Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  ‘Mummy’s here, it’s okay.’

  Jon hates it when the baby screams like this. He does not understand Harry like I do. But then, how could he? He’s not with Harry all day, every day like I am. And, to be honest, I’m not sure how well he would cope if he was.

  I check the wall chart. Right buttock this morning. Left thigh this afternoon. We have to rotate injection sites during each medication cycle, Dr Shiva said, to prevent any unnecessary damage.

  I remove the needle cap from the pre-filled syringe, clean Harry’s thigh with an antiseptic wipe, and pinch his skin to plump it up. Then I hold my breath and slide the needle smoothly into his chubby leg.

  Harry goes puce, and erupts into screams.

  ‘There, there, poor darling,’ I say helplessly, pushing down on the plunger and watching to make sure all the medicine gets pushed through before I remove the syringe. As soon as it’s out, I feel the most tremendous sense of relief. ‘See? Mummy’s all finished with that nasty needle. What a brave boy you are, Harry.’

  I give his thigh a brisk rub with a fresh wipe, then throw the used syringe into the sharps’ bin beside the changing station, taking care not to touch the needle.

  Harry is still flushed and damp-cheeked, staring up at me accusingly.

  I bend over and kiss his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, darling. But we’re halfway through the course now. Only another ten days to go.’

  After he’s had a play, and been bathed and fed, I put him back in his cot to sleep and fill out the medication wall chart – time and site of injection, how much, etc. It’s a little over-fussy of me, I suppose. But my life has become so chaotic since Harry’s birth, I would never remember otherwise.

  It’s still bright outside. I glance down the street as I turn back to close the blinds above Harry’s cot.

  The Volvo has gone.

  Chapter Four

  Since Harry is asleep, I decide not to wait any longer to take a shower. Wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, Jon may be running late, but I can’t afford to.

  I strip off and hop under the drumming cascade of hot water.

  It is hard to hear anything under the deafening water. But through the frosted glass of the shower door I see a shadow enter the unlocked bathroom.

  The shadow of a man.

  I hold my breath, watching the figure come closer. He moves slowly and hesitantly towards the cubicle, as though searching for something.

  I rinse the soap out of my eyes. ‘Jon?’

  Who else could it be?

  The shadow comes nearer, not answering, and suddenly I feel uneasy. I find myself backing up against the wet tiles of the shower wall, staring.

  ‘Jon? Is that you?’ My heart begins to thud. ‘Please stop playing games. You’re scaring me.’

  A hand closes round the handle to the shower door, and it creaks slowly open. A man’s face looks in at me.

  ‘You bastard!’ I splash him with water. ‘I thought you were . . .’

  Jon grins at me. ‘Thought I was who? A burglar? They don’t tend to creep up on women in the shower.’

  He reaches for my wet, naked body, and I shy away instinctively.

  Jon frowns, and stretches past me for the controls. His blue shirt sleeve turns dark with water as he turns off the shower. ‘Hey, come here. Sorry if I scared you.’

  ‘You didn’t. I’m just jumpy today. I don’t know why.’ I smile when his arm comes round my slippery waist, adding, ‘You’ll get soaked.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  I laugh, incredulous. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  His voice is instantly defensive. ‘What, I can’t kiss my own wife on our anniversary? I heard the shower running, and thought . . .’ He looks me up and down, hunger in his eyes. ‘Well, you know what I thought.’

  I feel heat in my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reaches for me.

  ‘Wait, did you check on Harry?’

  I see a flash of impatience in his face. ‘Of course. He’s fast asleep.’

  ‘Okay, then. But clothes off first.’

  Jon makes a face, but he strips off his expensive shirt and trousers. He drapes them over the towel rail, then hurriedly jettisons the rest and climbs into the narrow cubicle beside me. There isn’t really enough room for both of us, and the structure groans alarmingly.

  I remind him, ‘We’ve got guests tonight.’

  ‘Then we’d better be quick.’

  Jon draws me close, smiling down into my eyes. His desire is unmistakable. ‘Happy Anniversary.’

  ‘Happy Anniversary, darling.’

  We kiss in the dripping silence of the cubicle, and I close my eyes, letting it happen. I’m taken aback by his unexpected spontaneity. Here in the shower too. Jon has always been a strictly-in-bed man since our marriage. But maybe this is what I need to calm my nerves.

  Besides, there’s no big hurry. Simon and Emily are going to be late anyway and the food will not take that long to prepare. And it’s been such an age since we last made love. I think the last time he touched me was when Harry was about three months old. But it was a rushed event, very unsatisfactory, and Jon had been out that evening and came home late, wild-eyed and a little drunk.

  The time before that, I was in the middle months of pregnancy. And he had been very careful with me, almost too careful, and kept saying he wasn’t really in the mood. Frankly, he hasn’t been in the mood for months. In fact, just recently, I have begun to think our love life may be over.

  So this is a surprise. Though a pleasurable one.

  He lifts me against the frosted panel of the cubicle with both hands, grabbing at the wet flesh of thighs, buttocks, seeking a firm grip.

  ‘No,’ I whisper as the panel creaks ominously. ‘You’ll break it.’

  I see his look of frustration, and worry he may change his mind and walk away. But he grunts and swivels ninety degrees, taking me with him.

  ‘Yes,’ I hiss.

  He kisses me fiercely, then buries his face in my shoulder. ‘Meghan.’

  I don’t know why, but I encourage him to push boundaries this time. Our bodies slam against the tiled wall of the bathroom. My breasts are sore and swollen, and not just with milk for the baby. I can’t remember feeling so desperate for him before. I cry out and hope the neighbours cannot hear. Then he whispers something I don’t catch, and clamps his hand over my mouth.

  I suspect he is leaving bruises, and do not really care.

  Afterwards, he turns on the shower again and we stand beneath its cooling stream together, panting, dumb as animals. Thoughts still incoherent. My skin tingles and smarts with pleasure and it’s hard to think ahead to the dinner party, to what is ready, what still needs to be done.

  ‘I bought you an anniversary present.’

  He strokes my back. ‘So did I.’

  ‘You want it at dinner?’

  ‘Later.’ He pauses. ‘In bed, when they’ve all gone.’

  The thought of us together in bed, exchanging intimate anniversary gifts, makes me happy.

  Jon lifts his head to peer down at me, perhaps sensing that my mood has changed. ‘Getting cold?’

  ‘And wrinkly.’

  ‘We can’t have that. Skin like a rhinoceros.’ Lazily, he nuzzles my cheek, his hands still resting lightly on my hips, our bodies close. I cling on to that comforting warmth for a few more seconds.

  Then he sighs, and lets me go. ‘Come on, better get ready for our guests.’

  The evening is still fine outside, so I decide we should dine al fresco.

  Jon looks in on Harry, and tiptoes out, saying he’s still asleep.

  ‘With any luck,’ I say optimistically, ‘he’ll sleep right through dinner, and I can feed him when they’ve gone.’

  ‘How has he been today?’

  I hesitate. ‘Fine, though he’s got a red patch on his hip. It wasn’t there this morning, I’m sure of it. I hope it’s just the nappy rubbing. No
t the start of a rash.’

  He nods, looking sombre.

  We both know how dangerous a rash could be. Any kind of infection.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye on it,’ I tell him. ‘In case it spreads.’

  Reassured, he goes outside and drags the large table and chairs out of the shed, cleans them off, then positions them under our pergola. The climbing roses are not yet in bloom – it’s too early in the season – but there are buds and plenty of fresh leaves, and the growing tangle of clematis provides enough coverage for it to look a touch Mediterranean. The winters are always mild in Cornwall, so we can afford to grow less hardy plants.

  Preparing the first course to the backdrop of a static hiss from the baby monitor, I look out of the kitchen window. I’m pleased to see how exotic the table and chairs look, our small ornamental pond beyond them with its young, broad-leaved gunnera and floating water lily pads. Our garden is looking pretty, though it’s not a patch on next door’s.

  Treve, our neighbour, is a self-employed electrician by trade, but quite a keen gardener; I often see him outside at the weekends, not simply keeping his lawn trim but weeding the beds and planting up annuals. He has a large shed too, wired up for electricity, of course, and occasionally spends time in there during the evenings, working on small items of furniture and other DIY projects; he made an impressive pine coffee table last year, and donated it to the local hospice.

  The doorbell rings at a little after seven-thirty.

  Jon answers the door, and shows our next-door neighbours, Camilla and Treve, into the lounge. I listen to their voices and laughter as I sort out the food.

  Once the first course is sitting on the kitchen table, covered with cling film, ready for serving, I quickly check everything looks ready outside, then wash my hands and join our guests. Nothing worse than a hostess who spends the whole evening busy in the kitchen. But I listen for a moment by the baby monitor before leaving the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  I hesitate, frowning. Then I hear a faint, familiar rustle as Harry turns over in his cot, and smile.

  He’s fine.

  In the lounge, Jon is pouring a glass of Australian red wine for Camilla. Treve has chosen a chilled beer from the selection on the table.

  ‘I absolutely adore the Shiraz grape,’ Camilla is saying.

  There’s a note in her voice that I don’t recognise. A slight quiver of emotion, not quite hidden beneath the layers of significance she puts on every word. I wonder if she and Treve have argued tonight, for her husband has turned his back, looking out of the window at his own front garden. It’s only a tiny patch of lawn, like ours, with a few shrubs for privacy. But he takes excellent care of it.

  ‘Too much wine is bad for you, of course,’ she adds. ‘But drunk in moderation, it can help you live longer.’

  Usually, I see her out of the front window when she’s coming back from her work at the local leisure centre. A fitness fanatic, Camilla has the body of a teenager, and teaches aerobics and Zumba as well as several popular yoga and meditation classes. So I’m used to seeing her in yoga pants and leotard, her blonde hair caught up in a glossy ponytail, a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  Tonight, her hair is worn down, a pair of silver earrings adding to her air of glamour. She’s more elegant than usual too, in a red-and-white polka-dot dress, drawn in tight at the waist, with a wide white belt that matches her patent white stilettos.

  Suddenly, I feel underdressed and under-made-up.

  She smiles at me, glowing with perfect health and well-being as always. ‘Hello, Meghan,’ she says brightly.

  ‘How are you, Camilla?’

  ‘I feel absolutely wonderful,’ she says at once, showing us perfect white teeth. ‘It’s this new rainbow diet Treve and I have been following. Super-detox foods. They clean you out, make you feel incredible inside.’

  ‘I hope tonight’s dinner won’t break your diet,’ I say, suddenly anxious. I realise that I didn’t ask any of our guests what kind of food they would prefer.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ she says, then adds smoothly, ‘If there’s anything I can’t face, I’ll just leave it on the plate.’

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  Jon turns his back on her, and winks at me. ‘Red wine for you, darling?’

  ‘I’d better stick to fruit juice.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jon unscrews the lid on a bottle of fresh orange juice, then pours me a large glassful. ‘Meghan is still breastfeeding,’ he explains to the other two, his tone indulgent as he hands me the glass. ‘She has to be careful how much she drinks.’

  Treve turns, his smile warm and relaxed. Perhaps I imagined the quiver in Camilla’s voice. He kisses me on the cheek. ‘How are you, Meghan?’ he asks in his deep, sing-song voice.

  There’s a powerful Cornish accent there; Treve has occasionally mentioned a family in the wilds of Cornwall, somewhere near the Atlantic coast. He’s only a little shorter than Jon, but more sturdily built, with strong thighs and a broad chest like a pit pony, and very short, dark hair – a perfect foil to Camilla’s blonde looks. I’ve never asked, but I’d guess both he and Camilla to be in their early thirties, and a very close-knit couple. He’s not my type, physically. Too muscular and thick-set. I like them long and lanky, in general, not to mention blond. But he’s a nice guy.

  I smile back in response. ‘I’m very well,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

  Camilla looks me up and down. ‘Lovely dress,’ she says. ‘Kind of a Victorian feel to it. Is that new?’

  I nod.

  It’s a silky, deep-blue material with buttons down the bodice, flaring out into a below-the-knee skirt that hides my post-baby bump nicely. It fits rather more tightly than I had hoped, but Jon seemed to like the way it hugs my figure so I did not send it back. I’ve worn black heels with it, not too high, but high enough to make me feel elegant. If that is possible when I’m still a little overweight from my pregnancy and have breasts that seem to leak milk at the worst moments.

  ‘It doesn’t quite fit though,’ she adds, frowning slightly.

  ‘It’s a tight fit now, but I’m hoping to slim into it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ is all Camilla says, but her eyes say it all. After a pause, she adds, ‘You should sign up for one of my Zumba classes.’

  I glance at Jon, and he winks again. He seems very relaxed tonight.

  ‘Your outfit is amazing,’ I tell her.

  Camilla smiles. ‘Thank you, darling. That’s very kind of you.’ She glances at the men, then does a little twirl in her polka-dot dress. ‘Retro fashion is all the rage, of course. But not everyone has the figure to carry it off.’

  ‘Well, you certainly do,’ I say.

  ‘So sweet.’ She comes over and air-kisses me, for which I’m secretly grateful; her lipstick is a violent red that matches her dress, and I don’t want it staining my cheek.

  The doorbell goes again.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  I open the front door to Simon and his girlfriend, Emily.

  Simon kisses me on the cheek, then hands over a large bunch of red and white roses wrapped in pink tissue paper. ‘Happy Anniversary to you and Jon. Three years. Not bad going for a lawyer.’

  ‘Flowers.’ I accept the bunch of roses, and bury my face in their heady aroma. ‘They smell gorgeous, thank you so much.’

  Simon and Emily are an odd couple, but hugely likeable. I only know him through Jon, but the two men have been friends for years. They tend to socialise in the pub after work, sometimes quite late into the evening after a big case, and Simon has been to the house a few times to watch football over some beers.

  Emily I don’t know as well. She always looks a little dowdy and unkempt, her shoulder-length brown hair straggly, like she’s not terribly aware of her appearance. But tonight she’s made some kind of an effort. Her eyes are heavily made-up behind her glasses, and she’s wearing deep-green culottes with a creased, high-necked white
blouse decorated with huge red poppies and tiny yellow buttons. The colour clash is striking and a little uncomfortable.

  Her smile is endearingly shy though.

  ‘Hello,’ she murmurs, embracing me awkwardly in the hall. ‘I’m sorry we’re late. Doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ I close the front door behind them.

  Camilla appears in the doorway to the lounge, wine glass in hand. She studies Emily. ‘Oh, what a fabulous ensemble,’ she says appreciatively. Treve comes up behind her, smiling at the newcomers, and wraps his arm about her waist. She relaxes back against him, her smile broadening. ‘I adore the colour combination. So bold and original. Don’t you agree, Treve?’

  Treve makes a sort of soft grunting reply, and Emily looks at them both uncertainly.

  ‘You four already know each other, don’t you?’ Jon asks, smoothing over the difficult silence with his usual charm. ‘Treve lives next door at number nine, and this is his wife, Camilla.’ He turns to them both. ‘This is Simon, who works with me. Do you remember the Christmas party? I’m sure you all met that night.’

  He smiles, adding quickly, ‘And this is Emily, of course. Simon’s partner.’

  The men nod to each other. Emily manages a thin smile for Camilla, who is still clearly amused with herself for the catty remark about Emily’s outfit.

  ‘Is Harry upstairs?’ Emily asks, glancing at me as I hand the flowers to Jon.

  I nod, smiling. ‘Fast asleep.’

  ‘And long may he remain that way,’ Jon says drily, as he carries the flowers through into the kitchen.

  Everyone laughs.

  ‘I suppose he must be awake more now he’s getting older,’ Emily comments, looking curious. ‘What is he now?’

  ‘Seven months, nearly. And yes, he’s sleeping less and less these days. I actually get to play with him now.’

  ‘I was so pleased when Simon told me he had come home from the hospital. Forgive me for being nosy, but why was he . . .?’

  ‘Nothing serious, just a few complications from the birth,’ I lie easily, and catch Jon frowning at me as he returns from the kitchen. Hurriedly, I change the subject. ‘We’re eating al fresco tonight.’