by Karen Swan
Ro knew she had to say something. ‘Well, someone did just come up, but they turned round again as soon as they saw us sitting here.’ She bit her lip. ‘I think they had binoculars.’
Florence shook her head sternly, her lips pursed. ‘Some people are so damned nosy. It can be like living in a fishbowl sometimes. Everyone assumes the people in these houses must be billionaires or celebrities. We had one summer where that singer Jennifer . . .’ She waggled her finger distractedly, trying to recall the name.
‘Jennifer Lopez?’ Ro suggested.
‘That’s her! Well, she took a house further up the lane and some enterprising Tom, Dick or Harry with a beach permit arranged drive-bys in his beach buggy. Every morning we had people with cameras looking in on us eating our breakfast.’
Ro bit her lip, hoping to goodness it hadn’t been Hump. It certainly had his stamp of entrepreneurialism all over it. No doubt he would have tried to seduce J Lo too.
‘They never think we might just be ordinary people who happened to live here long before this crazy real-estate bubble started—’ Florence stopped, as though catching herself. ‘Tch, listen to me ranting on like a crazy woman and not stopping to count my blessings.’
‘I think you’re entitled to be angry if people are invading your privacy,’ Ro said, the words catching slightly as she remembered Ted Connor’s same accusation against her. But what she had done hadn’t been the same, had it?
‘Well, sometimes I do wonder whether I wouldn’t be better moving to somewhere smaller anyway. It is a little ridiculous for me to be rattling around such a big house.’ Her eyes gazed up at the building. ‘But there are just so many precious memories locked up with this place. I worry that I might lose them if I left. Bill and I shared so many happy years here. I can look out into the backyard and almost see my girls playing leapfrog on the lawns.’ Her eyes misted up as she retreated into the past, before quickly pulling herself back to the present with a bright smile that didn’t quite touch the sadness in her eyes. ‘And of course, now I get to see my grandchildren playing the same games as their mothers. It’s like a second chance to live it all again.’ She placed a flat hand against the poster. ‘This house is my legacy.’
05/23/2010
04h38
‘Stop it. You can’t video me now.’ Laughter. The blonde woman leaning with her hands on the back of the sofa turns her head away. A look of pain crosses her face. Her long hair falls over her face. She is flushed. The room behind is panelled in dark wood. The sofa is coral-coloured.
‘Why not? You look incredibly sexy.’
She looks up. ‘I look like a hippo!’ Panting.
‘Well, an incredibly sexy hippo. The sexiest hippo I ever saw.’
Laughter. A light pink cushion is thrown and hits the camera screen.
‘You could be more useful, you know. We’re never going to want to see this again, anyway. I know I certainly won’t.’
‘I will always want to look at you.’
‘Oh no! Don’t go Prince Charming on me. It’s because of that that I’m standing here with my ass hanging out at all. Quit it. Put that thing down. Come and give me a pelvic-drainage massage.’
‘Really? Because I was thinking I might hit the gym. You know, while we’ve still got time.’
The blonde woman’s eyes narrow. ‘Ted Connor, if you want to live long enough to actually meet your firstborn child, I suggest you put that thing down now and come and drain my pelvis. No, don’t make that face.’
‘Isn’t there a massage that makes your breasts bigger? I’d rather do that.’
‘You think they could get any bigger? Besides, nothing that is about to happen in the next twenty-four hours is going to be about what you want. In fact, scratch that – nothing that happens for the next twenty-four years is going to be about what you want. They call it parenthood, you know.’
A deep chuckle next to the camera. The room tilts.
‘All right. Let’s dredge your pelvis.’
‘Drain it, you pig! Drain it.’ Laughter. Panting.
Blackness.
05/23/2010
10h48
Whispers. ‘World, welcome to the little girl who’s going to change you forever: Ella Margaret Connor, so named after her grandmother and the singer to whom her parents danced their first dance at their wedding.’ Pans in on sleeping baby swaddled in ivory blanket, a pink beanie pulled down, wisps of dark hair visible, tiny fists tightly bunched with long fingers, sharp nails.
‘And her beautiful mother, Marina Louise Connor.’ Camera sweeps in on the sleeping blonde, pink-cheeked, a pale blue nightdress, a tube coming from the back of her hand, a plastic tip attached to the end of her finger. ‘Too clever for her own good, too pretty for mine.’
Pans back to Ella. ‘My girls. Both of them. Always.’
An unseen door opens. Someone enters.
Blackness.
05/24/2010
11h04
‘I don’t understand how there can be so much of it. It’s only been twenty minutes since the last.’ Marina. Camera tilts. ‘Is this on?’
Hospital bed. Bowls of water and cotton-wool balls. Two pots of cream. Wipes. Two tiny nappies. Ted squints at the camera. Hair upright. Pale. Unshaven. Grey T-shirt and jeans. Barefoot. Nods.
Camera steadies. ‘So this is it: Daddy’s first diaper change. This should be in-ter-es-ting.’
Ted pulls face at the camera. Leans back over the baby.
‘You’re not going to cry for Daddy, are you? You know Daddy’s going to do this so well. Not like Mommy, who got your leg stuck, no.’ Ella scrunched up small, knees in on her tummy, arms flailing to the sides sporadically. She goes red, looks set to cry. Ted rests hand lightly on her chest. Her breathing changes.
Camera zooms in on baby’s face. Eyes dark, almost black, irises seem undefined. Like seal eyes. Small pointed chin. Mild rash on cheeks.
‘Are all babies this beautiful?’ Marina.
A foot comes into shot. Ted frowning. ‘How did it get all the way up there? It’s by her neck . . . Is it supposed to be green?’
Camera shakes slightly. Camera pans out. Nappy is off, Ella held on her side as Ted wipes her back.
‘Tula-lula-lula-lula-bye-bye, in Daddy’s heart you’re dreaming . . .’ he half sings, half whispers. Takes both Ella’s ankles in one hand and lifts her bottom off the mat, quickly placing nappy beneath her. He glances at camera, triumphant look.
‘Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?’ Marina.
‘Well, I got you to marry me, didn’t I?’ he grins, fastening tabs at the sides of the nappy. Winks at camera. Handsome.
Rolls Ella onto her side again. Quickly places sleepsuit beneath her.
‘Oh, I got this. Yeah, Daddy’s got this, baby.’ Gently places Ella’s feet and arms into sleepsuit. Fastens poppers.
Slides one hand behind Ella’s head, scoops her under the bottom with the other. Carries her tenderly towards the camera. His cheek beside hers. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen and Marinas, is how it’s done.’ Blinks, looks straight into the camera. Handsome. Turns and kisses Ella lightly on the nose. ‘Who’s Daddy’s little princess? We said you wouldn’t cry for Daddy, didn’t we?’
‘There’s just one thing.’ Marina.
Ted raises eyebrow. Invincible.
‘The diaper’s on back to front.’
Ted looks at Ella, back to Marina. ‘No.’
‘Oh yes.’
Ella strains. Goes red. Redder. Purplish . . . Begins to cry. Ted frowns, looks at his arm. Eyes widen. Holds Ella out towards the camera. ‘Mommy’s turn.’
Blackness.
05/24/2010
13h09
‘I’m not sure she’s on properly.’ Marina, head bowed, Ella in her arms, feeding. ‘Ow.’ She winces, hooks her little finger into Ella’s mouth. Shifts position. Ella cries. Perfect breast exposed. ‘Shh, shh. Let’s try again.’
Ella starts feeding again.
‘Is that better?’ Ted.
>
Marina bites her lip. Looks up to camera with anxious eyes. Blue eyes. ‘I’m not sure. It kind of hurts. But then, maybe it’s supposed to? I mean, I’ve never had anyone chomp on my nipple before – except for you.’ Smile.
‘Hey!’ Ted.
Silence. Ella feeding.
‘Didn’t they say she’s not supposed to be actually on the nipple but the areola?’ Ted.
‘In theory, but what good is theory when I can’t actually see? Can you look?’
Blackness.
05/24/2010
16h13
‘Look at the camera, Mom.’ Ted.
Ash-blonde woman, early sixties, beige jacket, orange paisley shawl, pearl earrings, holding Ella, sleeping, arms angled to show her face to the camera.
‘My first grandchild. And so beautiful.’ Smiles. Looks back at baby. ‘I’d forgotten how small they are.’ Wriggles her pinkie into Ella’s closed fist. Ella grips it hard. ‘Just look at those divine little fingers.’
‘Marina can’t stop counting them. She’s OCD about it. Every time I come back in the room, she’s counting her fingers and toes.’ Ted.
Marina. Sitting up in bed. Sticks her tongue out at the camera. Looks tired.
‘I was the same with you, Edward. I couldn’t stop inspecting you. I could scarcely believe you were as perfect as you appeared.’
‘But I am.’
Both women look at each other, shake their heads.
Camera pans in on Ella. White sleepsuit and beanie embroidered with bumblebees.
Long silence.
Camera moves over towards man sitting in a chair, previously out of shot. ‘How about you, Dad? You want to hold her?’
Man gets up. Sports jacket and patterned tie. Grey hair, tanned. ‘I don’t want to wake her up. Marina needs to rest.’
‘I’m fine.’ Marina smiles. ‘Besides, sleep’s impossible anyway. I can’t stop looking at her.’
Man stands by his wife. Looks down at Ella. Cups the top of her head with his hand. ‘It’s like rolling back thirty years. She looks just like Ted when he was born, do you remember?’
His wife nods, carefully hands over Ella. He awkwardly holds her, his elbows sticking out at odd angles.
‘Smile for the camera, Dad.’ Ted.
He smiles.
‘Mom, stand closer next to Dad.’
The man and woman angle their heads together, matching smiles, Ella between them.
‘Perfect.’
Blackness.
05/26/2010
17h41
Silence. Slow zoom on Marina, eyes closed, cabbage leaf on her left breast.
‘Does that feel better?’
She nods. Sinks back into the pillow. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. I will never be able to look at a goulash without gratitude ever again.’ She smiles, opens her eyes. Frowns. Gasps. Pulls up her nightdress. ‘Turn that thing off right n—’
‘Yo, Big Foot!’
Ro turned with a start as Hump jumped through the doors and threw his bag on his desk.
She hurriedly pressed ‘pause’ and took off her headphones, letting them hang round her neck. ‘What are you doing here?’ She checked the time on her phone: 10.14 p.m.
‘Just popped back to check on emails. I’m waiting to hear from a dealer about a Landy import. Thinks he might have something for me.’ He sat down on top of his own desk, squashing a day-old sandwich, the remains of yesterday’s lunch, and scattering papers onto the floor. He took a slurp of his iced coffee. ‘And so much for breakfast in bed, by the way! You sidled out of the house without fulfilling your obligations.’
‘You had company again! I’m not walking in on you doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who.’ She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, but it was beginning to bug her that Hump was getting all this action while she was suffering an enforced celibacy. ‘Besides, I had a breakfast meeting with Florence for the campaign.’
‘Oooooh,’ Hump said, giving it a ‘fancy’ spin. ‘Successful?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, it was. She liked my proposal, thank God.’
‘You see?’ He winked. ‘You’re getting there. The wedding and now this . . . it’s beginning to happen for you. I knew it would. You’re too good to stay a secret in this town.’
Ro kept quiet. She didn’t want to tell Hump about her newest client. There’d be too much teasing and she didn’t feel like it today. The combination of missing Matt’s call on Saturday and a non-stop weekend had left her feeling tired and emotional.
Hump nodded towards the screen behind her. ‘So is that the wedding you’re watching? Please tell me I didn’t leave the lens cap on. I woke at three a.m. in a cold sweat convinced I’d recorded eight hours of black and you were going to murder me in my sleep.’
‘Don’t even joke about it!’
Hump squinted at the screen. ‘What is that you’re watching? It’s no wedding . . . It looks more like porno from here!’ he grinned, getting up off his desk and leaning across her counter. ‘Wow! She’s a hottie!’
Ro turned back to the screen and saw she had freeze-framed Marina Connor, breasts overflowing, her nightdress half off. ‘Hump, she is a breastfeeding woman with mastitis.’
He pulled a face. ‘Still a hottie. Who is she?’
Ro hesitated. There was no way she was going to be able to keep it a secret from him. No way. She may as well get it over and done with. ‘Ted Connor’s wife.’
Hump’s jaw dropped open, exaggeratedly wide, his eyes bright with delight. ‘Long Story?’
‘Please stop calling him that. It makes light of what he did and there was really nothing funny about it.’
‘So why are you working for him if he upsets you so much?’ Hump asked, hoisting himself up onto her counter to get a closer look at the screen.
Ro sighed and pressed the ‘minimize’ button to preserve Marina Connor’s modesty. ‘It’s a long story.’ The words were out before she could catch herself.
Hump threw his head back and laughed at her slip. ‘You two have got some weird shit going on.’
‘I’m not in any position to be choosy about who I do and don’t accept as clients. I either take the money or . . . or have to fly back to London at the end of the month.’ She knew she was being overdramatic, but if it shut him up . . .
‘Is it that bad?’ Hump asked, looking genuinely shocked and making her feel instantly guilty. It was like kicking a puppy.
‘Tch, it’s fine – if this tape is anything to go by, they’ve practically filmed the child’s life in real time and I’m never going to catch up. I’ll be busy watching them for the rest of my life, permanently four years behind.’
Just then, Melodie stuck her head round the door. ‘Ladies.’
Ro giggled at Hump’s expression. He was usually the one making the jokes.
‘Madam, I am no lady,’ he protested in a faux-Shakespearean voice, vaulting one-handed off the counter and landing just a metre away from Melodie, before flexing a bicep.
She was nonplussed. ‘If you’re not man enough to handle a yoga class . . .’ She pinched his bicep with a look of withering disdain, leaning casually against the door frame in tight aubergine, navy and khaki layers, her silhouette thrown across the white floorboards like a painting.
‘Yoga is for pussies – pardon my French.’
‘Oh, really?’
Without a word, Melodie stepped into a handstand, her body as strong and still as Nelson’s Column. After half a minute or so – though she could clearly go longer – she stepped down again. ‘Your turn.’
Hump pretended to roll up his shirtsleeves – he was wearing a muscle vest – and stepped into one too, except his ankles were three feet apart, his knees bent down towards his head, and he had to start walking on his hands to stay upright. Just to show off, though, as he started to tip over, he flexed his arms and pushed off into a handspring, landing on his feet like a cat.
He looked very pleased with himself.
Ro watched, bemused, at her two new
friends squaring up to one another, relaxed and informal together already, even though they’d only met for a few moments once before. She wished she could join in, but thirty years of British reserve wasn’t going to disappear overnight, and besides, she just wasn’t built that way: she didn’t rush into relationships – being orphaned at twelve had been a cosmic warning about the dangers of handing over your heart – and she certainly didn’t trust instinct. It was the opposite of security, as far as she could see.
‘OK. Follow me,’ Melodie said, this time getting down on the floor and resting on her elbows and toes, her body as straight as a plank.
Hump followed suit. ‘Time us, Ro.’
Ro looked at her watch and then back at the two of them, immobile and silent on the floor.
Several minutes later, they were still going.
‘Honestly, guys, if any clients walk in right now, they’ll think you’re coffee tables.’
‘Ro, no clients ever walk in,’ Hump quipped, his voice sounding strained and his arms beginning to tremble.
‘Thanks!’
A minute and a half later, it was all over – Hump sprawled on the ground, groaning and out of breath.
Calmly, Melodie stepped out of the pose and stood over him, arms crossed, serenely victorious.
‘Fine!’ Hump conceded. ‘Maybe it’s not for complete pussies.’
‘I’m so glad you think that.’ Melodie smiled, satisfied, over at Ro. ‘Your usual?’
‘Yes, please,’ Ro nodded, rooting in her purse to give Melodie her coffee money.
