by Julie Cohen
‘I genuinely thought that the two of you had got together. I thought that was why you’d never told me about Posie, and why you didn’t want me to come into your flat.’
‘How … how did you know that I felt that way about him?’
He laughed humourlessly. ‘It wasn’t difficult. When we were seeing each other, the first time you cancelled our plans together to see him instead, I thought, Well, he’s been her friend for longer than I’ve known her, fair enough. But after the third time I started to think differently. And when I saw you together, I knew. You looked at him like …’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s just say you never looked at me that way.’
‘Do you think it’s that obvious?’
‘It is to me. Look, I’m sorry about what I said on the beach. I shouldn’t have accused you of trying to steal Ben by having his child.’
‘I’m not. He’s married to Claire. I came to terms with that a long time ago.’
‘I do, however, still reserve the right to think it was a stupid move to get pregnant with his baby.’
Romily bit her lip. ‘Obviously,’ she said, ‘you can think whatever you like. But I’m fine.’
‘Is that why you stayed in England? Because Ben was here?’
‘Well, I had a kid to look after.’
‘They do have children in other parts of the world. If you’d wanted to travel, to work, you could have done it with Posie.’
‘Ben and Claire helped me look after her while I finished my PhD. And by then I was interested in Amity’s insects. So I stayed.’
‘I suppose that by that time, Ben and Claire had also decided to stay in Brickham.’
‘Just outside.’
‘And Posie loves them.’
‘As if they were her parents. Sometimes she thinks they are her parents.’
He was silent. Romily had a flash of the kind of thought she’d had before on the beach, when she’d imagined what it would have been like if the two of them had stayed together. That would have been his armchair, and he’d have kicked his shoes off underneath it as they shared a pizza for the millionth time while their kid slept. It would have been nothing unusual.
When they were together their relationship had never been like that. It had never been everyday and ordinary. They’d never moved in together, never got serious. He was always planning to go away, and so was she. That was what they’d agreed. They were only having fun.
But somewhere, sometime, she had seen him looking sad, as he did now. With a furrow between his brows, with the corners of his mouth turned down but not in a smile.
She couldn’t quite remember when that had been. If they’d only been having fun.
‘Can I look at her sleeping?’ Jarvis asked.
‘Go ahead.’
He got up from the armchair and went into the short corridor leading to their bedrooms. From the sofa, Romily could see him. He pushed open Posie’s door and stood there in the doorway, with the blue of her night-light picking out his outline in the shadows. As he had never done a million times before.
He came back to the armchair. ‘She sleeps all sprawled out.’
‘Always has. Every time I share a bed with her I end up with an elbow in my face.’
‘I should have fought,’ he said.
Romily, who had reached for another piece of pizza to give her hands something to do, paused. ‘Fought?’
Jarvis appeared to be weighing his words. ‘It was a good job I left for,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t the only one. It was the furthest away.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t feel there was any point in staying. You were in love with Ben. I didn’t want you to be stuck with me, stuck with my child, when you wanted to be with him.’
‘You left because of Ben?’
‘No,’ Jarvis said. ‘I left because you didn’t love me.’ He got up and went to the door. ‘Ring me if you need any help with anything. I’ll take Posie to the park on Saturday, if you haven’t any plans.’
‘We haven’t.’
He nodded, and let himself out. The August Thorn, or maybe it was another, fluttered in and began circling the ceiling light. Romily watched it for a few moments. Then she turned off the light and went to crawl in beside Posie in her single bed. She tucked her arm around her, put her face in the hair at the nape of her neck, smelling child sweat and the sweetness of her breath.
‘I am your mother,’ she whispered to Posie, ‘and I love you.’
It was always easier to say when Posie was asleep. And this time, she wasn’t only talking to Posie.
30
New Term
‘THANK CHRIST THAT hell is over.’
Claire looked up from where she was entering names into her new planner. She didn’t try to hide the pleasure she felt from seeing Max, his hair awry, his school shirt-sleeves rolled up, his guitar slung over his back. He’d grown over the summer. She did say, mildly, ‘I’m not sure Mrs Greasley would approve of your language.’
‘It’s not true, anyway. It’s out of one hell and into another.’
Claire nodded at the stool beside her and Max sat down, arranging his guitar in his lap.
‘You’ve got a new one,’ she said.
‘Guilt money. Again. At this rate I’ll have a collection like Keith Richards’.’ But Claire saw how he held the instrument with reverence.
‘It’s beautiful. Do you have anything new to play for me?’
His bravado faltered and his cheeks went pink. ‘Yeah. I … I had quite a bit of time to write this summer. And I was thinking about what you said. That you thought I had talent?’
The rising inflection tugged at her heart. He cared so much what she thought. This one lonely boy.
‘I think you have a lot of talent, Max, and what’s more important, I think you’re willing to work hard at it.’ She shut her planner. ‘I thought about your music this summer.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. In fact, I was thinking that maybe you’d like to perform some of it at the end of term.’
‘Not at the Christmas concert,’ he said. ‘No offence, Mrs L, but I don’t think I can compete with the Year Sevens dressed up as angels.’
‘I wasn’t thinking the Christmas concert. I was thinking an individual recital.’
‘But that’s only for sixth-formers.’
‘We have some GCSE students giving recitals too, occasionally. I could stretch a point for you.’
‘I’m – I’m not even taking GCSE Music.’
‘I noticed your name had been taken off the list. Did you decide against it?’
‘My dad said I couldn’t.’ His face was bright red now.
‘Well, we could work on a recital anyway. If you wanted to.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘You’re certainly able enough. But you don’t have to make your mind up now. You can think about it. Meanwhile, do you want to play me your new pieces? I’d like to hear them.’
His fingers fumbled. He played a chord, then laid his palm on the strings.
‘I wish I had a mother like you,’ he mumbled down to his guitar.
I would be lucky to have a child like you, she thought.
‘Play for me.’
As usual, Romily kept her head down when she entered the playground. Because Ben had been doing the school run for the past week, she hadn’t been here since before the summer holidays, but nothing had changed. The Mummies, with their pushchairs and toddlers, wearing smocks and summer dresses, lined the perimeter keeping up a constant chatter, while the Working Mums queued in traffic behind the wheels of their cars, desperate to drop off their charges and be away. By the gate a member of the PTA clutched a clipboard, looking for volunteers for something or other. Romily avoided her eye.
The bell rang and Posie flitted ahead and disappeared into a group of children. No kiss, then. Romily shrugged and went to turn round, only to find the PTA woman blocking her way.
‘You’re expecting!’ s
he trilled joyously.
‘Er. Yeah.’
Within seconds, the Mummies had gathered around. ‘How far along are you?’ one asked.
‘Twenty-three weeks.’
‘Oh, so plenty of time to go. You show more because you’re so slim.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Do you need any maternity clothes? I’ve got loads left from Bobby.’
‘What about a Moses basket? I’ve got one of those.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve got the summer over with before you’re really big. I had Arjan in August and I was ready to drop.’
‘Yes,’ said Romily, confused about which question to respond to first. ‘I’m feeling fine now. I was sick for quite a long time, though.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said one who had her baby strapped to her chest in a sling. ‘I was sick all through it with this one, and then he didn’t want to come out. Gave your mummy an awful time, didn’t you, sweetheart?’ She dropped a kiss on its downy head.
‘I had sciatica all down my leg,’ said another.
‘Had to spend the last three months in bed.’
‘The acne! It was awful.’
‘Still, you look great. It suits you.’
Romily doubted that anyone looked great with the equivalent of a football stuffed up their top, but she said, ‘Thank you.’
‘How are you sleeping? I could never get comfortable once the baby started poking me in the ribs.’
‘Your little girl must be so excited to have a little brother or sister.’
‘Was that Daddy dropping her off last week? I noticed she came in by car.’
‘That’s her godfather. I had a sprained ankle.’
An immediate collective outcry of concern. ‘Have you tried arnica?’
‘You can take paracetamol, you know. The pharmacist doesn’t want you to but my midwife told me it was absolutely fine. Who’s your midwife?’
‘Er. Katya?’
‘I had her! She’s wonderful.’
‘I had her too. Fourteen hours in labour.’
‘Can I feel?’ Without waiting for an answer, the Mummy put her hand on Romily’s stomach. ‘Ooh, lovely! It kicked.’
‘Do you know what you’re having?’
A boy. My boy. ‘No, we don’t.’
The first Mummy’s hand was removed and replaced with another Mummy’s. Romily was beginning to feel like a melon being tested for ripeness.
‘We didn’t know either,’ said the Mummy who was touching her. ‘Not for the first one. Everyone says you need to know so you know what colour to paint the nursery but we just painted ours green. What about you?’
‘Er. Yellow.’
‘That’s nice. It’s good to avoid all this gender typing, isn’t it?’
‘You can’t stop it!’ said another. ‘We put Joseph in a pink nursery because he came so quickly after Catarina that we couldn’t be bothered to paint it again, and he still won’t play with anything except for cars!’
‘Do you need a place on an NCT course? I know the woman who runs them, I can give you her number.’
‘Have you written up your birth-plan yet?’
‘How are your iron levels?’
‘How does it compare to your first pregnancy? Mine were totally different from each other.’
‘You must have found it difficult to get your shoes on, with your ankle and your bump.’
Romily focused on the woman who’d said that. She had long hair, a handknitted jumper, a toddler in a pushchair. Her jumper had a hole in the sleeve and her toddler had a dried-on milk moustache.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The shoes haven’t been easy.’
A third woman put her hand on her stomach. ‘Come back to mine for coffee if you like. We have a bit of a standing playdate on Mondays but bumps count.’
‘Thanks, but I have to get to work.’
The baby wasn’t kicking, so the woman took her hand away. ‘Come when Baby’s here, then. Everyone’s welcome.’
‘I’ll bring those maternity clothes for you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll write down my NCT friend’s number.’
‘Have you chosen any names?’
Romily bit her lip. Quietly, very quietly, she said, ‘My father’s name was William.’
‘Ooh, that’s lovely. I love the old-fashioned names.’
And they were off, pushing high-tech prams in black and bright colours, chattering. The woman in the jumper lingered behind for a moment. She was smiling.
‘Do you feel like a belly on legs?’ she asked.
‘A bit.’
‘Everyone means well. It’s what we all have in common, so we have to talk about it. As a conversational topic, it’s like the weather, only it involves much more pain.’
Romily had to swallow twice before she answered. ‘That’s one way of thinking about it.’ She tried a smile.
‘And besides, it’s important, probably one of the most important things we ever do, and no one else is interested. Are you all right? You look like you’re about to cry.’
‘Hormones,’ Romily said roughly. ‘It’s just hormones.’
‘Sorry love, I lost track of the time.’
Claire carried on scraping the ruined dinner into the compost bin. ‘You could have rung.’
‘I didn’t think it was that late. Anyway, I had a sandwich at Romily’s.’
She put the plate in the dishwasher before she turned to him. ‘You were at Romily’s?’ she said, keeping her voice light.
‘I dropped by on my way from work.’
‘Brickham,’ she said, lightly, lightly, ‘is not on your way home from the site.’
‘She had a leaky tap I wanted to take a look at.’
‘We haven’t had dinner together for over a week.’ And sex for longer than that, she thought, but she didn’t say it.
‘It’s busy at work. You know that.’
‘But not so busy that you can’t mend a leaky tap for Romily.’
Ben ran his hand through his hair. ‘She’s on her own, Claire.’
‘I know how she feels.’
‘You’re busy, too. You’ve had meetings and auditions all week. You always do at the beginning of term.’
‘Yes, but this is our last chance, Ben. We won’t have time for quiet dinners on our own once the baby comes. This is supposed to be the time we can spend together.’ The last time for quiet dinners, the last time for spontaneous sex, the last time to act as they did when they were first married, before all of this, back when they were still fully themselves.
‘Romily needs me more right now. I’m sorry, Claire, but that’s the way it is. Besides, you’re the one who wanted me to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t do anything silly again.’ There were dark circles under his eyes, though he was sleeping at night. ‘I’m trying to do my best for everyone, and sometimes that means I can’t be here exactly on time for dinner.’
‘All I’m saying,’ she said, not so lightly now, but trying, ‘is that you could have rung.’
Dear Thing,
I was listening to the radio today and a song came on: ‘All You Need Is Love’ by the Beatles.
What a load of rubbish.
Love isn’t the answer. Love is the problem.
It would be so much easier if we worked on instinct. Letting someone else raise your offspring isn’t a problem in nature. It happens all the time; for some species it’s a positively advantageous evolutionary decision.
So why is it so hard for me?
Mating is a transaction. An exchange of genes. Most species don’t pair-bond. They certainly don’t pair-bond with someone else’s mate and then spend years and years torturing themselves about it. They don’t pass up pair-bonding opportunities with other mates because they can’t have the one they’ve decided they want. Only humans do that, with their ridiculous dedication to love.
My love for Ben – for your father – has been an unchanged part of my existence for so long. Not because it’s something I wan
t to feel; quite the opposite. I’d be much happier if I woke up tomorrow and realized I didn’t love him any more. I’d be free of this constant ache and yearning and guilt. It would be like being healed.
If I hadn’t been in love with Ben, who knows what it might have been like with Jarvis? If I’m honest with myself, I chose him because he seemed to be the opposite of Ben. I was comparing him with Ben every moment from the start, and it made me blind. I certainly never saw how he felt about me. I never understood how his leaving me meant that he loved me.
If I hadn’t always been comparing, if I’d seen him for who he was, could I have fallen in love with him? Could we have stayed together, raised Posie together?
Would I have loved Posie more before she was born?
You would think that love for your children would be the easiest of all. But I didn’t love Posie when she was inside me. Not the way that I love you. I have lots of excuses – I was trying to work on my thesis, I was worried about my future, I hardly had any money – but in the end, nothing can excuse my failure. I tried my best to ignore the fact that she was happening. I didn’t suffer for her like I have with you: I didn’t puke, I didn’t bleed, I didn’t have to get up every five minutes at night to use the toilet. But I didn’t marvel, either. I took each stage in my pregnancy as a matter of fact, as a natural process of reproduction that was happening to me and that I would get through. Even the birth was easy and quick. I felt some pain and then it was time to push, and she slipped out, eyes open. She looked wise already.
That was when I fell in love with her. Not before.
If I’d been in love with her before she was born, the way I’m in love with you, would I have found it easier to be a mother? All those sleepless nights; all the mistakes and messes and days over and over again that were the same. Everyone says that motherhood is so easy and instinctive. It will be that way for the woman who wants to be your mother. For your real mother.
It wasn’t for me. Maybe if I’d loved Posie more, maybe if I’d let myself love her father, it would have been easier.
