressed her chin to her chest, then looked back up. ‘It’s like driving in two lanes at the same time. It’s like being the most of everything, and the least of everything. The capacity for feeling shit is so much more than you could ever imagine. Like, fucking bleak. I feel . . . robbed. And the same applies the other way. Sometimes, I feel God has put his hand on my life and given me this secret experience. This eye-watering joy. I’m so lucky! It feels like a drug! And I know it’s silly, ’cos so many people have it. But it feels entirely mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Was that good?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Can I put it online?’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  She looked suspicious. ‘Why are you asking me this? You’re not worried that ’cos you broke up with Joe that was your last chance? I promise you, it won’t be.’

  I opened my mouth to tell her. Part of me – yes, definitely, part of me, wanted to tell her – to go forth into that adventure, to speak the child into being. It was a part of myself I had never explored before. I knew Kelly would be there for me, I knew she would help me, and love me, and never let me feel alone.

  But this was the problem: the fact that I came in so many parts. I wanted so badly to feel whole.

  ‘Have you ever been to Costa Rica?’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ I went on. ‘I don’t think you have.’

  ‘Well, no. I’ve been to Mexico,’ she said.

  ‘I’d love to go to Costa Rica. Home of the jaguar.’

  Kelly frowned. ‘Are you off on one of your weird things? Mothers, jaguars, I can’t keep up.’

  I put my arm round her and squeezed her tightly. ‘You know me, Kettlebell. I always like to know what’s on the other side.’

  37

  Tentative plans were being put in place by Connie’s new publisher to arrange some interviews with her in newspapers and magazines to coincide with the launch of The Mercurial – and, if they could swing it, radio and TV. It was all about the Mystery Comeback: What Kept Constance Holden From Writing For So Long? According to Deborah, media outlets were very keen to reintroduce Connie to a whole missed generation – or two – of readers. I thought fondly of Zoë, how excited she would be.

  But Deborah had been right when she said Connie wasn’t keen on interviews. Connie was being very curmudgeonly. ‘The publisher wants to do upmarket interviews in classy places, Con,’ I said.

  ‘Classy places?’ I winced as I heard my words spoken back to me. Connie huffed. ‘I think I’d rather be asked about my favourite cheese.’

  ‘I could see if Cheese Weekly is keen?’

  ‘Is there actually a magazine called Cheese Weekly? Don’t answer that. Anyway, I’m not interested in all this. I want to know about you. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?’

  A shiver of anxiety ran through me. Three weeks had passed since I’d told Connie I was pregnant. I had thought about the situation constantly, projecting myself forward into a future that was, by turns, both manageable and impossible. Before this discovery, I’d told myself I’d been quite open to the idea of two, maybe three, maybe four years of unfettered living. Conservative, really; no more than four years. Why the lack of scope? Why four? I might have wanted more. It could be ten. Why not twenty? I might have wished to be unencumbered for ever, now I was quite fully a woman. To be unencumbered, and not a girl, and happy. It felt like a configuration long desired, long fought-for by an army of long-dead women. An aloneness that never was lonely. A freedom to do whatever, with whomever, whenever I wanted. Being untethered, eating biscuits in the bath, reading novels till midday. Plane journeys. That was what I wanted. It was of utmost importance, heady beyond belief. To feel whole, alone, was a revelation.

  But then, on other nights – and some days, too, preparing another dish of tagliatelle for Connie, or walking with Mol in the park – I would think about another small person, a small life that would grow into something unknowable to me but still be tied to me, who might love me, who I would love, whose strange story I would begin, knowing I was not the person who would write their final chapter.

  Some days, I just wanted to bury my head. It seemed so brutal, either way. You raise a child, I thought, to teach it how to leave you. And then I thought: But my mother got there first.

  Up until now, Connie had been respectful, not asking me anything unless I brought it up myself. But perhaps her limit had been reached. Perhaps, as an employer, she felt she had a right to know.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ I said to her, feeling helpless.

  She looked at me levelly. ‘Can I tell you what I think?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do, Laura. Only you can decide that. But I think you need to understand that whatever decisions you make in life, there will always be a loss. If you have a child, you will lose something. If you don’t have a child, you will also lose something. These losses are both tangible and sometimes completely inexpressible. And it’s hard for us humans to know exactly what we’re prepared to lose before we’ve actually lost it. You must be prepared to regret a decision you thought you would never regret – but regret, in my experience, is never permanent.’

  ‘Never?’

  She gave me a hard look. ‘Something new always comes along to dislodge it. Good or bad. Everything is always changing. So if you can get accustomed to the idea of yourself standing at the forking of two equally but differently enriching paths, two equally challenging paths, along both of which you would triumph and fail, then perhaps y
ou can make up your mind.’

  I stared at her, unable to think of anything to say.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘It’s been on my mind, too, Laura. I care about you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For everything. For letting me work here. For letting me stay. For being OK about the fact I’m in this state, and—’

  Connie put up her hand. ‘Anyone would do the same.’

  *

  She went upstairs to her office and I started the washing-up. I’d barely got going on the second plate when there was a loud rap on the front door, aggressive and determined to be heard. I pulled off the rubber gloves and hurried to the door. I thought, for some mad reason, it might be Joe, but I could see the short shape through the stained glass, the tufty white head. Deborah.

  I opened the door, smiling. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Connie’s just upstairs. She told me the cover—’

  Deborah brushed past me. ‘You. Kitchen. Now,’ she hissed.

  I followed her down the corridor into the kitchen, my heart thumping hard, my mouth turned dry. I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t. Once we were in the kitchen, Deborah closed the door and turned on me. ‘You deceitful creep,’ she said.

  ‘What—?’

  Deborah advanced. ‘What the fuck did you think you were playing at?’ she said, jabbing the air between us with her finger.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, but I already knew.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  Feeling a quiet horror spreading in my stomach, I gripped the side of the kitchen counter. ‘I’m Laura Brown,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on. I very much doubt that’s your real name. I’m giving you a chance to be honest.’

  ‘I am being honest. I’m Laura Brown,’ I said – and I did, in that moment, believe what I was saying. The hours, days, months I’d spent here with Connie, working with her, talking with her, living with her, absorbing the possibilities of another self, had far outweighed the time I’d been spending as Rose. Laura as she was – as I was – felt real to me. Laura had been liked and trusted; listened to. I was safe here, and Rose was not.