Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  There is only one awkward moment when Oliver’s mother Grace slips the baby into his arms and notices at once that he isn’t used to holding her. But instead of challenging her son on the matter, she turns on me with a surprising sharpness to her tone.

  ‘Really Carly, you must stop being so possessive over this child and allow Oliver to feed and hold her sometimes. Look at the poor man, he hardly knows which way up to hold her, or where to put his hands.’

  I must have look stunned because she goes on, ‘It’s no good looking guilty, dear. Oliver has told us how you keep her all to yourself and don’t let him have a look in. Which isn’t very sensible, is it? I have to say you look quite worn out, so do learn to share her a little more, get some rest, and try not to be quite so obsessed with the baby. You’re making Oliver feel left out and unhappy.’

  I look at him in surprise; at the sad, woebegone expression on his handsome face and am yet again astounded at this ability he has to put on such a convincing act for the benefit of our parents. But I accept her criticism without protest. I certainly have no wish to challenge him on the issue.

  ‘Would you like to feed her, Mrs Sheldon?’ I ask, which pleases my mother-in-law enormously and the moment passes. I’m becoming increasingly accustomed to this remarkable facility Oliver has for saying one thing to me, and quite the opposite to everyone else. I simply can’t win.

  ‘Do you think there’s something wrong between those two?’

  Jo-Jo looked at her husband and blinked. ‘Wrong? What could be wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure, only I can sense an atmosphere, a certain sang froid between them, don’t you think?’

  Jo-Jo, struggling to feed a child who was currently determined to scream the place down, was not at her most patient. She looked at her husband, wild eyed. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Carly adores Oliver, won’t hear a word said against him. He’s her knight in shining armour, her Mr Wonderful. Hasn’t she been telling us so from the moment she first clapped eyes on the man? My darling sister has it all. Her husband has his partnership and no doubt doubled his salary. They live in this fantastic house, and now she has a family as well as a terrific career. Lucky Carly! And look at me, a complete frump.’ She pinched a roll of fat on her stomach, still not completely having lost the weight she gained since Molly’s birth. Each succeeding birth making it harder for her to do so.

  Ed laughed. ‘You look gorgeous, as always.’

  ‘No need to pretend, Ed Dickson, I certainly do not look gorgeous, and I saw you chatting up Emma earlier. I thought she looked unusually sexy today, but then we don’t often see her in a dress, do we? And that hair! Why pink streaks, I wonder? Doesn’t seem quite the right colour for such a strident feminist, does it? They should be purple for the suffragette look. You spent enough time talking to her, what do you think? Are you and she having an affair?’

  ‘What?’ Now it was Ed’s turn to blink, the poor man completely taken aback by this accusation.

  ‘Is that where you go every evening, to see the lovely Emma?’

  ‘For goodness sake, what’s got into you? You know damn well where I go of an evening, working overtime at the garage, trying to make enough money to feed my family. And it’s not quite every evening so don’t exaggerate, Jo-Jo.’

  His wife lifted the baby from her breast and leaned her against her shoulder, rubbing her back. Molly was instantly sick all down Jo-Jo’s new blouse. ‘Oh, no, this is the first time I’ve worn this.’ Ed grabbed a cloth and tried to help clean her up but she slapped his hand away. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you were having an affair,’ she sniffed, the glare she gave him rather giving the lie to this statement. ‘Is it any wonder with a wife that looks like the back end of an elephant.’

  ‘I’m not having an affair.’ Ed put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and kissed the top of her tousled hair. ‘You’re just in a state because you’re tired, and Molly is fretful. There is no one in this town, in the entire world can hold a candle to you. Why would I need to look elsewhere?’

  Tears filled her eyes. ‘You know why. I just never feel like it any more. Never! I’m exhausted, worn out, fat, an old woman before my time. And you’re still young and handsome, why wouldn’t you look elsewhere when you now find yourself married to an old crone who isn’t even interested in sex any more.’ Then she shoved the screaming baby into her husband’s arms and fled to the bathroom in floods of tears.

  Emma’s comment about my not being good with accounts reminds me that I’ve neglected filling in my housekeeping book recently. I spend an hour or so one morning trying to bring it up to date. My mind isn’t properly on the task as I keep going over the things she said, or implied.

  Could it be true that Oliver tried to stop her from calling, or was she making that up because for some reason she doesn’t approve of him? Was she trying to tell me that she didn’t want me to return to work, ever? Does she prefer Wanda to me? If so, why? I remember too her earlier remarks during my pregnancy when she suggested I might want to sell out, and I chew on the end of my pen. Stepping down from the business isn’t something I’ve ever seriously considered, and it troubles me deeply. I can’t imagine not working. I love my job and have no wish to give it up or hand over my share of the holiday letting agency to the super-efficient Wanda, or anyone else for that matter.

  I glance in panic at the housekeeping book which is more fiction than fact, then hear Katie start to tune up so I stuff it under a cushion to deal with later. She is my priority now. Pleasant as it is to visit the office and enjoy coffee and cakes with the girls, it’s obviously too soon to be thinking about going back to work just yet. I tell myself that my friend and partner is only showing due consideration, which is kind of her. And I also hope that my mother-in-law is wrong and I’m not becoming obsessed with the baby. But I do feel as if I am only one truly responsible for her care.

  I forget all about the housekeeping book until Oliver digs it out from under the cushion later that evening. We’re about to sit down to eat our evening meal, salmon in a watercress sauce which I bought from Marks and Spencer, the only fish Oliver will tolerate. He’s pushing it about his plate with a fork while he examines the housekeeping book with careful scrutiny, then subjects me to a fierce grilling on this entry or that, querying prices and quantities. I field as many questions as I can, then hold up my hands in surrender, the smallest tremor of fear running through me.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I admit I haven’t been keeping it properly up to date recently and may have got one or details wrong. I’ve been too busy with the baby.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses, Carly. You’re always too ready to pass the blame on to someone else, even your own child.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m doing at all,’ I hotly protest. ‘I’m saying it’s entirely my fault if there are mistakes in the accounts, but I’ve been busy.’

  He gives me a withering look and there’s a slight curl of disdain to his upper lip. ‘You’re obsessed. Minding one small baby shouldn’t take up every hour of your day. It’s not like you have anything else to do now, is it? You should pay more attention to me, your neglected husband since you no longer have to dash all over the place for that stupid agency of yours. Did you make this sauce, it’s disgusting.’

  I ignore his opinion on the sauce, which is delicious, and concentrate on making my point. ‘Minding one small baby takes up far more time than you might imagine, and as I’m new to the job I confess it is fairly nerve-racking. I’m absolutely shattered, not least from lack of sleep.’ I try a beguiling smile. ‘It might help, Oliver, if you didn’t expect the house to be so clean and perfect when you arrive home each evening. I do my best but babies seem to take up so much space!’

  ‘Rubbish! I see no reason to allow standards to slip.’

  Before I can find any suitable reply to this I hear the first hiccupping sounds of Katie’s cry. I start to go to her but he grabs my arm.

  ‘Leave her. Finish serving the dessert first, then you can go.’
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  ‘But she’s clearly in distress.’

  ‘Are you deaf? What was it I just told you to do?’ He fastens his hand around a clump of my hair and pulls me to within an inch of his face, speaking to me slowly and quietly, as if addressing a rather stupid child. ‘I assume there will be a dessert, or can’t you be bothered do that properly either?’

  ‘There’s a fruit pie.’ That familiar surge of panic courses through me as I see the contempt in his face, and I’m aching to go to my distressed child.

  ‘Good, then serve it, please. Don’t I at least deserve to come before a wailing baby?’

  What would his mother say if she could see her precious son now?

  ‘Of course, Oliver,’ I bleakly respond, and serve him the sweet. Upstairs, Katie’s crying reaches fever-pitch and it’s a wonder I don’t smash the pie in his face. Oliver insists on a full three course meal each evening, although I cheat a bit by not telling him that I buy ready made food from M & S or the supermarket, and pass it off as my own. Mainly he doesn’t notice, but as I place the slice of cherry tart before him, ready to make a dash the second he is served, he grabs me by the wrist.

  ‘Cherries? Where did you buy these?’

  ‘The green grocers on Highgate. Er – they are in season - aren’t they?’ I stammer, not sure if they are or not. ‘Don’t you like them?’

  ‘We’ll soon see, won’t we? And for God’s sake shut that child up.’

  I make my escape at last on a stifled sigh of relief.

  Following my next visit to the supermarket I go into the nursery to put my loose change in Katie’s piggy bank, and I’m shocked to discover it’s empty. Many of our friends and family have given Katie money either when she was born or at the christening, and as I don’t need anything more in the way of equipment for her, I’ve kept it in her piggy bank, intending to open a proper account for her at the building society once I could find the time to organise such things. It must have contained forty or fifty pounds, plus I’ve added odd sixpences and shillings whenever I have some spare change. Now it’s empty.

  I can’t think how this can have happened. When I challenge Oliver on the matter, he freely confesses that he’s borrowed it.

  ‘Borrowed? But it’s Katie’s money. I was about to invest it for her future.’

  He snorts his disdain. ‘That’s years away yet. I need it more than she does. She’s only a baby, for God’s sake! Do you know how much it costs to run this house?’

  This is an oft-repeated complaint, difficult to refute, except to say that he chose it, but I don’t dare say this right now. I go away and weep quietly in the nursery, wishing I’d invested the money for Katie right away. I feel I’ve let her down. Is this the kind of father Oliver is going to be? Utterly selfish and greedy?

  But there’s a greater shock to come when a day or two later I open a letter from the bank manager complaining about the size of our overdraft. Overdraft? We don’t even have an overdraft, not so far as I know. Apparently I’m wrong.

  When I tackle Oliver on the subject of, he says it came about by mistake. And this from a professional accountant! Commensurate with his new status as a partner, he’s changing the Ford Mondeo for a BMW, and apparently the firm isn’t prepared to pay the difference. ‘It’s only temporary until the money comes through from the guy who bought the Mondeo, and I get my next pay check. Nip in and tell the old buffer that, will you?’

  ‘Me?’ I’m appalled.

  ‘You can surely manage that, can’t you? I don’t have time. Tell him it’ll be cleared next week and I don’t expect to have any charges.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Carly, just do as I ask.’

  So I’m the one who has to go to see the bank manager and explain all of this, the one to suffer the lecture on why it would have been better to ask permission first. I could hardly say that my husband never asks anyone’s permission to do anything, is in fact manically determined to live life on his own terms.

  I’m beginning to despair of ever achieving a peaceful life, aware that I can’t go on like this for much longer. I can’t understand why Oliver would spend money we don’t have, without even telling me. Why he would need to steal from Katie’s piggy bank. He earns a good salary.

  Oliver senses that I’m upset and annoyed about the piggy bank and the loss of Katie’s investment, and avoids the issue by becoming cold and distant and barely speaking to me for days. It’s a trick he uses often.

  I find his silence difficult to cope with, perhaps because I’m feeling increasingly vulnerable right now. Apart from being overtired from looking after the baby largely on my own, I feel an increasing despair over my future. Since giving up work I seem to have lost what little independence I had. I feel I’m becoming far too dependent on him, not only emotionally, but financially. I’ve no idea what money we have, and I have none of my own save for the housekeeping allowance which Oliver gives me. I desperately regret having refused the maternity benefit which Emma offered, but I daren’t go to her now and admit that I need it after all. Oliver controls our finances completely. He handles, or rather mishandles, our money, although what he spends it on I’m not sure. What can he be doing with it all?

  Oliver parked his splendid new BMW in his designated spot, marked with his name now that he was a partner, and sauntered across the car park to the office. Tony was already at his desk, talking to Poppy. The pair of them looked up as he entered, then the girl put her nose in the air and turned away.

  Oliver stood in the centre of the floor, hands in his trouser pockets, watching with a smirk on his face as she flounced off in high dudgeon.

  ‘Trouble in paradise?’ Tony sarcastically enquired.

  ‘Dearest Poppy has been in a huff for months, ever since the office dinner dance, the silly mare. Claims she felt cheated and badly let down because I forgot to mention my wife was pregnant. As if that had anything to do with her? Surely the silly girl didn’t imagine I was ever going to leave Carly? Certainly not for a sulky child, anyway. It wasn’t as if I promised her happy-ever-after or any of that nonsense, and I must have spent a small fortune on keeping the stupid girl wined and dined. Still, easy come, easy go. Women are like buses, lose one and another will be along any moment. Anyway, what’s it to you?’

  Tony shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose who you lay, although your wife might have an issue with it.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘What the eye doesn’t see . . .’

  ‘. . . the heart doesn’t grieve over, yeah, I’ve heard the theory. Not sure if it holds true, certainly where women are concerned, and Carly deserves better.’

  ‘You’re an expert on my wife now, are you?’

  ‘I’ve certainly known her longer than you have, and would treat her a good deal better if she were my wife.’

  ‘Which, fortunately, she isn’t, so keep your nose out of my personal affairs.’

  ‘Affairs being the operative word,’ Tony swiftly reposted. He was sick of Oliver’s arrogance. The guy had his own office now that he was a partner, but could never resist stopping off to plague him every morning with his caustic, clever remarks. And his casual, couldn’t-give-a-damn attitude towards Carly infuriated Tony. She did indeed deserve better, and her husband messing about with other women had entirely ruined a perfectly good friendship between them. Tony couldn’t bear to look her in the eye these days.

  ‘And you’ve never had the guts to stray, I suppose?’ Oliver caustically asked as he sifted through the mail.

  ‘Nope, wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Has your own darling wife never cuckolded you either?’

  Tony bridled. ‘You leave my wife out of this.’

  ‘Maybe I should check her out a bit more thoroughly, see if she’d be worth having.’

  Tony went red in the face, his jaw tightening to a hard jutting ridge of fury. ‘If you so much as lay a finger on my wife I’ll slit your fucking throat.’

  ‘Language, language,’ Oliver laughed. ‘It’s true that I’ve gro
wn somewhat bored with sweet Poppy who has a brain the size of a pea, although I shall miss her other attributes.’

  ‘How is Carly?’ Tony growled, striving to keep his anger in check and remain calm as he booted up his computer.

  Oliver frowned, blue-grey eyes narrowing with displeasure. ‘Like all women who have just given birth, I suppose, completely obsessed with babies and becoming strangely detached from the world around her.’ It wasn’t simply that she never troubled to disagree with him any more, or beg his forgiveness as she used to do whenever she made a mistake, she no longer even seemed to care. He gave a harsh laugh. ‘She’s angry with me for borrowing a few quid from the baby’s piggy bank. What the hell does it matter? The child is barely three months old, so what does she need the money for?

  ‘And you have your women to pay for,’ Tony sarcastically acknowledged, quietly entering his password as the Welcome screen appeared.

  ‘I do indeed. Women! We can’t live with them, and have no wish to live without them.’

  Tony began to punch numbers into his computer, his mouth set tight and grim. ‘It helps if you’re content to live with only one.’

  Olive laughed. ‘Oh, very droll. Monogamy is not my style, old sport. Although I’m certainly coming to the conclusion that sulky girls are more trouble than they are worth. Maybe a more mature woman would be less demanding, and not quite so histrionic. It’s useful too if they’re married. No strings. I shall keep my eye out for a likely candidate. For some reason I never seem to have any difficulty in finding one, the old charm offensive still seems to do the trick, wouldn’t you say? But then I do appreciate a woman with a mind of her own, such as your own lovely Jane, for instance. Far more of a challenge, don’t you think?