by Cate Woods
‘Do you work, Dot’s Mum?’ Margo asks me, refusing a Bourbon, which is probably why she’s like a size six.
‘Not anymore,’ I say. The power-mums look disappointed, so I quickly add: ‘But I used to be a fashion photographer – well, an assistant fashion photographer.’
‘Really? That sounds fascinating!’
‘It was. I loved it.’
‘So why did you decide to stop working?’
‘Well, I didn’t really decide to stop, I . . .’ I trail off, wondering how to explain what happened. I’ve just met these women; I’m nowhere near ready to air my dirty laundry yet. ‘Life got in the way,’ I say eventually. ‘Who’s for another custard cream?’
5
Dot is still asleep when we leave Raggy Rhyme Time, so I take the scenic walk home, which takes us through the poshest bit of Clapham and past the very exclusive estate agents where Fiona works. One of the unforeseen bonuses of having a baby is the amount of walking you end up doing while trying to get your child to sleep, or trying to keep them asleep, or just simply ‘getting some fresh air’. I’ve never been that keen on exercise, but since having Dot I’m probably smashing 10,000 steps a day without even thinking about it.
Curtis Kinderbey Sales and Lettings is located on a pretty street that’s predominantly made up of estate agents and trendy cafés where you can eat anything as long as it’s avocado toast. I don’t want to go into the office and risk waking Dot so I hover outside, covertly scanning the interior for Fiona while browsing the property details in the window. I gaze at the glossy photos of cinema rooms, marble staircases, indoor pools and cathedral-sized basements and try to stifle a twinge of envy. Jesus, there are some seriously lavish properties for sale here, all of them way, way beyond my means. For instance, five million for a small two-bedroom flat? Unless it’s in Buckingham Palace and the price includes use of the Queen’s best crown, that seems wildly overpriced.
Although I can’t see Fi inside the office, I spot a few familiar faces – I know most of her colleagues from meeting her down the pub post-work, pre-Dot – but there’s a bloke sitting at the desk nearest the window that I don’t recognise. He’s engrossed in something on his computer, which gives me the opportunity to check him out. He’s young, probably mid-twenties, with a not-conventionally-handsome but interesting face, pale with wide-apart eyes. There’s a definite touch of Benedict Cumberbatch about him. I’m still scrutinising him, trying to work out whether he’s strangely attractive or just strange-looking when I realise he’s no longer working at his computer but is instead staring back at me.
Cheeks flushing, I grin stupidly.
He mouths: ‘Do you need some help?’
I give an apologetic head-shake in reply – do I look like I can afford a five-million-pound flat? – and am turning to walk away when I see Fiona bowling down the street towards me, a pocket dynamo in a pencil-skirt and stilettos.
‘Annie!’ She beams and holds out her arms. ‘This is a nice surprise. Come here, gorge, I need a hug. I’ve had a feckin’ shite morning.’
‘What’s happened? Let’s get a coffee and you can vent.’
We buy takeaway flat whites from the nearest avocado toast outlet, then amble along as Fi tells me about the sale of a huge and very expensive house on the common that she’s spent months painstakingly negotiating, but which is now at risk because the buyer has ‘sensed a presence from the spirit world’ in the master en suite and will only go ahead with the sale if the vendor agrees to pay for an exorcism.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I say, trying not to laugh, ‘this woman thinks the toilet is haunted?’
‘Yup. She’s feckin’ mental.’ She rolls her eyes and shakes her head dismissively. ‘Finn’s Uncle Derry is a priest, so I’m thinking I’ll get him to come and say a few Hail Marys over the cistern and be done with it . . . Anyway, enough about work. Luke put your mind at rest last night, did he?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘I think I must have imagined the whole thing. Sleep deprivation’s a fucker!’
Fi turns to look at me. ‘You absolutely sure, darlin’? Nothing you want to talk about?’
‘Nope, everything’s fine!’
After a slight pause, Fiona returns my smile. ‘Grand,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad it all turned out okay.’
We walk on for a few moments in silence.
‘I mean, there was this call to his mobile quite late in the evening,’ I say, ‘and Luke told me he didn’t want to answer it because it was work, but it’s not unusual for him to get late work calls. And it’s actually really sweet that he didn’t want to interrupt our evening together, isn’t it? And then he told me he had to work late tomorrow – but that happens, you know? Not on a Friday usually, it’s true, but he can’t choose when these important client things happen, can he? So really, I’ve got nothing to worry about at all – nothing at all – and it’s definitely for the best if I just put the whole mix-up behind me, and move on. Don’t you think?’
I stop and turn to Fiona, but her expression is not exactly reassuring.
‘Fi? Do you think I need to worry?’ My stomach lurches anxiously.
‘No, no, not at all. But I sort of get the impression you might still be a wee bit concerned, so if you wanted to put your mind completely at rest then why don’t you call his office and ask to check his diary?’
‘What? No! That would be a terrible thing to do, like snooping through his phone or reading his emails. I’d be like some God-awful prying wife. No way.’
‘Suit yourself, Saint Annie,’ shrugs Fi. ‘But at least you’d get some closure. All you need to do is call his PA and ask if there’s anything in his schedule for tomorrow evening. Would that really be so bad?’
Once Fiona has gone back to the office, I loop back across the common to prolong my walk home; I need time to think about what she has said. Although the sensible, rational part of me knows that I’ve got nothing to worry about, the emotional, irrational part of me – quite a large part, to be honest – is unconvinced. Try as I might, I can’t get the image of the man in the red hat out of my mind. I hate the idea of checking up on Luke behind his back, but Fiona is right, at least this way I can put any lingering doubts to rest. Before I have second thoughts, I call the switchboard at Luke’s office and ask to be put through to Vicky, his PA.
Efficient as ever, she picks up after just one ring.
‘Luke Turner’s office.’
‘Oh Vicky, hi, it’s Annie, Luke’s, um, partner.’ Girlfriend doesn’t sound right now that we have a child together.
‘Annie! How are you? And Dot?’
‘Hard work.’
Vicky laughs knowingly. She is a mum of five; I am in awe of the woman.
‘I’m afraid Luke’s in a meeting. Do you need me to get a message to him?’
‘No, no, I don’t actually want to speak to him. The thing is, I’m trying to arrange a surprise dinner – a “thanks for being a great dad” sort of thing – and I wondered if you could check a date in his diary to see if he’s free?’
‘Aww, that’s sweet of you, Annie, I’m sure Luke would love that. When are you thinking?’
‘Tomorrow evening. Short notice, sorry.’
‘Right, let me have a look . . .’ I hear brisk tapping at a keyboard. ‘Okay, he’s got a 4 p.m. meeting with Eckhart, and then . . . you’re in luck, it looks like he’s free for the rest of the day!’
I feel my legs buckle under me and grab the pram for support. Luke lied to me – it was him in the red hat. Our daughter is only a few months old and he’s having an affair. My hand flies to my mouth. Luke is having an affair.
‘Oops, no, my mistake!’ Vicky’s tone is breezy, oblivious to my breakdown at the other end of the line. ‘He’s got a 7 p.m. meeting with the Americans. I’m so sorry, Annie, he’s probably going to be stuck here until late.’
Giddy with relief, I can’t stop myself from bursting into laughter.
‘Annie? Is everything alright?’
‘My pleasure. Bring that gorgeous little girl into the office to see me sometime, okay?’
I flop down on a nearby bench, feeling as knackered as if I’ve just run a marathon. Thank God, at least now I can put the whole thing out of my mind. Unless . . . What if Vicky’s in on it, and Luke told her to lie to me about tomorrow night? Maybe she’s the one he’s been having the affair with?
No, that’s ridiculous, Vicky’s five-foot-nothing and Kardashian-curvy; the woman I saw from the bus was built like a catwalk model. Come on, Annie, I know you’re tired, but for pity’s sake, get a grip. Whoever that was on Oxford Street, it definitely wasn’t Luke.
6
After weeks of that most English of weather conditions – an opaque, white sky, oppressively low, that makes you feel like you’re living in Tupperware – Saturday morning dawns clear and sunny with an Alpine nip to the air. And when I say ‘dawns’, this is not just a figure of speech: it’s still dark when Dot wakes me and I watch the sun creep over the frosty rooftops while she has her milk.
The sight of sunshine acts like a triple-shot espresso, and despite the fact that most sane people are still asleep, I’m buzzing with positivity: it’s the weekend, which means Luke is at home so I’ll get a break from Dot-duties, and we’ve got our big date tonight! Best of all, I’ve finally seen off that maggoty worry that’s been worming away inside me since Wednesday.
Dot finishes her breakfast, burps, then looks up at me with an expression that says, ‘Oh, hey, didn’t see you there’, stretching up her hand to touch my face. I pretend to nibble her fingers, which makes her giggle like I’m the funniest person ever, so I do it again. I can’t get enough of that baby chuckle – perhaps I should record it for my ringtone? At times like this I can almost forgive the early wake-up calls. Almost.
We occupy ourselves until half past eight when I notice Dot rubbing her ear. I deduce this to be one of those mythical ‘sleepy cues’ that all the baby books go on about, so I immediately dash back upstairs and put her down for a nap – dearly hoping I haven’t missed the crucial ‘nap window’ – and then crawl back into bed with Luke, wondering whether mothers in Amazonian tribes worry about this shit. (Probably not, but while they may not be obsessing over ‘The Top Ten Sleep Mistakes Parents Make’, they do have to deal with the Brazilian wandering spider, so swings and roundabouts, really.)
Luke is asleep when I slide under the covers next to him, moulding myself against the length of his back. He stirs, and I enjoy the sensation of his muscles flexing and tightening beneath me.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ he murmurs, ‘what time is it?’
‘Eight thirty-ish. Dot’s just gone down for a nap.’
He turns over to face me. ‘You should have woken me up! I could have helped you with her.’
‘You didn’t get back until after midnight, I thought you’d need the lie-in.’
‘Mmmm, I don’t deserve you, patatina,’ he murmurs, snaking his arms around me, and I try to ignore a stab of self-consciousness about the pockets of back fat that have stubbornly stayed put post-pregnancy.
We snooze until Dot wakes again, and then our day unfolds like most of our Saturdays now that we’re parents – a stroll to the coffee shop, stopping at the pond to feed the ducks; tummy-time on the play mat; late showers and a fridge-foraged lunch of leftovers – except today there’s the added frisson of knowing that we’ve got a proper, grown-up night together later. Every now and then I catch Luke’s eye and I can tell from his smile that he’s feeling the same spark of excitement I am.
Dinner is booked at 8 p.m. at a local restaurant that is close enough to be able to dash home if Dot needs a feed, yet treaty enough to make it worth getting dressed up for. Luke offers to take care of Dot’s bath and bedtime routine, which gives me the luxury of a whole hour to transform myself from dowdy to slightly less dowdy.
I blow-dry my hair for the first time in ages, then realise that all the frizz was actually covering up inches of dark roots, so I tie it back into a ponytail, which looks marginally better. Wearing my new lingerie, lipstick and an old-but-reliable dress that skims over my flab and bigs up my boobs, I feel, if not a million bucks, then at least a few hundred thousand.
Luke is in the shower when Sigrid, our lovely doula, arrives for babysitting duties, looking like a really cool milkmaid in a white lacy dress with a leather biker jacket and this incredible pair of slouchy, studded boots. I’d ask her to borrow them, but my size sevens are probably twice the size of her exquisite fairy feet.
‘Oh Annie, you look beautiful!’ She gathers me into a hug, her white-blonde hair swishing around us both, smelling of summer meadows and sunshine. (And yes, I probably am slightly in love with her, but the woman helped me through some scarily intense shit, so I think I’m allowed a bit of a crush.)
‘How are you, my darling?’ Still holding me, Sigrid draws back and puts her head to one side. She has this way of looking at you like she’s gazing into your soul; it would be impossible to lie to her, because she’d just know.
‘I’m good. A little tired, but generally good. Except . . . Is it normal, after having a baby, to be, um, seeing things?’
‘Seeing things?’
‘Yeah, like thinking you’ve seen something, but you actually imagined it. Hallucinating, I suppose.’
Sigrid beams, showing cinematically-perfect teeth.
‘Annie, you’ve just been through the most profound, intense and transformative experience of a woman’s life. The energy pathways of your body are bound to be disrupted. I can certainly show you some yoga poses that will help rebalance your chi, but yes, in the circumstances I’d say a little hallucination is entirely within the realms of normal. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I smile; I knew Sigrid would make me feel better. ‘Luke’s just getting ready, can I get you a drink?’
‘I’d love a cup of tea, thank you, angel. Here, I’ve brought some Tung Ting Oolong with me.’ She fishes in her bag and holds out a box of tea bags. ‘It’s quite a delicate leaf, so you’ll need to leave the water for a few minutes after boiling . . . Now, where’s Dottie? Is she asleep already?’
‘Yes, but go up and see her if you’d like.’
‘Love to,’ beams Sigrid, shrugging off her jacket. ‘Back in a sec.’
As she pads upstairs, I head to the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking once again how lucky I am to have Sigrid in my life. Thanks to her, I know I’ll be able to relax tonight and focus on Luke, rather than worrying about how Dot is getting on. I should take her out for a nice lunch next week to thank her – or perhaps I could buy her a gift . . . ?
The baby monitor is turned on in the nursery, and as I potter around in the kitchen, I hear Sigrid murmur, ‘Hello, little one, how are you?’
I visualise her as she leans over the cot, perhaps stroking Dot’s sleep-flushed cheek, and smile to myself; then after a few moments I hear a sort of rustling noise, and Sigrid says: ‘She’s grown so much since I last saw her.’
Now I hear Luke’s voice. ‘She rolled over the other day, did Annie tell you?’
Ah, those must have been his footsteps I heard a moment ago.
Sigrid says something in reply, but I’m loading glasses into the dishwasher and the clatter drowns out her response. I glance at the clock on the oven: quarter to eight. We should probably get going – the restaurant is only round the corner, but I can barely hobble in these heels.
Then, over the monitor I hear: ‘Luke, no. Don’t. Not here.’
I freeze, unease creeping over me like a chill. It’s not Sigrid’s words that unnerve me as much as her tone: urgent, guarded, breathless. I wait, straining to hear what comes next, but nothing more is said and as the seconds tick by I start to talk myself down from the ledge. Get a grip, Annie, you’re imagining things again. There’s nothing to worry about.
But then I hear a woman’s gasp. It�
��s the sort of gasp that happens involuntarily when someone touches you and you never want them to stop. And now Luke’s voice, so soft that I can’t make out what he’s saying, although the end of it sounds very much like: ‘. . . can’t stop thinking about you.’
I throw myself across the room to where the monitor is plugged in and frantically turn up the volume to its highest setting, every fibre of my being focused on listening, and, despite the horrible rushing sound in my ears, this time when Sigrid speaks I hear every word.
‘I meant what I said to you on Wednesday, Luke. We can’t keep doing this. I feel terrible about Annie.’
‘I know, I know. Me too.’ A sigh. ‘Look, shall we still meet next week? Just to talk?’
A pause. ‘You really think we’re just going to talk?’
‘Sigrid, I . . .’
And then there are no more words, just murmurs and gasps and moans, and it’s clear as day what’s going on: the father of my child is standing next to our sleeping daughter with the woman who dried my tears during labour and they are kissing, just like they were when I saw them the other day. And nearby, watching the pair of them, there is a photo of me holding my baby moments after I gave birth, taken just weeks ago, and they’re too far gone to even care.
7
I can’t do anything; I just stand there, paralysed, listening to the soft sounds coming over the monitor. Now that my worst fears have been proved right – actually no, not my worst fears, worse than my worst fears – I feel nothing. I’m literally numb. It’s like my emotions have been packaged up in bubble wrap.
