Thankfully, at this point Marilyn knocks and the coffee is brought in, with an unnecessary degree of performance. As she and Callum fuss with cups and saucers and cream jugs, I try to slow my breathing.
I’ve said it. It will be done. Lauren will never be my child.
I look past them out at the sliver of grey sky visible through the mullioned window.
Yesterday, for three happy, deluded hours, I truly believed it might be possible. I believed that I could unpick the past. And I wanted to, so badly. For those few short hours I believed that I could be Lauren’s mother.
Once the idea had taken root, there was no stopping me. I felt stronger, more positive, more full of energy than I had in months. I felt ready for things to change. I whirled around the house, stripping beds, throwing open windows, emptying waste bins, all the while imag-ining the house and our lives transformed by Lauren. In the kitchen I hauled plates of limp party food out of the fridge and scraped it all away. I wanted a clean slate. Then, armed with a bulging bag of rubbish, I went round to the dustbins and flipped open the lid.
The smell hit me immediately. Half a dozen plastic-bagged, adult-sized nappies, piled on the top of the rest of the normal household rubbish.
*
There will never be a sunny bedroom at the back of the house. There will be no wet room, no ramp into the garden. I will not be reading storybooks by lamplight and holding my freshly bathed child close to me. I will not be loved unconditionally, by a daughter who will never leave me. It was a fantasy. Lauren is not a small child. She is a teenager with profound disabilities, who will become a wholly dependent adult who will need twenty-four-hour care for the rest of her life.
It would not be a life full of love and lightness. It would be a life full of stress and hard work.
‘Anne, are you all right?’ Callum seems to be crouching beside my chair. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting there. ‘Do you need a glass of water? You’re awfully pale.’
I compose myself, as best I can. ‘No. No, thank you. I’m okay. Perhaps a coffee, though.’
‘Of course.’ He pours me one. ‘I know this has been extremely difficult for you, Anne, but having some clarity will allow us to proceed, and that has to be a good thing, for everyone.’ I nod and sip my bitter cream-skinned coffee. ‘Are you’re absolutely sure that’s how you want me to proceed? You do seem to have wavered over the past few weeks, and I worry that your state of mind at present, your obvious distress—’I cut him off. ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ It sounds so flatly final. I take another sip.
He nods and becomes brisk. ‘Okay. That’s good. A clean decision. That’s what’s needed, in the circumstances. I think it’s very brave of you to make it. I’m sure the news will be welcomed by the Rudaks.’
I’m sure it will as well. Sarah and Lauren are inseparable. I know that now. Callum reaches for his pen and notepad. He starts scribbling and I sit numbly, feeling the coffee lying queasily in my stomach. I provide him with the details he needs. After ten minutes he appears to have enough. He recaps his pen. ‘I shall get onto this straight away. I’ll obviously keep you posted on our progress and we’ll talk you through all the paperwork, once it’s drawn up.’
He seems a little thrown when I say, ‘I want to talk about Rosie, before we finish.’
‘Of course.’ He turns over a clean page.
‘Rosie is getting on well with the Rudaks.’ He waits. ‘I’m naturally very concerned about the implications of that for my relationship with my daughter.’ He nods. ‘I’m hoping that my decision regarding Lauren might influence their decision regarding Rosie.’ He nods again, but less certainly. I falter, feeling frustration at his obtuseness. Surely it’s obvious. ‘So I need you to do your very best to fight any parental claims they might make.’ He hides behind his note-taking. His writing loops flamboyantly across the paper. ‘Callum? I’m saying that you must help me to keep hold of Rosie. She’s all I’ve got.’ My distress finally forces him to look up.
But his response isn’t human sympathy, it’s ‘hundreds of pounds an hour’ professionalism. ‘Anne, I completely understand. Leave it with me. I promise that I’ll do my utmost to ensure that the final arrangements are in both your and Rosie’s best interests.’
If I had any energy left, I would hate him for his measly caution. Instead we both rise and shake hands. He does not understand, no one does. If I’m not Lauren’s mother and if I lose Rosie, I’ll not be a mother at all. And if I’m not a mother, then I’ll be nobody. Just like Nathan has always said.
35
Relief
PHIL
I OPEN the door and Sarah bursts into tears; through the hiccuping I make out that there’s been a call, a number of calls about the custody arrangements for Lauren. I steer her back through the house and we sit at the kitchen table. It takes a minute of nose-blowing and hiccuping before she’s able to tell me properly what’s happened. The solicitor apparently called to say that Callum had been in touch to put on record Anne’s intentions towards Lauren, which boil down to ‘doing what is best for her’. By that, he clarified that Anne has – and at this point Sarah digs out a scrap of paper on which she has scribbled his exact words – expressed her understanding that Lauren is being so well cared for, and is so obviously loved, that she is offering to make no legal claim for parentage.
‘Phil, she’s waiving her maternal rights. Completely.’ Sarah says it as if she doesn’t quite believe it can be true. She starts crying again, prowling around the kitchen, touching the surfaces as if she’s reassuring herself of the reality of the situation.
‘Wow! Hey, it’s okay. Take a breath.’ I hug her to me.
‘It’s just such a relief. Knowing. For certain.’ It is. The huge cloud that has been looming over us rolls away, leaving everything clearer. Sarah is fizzing with emotion, unable to settle. ‘I’m sorry. James already knows. He was here when I took the call. I know we should have told him together, but he heard some of it and then, by my reaction, well…’ She changes tack again. ‘I should go and ring Ali, and Dad. Can I, is that all right? I think we should tell them. I know it’s not confirmed yet, but Anne’s said it officially, so she can’t go back on it, can she? Not now the lawyers are involved. Should I ring or leave it?’
‘Ring them.’
‘Yeah, okay. I will.’
As she dials, I cross the hall and look into the front room, where Lauren is sitting in her regular spot, her head bent over her screen, content as ever, doing her own thing as she always does, and as she will for the rest of her life, and ours.
James thunders down the stairs and comes to stand alongside me in the doorway, his shoulders broad enough to fill the remaining space. ‘It’s good news, isn’t it? Mum went a bit loopy when she came off the phone.’
‘She’s still a bit loopy, but I think that’s fair enough.’ Lauren doesn’t look up. We stand and watch her, while Sarah’s voice hits new heights as she breaks the news to Ali.
After she gets off the phone I open a bottle of champagne and pour three glasses. We chink against Lauren’s plastic beaker. There’s a pause and they all look at me. ‘To family!’ Sarah and I sip, as proper grown-ups should, and James gulps. ‘To your liking, sir?’
He pulls a face. ‘I’d prefer a beer.’
‘You have no refinement.’
‘Not my fault – I’m your child.’ The moment he says it, he flushes red.
Sarah smiles at him. ‘It’s okay. We can stop dancing around things now.’
‘Sorry.’ James gulps another big mouthful and winces as if it’s battery acid.
I sprawl out on the sofa, Sarah sits on the floor next to Lauren, and James drapes himself over the armchair. I feel the alcohol nosing steadily into my bloodstream; to be gently drunk on a Wednesday night feels like a good plan. A Chinese takeaway might fill out the celebrations nicely: Chicken and Black Bean, some Singapore Noodles, a big bag of greasy Prawn Crackers. We could send James to fetch it. I stretch out my legs, feeling conten
t. ‘Don’t drink it, if you don’t want it.’
James smiles. ‘If you’ve taught me anything, it’s not to waste free alcohol.’
‘That it, then?’ I adjust the cushion behind my head. ‘The sum total of your inheritance from me?’
James makes a show of thinking it through. ‘That, and maybe how to slide-tackle, badly.’
‘Cheers for that.’ I raise my glass to him.
He raises his in a mock salute and we both take a swig. ‘Any time, Dad.’
SARAH
I’m just checking that the back door is locked before we go up to bed when Phil comes into the kitchen. I flick the lights off, but he stays there, getting in the way, a funny look on his face. ‘Come here.’ He puts his arms round me and pulls me to him, kissing me, open-mouthed and urgent. We break apart. His breathing is uneven.
‘I love you.’
I’m about to say it back, but I don’t get the chance.
36
Consequences
ANNE
THERE HAVE been so many phone calls over the past few days – from Callum, from the social-work team, from the Trust, and two from Sarah, they were the only ones that have offered me any comfort – that I’m unprepared. The first thing he says is, ‘Is Rosie there?’
‘No.’ It’s not a lie. She’s not back from school, though I would’ve lied to keep him from speaking to her.
‘Good. We need to have a conversation.’ Emphasis on the we. Finally he wants to talk to me, after more than a decade of trying his utmost to avoid anything more than the most stripped-bare exchange of information.
Perversely, I try to derail it. I want to deny him, frustrate him, block whatever it is he wants, whatever it is he is about to demand of me. ‘You’ve made your position perfectly clear through your lawyers, Nathan. So why call now?’
‘I received a photograph.’
‘Of?’
‘The girl.’
I immediately know he means Lauren. ‘You mean our daughter.’ I imagine his smooth, unyielding face masking his cold fury at my insistence on the truth.
‘Anne, be very careful.’ He pauses, waiting for me to heed his warning, then he continues in the same tight, measured tone. ‘Sarah Rudak contacted my PA and emailed a picture to my offices at University College.’ That would not have gone down well. I admire her audacity. ‘It gave me pause for thought.’ For a second I wonder what he’s going to say, what impact seeing Lauren has had on him. He draws a deep breath. ‘You need to make sure that she never contacts me again – her or any of the family.’ Nothing. It has had no impact on him at all.
‘I’ve notified them that I’m not pursuing any maternal claim on Lauren. What else can I do?’
‘I don’t know, but I simply cannot tolerate any further attempts to link me to this child. You need to ensure these people grasp that.’ He enunciates each word as if I’m an idiot.
‘How am I supposed to ensure that, Nathan?’
‘Again, I don’t know. That’s not my concern, but you’re the one who seems to have been cosying up to them. Inviting them to the house!’
‘I had no choice. It’s a two-way street. They have rights as well… to Rosie. They could try and take her away from me – from you. Have you even stopped to think about that? And there’s what Rosie wants. She’s—’
He slices me off. ‘Anne, as her primary carer, that’s for you to sort out. I’m paying for the best legal advice to resolve things to your satisfaction. I’m sure some accommodation will be agreed in the end that’s mutually acceptable.’
‘How can you—’
Again he doesn’t let me finish. ‘I refuse to go down this road with you. You need to listen to me. This cannot… is not… going to touch me. And believe me, Anne, it’s in your best interests that it doesn’t.’ He pauses again, making sure that he has my full attention. ‘I will honour my financial responsibilities towards the child. That’s in hand. And I will cover the legal costs of this whole mess, above and beyond whatever compensation is paid. I think, in the circumstances, that is more than generous. But it might be salutary for you to bear in mind that this fundamentally changes our relationship as well.’ Again he waits, drawing out the moment. ‘Should I choose to make it an issue, there could be ramifications for our current arrangements. After all… Rosie is no longer my child, in the eyes of the law, as well as in reality. Though I know that you struggle with that concept, don’t you, Anne? Reality.’ The bastard! ‘Any further support – and I’d remind you that it is a considerable sum you receive from me every month, for the house, for Rosie’s schooling and for the maintenance of your comfortable lifestyle, for all your expensive knick knacks – it could all be back on the table, if there are any further attempts to involve me directly. Do you under-stand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ I’m about to be dispensed with. His tone changes back to the smooth, impersonal politeness of the past twelve years. ‘Tell Rosie I called and asked after her. Have a good evening.’ The phone clicks and he’s gone.
I feel the warning throb of pain behind my eyes.
The migraine hits during the night. Rosie, used to my withdrawals, ignores me, beyond checking that I’m still breathing before she sets off for school in the morning. I didn’t think it was possible, but the pain is even worse than normal. I can’t separate out the physical symptoms from the panic. The nausea rolls up and over me every time I contemplate my next move. It seems easier not to move at all. Nathan’s threat – for that’s what it is, a direct threat – preys on me. I wonder if he’s really capable of such cruelty, capable of completely disowning Rosie. I suspect he is. I lie with the curtains drawn, and reopen old scars pinned down by the pain and by memories of my life with Nathan.
To begin with, our marriage was good. Being with Nathan was exciting, romantic, so much better than anything I’d ever experienced before, better than I deserved. I was dazzled by him and by the life I had, as his wife. I loved all the travelling: the conferences in Paris and Amsterdam, the lovely hotels, the amazing service, the pampered existence. And I was proud of the respect and deference shown to him, which were, in turn, extended to me. Nathan was exceptional and passionate, and that was exhilarating to be around. When he talked about his work it was inspiring, a heady mix of genuine zeal to treat and heal and a driving ambition to ‘best’ his colleagues, especially his old mentors and professors. Yes, for those first couple of years it was genuinely good. I had the type of marriage that I’d always dreamt of, with a man I idolised.
Then we decided to start a family. I was, after all, twenty-nine. There was no point in waiting. I’d given up my job. We had enough money. We already had a beautiful home with plenty of space. We agreed that the time was right. We used to talk about it over dinner, in the evenings, after Nathan got home from work, sipping wine by candlelight, mapping out our future. The ‘plan’ was for three children, two boys and a girl, his preference. We were going to have them close together, so they would always have each other to play with and compete with (that was Nathan’s little joke). We both agreed that it would make their education easier to organise as well. Nathan already knew which schools would be best. We wanted them to be robust, outdoorsy children, who liked sports and riding. They’d be the type of kids who could cope with a bit of rough and tumble. We even talked about moving further out into the country-side. Nathan said he could always train into London. We assumed they’d be intelligent – their birthright from their father. We didn’t discuss what their inheritance from me would be. They would be lucky children who would grow up with the world at their feet. Who knew what they might achieve in life.
But I didn’t get pregnant. Not the first month or the second, or any of the subsequent months, and as time crawled by, my failure to conceive cast a lengthening shadow over our marriage. It was a wearying cycle of expectation and disappointment that took its toll on both of us. Not that Nathan ever said anything, directly, that was not his way. He remained polite, deferential, solici
tous, which made me feel worse. The arrival of my period every month felt like an indictment. I was his wife. He desperately wanted a child. I wanted a child. Yet I was failing to provide one.
One morning I woke up next to him, conscious that I’d started bleeding during the night. Trying hard not to wake him, I slipped quietly out of bed and, hunched over to stem the flow, hobbled into the en-suite bathroom. No sooner had I taken off my soiled nightie and knickers, and started running the shower, than he knocked at the door. Softly, but insistently.
The Second Child Page 21
