‘Your new daughter?’ She studies it.
‘Yes. She’s called Rosie.’
‘Congratulations.’ She passes it back to me. ‘And your wife, she is okay?’
It takes me a second to realise that she’s not understood a word of the complicated tale I’ve just told her, seeing only a mother and newborn. I grin back at her. ‘Yes, they’re both doing fine.’
ANNE
On Friday morning there’s a knock at the door. I assume it’s the maid trying to get in to clean the room. ‘Not today, thank you,’ I shout, expecting a pause and then the sound of the housekeeping cart being pushed along to the next room, but instead a male voice responds. ‘Ms Elkan, if I might have a quick word?’ I open up to find what looks like a fifteen-year-old, with acne scars and an ill-fitting suit, standing on the threshold. He extends his hand. ‘Danny Carver. I’m the deputy manager here at The Metropole. I was hoping to have a word with you about your booking, if that’s okay? I thought we’d see you in the lobby this morning but…’ I keep the door ajar and make no move to invite him in. He flusters. ‘I just wanted to confirm when you might be checking out?’
Having not been able to conceive what happens next in my life, I certainly haven’t thought about what I am supposed to do with myself for the next few days. It all hinges on Sarah. It’s Sarah who is in control of my life now. The young man blinks and the awk-wardness thickens. ‘I plan to stay a few more days now. That’s not a problem, is it?’
‘No.’ He swallows. ‘Not as such. You did originally book for just the one night and it’s, well… room allocations, we’ve a busy weekend coming up. Do you know how long you will be needing the room for?’ he trails off weakly.
‘I really don’t know. Another couple of days, maybe more. I shall come down and confirm with you later.’ I bully him with my grammar.
‘Okay. Thank you, Ms Elkan. That would be very helpful.’
I close the door on him. As I turn round I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I don’t blame him for being suspicious. I pull back the curtains, revealing the unmade bed. The room is stuffy and I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. Everything is crumpled and stale and thoroughly depressing. On the bedside table lies my watch. It’s nearly midday. As I’m trying to make myself look respectable my phone beeps, a text. It’s from Sarah. I hold the phone tightly, trying to concentrate on getting air into my lungs. The message is short and specific and terse. It instructs me that Rosie is staying with them until Sunday. And that I’m not to ring or go to the house. I’m not to say ANYTHING to Rosie. I’m not to say anything to anyone. I’m to wait for Sarah to contact me. I sit and contemplate the consequences of my revelation.
My life is over. The life I’ve had will fall apart. Nathan will disassociate himself from us completely. The house will go. It will all crumble. And the Rudaks will have the whip hand. Whatever they want will be sanctioned. How could it not be? They are the innocent party. Prosecution? It’s possible. And…
And Rosie is not coming home. She may never come home. When they tell her what I did, she will hate me. I am going to lose my daughter. I am truly on my own.
Panic licks around me and I force myself to breathe. In and out, in and out. Just like Sarah told me. I know I should really go back to St Albans, but I can’t face the drive or the distance or the empty house. My only option is to stay close as I wait for Sarah to light the touchpaper and blow it all up.
In fresh clothes, with my make-up done and my hair brushed, I lie back down on the straightened bed, swallow a pill and stare at the ceiling.
44
Limbo
SARAH
IT’S A strange, strained feeling, a kind of intense limbo, at least it is for me. I watch life go on inside our house as if through a pane of glass, with me on both sides, participating and observing. I look after Lauren, I cook meals, I talk to Rosie, I nag James, I even fabricate some story about Anne mentioning something about going to see friends for a couple of days, to reassure Rosie that her mum is not just sitting in a hotel room with a broken heart. And God help me, I smile and laugh and put on a credible performance of genuine happiness for Phil, to keep him at bay.
And so one lie begets another.
I also text Ali, repeatedly, secretly, begging her to say nothing until I’ve decided what I’m going to do. And inside all this activity curls my conversation with Anne. I can feel her hand in mine and see the pale soles of her feet and I can hear her voice slowly, calmly telling me the awful truth. Her confession is wedged within me, a hard, black, indigestible mass that I cannot shift.
In stark contrast to my ill ease, Rosie is happy. She’s more smiley, more relaxed, more affectionate, especially towards me. It’s as if she can sense my turmoil and the enormity of the decisions that are about to be made about her future. She’s helpful around the house and she makes much more of an effort with Lauren, asking questions, trying to get involved. Late on Friday afternoon, after we get back from swimming, I catch her sitting with Lauren going through the characters in a picture book. She sits there for more than an hour, reading each page over and over again, at Lauren’s insistence. The sight of the two of them together opens and closes a painful place in my heart. And at some point on Friday evening she must have hunted out the linen cupboard, because when we head up to bed, she announces that she wants to sleep in the lounge. We begin to argue, but she points out that she’s already changed James’s bed and that’s she’s perfectly happy sleeping downstairs.
As Phil and I undress for bed I ask him for the photo. He doesn’t need to ask which one. He takes it out of his wallet and passes it to me. He’s had to fold it to fit it and there’s a deep crease down the middle. I smooth it flat on the palm of my hand.
‘What do you want it for?’
When I explain he goes quiet, thoughtful. He watches me wrap everything in the sheets of pink tissue paper, placing his finger on the ribbon as I tie the bow. ‘Do you want to come down with me?’ I ask. He has every right to be part of this. I know that.
But he smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, this is from you – you should give it to her.’ And he looks at me steadily, understanding.
It’s dark downstairs and I worry that I’ve left it too late and Rosie’s asleep, but when I get to the doorway I can see the white glow of a light. She’s lying on the foldout bed with her phone held close to her face, connecting with her other life, the one that I’m about to shatter. The screen illuminates her face, a bright spot in a dark room. She has a beautiful face, even more lovely tonight, stripped, as it is, of the make-up and the defensiveness that guards it most of the time. I must make a noise because she suddenly starts and looks up, fumbling her phone away. ‘Sorry, I was going to sleep, it’s just that Megan messaged me.’
‘It’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop on you. Can I come in?’
‘Course, it’s your house.’ I hunker down on the floor beside her low bed. She tosses her phone away onto the hearth where there’s a little pile of her possessions, including her bracelet. She turns her full attention to me.
I feel nervous, but sure. ‘Rosie, there’s something I want to give you, something we really should’ve given you on your birthday.’ She props herself upright, expectant. ‘I hope you like it, maybe more than that awful bracelet we got you.’ She starts to disagree, but I stop her. ‘It’s okay. We bought you that because we didn’t know you. We do now.’ I place the parcel on her lap, where we both stare at it. ‘Go on. Open it.’ I reach behind me and click on the lamp, causing us both to blink blindly for a few seconds. When we’ve acclimatised to the brightness, she slides off the ribbon and unfolds the tissue paper, one layer at a time, revealing the Babygro. She looks up, uncertain. I pull the photo out from underneath it and pass it to her. As she dips her head to study it, I feel something hard break inside me. ‘It’s you, and me, and Phil.’
She draws the photo closer to her face. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m certain.’ Because for
the first time since this began, I am certain, I’m certain that she’s mine.
‘Oh.’ She sucks the word up with a short, sharp breath. ‘And this is the same outfit?’ I nod and she carefully lifts the tiny Babygro up, and as she does the ID tag falls out onto her lap, she recoils, giving a little yelp, and flicks it onto the floor. She must catch sight of my face because she immediately apologises. ‘Oh, sorry, what was it?’
‘It’s okay. I should’ve explained.’ I reach down and retrieve it. ‘It’s your name-tag, from the hospital. It belongs to you. It should’ve always belonged to you.’ She takes it from me gingerly, reluctant to touch the yellowed plastic. She still isn’t grasping its significance. ‘Every newborn has two hospital ID tags. They have the baby’s name, NHS number, time and date of birth and the mother’s name printed on them. This is yours.’
‘Oh.’ She squints at the tiny printed label and finally she sees it… next to Lauren, in the small space remaining, I’ve written Rosie in thick black biro. I could never wipe out one child, but I know now that it’s possible to add another. ‘I hope it’s okay, I’ve kept the other one.’
She nods and her face flickers with such a swirl of emotions. She’s too young to bear so much. Even my love is painful for her. She lays the tag on the palm of her hand and studies it. ‘It’s so small.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘It’s hard to think that it fitted round my wrist once.’ We both stare at her wrist, the trace of slim blue veins beneath her skin.
‘You were small, but you were perfect.’ She was, and I never saw that, I never got to cherish that. ‘I’m so sorry.’ My voice cracks.
She lays the band carefully down on the covers and takes hold of my hand. She’s the first to compose herself. She smiles at me bravely and says, ‘It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.’
45
Saturday
SARAH
I CAN’T lie next to Phil. I can’t bear to do nothing any longer. I’ve only had about two hours’ sleep and I’m grainy with fatigue, but I’m full of restless emotion. It’s 6.30 a.m. I have one day left to decide, one day to talk this through with Phil. But still I can’t.
I get out of bed as quietly as I can, but Phil must sense me moving because he stirs and mutters, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I lie. ‘I just can’t sleep. I thought I might go for a swim.’
‘Really?’ He still hasn’t opened his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early. You go back to sleep.’ I creep around the room, collecting my clothes. Phil dozes. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure…’ His voice is still clogged with sleep. I kiss the top of his head and flee.
The pool is, unsurprisingly, virtually empty. Lane swimming, 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. appears not to be over-patronised at the weekend. There are only three other swimmers: a white-haired elderly couple who are doing stately lengths of breaststroke in the slow lane, and a teenage girl, with broad swimmer’s shoulders and flawless technique, who is powering up and down the fast lane, seemingly without taking a breath. The middle lane it is, then.
I haven’t been swimming on my own, without Lauren, for years. This morning the thought of mindless exertion appeals to me – anything to distract me – but as I lower myself into the pool there’s no welcoming shock of purging cold water. The pool is tepid and heavily chlorinated. A sense of pointlessness hits me, but I’m determined not to let it swamp me. I push off from the side and begin my inelegant lengths, feeling the water slick against my skin. Arm over arm, a controlled leg kick, trying to minimise the splash, a breath on every second stroke; the same freestyle technique taught to me by Mrs Wilson when I was nine. I touch the wall in the deep end, turn and set off back, finding, if not elegance, then at least enough coordination to pick up speed. By the second turn it’s beginning to feel natural, a blind rhythm of air, water, effort and movement. But as muscle memory takes hold, my brain returns to my impossible dilemma.
Anne hasn’t gone away; she’s near, waiting, counting down the hours. Just one more day, then she will pack her bag, check out of her hotel and drive the short distance to our house. Anne is coming, and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. I take a deep breath and plough on through the water. Twenty-eight hours. That’s all the time I have left to decide.
Her confession is poison. She’s infected me with it. Even now, as I swim, my heart is pumping it around my body, spreading its bitterness through my veins. And that’s precisely what she wants.
She wanted me to share her guilt. She wanted to pass its destructive power on to someone else. She wanted to abdicate responsibility, yet again, for her actions. And what Anne wants, Anne gets.
When she was talking, in that dreadful, claustrophobic hotel room, the thing that appalled me the most was her self-pity, her willingness to blame others, to blame Nathan, to blame me. But the truth is the truth. She cold-heartedly looked at Lauren, saw her flaws and rejected her. Then she cold-bloodedly took our child. She stole Rosie and gave us Lauren. She took away the life we should’ve had.
I cannot conceive of how you can live with doing something like that. And yet Anne has, for years. Everything she’s ever said has been a lie, every emotion faked, every expression a charade. I swim faster, trying to exorcise my fury.
I don’t know what to do. I’m choking on anger so sharp and big that it frightens me. I want to expose her, to shame her, to tell everyone. I want to keep Rosie away from her, for ever, banish her from our lives and make her pay for what she did.
Suddenly my mouth and nose are full of water and I’m sinking, not swimming. My arms whirl and my legs thrash. My throat burns. Scorched skin blocks my airways, as the water forces its way up my nose and into my lungs. I’m drowning. The world blurs, and for a second all I can see are white tiles and blue water, then my face breaks the surface and I’m sucking in air. I can see the edge of the pool and the skylights overhead, and I see the lifeguard readying himself to dive in. ‘I’m okay,’ I croak. I force myself to calm down, to breathe, to stop panicking. Gradually the world rights itself and I swim slowly to the end of the pool, where I catch hold of the rill. I cling onto it as my chest heaves. The lifeguard runs around the pool and kneels down, reaching out for me. ‘Here,’ he stretches out his hand, ‘I’ll help you out.’
I manage to speak, despite the searing in my throat. ‘No. I’m okay. Sorry if I gave you a fright. I just lost control for a minute.’
He doesn’t look reassured. ‘I really think you should get out of the pool, for your own safety.’
‘I will. I’ll just give myself a minute or two to calm down.’ He looks doubtful. I’m now embarrassed as well as breathless. ‘Really. I just panicked for a second. I’m fine.’ I even smile to prove it. At last he stands up and walks to his post, glancing back as he goes. As I watch him retreat, I see the old couple, white heads bobbing like seals, treading water six feet away from me. There’s a look of real concern on both their faces. I shout, ‘I’m fine’ and wave cheerily at them. The young girl continues to swim her lengths, unperturbed.
The changing room is busy. A throng of older women in Lycra and sports bras are getting ready for a class. There’s a lot of laughter and cruel anecdotes about useless husbands. I have to edge past a sea of creased flesh to get to my locker. I dig out my clothes and go and hide in one of the cubicles. The energy and good humour of their voices batter against the thin curtain that separates me from them. As I attempt to struggle out of my swimming costume, the straps stick to my wet skin and become tangled. Half-naked, I twist and yank, trying to get free. The small space hems me in. I crash my elbow against the wall.
It’s too much.
I give up.
I sit down on the ledge, still trapped in my swimsuit, feeling chilled and shaky. Their voices bounce around the room. I bury my face in my towel, trying to block it all out: them, Anne, it, everything. Only when the door bangs shut behind the last of them and the changing room falls silent
do I raise my head.
46
The Party
ROSIE
IT’S A going-away party. No one says it, but it is, because Mum is coming to get me tomorrow. The ‘old me’ would’ve sulked and stropped, spoilt it for everyone, including myself, but I don’t, because I’m learning. Sarah is right. Things take time. I apply another layer of mascara and stand back to look at myself: not at my make-up, but at me. I’ve changed. For the better. I know who I am. I’m their daughter.
The bell goes as I’m coming downstairs. I open up and Jess and Ali bundle into the hall, their arms full of carrier bags and foil-covered plates: drinks and snacks from Ali, home-made buns and brownies from Jess. As I help lay things out in the kitchen, James hovers around nicking food and Phil puts on the radio. The house vibrates with voices and loud music. It’s going to be a good night. I can feel it.
We all eat too much, Lauren included. It takes three wet wipes to get rid of all the chocolate frosting on her face and hands. She’s excited by all the noise and bustle. After we’ve eaten, we take our drinks and all go through to the lounge, groaning about our bursting bellies. Lauren sits quite happily with us, looking at her books, until we start playing games – James’s suggestion. It’s no surprise that it gets out of hand within minutes. We’re all so competitive, apart from Jess, who seems to get more fun out of cheating than playing. A slanging match kicks off when Ali accuses Phil of moving an extra square. He denies it, insisting that he threw a six, not a five. It matters. There’s Monopoly money riding on it. Everyone joins in with an opinion. It’s Jess who finally notices Lauren. Unseen by us, she must have climbed down off the sofa and crawled to the door, opened it and taken herself off into the hall, where she sits with her hands covering her ears, waiting to be taken up to bed.
The Second Child Page 27
