‘He’s going in our bed?’ Thoughts of drool or urine fill my mind.
‘Yep, they said they’d bring the travel cot, but I didn’t see the point.’
No, you wouldn’t. You’re not the one who’ll have to change and wash all the covers.
Olly, Sam and Alfie turn up at twenty past seven. Sam can barely look Olly in the eyes, her teeth are gritted. Alfie is wailing, arms clasped around his mum’s neck. Olly breezes in, hugging us both. He hands Will a bottle of wine and stands in the doorway yawning, stretching his arms so his grey tee-shirt reveals some of his stomach. A stomach I know used to be toned to perfection, but now gives me a glimpse of a slight roll of white flab.
‘Christ, we were up half the night with him.’
‘We?’ snaps Sam. ‘You mean you turned your head a couple of times and asked if I could get him to be quiet?’
‘Well, I have to get up for work.’
‘And I’m up every morning with your child.’
‘Exactly, that’s your job.’
‘Come through and let me get you a glass of that wine.’ I grab Alfie out of Sam’s arms and pass him to Will. ‘There you go, you wanted practice.’
Sam looks shocked. Alfie himself has shut up, confused at being confronted with Uncle Will. He hasn’t decided whether to bawl harder at being separated from his mother or stay with the guy who spoils him rotten. Will pulls a face and Alfie shivers, his mouth wobbles and then a huge beam crosses his face. ‘Unc ill’.
‘That’s right mate, it’s Uncle Will, baby soother extraordinaire.’
We walk through to the dining area and I get out the plates and serve dinner.
We’re sat at the table and I watch Sam suck on her lip. Sam is thirty, slim, and before Alfie, she used to run marathons. She’s back to 5k training now and her newly shorn dark brown hair indicates her wash and run mentality. She tells us that as soon as Olly is home from work, she’s out running, “My me-time.” I like Sam, but there’s always been a distance between us. I wonder if she knows about me and Olly.
‘Everything alright, Sam?’ I ask.
She breaks off a piece of naan bread and feeds it to Alfie. ‘Sorry, I never thought to ask what we were eating. It’s just that curry’s a bit strong for Alfie.’
‘Sorry,’ says Will, his ears turning red. ‘I thought kids ate smaller portions of adult stuff.’
‘They do most of the time,’ adds Sam, ‘but like I said, curry is a tad strong, and it can have a high salt content which is dangerous.’
‘He’ll be fine, stop fretting,’ says Olly.
‘One of us has to make sure he’s getting his nutrition.’ She pushes her own plate away. ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling hungry.’
Olly stares daggers at her.
‘Can he have cheese on toast?’ I ask quickly.
Sam looks at me. ‘Oh, that’d be great. Thank you, Amber.’
I get up to make it, glad to escape the atmosphere around the table. It’s permeating more than the odour of curry.
At seven-thirty Sam attempts to put Alfie to bed. He’s not having it and screams the house down.
‘Bring him back down,’ yells Olly. ‘He wants to be where it’s happening.’
Sam appears at the top of the stairs clutching Alfie. ‘We have a routine. I want to stick to it. Kids like a routine. It’s because he’s not had a bath. He always has a bath before bed.’
‘We can run him a bath,’ says Will and runs upstairs to help Sam.
I sit on the sofa and Olly sits opposite.
‘More wine?’ I ask him.
‘God, yes please. Do you have one of those glasses where a whole bottle fits in?’
I laugh. ‘I guess you’re not the designated driver then?’
‘God no, Sam makes sure she’s sober in case Alfie needs her for anything. She’s not had more than one alcoholic drink at a time since she had him.’
I grab the bottle of Merlot he brought, unscrew it and pour us both a large glass.
‘Enjoying being a parent then?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a blast, can’t you tell?’
He looks towards the stairs for a minute and adds, ‘He’s worth it, though, Amber, every bit of hassle. The truth is, we put him to bed and all I want to do is wake him back up again.’
I top up my drink. This is not what I want to hear.
‘So you don’t regret it? Wish you’d waited a bit longer?’
‘No. We’re hoping for at least another one so we didn’t want to wait much longer. I’m guessing Will’s asked you?’
‘Yup.’ I down my drink.
‘Steady on Amber, there’ll be none left for anyone else. I gather you’re not up for it?’
‘On the contrary, I said yes.’
Olly gasps. He slaps a hand on his cheek. ‘But you don’t want a kid, do you?’
‘I’m sure I’ll come around to the idea once we’ve got one.’
‘What if you don’t?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Will can be a house husband.’
‘What’s that you’re saying about me?’ Will is halfway down the stairs.
‘I said you can be a house husband, don a pinny and raise the kids.’
‘Fine with me.’
I fill up my glass again.
By ten o’clock, myself and Olly have drunk two bottles of wine. Will has had the odd glass. Sam has had water and frequent trips upstairs. Not to the bathroom but to check on Alfie.
I can see I have Will’s attention. He’s trying to tell me with his eyes to stop drinking. It’s irritating. I go to open a third bottle, but Will takes it off me and whispers, ‘Enough, Amber.’
‘Christ, don’t be so bloody boring.’ This comes out a lot louder than I intended and I see Sam sneak a look at her watch.
‘I think it’s time we went, Olly.’
‘Why? It’s just getting good,’ he replies.
‘What do you mean “just getting good?” Have you not enjoyed the evening?’ I snap.
‘That’s not what I meant, Amber, I just—’
‘Go. Your missus wants to go home anyway.’
‘I need to get Alfie back to his own bed, Amber,’ she says frowning. ‘As his mother I’m responsible—’
I’ve heard enough. I turn, swinging the wine glass around. ‘Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, God, you’re not the first woman to have reproduced you know? He’s fast asleep in bed, you could leave him. He will not grow up emotionally stunted because he had a sleepover at ours.’
‘Amber.’ Will is hopping from foot to foot, looking from me to Sam.
Sam looks unsure and looks across at Olly, who is sat on the sofa laughing.
‘And what’re you laughing at?’ I shout. ‘You’ve done bugger all to help your wife all night. She won’t have a drink because you’re so bloody useless and by God, she needs one to look at your face every day.’
Olly looks like I’ve hit him with ten thousand volts.
I think Sam’s crying and turn towards her, but she’s hysterical with laughter; tears roll down her cheeks.
‘What’s so funny?’ I yell.
‘Olly never shuts up that you have a big old crush on him. He’s always trying to tell me how lucky I am, how you’d have loved to have him as a husband. I never expected you to say something like that.’
‘We were nineteen,’ I say, ‘Seriously, Sam, I only ever snogged him when I was pissed, so the fact I’m totally bongoed now and think he’s a trout should reassure you.’
Sam is having trouble getting her breath. ‘Stop… ow… my cheeks hurt,’ she says rubbing them.
Olly is in the hallway getting his coat.
Sam stands up and takes a deep breath. ‘Any chance we could stay until early morning?’
‘If you can share with Alfie, we can bunk down here,’ I say.
‘Olly,’ Sam shouts. ‘Your turn to keep an eye on Alfie, I’m getting trollied.’ She picks up a glass and hands it to Will. ‘That bottle needs opening after all.’
&nbs
p; ‘Are you sure about this, Sam?’ asks Will.
‘Absolutely.’ She takes the bottle from him.
I pick up my glass and turn to Olly. ‘Cheers, big ears.’ I raise my glass. ‘Poor thing, his hair used to cover them up.’
Chapter 6
Karen
An hour later the next plane departs without incident and I’m on my way to Berlin at last. I sit tense, my neck in knots for the entire journey, wondering if the plane will fall out of the sky. We land at Tegel airport at a quarter to one English time. It has taken around eighteen hours, but I’ve made it. I send Steve a quick text, switch off my mobile and head for the taxi rank.
My hotel is on Friedrichstrasse, a long, elegant looking street lined with department stores and upmarket boutiques. It appears to be in the heart of the shopping district and I welcome that I’ll be able to explore without being scared of getting lost. A well-dressed doorman opens the entrance for me. I wheel my case inside, dodging the piled up snow.
The foyer is light and airy. A sign indicates a bar and restaurant on the left-hand side. The hotel is used for conferences and a large board displays instructions for a research company’s investigator meeting.
My guidebook has a small phrase book section in the back. I address the Receptionist, ‘Guten Tag.’
‘Good afternoon, Madam.’ Her smile shows she appreciates the effort but realises that’s the limit of my vocabulary.
She directs me to my room on the second floor. As I walk towards the lift, I pass a huge model of the hotel made out of Gingerbread. A reminder that Christmas is not so far away. Gosh, today is the eleventh of December. We no longer make a fuss of Christmas. It’s just another day to us. I adore this gingerbread house, though its windows are made from melted boiled sweets. Forcing myself to move away from it, I carry on to the lift, ascend to the second floor and come out on a long corridor. Thick navy carpet lines the floors and the lights come on by sensor as I walk along the corridor. I insert my key card, watching the light flash green as I withdraw it. A deep breath and I push the door open.
I’m not disappointed. The bed is a huge king-size affair. It looks like the comfiest bed ever and I touch the duvet cover. It’s so fluffy. There are around eight pillows on the bed. I’ve never seen so many. I pick up the card lying next to them. It’s a pillow menu! It describes all the different pillows; feather filled, memory foam, soft, firm, even lavender. I pile the lot up and lay on the bed, my head like the tip of a needle amongst a sea of cotton.
My room looks over the River Spree, and I can see a long row of shops and cafes and an Irish bar. It looks random amongst its sophisticated neighbours, with its garish green decor. It would appear the snow has stopped for the present time.
I make myself a coffee from the tray provided, strip down to my undies and dive under the duvet. It is divine. This is the best bed I have occupied in my whole life. It sounds cliche, but I imagine this is how lying on a cloud would be. I eat the packet of shortbread biscuits from the tray, grab my new pen and journal and record my journey so far. It takes a while and I both smile and shake my head at what has occurred to date. Who’d have thought a mini break could prove so complicated?
Journal discarded, I lie back against the pillows and let the thoughts I have kept at bay invade. I’m safe here now. I can let it all free. Reaching into my bag, I withdraw my mobile phone. I switch it on and scroll through to see several missed calls and texts from Adrian. A sigh escapes my mouth, but I send a reply: ‘I have arrived. Right now I’m where I want to be. Please don’t text or ring again because I won’t reply. I’ll be home when I’m ready.’ A few minutes later I get a reply, ‘Okay. Only because I want to show you I’m listening. I love you.’
I throw my phone back in my bag. Yes, I know he loves me, but what is love without trust? I’ve been treated like a butterfly in a net over the past seven years. My only crime is mourning my daughter.
I take a photo out of my bag. My beautiful Genevieve at three months old. The last photo before meningitis took her from our world. It's wrinkled and bent and I try to smooth it out with my fingers. Eventually, I find I’m wiping away a tear that has dripped onto it.
We’d tried for a baby for so long. We investigated our infertility and were told there was nothing wrong with either of us, we needed to be patient. Five long years we waited, and then I found out I was pregnant. I had the easiest pregnancy. It was like I was born to be a mother, and when she arrived my life was complete. Adrian was besotted with the creature that could curl him around her tiny little fingers. We had three months of utter bliss until the night we entered her room and found her with a raging fever, in severe pain and distraught. We rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late, bacterial meningitis and heaven had laid claim to our daughter.
I turn my head into the pillows and let it out; the pain and heart-wrenching agony that has never left me. For once, no-one comes in and tries to make it okay. The release is immense and when I stop, I’m consumed by exhaustion. I slip further under the pillows and sleep, more free and rested than I’ve been in a long time.
Later, I wake and look at the alarm clock on my side; it’s just turned five-thirty. My eyes feel swollen, but being empty stomached from a lack of food makes me imagine an overall sense of being purged and cleansed. I head to the bathroom, splash my face with cold water and tie my hair back. It’s time to see a little of what’s around me.
I wrap up in my coat, with hat, scarf and gloves and head out of the hotel. I carry on walking down Friedrichstrasse, passing a shopping complex full of designer wear. There’s a display of expensive classic and sports cars in the window, as if it’s natural to call in from the street and buy a Porsche. After a few minutes, I come to the most astonishing chocolate shop.
Set in a six-story building based on Charlottenstrasse, the windows are filled with miniature replicas of all the sights in Berlin. I walk in and stare at the Brandenburg gate. The aroma from the shop is intense, but the richness for me comes from the sight of so much chocolate. Down one entire wall is a glass covered counter that houses two hundred different handcrafted pralines in multiple flavours, and forty chocolate tortes. I study the tortes with the attention of a quality control expert. I stare at one, in particular, it’s like a sculpture. An oval chocolate shape sits in front of a triangle of chocolate with a rectangular piece placed through holes in the shapes. The whole structure sits atop a cylinder of the silkiest dark chocolate. The description reads ‘Crunchy Nougat on light and dark sponge cake with an Amarena cherry and wafer-thin Amacado Plantagen Schokolade.’ I have to have one. At six euros, I declare it a bargain for such a piece of art and within a minute it’s wrapped and mine. A quick scan of a leaflet about the history of the shop reveals it’s the world’s largest chocolate house. I’ll call back for more chocolate before I leave Berlin, but for now, I take my torte and leave.
On the pavement, I see the sign for the Gendarmenmarkt Christmas market. There are several other people strolling in that direction, so I follow them, noting the route I’m taking as I walk. The market is bustling. Entrance fee paid I step inside. It’s so busy there can’t be a millimetre between people. I’m nervous, both for myself and for the safe keeping of my torte as I’m bashed around. Shall I leave? I stand on my tiptoes and see little-domed shops selling, amongst other things, cheese sandwiches, a type of pizza, wood carvings and embroidery. A couple of stalls have Christmas decorations, but I pass these by. I decide to stay, interested in the different food and drink stalls. I pass a stall serving Gluewein, a mead-like drink. You can buy it and return the glass for a partial refund, or keep it. It has the name and year of the market and would be a fabulous souvenir. I purchase one and stand by an open fire, grateful for the warmth and both fascinated and almost hypnotised by the flame.
As I stand, something feels off, a little uncomfortable, and then I realise that I’m happy. This is something so alien and forbidden I expect it to be followed by a seismic shift back to darkness. I decide to ris
k it for once, allowing myself to embrace the pleasure and enjoy this amazing new place. What looks like a youth dance troupe comes onto a small stage and performs a Christmas-themed ballet dance. They are all dressed as little elves. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to look at children, but I feel free here, and I’m mesmerised. I can’t stop smiling at the little stumbles, the mini-professionals, and the ones who try to catch their parents’ eyes with a proud gesture from both sides.
My stomach growls and I know I need to have a decent meal. On my way to the market, I spotted a cabin type structure with basic wooden tables, striped tablecloths and with a menu of only three meals. I go inside and they seat me at a small table in the main stream of traffic in and out of the restaurant, where I realise I’ll be prone to being jostled around again. However, it’s cosy and warm inside and has a great atmosphere. People are huddled and chatting. I order a coke and the duck.
They bring no extra glass, so I pour my coke into a wine glass on the table and take a drink. The bubbles hit the back of my nose. I can’t see any bathrooms, so, mindful of the fact I’ve just had a Gluwein, I vow to take my time with the coke. I catch the eye of an old guy standing next to the bar. He looks inebriated; he raises his glass towards me and smiles. I half smile back and look away, not wishing to encourage him. My duck leg arrives. The aroma of the accompanying plum sauce hits my nose and makes my mouth water. Accompanied by a potato dumpling and red cabbage, it looks and tastes delicious. I take only eight minutes to eat the lot, and I realise how hungry I was.
I summon a waiter and order apple strudel for dessert. As I await its arrival, the drunken old man comes up to the table, chattering away in German and putting his half drunk wine on the table.
‘I don’t speak German. I’m Bri-tish,’ I attempt to tell him, doing the usual embarrassing English thing of raising my voice, as if that will help me be understood.
He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it, brings forth another stream of German and leaves the bar. On his way out he turns in my direction. ‘Beautiful Engleesh lady,’ and blows me another kiss.
Journey to the Centre of Myself Page 4
