The Fallout

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Nope. Thanks. Need to start learning some willpower. Shift this baby weight.’ Liza lifts her T-shirt and unclips her nursing bra. ‘But sorry – you asked me about coffee. Yes please. I shouldn’t of course. Don’t want to over-caffeinate this little one.’ She gives a small smile at the ubiquitous joke they shared right back from NCT. ‘But – well. You know. I’m tired.’

  ‘Listen, Liza, Gav will come back to you. I promise. He’s just …’

  ‘An idiot?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  ‘Do you see him at all? I mean, I know you’re still under the same roof but …’

  ‘Yeah. He’s always breathing down my neck about something or other. It’s weird. He wanted the separation. Wanted to move into another part of the house. But still, he thinks he can get involved in parts of my life that I don’t want him to.’

  ‘Well, you know my thoughts on the matter. Thea’s barely two months old. I mean when I think back to when Casper was that age, how hard it was – and now you’ve got two.’

  Something about Liza’s expression looks a little bit guilty. Sarah wants to shake her friend. It’s not your fault he wanted a break, she wants to shout. But instead she controls her voice. ‘Black, one sugar, yes?’ She doesn’t wait for Liza to reply. ‘Let me go and get us drinks and I’ll check on Jack too,’ she says.

  In truth, she wants to get away from the bright lights and the screaming. It’s all making her head buzz. She’d drunk too much Shiraz last night and she feels sick. Not so sick she can justify fully indulging her hangover and eating her body weight in carbs, but sick enough.

  She watches Liza’s green eyes narrow, scanning the neighbouring cricket pitch outside – a large green peaceful space in this area of West London. Her friend looks even more tired today than she did last week, the wing of her brown eyeliner smudged underneath her right eye. The bright halogen lights are unfairly harsh on her skin. Sarah can see some new wrinkles. Or perhaps they’ve always been there and she’s just grown so accustomed to Liza’s face, she hasn’t noticed.

  She thinks of her own appearance. Mousy hair. Freckles. She still looks quite young, she supposes. Except for the lines under her eyes. Smile maps, Tom had said to her once. Don’t be a dick, she had replied. Perhaps she’d have that Botox after all. The other mums she speaks to are all at it. Botox parties. She is both miffed and elated she hadn’t been invited to one. Liza still looks pretty though, Sarah thinks, despite her dog-tiredness. She watches her friend’s expression as she tuts at Thea’s head. ‘Just stay on, will you,’ she mutters down at her two-month-old daughter.

  Pretty, but unmemorable, Tom had once said. And that’s why you like her, he had laughed. No threat. You’re so predictable, Sarah Biddlecombe.

  No! She had been cross. That’s not true. I like her because she never judges me. And she’d quickly added that Liza was also funny and kind.

  ‘Bloody hope Jack is still there.’ Liza cranes her neck to get a better look outside. ‘Can’t see him anywhere else. He’s probably digging in the sand under the pirate ship. He’s a good boy, at least I have that much. Thanks for checking on him, Sa.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Be back in a sec.’ Sarah walks away from the harsh sounds and noises of the soft-play area to the quieter café. What a relief. Only three more days of half-term. She can do this. But then she thinks about afterwards. She’s moaning now, but what about when it’s over? How empty the days will seem. How boring with the new account Liza has got her. She is incredibly grateful. But she isn’t really interested in marketing old people’s homes. Or post-retirement flats, as they’ve decided to call them.

  She walks through to the café serving area and consoles herself with the thought of forty minutes of blissful peace and quiet before she has to pick up Casper from tennis. Just before a load of other customers join the line she arrives at the food counter, where her gaze settles on a passionfruit and walnut cake. She falters for a second. Should she check on Jack first? No, she thinks. Get everything sorted and then she’ll go. She’ll be waiting for ages if she leaves now. He’s nearly six. He’s a well-behaved boy. And after all, he can’t get out of the health club. At least she has made a definitive decision about one thing today. She looks back down at her phone and sends Liza a quick message while stepping one foot closer to the front of the queue.

  LIZA

  My phone beeps. I’m sure it’s Sarah. She does this when she’s forgotten our table number when ordering coffee. Normally I would pre-empt it. Not today, though, what with both kids awake all night. And of course Gav had been there, at every single turn. I’d hear his footsteps first as he ran up the stairs from the spare room, breath ragged from broken sleep.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he queried, watching me open my pyjama top.

  ‘Everything’s fine. Why?’

  ‘Just checking. That you’re doing your job.’ He’d emphasised the word ‘job’ in such a way that made me think I’d been doing anything but. Last night, he’d stood over me, making sure I was feeding her right, until I’d asked him to leave. ‘I’ll go when you’ve finished.’ He’d sat down on the very end of the bed, the furthest distance he could manage before he would fall off. As though being any nearer would poison him. He’d made exaggerating stretching sounds all through the feed, yawning and sighing.

  I try to forget about Gav. I rest my handset on Thea’s side whilst she’s feeding. Sarah would have told me to take it off immediately. Radiation, cancer. She’s right, of course, but I leave it there whilst I shuffle Thea into a more comfortable position. I’m having to learn independence now, after all. I look down at my screen.

  Just in bit of a queue. Haven’t checked on J yet.

  I type back one-handed.

  No worries. I’ve just seen his head poke out from the sandpit but please check on him after. Just to make sure I got the right kid.

  I think about Sarah – how strangely she’s been behaving lately. Not with it. Distant. It’s as though her eyes are totally blank. That look she gets when she and I have been on the wine – the dead-eyed tipping point when I know she’s totally gone. I should find out if she’s OK, especially given what she went through last year. I know it can’t be easy, her seeing me with a newborn, but, for the moment, I’m just too tired.

  She’s been a bit snippy with me today too. I want to talk to her about an email I’d got from the work contact I’d put her in touch with, but I decide to wait. I know these moods of hers. Nothing can snap her out of it, really. Except today, the reappearance of Ella Bradby had. I wonder how long this one will last. I think about Aria Delamere whose daughter, Emmeline, had been at nursery with Casper. Sarah had constantly meerkatted for Aria at the school gates, whilst I had been her ‘steady’ friend in the background. The feeling towards Aria had been quick to dissipate, though, when Casper hadn’t been invited to Emmeline’s fourth birthday party.

  I look back out of the window, thinking about when I’d last seen Ella, just before she’d done a runner on us, all those years ago. The way she’d stood right by me, her fingers squeezing my arms in the pitch-black freezing winter night. Of course Sarah knows nothing about that – no one does. I pull my thoughts away from it all. Time to move on.

  I look outside at the sky to distract myself. It’s a greying day. It feels all at odds with the bright colours and noise inside – the swell of parents dropping their kids into the crèche, so they can race to their fitness classes. Thea starts to squirm. I move her onto the other side of me, rather optimistically latching her high up to my breast. It’s only when I look down that I realise that she’s nowhere near my nipple. ‘Christ,’ I mutter. If Gav wants out of the marriage, I dread to think how I’m going to find anyone else who I won’t mind seeing my boobs. I look around. Everyone just looks so on it. So – perky. And then I give myself a good talking to. Come on, Liza, I tell myself. You’re better than this. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get on with it. The kids need you. But despite my pep talk, there’s still som
ething about today that has turned sour. Just a feeling, if you will. Restlessness. An edginess in the pit of my stomach. And it’s not just the way Gav’s been behaving towards me either.

  I look out the window again but my vision is pulled towards the other side of the room. And then I see a flash of her amongst the multi-colours. She stands out, in her monochrome outfit. So sleek and perfect. She pushes a tennis racket back into her bag and swings herself up, effortlessly. As though her limbs are weightless. Bet she has no issues with her boobs. I pull up my bra and try and hoik up my own at the same time.

  When I look back on this moment, I will realise that this is when it hits me. This is when my mindset spirals even further. When I start to really question myself. Not that Gav didn’t help me do a good job of that anyway.

  It was in this moment, little more than ten minutes ago, when things changed and cracked.

  This moment Ella Bradby walked back into our lives.

  West London Gazette editorial notes, September 2019

  J Roper interview transcript: Aaron Daniels, crèche manager, The Vale Club

  I know, I know. This is meant to be a puff piece for the club, isn’t it? You want me to tell you how fantastic the new crèche is. My boss gave me the heads-up. How happy the mums and dads of West London are that there’s a new place for them to drop off their children so they can get to their Pilates and what not. How much it’s changed the area. Blah blah blah. But it’s – OK – off the record, I’m not staying for much longer. Sick of it, I am. Especially since I moved here.

  For some it’s been good, of course. Not just the crèche. This whole ‘health club’ thing. We’ve already had people claim that property prices nearby have rocketed. Like we need that. It was bad enough when they built that school – West London Primary Academy, driving up the house prices like crazy for the rest of us. A school for the under-privileged, my arse. You should see the families that go there now, braying at the gates with their 4x4 cars running outside. So for those people, you see, of course this has all been a bonus.

  Anyway, I’m not ungrateful for the job. I’ve learnt how to handle myself much better. Especially when there’s a complaint from the mums or dads that we haven’t been doing our jobs properly. (I didn’t know our role was to be private tutor, chef and the rest all in one.) The behaviour then is crazy. They’re all rigid and polite until something is not to their liking. Then they come up, their faces all in mine. ‘You mean you don’t have drinks and snacks for the children? This is disgusting. I don’t pay all this money for nothing, you know.’ You get the picture.

  Anyway, they’re not all bad, obviously. Some are. Your ears would bleed if I told you some of the stuff I’ve seen. Put it like this, I’m not quite sure how some of them have hearts that don’t explode on the running machines after a weekend of ‘excess’. And by excess, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. (At this point, interviewee mimics sniffing something off the table – ed.)

  I hear them all the time in the queue. ‘How did you feel on Sunday, Minnie?’ And the casual tap on their noses, their smiles, all conspiratorial-like. ‘Oh God,’ they’ll reply. ‘The children were up at six in the morning. I was still absolutely awake from the night before.’ Then they’ll do this comedy wide-eyed expression, chewing their tongues. In front of their kids! Anyway, I’m not going into that now, when I’ve still got to hand in my notice.

  Besides, as I was saying, some of them are nice. Polite but distant. But they’re all very, I’d say … ‘eager’ to drop their kids. I understand, they want a break. We all do and I’ve got two of my own, so I know. But the way they go about it is quite mad, really. Jostling and pushing to get to the front of the queue. It’s like they’re teenagers all over again, waiting to see their favourite band live in concert. We’ve had to install a proper system with barriers and stuff, just so we can keep them in line.

  And when I say the parents run – they’ve barely finished scribbling their names on the signing-in sheet before they’ve disappeared to get to their fitness classes. Then, when they come back it’s all like, ‘Oh little Freya’ or ‘Little Isabella, how I’ve missed you, have you missed Mummy and Daddy?’

  Look, as I said, I’ve got my own kids so I know what it’s like. And better they run to their fitness class than, well, to the pub. Although it appears to me they do that too.

  But I think what upsets me the most is not that the members here have a place to enjoy. It’s brilliant that they’ve built somewhere that focuses on fitness and health for both adults and children. I know most of those parents work hard. And if I’d grown up somewhere like this I would have loved to have been a part of it all.

  But I suppose what I’m saying, really, is that some of the parents who drop their kids at the crèche, they see it as their right to be here, rather than a privilege.

  And you know how I know this?

  Well, it’s been a few weeks now since the club opened its doors, and some of the first members started coming here right from the beginning. Every day they’ve dropped their little ones here. Same time, same place. And it occurred to me yesterday that only about half of them have even bothered to learn my name. I don’t expect them to know all the staff members here. Of course not. But the ones looking after their kids? Yes. I do expect that.

  I do get a vague smile, though, from most of them. I mean, we can’t be totally invisible. Can we?

  After all, we’re looking after their little angels. It’s us that keeps them safe from harm. For that window of time they are with us, we have to make sure that nothing bad comes their way. Because, of course, where their children are concerned, there’s danger everywhere – isn’t there?

  SARAH

  ‘Table number?’ the barista asks when Sarah finally reaches the front of the queue. As well as WhatsApping Camilla, her mind’s been off elsewhere. She can’t seem to focus on one thing, thinking about whether it’s true that sugar has an effect on fertility, and her perimenopause and whether that might just be the root of all her problems in trying to conceive. Then she drifts onto remembering to get a dodgy-looking mole checked (she’d have to remember to bring the iPad with her to the GP to entertain Casper) before starting to think about whether she’s actually remembered to sign Casper into his tennis class. Whether she should put a second wash on before she watches Killing Eve tonight, or if she’ll be too tired to stay up until it finishes.

  ‘Oh, crap. Sorry. I was …’ She waves a hand over her head. ‘Sorry. I’ve forgotten. We’re just by the soft-play. You know, the table by the window. The one that everyone wants.’ She laughs but the waiter gives her a pitying look. ‘It’s like ze Germans with the sun-loungers.’ She stutters on her own bad joke. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Forget about it.’

  ‘Overlooking the cricket pitch?’ he asks, speaking slowly, as though she’s hard of hearing. ‘That’s table eighty-seven.’ He jabs his finger on the buttons until the till pings. Shit. Her mind starts reeling again.

  What if her bank card doesn’t work? Had she been paid for her last project? She can’t remember and she hasn’t checked her account for weeks. She feels hot and clammy and now look – a queue forming behind her. After all, membership here is expensive enough. But it’s a life saver, she’d pleaded with Tom when it had first opened. A health and fitness club. Think of the benefits. She’d even pushed her stomach out extra hard so that he’d see it and think it was unquestionable that they join.

  ‘Here’s your receipt, Madam.’ Phew.

  ‘Thanks.’ She snatches the bit of paper from the waiter’s hand and slinks off towards the sliding window. She remembers it’s her birthday soon. Tom had suggested a weekend away in a cottage in Scotland. Something to look forward to. But she can’t quite bring herself to do that either.

  ‘We have to celebrate, just for your nearest and dearest,’ he’d said as he spooned overpriced, sugar-free muesli into his mouth, before he’d left for work this morning. She knows it’s ridiculous, but truthfully the idea of it fills
her with utter dread. The rigmarole of packing up, organising childcare, catering. False jollity when everyone just wants to slob around in bed all day. And then the invites, to boot. She can’t cut her list down to just her nearest and dearest! What if Saskia gets wind of it? Or Matilda or Miranda? They’d be so hurt and she doesn’t particularly want to keep it all a big secret. That would be far too much effort, what with the way WhatsApps spread like wildfire around the school gates. And then her mother too, on at her about celebrating this big milestone of turning forty.

  A tonne of guilt washes over her. Look at what Liza is going through with Gav. Let alone the other awful things that are happening across the globe. Those Syrian children she’d seen on the news earlier. It didn’t bear thinking about. And she had Tom and Casper. A nice three-bed house in a desired location to boot, and it even has a self-contained one-bed lower-ground-floor flat too, which she and Tom have plans to develop.

  ‘Something to get your teeth into,’ Tom had said.

  ‘Don’t be so patronising,’ she’d replied. It still makes her cross to think about. And inevitably then she’ll ruminate on all the other misguided comments that Tom has made since they’d had Casper. About work, money and all the rest. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate. They’re close to Chiswick. Close to Westfield shopping centre. So privileged in so many ways. And yet it’s tough, she thinks. These years are tough. Her mother is getting older. Too old to be in that ramshackle house of hers in Gloucestershire, all alone since her dad had died. Casper needs her and here she is, slap bang in the middle of the sandwich years. But should life really be such a chore? Aren’t these years meant to be breezy, loving your kids, a laugh a minute? She should feel lucky she has a child at all after everything that had happened last year. Her eyes fill with tears despite vowing never to think of it again in public. By the time she reaches the balcony, she feels like she’s been through ten rounds in the boxing ring.