After Isabella

by Rosie Fiore

  ‘We chat sometimes,’ Sally said eventually. ‘On instant messenger.’

  Esther nodded. ‘Behind my back.’

  Sally’s cheeks went bright pink and she looked like she might cry. ‘I… I did what I thought was best. She added me and seemed to want to talk. She begged me not to tell you we were speaking. But she needed an adult to talk to, and I thought at least this way she was talking to someone who cared for you, who had your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Esther coldly, ‘how losing custody of my thirteen-year-old daughter is in my best interests?’

  ‘She was unhappy at home. She struggled with all the changes that have happened in your life. She needed a little space. It seemed the best way to save your relationship in the long term…’

  Esther walked past Sally to the front door. She opened it and gestured to Sally.

  ‘Next time you think you know best and can decide how things should happen in my family, perhaps you might consider that Lucie is my daughter and you have no rights in her life. None at all. Get out.’

  She went to see Lucie the next afternoon, and they walked to Highbury Fields in silence. Every now and then Esther glanced at Lucie. Her face was set and frozen, but not in sullen defiance as it had been before. There was something else there. Was it fear? She waited until they were in the park before she spoke. ‘How’s your weekend been?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lucie carefully. ‘How was yours?’

  ‘Okay. I finished a first draft of that chapter for the Austen book. It’s very late, but I hope they’ll still want it.’

  ‘Good. Well done.’

  ‘Sally came to see me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘She didn’t ring me,’ said Lucie, quickly and defensively. ‘I messaged her. And she told me you were angry because I’ve been speaking to her.’

  ‘I was. I was very hurt. Why couldn’t you speak to me, Lucie?’ Esther’s voice was quiet and without recrimination. She and Lucie had both been talking in calm, subdued tones. She stopped now and took Lucie’s shoulders, turning her towards her and looking into her eyes. Lucie suddenly and shockingly burst into tears. Passers-by stopped and looked as Esther drew her into her arms. She wept like a small child, and Esther was reminded of the time when Lucie, aged two, had thrown an uncharacteristic tantrum and had pushed a glass bowl off the kitchen table, causing it to smash spectacularly on the kitchen floor. She had wept then, as if she could not quite believe what she had done, and as if she knew it could not be undone.

  When the sobs abated a little, Esther led her to a bench. They looked out over the picnickers in the park and the joggers and cyclists who passed by.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ said Lucie eventually.

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘I didn’t do it to hurt you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Lucie sat quietly for a long time, and then she said, ‘Please, Mum. Please don’t be cross with Sally. Please don’t stop being her friend, it isn’t her fault. None of it is. Please.’

  Esther watched as a rollerblader swished past them. Her eyes followed the girl as she swung effortlessly and quickly up the path, moving with superhuman grace and speed.

  ‘Please,’ said Lucie again, her voice thick with misery and phlegm.

  ‘Of course I won’t stop being her friend,’ said Esther. She was very tired.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  She went home to the silent house and sat back down again at her computer to work. She turned on her desk lamp, which cast a small circle of light on her work area, leaving the rest of the living room in darkness. As she waited for her computer to boot up, she gazed at her reflection in the monitor. My God, she looked old. Worn by stress, marriage, childbirth, divorce, weight gain and weight loss, she was beginning to look very much her age. Unlike Isabella, of course. Who had not grown old, would never grow old. Always stylish and beautifully groomed, always slender, her figure and face were unchanged by excess, age or childbirth. At thirty-seven, before she got ill, she had looked pretty much as she had at eighteen. Esther shook her head and opened her email programme, looking at the new messages as they began to cascade into her inbox. There was so much to do. At least she had several uninterrupted hours to get on with it. It had not always been thus – and suddenly, unbidden, another memory of Isabella rushed to her. Thirteen or so years ago, when Lucie had been just six weeks old.

  On that day, Esther had sat at home staring at her computer screen, tears blurring her vision. She couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible. She couldn’t. There was a tiny grunting noise from her lap. Lucie lay on her stomach across Esther’s knees. It was the only position that seemed to give her relief from the pains of colic. Even then, the respite was brief – she’d doze for thirty or forty minutes and then wake, crying and squirming. The mornings were all right, the afternoons an intensifying nightmare, and the nights endless and broken. Esther was beyond tired. She felt constantly on the verge of flu – shaky, achy, almost feverish. She knew it wasn’t flu, because if Stephen took over for a few hours and let her sleep, the symptoms abated. It was sheer exhaustion. And here, on her screen, was an email from work. Apologetic, yes, full of understanding, yes. But the head of department needed her to write a short article, just a thousand words. Something to feature in some or other publication; it would be such a help for their research profile. It was on a subject she knew a lot about. She even knew where on her shelves the reference books might be found. But it was impossible. She was a thirty-five-year-old professional with years of education and experience, and she’d worked right up until the last days of her pregnancy, relentlessly efficient, determined to keep her identity and hold her life together. But this tiny, snuffling girl had robbed her of all of that in six short weeks.

  She couldn’t do it. And yet she couldn’t not do it. She needed help. Stephen had used up all his holiday – they had taken a ‘babymoon’ break before Lucie was born, and after his two weeks of paternity leave, he had taken an additional week to help her. She knew he was playing catch-up at work anyway. Her mother? She reached for the phone and rang Laura. But the phone rang and rang and she remembered that her mum and dad had gone away to the Isle of Wight for a few days.

  Isabella. It would have to be Isabella. She felt curiously reluctant to ring her, however. Isabella had been coolly happy for her when she announced her pregnancy, and had asked all the right questions throughout. But she hadn’t appeared truly engaged. It seemed she was academically interested, as one might be if a friend took up an alien but interesting hobby like taxidermy or sky-diving. She had come to see Esther and Lucie in the hospital, and had even held Lucie, but she hadn’t gushed or cried. Isabella didn’t judge Esther for wanting children or having Lucie, but she had no wish for one of her own. She was child-free by choice. She had known from adolescence that she didn’t want to bear children, and although she wasn’t hostile, she had no particular interest in the children of other people.

  But there was no one else. Not no one – she had other friends, but none she would want to see her in the state she was in. She was, like so many new mothers, a mess. Stained clothing, rumpled, make-up-free face, tangled hair. Her house was a tip, and she was still liable to burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

  The best thing about her oldest friend was that she needed so little information. She rang Isabella’s mobile.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. For a few hours.’

  ‘I’ll be there at nine.’

  And she was. She sailed in on a cloud of Issey Miyake, bearing takeaway coffees and fresh, warm croissants. ‘I figured you probably weren’t up to percolating,’ she said, handing Esther a cup.

  Esther paused for a moment, wondering about breastfeeding and the caffeine reaching Lucie. But the rich, dark smell filled her nostrils and, thinking of the brief artificial boost the coffee would give her, she took
a grateful sip.

  Isabella glanced around the house. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Baby tsunami.’

  ‘I know,’ said Esther guiltily. ‘But I didn’t ask you round so I could do housework. I have to produce an article…’

  ‘I don’t mind what you need to do. If you want to hand the sprog over and sleep for six hours, that’s fine. I’m here to help, all right?’

  Esther’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Just give her to me. And maybe start by having a quick shower. For all of our sakes, eh?’

  Esther did as she was told, and when she emerged from the bathroom, feeling immeasurably better, she heard – nothing. Curious, she tiptoed downstairs. Isabella was in the kitchen, and for one heart-stopping moment, Esther had no idea where Lucie was. Then she saw the straps criss-crossed across Isabella’s slim back. She’d found the baby-sling, a confusing item which Esther had tried but hadn’t got on with. Isabella had obviously solved it though, as there was no sound from the baby, and she had both hands free to wash the dishes. The kitchen looked cleaner and tidier than it had in weeks. They seemed to be just fine without her.

  It was one of the longest times Esther had spent without her baby in her arms. She felt the familiar cramp-and-gush of milk let-down in her breasts. Luckily her breast-pads would stop her from staining yet another shirt. She wasn’t due to feed for another couple of hours. She steeled herself to turn away and go to her desk. She had piled the books she needed on the side table, and she forced herself to start work. It was difficult – so difficult – especially when Lucie woke up and she heard her crying.

  Isabella popped her head around the door. ‘The weather’s lovely. We girls are going to get a change of scenery,’ she said, over Lucie’s cries.

  ‘Give her to me, let me feed her,’ Esther pleaded.

  ‘You told me she couldn’t be hungry yet. If she keeps crying, I’ll bring her back. Personally, I think she’s just bored. I would be.’ Isabella blew her a kiss and set off.

  It was almost impossible to keep working after that, in the silent emptiness of the house, but Esther had to. She was constantly mindful of the fact that Isabella must have taken a half-day off work to help her, so she couldn’t waste this precious time. In the end, she managed to scope out a rough first draft of the article. The hard work was done – the writing wasn’t elegant, but an hour of intensive editing and it would be passable.

  Isabella and Lucie still weren’t back. She went to stand on the doorstep, nervously looking up the road. She was just about to go back in and ring Isabella’s mobile, when she saw them coming around the corner. Isabella still had the baby in the sling on her front, and she had her head down, obviously chatting away to Lucie. Esther could hear Isabella’s soft tones but nothing from Lucie, which meant, mercifully, she wasn’t crying. Isabella looked up and saw her, and waved cheerily. Esther walked up the road to meet them. She was dying to get Lucie back in her arms. Isabella sensed this and unstrapped the sling as they got closer, passing the baby over practically on the move. Lucie’s milky blue eyes looked up at Esther as she took her in her arms. Esther was so relieved to have her back, it took her a moment to notice the dummy in her mouth.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked, shocked.

  ‘Boots,’ said Isabella.

  ‘It’s a dummy,’ said Esther stupidly. ‘I didn’t want her to have a dummy. And it’s not sterilized.’

  ‘Well, it came straight out of the packet, so I’m sure it’s clean. And look, she’s not crying.’

  She wasn’t. Lucie was calm and relaxed in Esther’s arms.

  ‘I looked it up last night after you rang. Crying, colicky babies. Some people said a dummy helped. I thought it was worth a try.’

  ‘I didn’t want her to have a dummy,’ Esther repeated, conscious that she was being stubborn.

  ‘Why?’ said Isabella, a little exasperated.

  ‘I don’t want her to be one of those four-year-olds, still sucking away. I think dummies are awful.’

  ‘Firstly, she’s five weeks old—’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Six weeks old. Not four years old. And secondly, if it helps her with the pain, isn’t that a good thing? It’s not like I dipped it in gin.’

  Esther managed a weak smile. ‘I suppose so. As long as you left off the gin.’

  ‘Nothing but champagne for my girl.’ Isabella touched Lucie’s tiny head lightly. ‘Now, did you get your work done?’ Esther nodded. ‘Well, as you’re dressed almost like a human being, why don’t we take this little one out for lunch? She’s been up and down the high street and she likes it. She’s quite the little cosmopolitan.’

  After that, Isabella would swoop in every few months and take Lucie away for a few hours. She liked to have her to herself and take her on little jaunts. She bought her beautiful outfits and toys, and even when Lucie was a plump eight-month-old, she liked to carry her in the sling.

  At around that time, Laura, who was generally not one to lay down the law, said very firmly that she would like to see her granddaughter baptized. Esther and Stephen had no views either way but were happy to do it for Laura’s sake. Rather hesitantly, Esther asked Isabella if she would like to be Lucie’s godmother.

  ‘An old atheist like me? Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, this old atheist is asking. I know it’s odd. We’re doing this for my mum, really. Still, if anyone is going to be tied to Lucie for life, I’d like it to be you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Isabella. ‘But yes, I’d be honoured to do it.’

  Neither she nor Esther were all that comfortable with the service – renouncing the devil and turning to Christ and so on – but Esther was still happy to see Isabella holding her beautiful daughter at the font. After the service, Isabella walked around the church with Lucie, pointing up at the stained-glass windows and explaining them to her. She always spoke to Lucie in a calm, adult tone. How Lucie would love her as she got older, thought Esther. Classy, elegant Isabella, bearer of cool gifts, purveyor of fascinating information, planner of astonishing outings. Isabella had painted Esther’s life with great, bold swathes of colour, and she would do the same for Esther’s daughter.

  Except she didn’t. Lucie was two when Isabella was diagnosed. It was another six months before Esther even knew – Isabella didn’t tell anyone. And once the intense chemotherapy started, Isabella’s immune system was destroyed. She couldn’t risk spending time with a germ-ridden toddler – a sniffle or a cold could have put her in hospital with pneumonia. And so the reality was that Lucie had no memories of her godmother at all. All she had was a chewed and faded pink dummy, which Esther had tucked away in her baby memory box. And Esther had to go on alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Michael got back much later that evening. She had drunk three quarters of a bottle of wine by the time he came through the door. He was smiling and holding a tartan-printed tin of shortbread. ‘Och aye!’ he said, in an abysmal Scottish accent. ‘Did ye long for me, lassie?’

  She smiled lazily at him from her seat on the sofa. ‘I did,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t ring me.’ He sat on the sofa beside her, putting down the tin of shortbread and dropping his keys and phone beside it. ‘How was your walk with Lucie?’

  ‘Fine.’ She opened her arms to him and kissed him hard, sliding her tongue between his teeth. Surprised, he leaned into her, and within minutes, she had pulled him on top of her. The sex was quick, desperate and strangely unsatisfying.

  ‘Wow,’ said Michael, withdrawing and flopping back into the opposite corner of the sofa. He struggled to pull up his trousers and refasten his fly. ‘Well, that was certainly a welcome.’

  ‘I missed you,’ she lied. She hadn’t spoken to him since Friday night. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to bear ringing to tell him about Lucie’s secret conversations with Sally. She reached over and picked up her glass, which was empty. She refilled it, draining the last of the bottle into it.
She saw him noticing, but he didn’t say anything. Smiling, as if the idea had just occurred to her, she handed him the glass. ‘I’ve had more than enough,’ she said.

  She drew his feet up onto the sofa and settled them in her lap, and as he sipped the wine, she began to rub them. He groaned with pleasure – she knew he loved it. He leaned back into the sofa cushions, drinking the wine in happy silence. She could see he was very tired. She kept massaging gently. The room was warm and quiet and dim and, sure enough, his eyelids started to droop. It took another five minutes before his breathing settled into the unmistakeable pattern of sleep. She slid his feet off her lap and sat quietly for another minute or so, but he didn’t stir. Then, moving quickly and silently, she picked up her own mobile phone, which was an identical model to Michael’s. She put it on the coffee table beside the tin of shortbread, swapping it for Michael’s phone. She padded into the kitchen with his handset. If he woke and looked for his phone, he would assume it was still on the table. If he realized it was hers, she could say she’d picked up his in error.

  Once in the kitchen, she immediately put the phone onto silent. She didn’t want an unexpected call or text alert to wake him. Then she got a fresh glass and opened another bottle of wine, before sitting down at the counter. She worked methodically, starting with his text message folder, going back through all the messages from the last few weeks. Most of them were from her, with a few from Luke and Oliver, a couple of exchanges with work colleagues and friends, and a few from unidentified numbers. The content from the unsaved numbers was all innocuous – either spam advertising or work messages from people whose numbers he hadn’t bothered to save. Then she opened his email folder. It took some careful searching because he was organized and kept all of his emails in different folders – work, personal, admin – but she found it eventually. A thread of emails between Michael and Sally.

  She saw that Michael had also known of Lucie’s plan to move out – Sally had told him, seeking his advice. He had said that they couldn’t interfere and that Esther and Lucie would have to work it out themselves. He expressed concern about Esther’s drinking, and Sally promised to try and get her to slow down. Now that she read this, she realized that of late Sally had been opting for coffee or fruit juice when they met, rather than wine. She had obviously been trying to lead by example.