by Fiona Gibson
‘The truffles then,’ he continues sulkily. ‘He could’ve put something in those …’
‘You think he might’ve drugged the truffles?’ Lou’s shoulders are bobbing up and down now, and Hannah and Sadie have clasped their hands over their mouths to stop themselves from laughing.
‘Not necessarily. I just think …’
‘… Like, injected something into their little chocolately middles?’ Lou adds.
‘I’m just concerned, that’s all. It sounds completely bizarre …’ Of course it does, Lou thinks: me enjoying myself, talking to a man, the four of us whiling away the journey by having a bit of fun. She decides not to mention Felix’s tearful outburst, which Spike would decide made him sound doubly weird.
‘There’s no need to worry,’ Lou says sweetly. ‘We’ve arrived here in one piece …’
‘Good. Glad to hear it. Anyway, have a great night,’ Spike adds, sounding a little friendlier now. ‘I’d better go. I’m starving – just popping out to the chippie.’
‘Oh, aren’t you having a stir-fry? I bought you all those—’
‘No, I’m not!’
‘Okay, okay! God, I only asked…’ Lou shakes her head despairingly. ‘What’s so offensive about a stir-fry all of a sudden?’
‘Just don’t fancy it,’ he growls.
‘Fine. Enjoy your chips then,’ she says coolly.
‘Thanks. I will.’ Finishing the call, Lou tosses the phone onto her bed.
Hannah gives her a knowing look. ‘That didn’t go too well, then.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Lou exclaims, exhaling loudly. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here with you two instead of at home with him.’
‘That bad?’ Sadie raises a brow.
‘Oh, not really.’ Lou catches herself. ‘He’s probably just had a boring day, sitting at home on his own with no one to talk to and nothing to do.’
By 6.30 pm, Sadie has changed into a wrap dress, with her freshly washed and blow-dried hair tumbling lushly around her shoulders. She had almost forgotten her hair could look good, and barely recognises herself. I wish Barney could see me, she thinks, grateful that their quick phone chat was perfectly pleasant – reassuring, actually – and not a snippy exchange like Lou and Spike’s. I wish I could show him that I’m still the same old Sadie underneath …
Her face changes then, her brow crinkling with worry. Thinking about Barney has made her recall his terrified expression as her train pulled out of Hissingham station, which has led her swiftly to thoughts of her beloved babies, and whether Barney’s planning to stick to the correct bedtime routine tonight. Structure, one of those hectoring baby books said, will help you to manage your twins so they fit into your life, and not the other way round. It seemed almost cruel, Sadie thought at first, and went against her instincts to just hold and feed and love her children as she saw fit. But then, what did she know? And Barney had just flapped about on the sidelines, trying to help in his dithery way, with a perpetual air of panic as if a bomb might be about to go off in his face.
Now, despite her polished appearance, Sadie’s breasts feel as if they might be in danger of exploding at any moment. They’d been okay as she’d showered and dressed in the gloomy bathroom, but thinking about home has triggered her milk production with gusto. It’s uncanny, the way her body reacts, as if she no longer has any control over what it might do.
Stepping back into the bathroom, in which the white tiles are decorated with silhouettes of ladies with parasols, she pulls down the top half of her wrap dress so it hangs in soft folds around her waist, and frees her breasts from her gargantuan black bra. God, they’re huge. They look like joke boobs that someone’s stuck on her for a laugh. While Sadie has always been curvy, since having the babies her body has retained an extra layer of soft, spongy motherliness, which renders certain cuts of clothing unwearable. High necklines, for instance, make her look as if she has a bolster stuffed up her top. But never mind that. Right now, she must relieve the pressure by expressing milk into the chipped sink.
It feels like there’s an awful lot of it, probably due to all that expressing last night, which has propelled her body into production overdrive. Leaning over the washbasin, she manages to squeeze a little from each breast, figuring that this probably wasn’t the image the designer had in mind when he was creating the dress. She dabs at her chest with some loo roll, squeezes herself back into her hammock-like bra and pops in breast pads, just in case. Feeling slightly more comfortable now, Sadie yanks up her dress, slicks on a fresh coat of lipstick and steps back into the bedroom with renewed optimism.
‘Wow, look at you,’ Lou exclaims, leaping up from the bed and snatching her vintage beaded handbag from the floor.
Sadie grins. ‘Well, you know. I like to make an effort. It’s not often one of us is getting married, is it? Come on, let’s go.’ She glances at her friends, aware of an unspoken agreement that whatever they said on the train had just popped out, and that of course Hannah will put on her oyster dress and silver tiara and marry Ryan Lennox as planned. Grabbing her bag from the bed, Sadie also makes a silent vow to stop fretting about what might be happening back home, and to make the most of every minute of her two days off the leash. But first, she might just call Barney to check if he’s remembered to put nappy rash cream on Dylan’s bottom.
TWENTY-NINE
When Sadie left, the babies screaming as her train pulled out of Hissingham station, Barney had envisaged a bleak weekend of feeling helpless and hopeless. He’d even come up with the emergency strategy of visiting his parents if things were really spiralling out of control. His mum would cook a roast, fuss over the babies and tell him how well he was doing, barely managing to refrain from ruffling his hair and tickling his chin – and for the duration of his visit, Barney would almost believe that she was right. What has actually happened, though (apart from the pleasing exchange with Magda in the café) is that Pete, his old mate, has shown up. Eager-eyed and claiming to be delighted to have escaped London, he dumps a pack of beers on the kitchen worktop.
‘Shall we go out for a little stroll then?’ Pete asks, laughing at how middle-aged that sounds.
‘Why not?’ Barney says, grinning, and brushing aside a niggling feeling that Sadie wouldn’t entirely approve of this sudden amendment to the schedule. ‘Stroll’ is Pete’s code word for drink and, luckily, the weather has perked up enough to make sitting in the Black Swan’s beer garden seem like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. To salve his conscience, Barney dresses the boys in warm fleeces, padded jackets and gloves, even though they’re clearly uncalled for, slinging the gigantic baby-survival bag over his shoulder.
Now, at the pub, while Pete’s inside at the bar, Barney tries to remember the last time he was in licensed premises. The guys at work often go out, especially on a Friday, but he’s stopped doing that unless it’s a birthday or some other special occasion. Barney doesn’t resent it exactly, yet the lack of a social life has left a distinct void, which he has no idea how to fill.
‘Here you go.’ Pete places two bottles of Grolsch on the wooden table.
‘Grolsch,’ Barney says approvingly. ‘I haven’t had that for years. I can’t believe you remember I used to drink it.’
Pete grins, scanning the beer garden in which all manner of receptacles – wheelbarrows, tyres, a wicker basket strapped to the front of an ancient bike – are overflowing with spring flowers.
‘You were the only one who did,’ he jibes. ‘Pretentious twat.’
Barney laughs, feeling good about being with an old friend who knows him not as a work colleague or that new bloke who’s moved into that pretty little cottage with his wife and twins. ‘Yeah, well, you smoked unfiltered French fags,’ he sniggers, ‘and usually had some Sartre or Camus novel sticking out of your back pocket if I remember rightly. Which you never read.’
‘Yeah, I did!’ Pete exclaims, looking hurt.
‘Okay, so which ones did you read? Name ’em.’
Pe
te frowns and chews his lip. ‘There was that French one.’
‘They’re both French,’ Barney sniggers, and they continue their good-natured banter. Pete seems to be improving with age, Barney thinks wryly – unlike him, who appears to be deteriorating rapidly with new furrows and eye bags appearing by the day. Whereas Barney is always a bit scruffy, Pete has that self-assured groomed look, and the grey that’s beginning to fleck his dark hair is only serving to heighten his appeal. Barney has already noticed a pretty girl with blonde pigtails casting Pete a quick glance as she clears the glasses from an adjacent table. As he jiggles the buggy with one hand, and lifts his glass to his mouth with the other, he’s enjoying observing the effects of Pete’s charm. It’s like dipping his toe back into the place where the rest of the human race has been all along.
Dylan and Milo are snoozing now, reminding him that they should actually be in their cots and not a pub garden, surrounding by people drinking. As Pete regales him with tales from work – he imports wine, which doesn’t sound like real work in Barney’s opinion – he starts to wonder if 7.20 pm still qualifies as daytime, or if his babies are now officially on their first-ever night out.
‘Fancy another one?’ Pete asks, already getting up from the bench.
Barney glances furtively at his children. They seem fine – still asleep and blissfully unaware that they’ve been brought to the pub. And it’s so tempting to stay here a little longer, surrounded by adults, feeling like a normal human being again.
‘Yep, I’ll get these,’ he says quickly, heading for the pub’s entrance. Thank God they’re not super-advanced talkers, he thinks with a smile at the bar. At least they won’t grass me up. Yet, as he strides back outside and hands Pete his beer, seeing that his boys are now awake and alert, he senses that he may be overstepping the mark. ‘Hell,’ he mutters, taking his seat at the table. ‘I shouldn’t have let them have that nap. It’ll be really tricky to get them down tonight.’
Pete guffaws. ‘Jeez, mate. You talk as if you’re running an army camp. No one does that now. It’s all meant to be much more fluid, isn’t it? Let them sleep when they’re tired and er … do stuff with them when they’re not.’
Barney snorts. ‘I’m sure you’re really up to speed with the latest parenting trends, Pete. Like, what kind of stuff?’
Pete laughs again and sips his pint. ‘Oh, I dunno. Baking?’
‘They’re not quite ready to be let loose in the kitchen, Pete …’
‘No, I don’t mean on their own. I mean with supervision.’ He casts the babies a fond glance as they gaze up at a hanging basket with rapt interest. ‘Good-looking kids, aren’t they?’ he adds. ‘Lucky they take after Sadie and not you. How’s she doing anyway? I’d never have had her down as a country girl.’
‘She’s fine,’ Barney says firmly. ‘Well … I guess we’re both still settling in but it takes time, doesn’t it …’
‘How long’ve you been here now?’
‘Six months, and we’ve still got to learn the country ways …’ He affects a ridiculous West Country accent.
‘But you,’ Pete observes, ‘at least you’re on that train to London five days a week, escaping it all …’ That’s it, Barney thinks. Work’s not just work anymore. It’s my great escape. ‘What about Sadie,’ Pete goes on, ‘tied to the house with the babies all day? I mean, I’m sure she’s doing a great job but—’
‘Well, she is allowed out,’ he says tetchily.
‘You know what I mean.’
Barney feels his face reddening and focuses on the alluring amber of his beer. ‘To be honest,’ he says carefully, ‘I don’t know how she feels about living here, or staying at home with the kids, because we don’t really talk anymore. It’s kind of … different, you know? Sort of … practical.’
Pete frowns, clearly not getting it. ‘What’s practical? Moving to the country?’
‘No, I mean me and Sadie. There’s so much to get done, and remind each other to do, that it doesn’t really leave any time for anything else.’
‘You mean …’ Pete pauses. ‘You just tell each other what to do all the time? Like, bark orders?’
‘Er, well, Sadie tells me,’ Barney chuckles, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It’s too late, though. He’s done it: been honest about him and Sadie, for the first time since his sons’ birth.
‘That doesn’t sound good, Barney,’ Pete says quietly.
‘Ah, so now you’re a relationship expert as well,’ Barney jokes.
Pete smirks. ‘I don’t mean that. I just mean … maybe you both need a little break from the nappies and all that.’
Barney shrugs. ‘Not much chance of that. My parents love the kids, but if we’ve left the boys alone with them for even five minutes it’s been, “Barney? Sadie? One of them just coughed! Is that okay?” And Sadie’s parents are in Liverpool,’ he adds, ‘so …’ He glances towards the pub door where two young women are heading outside, chatting and carrying drinks.
It’s her. Magda from the café, in a cute navy dress with a pale pink cardi over the top. Her painfully skinny auburn-haired friend points to an empty table. ‘Oh, look,’ Magda exclaims, ‘it’s the sweet twins! Hello, Barney.’ She hurries over to the buggy and bobs down to greet his children.
‘Er, hi, Magda,’ Barney says, amazed yet thrilled that she’s remembered his name. ‘This is, um … Pete.’
Barney has never believed that a smile is actually capable of lighting up a face, but Magda’s does. ‘Hi, Pete, this is my friend Amy.’
Amy smiles too, then says in a soft Yorkshire accent, ‘These are the cutest babies I’ve ever seen.’
‘They’re Barney’s,’ Magda tells her.
‘Oh! You’re so lucky.’
‘Thanks,’ he says humbly.
Magda turns, as if about to make her way back to the table they’d earmarked, just as an elderly couple sits down at the vacant seats. Well-heeled couples and families are occupying most of the other tables, and Barney is relieved to see a couple of children here – okay, school-aged children, teenagers actually – but children all the same. ‘Okay if we join you?’ Magda asks.
‘Sure,’ Barney says, taking a fortifying gulp of his beer. At least Pete will no longer be able to dissect his marriage, he reflects, as the girls perch on the seats and fuss over Milo and Dylan.
‘So how d’you two know each other?’ Pete asks, looking from Barney to Magda.
‘We don’t really,’ Magda explains with another sweet smile. ‘We were just chatting earlier in the café where I work.’
‘Where are you from, Madga?’ Pete asks, putting on his terribly-interested-in-you voice.
‘I’m from Poland, Amy’s from Leeds …’ She smiles. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, I’m a north London boy, same as Barney,’ Pete says, triggering a flurry of nostalgia in Barney’s stomach. They’re chatting about the girls’ photography course now – that’s how they met and became friends. Barney slips into the background, lifting Milo, then Dylan, out of the buggy and onto his lap, whilst marvelling at how speedily Pete zooms back and forth from the bar to buy the girls more drinks, and how easily he’s slipped into conversation with them. They’re so young – early twenties at most – a couple of students with part-time jobs. Yet the way Pete is chatting away, anyone would think they had acres of common ground.
‘So how about you two?’ Magda wants to know. ‘How d’you know each other?’
‘We’re old schoolmates,’ Pete explains. ‘That’s – God – a scarily long time ago …’
‘Noooo,’ Madga says. ‘Not that long ago.’
Pete smirks. ‘It was, trust me, and he was the brainy one, getting all the grades while I got kinda distracted.’ He shrugs flamboyantly in a ‘what can you do?’ way. ‘I messed up. I’m just the dumb friend.’
‘I’m sure you’re not, Pete,’ Amy says, touching his knee. What Pete’s doing now, Barney realises, is playing the lovable klutz. He’s witnessed this tactic before. For a brief period i
n his mid-twenties, Barney went out with a girl who pretended she couldn’t operate a screwdriver, just because she thought it was cute.
‘But you’ve done so well,’ Amy adds, removing her hand, ‘with your wine business and everything.’ Barney glances down at his T-shirt. There’s a yellow blob near the neck where Dylan spat his lunch at him.
‘Well, y’know …’ Another of Pete’s self-deprecating shrugs. ‘Anyway, shall we have one for the road, Barney? What d’you think?’
‘Better not,’ Barney says quickly, having declined the last round. ‘I really should get these little men home.’ Carefully, and overwhelmingly grateful that they don’t howl in protest, he places his children back into their buggy.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Magda says lightly.
‘Well, you could stay out a bit longer, Pete,’ Barney adds, hoping he doesn’t sound like his dad.
‘Are you staying at Barney’s tonight?’ Amy asks.
‘Yeah. Listen, I’ll just come back with you,’ Pete says, a trace of reluctance in his voice.
Barney is up on his feet, gripping the buggy handles expectantly. It’s almost half eight, the family with teenagers have gone, and yellowy lanterns have been switched on among the flowers in the horse troughs. The beer garden has taken on a decidedly evening feel. ‘Well, we’ll leave you girls to it,’ he says with a broad smile.
‘Thanks for the drinks,’ Magda beams at Pete. ‘And nice to see you again, Barney.’
‘Nice to see you too.’ Barney is eager to leave now, to get his babies bathed and tucked up in their cots and for all to be right with the world.
‘Pete,’ Amy calls after them, ‘we’re doing a photo shoot tomorrow, just pictures around the village for Magda’s assignment. D’you both fancy coming along?’
‘I’d love to,’ Pete enthuses. ‘I’m really interested in photography.’
‘Are you?’ Barney looks at him incredulously.
‘Yeah. It’s something I’ve been getting into recently …’
