The Shadow Year

by Hannah Richell

  ‘I know you’re awake,’ he says, his words warm against her neck. ‘I can tell by your breathing.’

  She doesn’t move; she doesn’t say a thing, but she drinks in the scent of him: beer, cigarettes, and the faintest trace of lake water still lingering on his skin. His hand moves and Kat has to force herself to breathe.

  ‘You do want this, don’t you?’ he asks, one finger tracing the curve of her breast. ‘You do want me?’

  Kat wonders if she is in fact dreaming. Three years at university and not once did Simon make a move on her. Three years and never once did he indicate that she was anything more than a friend to him. Three years of longing and waiting and watching and now she can’t find the words, so she turns and searches for his eyes in the darkness, trying to read him in the pitch black. He moves closer still, until they are chest to chest, breathing each other’s hot breath and finally he presses his lips against hers. She can’t help it; a sound escapes her lips, half whimper, half moan, and then she is kissing him back as the lightning flares and the thunder crashes once more.

  He reaches for her T-shirt, pulls it up over her head then pushes her pyjama bottoms down until they are lost in the tangle of bedclothes. He threads his hands through her hair, pulls her head back so that he can kiss her neck. The room strobes white again then returns to darkness.

  ‘What if the others . . . ?’ she whispers.

  ‘Shhh . . .’ he says. Her eyes have adjusted now. She can see his face, the contour of his cheekbones, his eyes shining in the darkness. ‘Not another word,’ he says. ‘Just this.’

  Kat understands what he is saying: be here and nowhere else. Be here with him now. She rises up to meet him and loses herself in his touch.

  5

  LILA

  September

  Lila is lingering with a half-filled shopping trolley beside the deli counter when the woman’s voice floats across the aisle towards her. ‘Lila?’ She feels a hand on her arm. ‘Lila, I thought that was you.’

  She turns away from the tubs of stuffed olives and sees a short, round woman with blond hair and clear blue eyes smiling up at her. Lila arranges her face into a greeting while trying to conjure a name from the soup of her brain. ‘Hi . . .’

  ‘It’s me,’ says the woman putting a hand to her chest, ‘Marissa, from high school, remember?’ She smiles encouragingly as Lila’s brain slowly connects a series of faded memories: the flash of goose-pimpled legs and netball skirts, the musty smell of a school bus, giggling and passing notes at the back of an English class.

  ‘Oh hi,’ says Lila. ‘Sorry, I was in another world.’

  Marissa laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I do look a little different these days,’ she pats at her waist, ‘especially since this chap came along.’ She gestures over to her trolley and for the first time Lila sees the chubby-faced infant strapped into the baby seat. ‘This is Jack,’ says Marissa proudly. ‘Say hello, Jack.’

  Jack gazes up at her, a thin trickle of drool spilling down his chin onto the plastic giraffe clutched tightly in his fist. Lila sees chubby, flushed cheeks, angelic blue eyes and a full head of curly blond hair, just like his mum’s.

  ‘He’s teething,’ Marissa says, somewhat apologetically. ‘Hey,’ she adds, with a broad smile, ‘I bumped into Jen a few months ago. She told me that you were expecting too. Congratulations. And where is your little bundle of joy today? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to escape for a few hours?’

  Lila hesitates. A tight knot of dread forms in her belly. ‘Yes,’ she says quietly, ‘I escaped.’

  Marissa smiles. ‘Lucky you. Love ’em to bits but it’s nice to get a bit of time on your own, isn’t it?’

  Lila nods and tries to swallow.

  ‘Boy or a girl?’

  ‘A . . . a girl.’

  ‘Ahh . . . lovely. Bet you’re over the moon.’

  Lila nods and looks around in panic.

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Milly.’

  ‘Lovely. Hope she’s a good sleeper.’ Marissa eyes her carefully. ‘I’ve never been so tired in my life but these bags under the eyes are like a badge of honour, right? Just like those damn stretch marks.’ Marissa grins and Lila swallows. ‘We should get them together for a play date sometime. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lila, monosyllabic with shame. ‘That would be nice,’ she manages in a small voice.

  ‘Great. I’ll get your number off Jen and text you?’

  Lila nods again.

  ‘Lovely.’ Marissa grins again. ‘Now, don’t waste any more of your precious time chatting to me. Go and have a coffee, get your nails done. Make the most of it while you can. You’ll be back home changing nappies and mashing veggies before you know it.’

  Lila tries to smile.

  ‘Come on then, little man,’ says Marissa, beginning to steer her trolley away, ‘let’s finish the shopping so we can get home to Daddy. He’s taking Jack for his first swimming lesson this afternoon,’ she explains with an indulgent smile. Then with an air kiss and a little wave, Marissa marches away down the nearest aisle.

  Lila reaches out to place a steadying hand on the deli counter. She is dizzy with shame. Why did she just do that? Why did she lie to that woman? Why couldn’t she tell her the truth? Marissa will hear what happened soon enough – probably from Jen – and then they’ll both know that she has truly lost the plot. Lila shakes her head. Maybe Tom is right; maybe she should stop taking those pills. They take the edge off her grief but with everything so foggy all the time, making even the simplest decisions is proving hard.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’ An obviously hung-over teenager in a stained white overall approaches from across the counter. She looks down at shiny slabs of pink meat and the marinated vegetables swimming in glistening pools of oil. For God’s sake, she can’t even decide whether to buy a pot of olives.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m fine,’ she mutters, ‘thank you.’

  She turns back to the aisles. People mill around her on all sides, a sea of bodies. Lila is overwhelmed, pressed in on all sides. Somewhere far away a child shrieks with indignation. The tannoy blares with a request for a cleaner to head to aisle eight. It’s all too much. Without so much as a backwards glance, Lila ditches her half-filled shopping trolley beside a display of breakfast cereals and hurries towards the exit.

  Her hands are still trembling as she lets herself in through the front door. She closes it with a gentle click and stands there for a moment, trying to compose herself. The sight of the carpeted stairs rising up in front of her and the small rug Tom has placed at the foot of them to neatly cover the bloodstain there makes her want to weep. She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe. If only she could remember . . . how did it happen? Why did it happen? At that moment, she knows if she could find a way to crack open her brain and retrieve the memory of those lost hours she would do it. It won’t bring Milly back, but at least it might help her understand.

  Standing there, wrestling with her grief, Lila’s ears slowly tune into the voices coming from the living room: Tom’s low, earnest tones mingling with another, higher voice. What Lila would most like to do is head straight upstairs to collapse upon the cool, white expanse of her bed, but summoning her last reserves of energy, she pushes on the door and enters the room.

  ‘There you are.’ Tom leaps to his feet. ‘And look who’s here.’ He gestures towards the sofa.

  Lila stares at their visitor for a moment. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says wearily, moving across the room to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t think you’d be back from France for another week or so?’

  ‘Well that’s not much of a welcome, is it?’ her mother says with a bright smile. She envelops Lila in a tight hug before returning to the sofa, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. Her mother looks perfect, her blond hair styled into a neat bob, her make-up immaculate and an expensive-looking leather handbag settled at her feet. Lila turns to Tom and gives him a hard stare but he pretends not to see.<
br />
  ‘Your mum changed her plans . . . phoned this morning to say she was back and thought she’d drop by for a cup of tea,’ he says brightly.

  She thinks of her husband’s inexplicable rush to tidy the house earlier that morning and the penny drops. She turns back to her mother. ‘Tom asked you to come, didn’t he?’

  High spots of colour appear on her mum’s cheeks and she shrugs, caught in the web of their lie. Bloody Tom, thinks Lila. There is a pause as the three of them eye each other carefully.

  ‘I brought you a cake,’ says her mother finally, indicating the white cardboard box on the coffee table.

  ‘How lovely. Here, let me.’ Tom reaches for the box, clearly relieved to have a reason to leave the room. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You sit down,’ he urges, guiding Lila to the chair near the window. Then he’s gone, leaving Lila and her mother to face-off across an expanse of cream carpet.

  ‘The house is looking lovely,’ her mother starts, gazing around at the room. ‘Pretty tiles,’ she adds, staring at the fireplace. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed them before. Are they the originals?’

  Lila shakes her head wearily. ‘No, I found them in a salvage yard.’

  ‘Well they go very well.’ She looks around the room in admiration. ‘It’s hard to remember the wreck it was, when you first moved in here. You’ve worked your magic once again.’

  Lila nods. ‘How was France?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s been a comfort,’ she says. ‘I find the house out in Bucks so empty without your father. I rattle around there on my own but the gîte brings me solace . . . it reminds me of those holidays we used to take together. Happier times.’

  Lila nods and an awkward silence fills the room.

  ‘And how have you been?’

  ‘Fine,’ says Lila.

  Her mother eyes her carefully. ‘You look shattered.’

  She gives a thin smile. Shattered: she supposes that’s as good a word as any for how she’s been feeling. ‘I’m fine, Mum. I’m doing much better. I don’t know why Tom called you.’

  At least her mother has the grace not to bother with the pretence any more. ‘He’s just worried about you, darling. We both are. He said you were struggling . . . that you’ve been rather . . . depressed.’

  Lila can’t hold her gaze. She turns to face the window and allows the silence to swallow them up.

  ‘Of course it’s perfectly understandable,’ her mother continues valiantly, ‘after suffering such a . . . such a terrible loss . . . it would be natural to, well, to need a little time to process it all.’

  Lila stares at her.

  ‘Such a dreadful accident.’ There is another pause. ‘You still don’t remember how it happened? The fall?’

  Lila shakes her head. Why is she here? What does she want?

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s a small blessing.’

  Her mother gives a little shiver and Lila nods and wills herself not to cry. A blessing?

  ‘Have you been back to work yet?’

  ‘No. It’s quiet at the moment. They don’t need me.’ Christ, she was going to kill Tom. How desperate he must have been – or how at odds they are with each other now – that he could think this afternoon tea party might be the solution.

  ‘Of course, since your father died . . . I’ve found it extremely hard too.’

  At the mention of her father Lila softens slightly. ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘There were days even just a few months ago when I couldn’t get out of bed . . . when I really couldn’t see the point of carrying on. He was such a presence in our lives and him not being here now, well,’ she puts her hand to her lips, ‘it’s hard. I think that’s why I prefer to be in France these days.’

  Lila turns to look out the window again. She really doesn’t want to be having this conversation – not about the baby and certainly not about her father. Outside, a boy flies past the bay window on his scooter. A little way behind his harried father follows, shouting at the child to slow down. Lila is aware that her mother is still talking at her, but she is struggling to tune in; it’s as though the words are coming to her from down a long, echoing corridor. Sweat prickles in her palms. She’s getting that strange, giddy feeling again too, as though her head isn’t quite attached to her body. She wipes her clammy hands on her trousers and tries to concentrate.

  ‘. . . I’ve found what helps me is to focus on the positives in my life,’ continues her mother, oblivious to Lila’s inner turmoil, ‘and to remember those times we shared as a family.’

  Lila bites her tongue. She could point out the insensitivity of her mother’s words, that she wasn’t given the opportunity to experience any ‘happy times’ with her daughter. She could point out how her mother’s memories of their own family bliss seem to have been warped by time and grief. She could point out the endless lies, the whispered phone calls her father took in his study, all those nights he never even bothered to make it home. But there seems little point dredging all of that up in the face of her mother’s visit, not now, not when Lila can’t even summon the energy to make it round a supermarket.

  ‘. . . like coming up to London today,’ finishes her mother brightly. She smiles. ‘Perhaps it’s time you went back to work? Or found something fun to keep you busy, to get you out and about, back on your feet.’

  Lila is relieved to see Tom enter the room with a rattling tea tray. ‘The cake looks amazing,’ he says. ‘Thanks for bringing it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ Her mother waves the offering away. ‘I was just saying to Lila that a little project might be just what the doctor ordered.’ She addresses Tom in a careful voice.

  Give me strength, thinks Lila; these two are the worst actors in the world. ‘There’s a milk jug in the cupboard,’ she says, eyeing the plastic bottle on the tray, but Tom just shoots her a look and places everything on the coffee table between them.

  ‘I was telling Lila how when her father passed away, keeping busy was what got me through. That’s when I took up with my walking group and signed up for a few evening classes. An activity or two might be helpful?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tom, attacking the chocolate cake with a large bread knife. ‘I’ve already suggested she try to catch up with a few friends socially.’

  ‘And there’s a proper cake slice in the drawer,’ says Lila, watching him hack into the cake.

  ‘This is fine,’ says Tom.

  ‘But you’re making a terrible hash of—’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she sees her mother raise an eyebrow. Oh God, Lila thinks, we really have turned into that couple, arguing over milk jugs and cake slices.

  ‘Of course I wanted to stay home, hang around in my dressing gown and feel sorry for myself,’ continues her mother, ‘but you just can’t, can you? You have to carry on. You have to pick yourself up and soldier on.’

  At that moment Lila feels like tipping the entire tea tray onto the floor and ordering her mother out of the house. Instead she counts to three. ‘I’m not “feeling sorry for myself”,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘Our baby died. Milly: do either of you even remember her name?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s—’

  But Lila interrupts Tom. She won’t let him speak. ‘I’m grieving for Milly . . . our daughter. It’s perfectly normal, or so the nurses at the hospital led me to believe.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ says her mother in a soothing voice, ‘I understand, I really do; I’m just saying that time heals all wounds . . . and you can always try again.’

  Lila turns her face to the window once more. More platitudes. Can no one understand how she feels? Can no one see how it is – that she’s been robbed of a very part of herself?

  They had tried for twelve months to get pregnant before she had finally seen that thin blue line appear on the pregnancy test, and when she and Tom had peered down at the evidence, they’d turned to each other and giggled like little kids.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Tom had
grinned, ‘I guess that means I’ll finally have to clear my snowboarding gear out of the spare room.’

  She’d kissed him on the mouth and marvelled at how everything was about to change.

  She had loved being pregnant – had loved the sensation of being filled with life. For almost seven thrilling months she had grown a baby inside her body. She had felt like a flower unfurling with its true, blooming potential. Every morning she’d woken early and just lain there in bed, moving her hands over her belly, revelling in the miracle of the tiny person growing inside her and the future that lay wide open. She’d taken to cooking and cleaning, enjoyed time with Tom, understanding that these were the last few weeks it would be just the two of them. She was high on hormones, high on life until – in an inexplicable moment, a moment seemingly erased from her memory for ever – the dream had been snatched from them.

  Now, the only fragments she has left, the only evidence of her daughter’s existence are the useless pile of maternity clothes stuffed at the back of her wardrobe, the few fading stretch marks left on her skin and the small white box of ashes they were given by the funeral director after the ceremony. She wants to shake her mother. She wants to shake Tom. She wants to scream at them both that this isn’t the life she is supposed to be living. She isn’t supposed to be sitting here eating cake and talking in this calm, quiet voice about grief and loss. They should all be living a new life, one transformed by love and joy and by the irrepressible, irresistible presence of a tiny, gurgling baby.

  Outside, the small piece of London sky just visible through the window is a cool, empty grey. It mirrors exactly how she feels: blank and hollow, colourless. From seemingly nowhere an image flashes into her mind: a shimmering lake nestled within a ring of green hills and a small, ramshackle cottage glowing a pale honey-colour in the evening sunshine. She imagines herself back there, sitting upon that fallen tree trunk beneath a vast and shifting sky, staring out over the surface of the lake.