‘Mum, you’re right. I have put on a few pounds. And I’m going to lose them soon,’ Pete said, trying to calm the waters. ‘But thanks, love,’ he whispered to Jenny.
Audrey patted his hand, mollified. ‘Good boy. I’m just thinking of your heart. You know we’ve a long history of heart disease in our family.’ She looked at Jenny pointedly. In that stare she managed to convey that somehow or other Jenny was failing miserably at being her darling son’s wife again. Somehow or other, Pete’s weight gain was her fault. Saintly Jo and her bloody gorgeous granola would never have allowed that gut to spill out over his jeans, as Jenny had.
Jenny watched Pete pick up the wedding photograph and look at it in silence, deep in thought. What was going through his mind? Regret? Heartache? The unease she’d been feeling for days, began to strengthen and then it grew wings and manifested itself into full-on panic.
What if Pete still loved Jo?
Oh shit, she thought. There was no doubt about it. Pete was standing there, looking . . . wistful!
The effects of the chocolate were beginning to kick in for Adam and he’d started to run around the small apartment, slamming doors open and shut as he went. ‘He’s spirited,’ Audrey said, catching a piece of Lladró before it came to an untimely demise.
‘Only when he’s been force-fed a shedload of sugar,’ Jenny said through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, speaking of Jo,’ Audrey said, batting her next grenade back at her, quick as a flash.
‘I didn’t realise we still were,’ Jenny replied, but she was ignored. The master was at play. When would she learn?
‘She wrote to me this week. What a gorgeous surprise when the postman arrived. I never get anything nice other than bills and flyers about funeral homes. And this was on the most gorgeous notepaper too. She has such lovely handwriting, you know. I always think it says a lot about a person, their penmanship.’ Audrey looked at Jenny.
Everyone knew that Jenny’s handwriting could have been a doctor’s.
‘I read somewhere that bad handwriting is a sign of great intelligence. The brain working faster than the hand can,’ Jenny said.
Audrey ignored this and continued, ‘Anyhow, she’s having a lovely time back home. Now where did I put it?’ She opened a book that was sitting on the coffee table and pulled out the letter.
‘How convenient. You had it right by your side all along,’ Jenny remarked.
‘Look, Pete. Here’s a picture of your Jo on the beach. Such a stunning figure. Not like us two, eh Jenny?’ Audrey patted her tummy.
The cheek of this woman knew no bounds. She was comparing Jenny’s pregnancy weight to her own old woman’s tummy that was clearly made up of homemade buns.
The photograph of Jo was the last straw for Jenny. All fight fizzled out of her, like one of little Adam’s helium balloons that had been popped.
Jo was on white sands, with blue sea and even bluer skies behind her, which provided the perfect backdrop for her yoga pose. She was wearing a pair of red hot pants and a teeny bikini top in white that strained to keep her small perky boobs in place. And what the hell was she doing smiling for the camera, with one leg up in the air, parallel to her body? She remembered Rachel emailing her once, joking that it was ridiculous how bendy that woman was.
She looked down at her own body, starting with her two swollen feet, wedged into her flip-flops. Her two pinky toes looked like two pigs. Angry red pigs. She pushed them under the couch. And then hanging over her legs, defying all laws of gravity was her large abdomen, with its belly button sticking out.
Her T-shirt that said, ‘Does this baby make me look fat?’ had seemed so clever and witty when she had put it on this morning. But now it seemed like a cruel jibe. She attempted to stretch her cardigan across her boobs in an effort to hide the insult. Thank goodness she couldn’t see her bum. She felt sorry for everyone else though, because it had seemed to grow two sizes in the past month. Her size ten jeans were a distant memory and the only thing she could squeeze into now was a pair of stretch leggings.
Jo was a mermaid on white sands, and she was a beached whale. Beached, with no hope to be saved.
She felt eyes on her and looked up, expecting it to be Pete with his big worried head on him. But his eyes were still firmly on the photograph of Jo. And who could blame him? Ms-Sex-on-bendy-legs Jo.
But it was Audrey’s gaze she felt.
‘Jenny,’ Audrey’s voice repeated.
‘Please,’ Jenny whispered, tears stinging her eyes. ‘No more.’
And to her surprise, Audrey looked at her kindly and said, ‘I was just going to say to you that I thought you looked so pretty today. Your skin is so . . . radiant. And your bump is so neat. You’re a tiny little thing. Pregnancy suits you, dear.’
And with that, Jenny burst into tears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The unidentifiable squelch and the voulez-vous
Karen’s Publishing House, Manchester
Karen looked at her watch. She was going to miss her metro train home if she wasn’t careful. She waved goodbye to the security guard in reception and made a dash for it. She pulled off her heels and in her stockinged feet ran down the concrete stairwell to the platform, weaving in and out of fellow commuters. Her Spanish nanny Ramona would have a fit if she missed this train. Tonight Ramona was beginning a new endeavour – French conversation lessons for beginners – down at the local comprehensive. She was determined to do everything to ensure her new relationship with her French boyfriend flourished. She was in love and Jean-Luc was ‘the one.’ And Ramona in love, was a tour-de-force, pun intended!
The gods were kind to her, because the metro pulled into the station just as she pushed her way through the last of the commuting throngs to the platform. She ran through the open doors in front of her. But her delight at making it, was short-lived when she stood in something wet and sticky. She lifted her foot, which was now covered in some kind of pink goo. She was afraid to look down, to investigate the nature of the squelch, feeling her stomach heave as it ran through the possibilities. No. Some things are better letter undiscovered. So she took a step to the side, trying unsuccessfully to scrape the offending matter on to the train floor. With no other option, she slipped her shoes back on, trying to close her imagination to the sensation, as the squelch moved its way between foot and shoe.
She was happy to be back at work – in fact, it felt good to be out of the house, back doing something that she knew she was good at. But this commute was going to kill her! In future, she would have to make sure she left the office on time. She pushed aside the image of her colleagues, heads bent over their computers, when she left. Most of them would be there until late this evening. Karen didn’t have that luxury. She had obligations, commitments and the weight of the juggle struggle fell squarely on her shoulders. She looked down at her feet again and vowed that from tomorrow, she’d start wearing flats. No more running in heels or barefoot.
When she slammed the door shut to her house at seven o’clock this morning, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t lose track of the time and be late home. But that was before the events of the day happened.
Her PA was sick. Karen suspected she’d overdone it at a launch party for a new book they’d published. Rumour had it that she’d been the last to leave and had drunk over a third of the warm wine on offer. She couldn’t prove that, of course, and she was prepared to turn a blind eye. This once. She tried to avoid events like those now. Books and booze seemed to go hand in hand and she no longer swam in those shark-infested waters.
She’d also had the mother of all negotiations with a particularly picky author this afternoon. He didn’t care for her suggested edits. Karen knew she was right. She knew that if the author ignored her they could kiss goodbye to any commercial success with the book. But sometimes authors thought they knew best. In addition to all that, she had a debut author’s manuscript to finish reading. It was her second read through and they needed to make a decision as to whether the
y would publish or not. It was in great shape already, but with some tweaks, it could be magnificent. Karen liked it when she found something raw and great, like this one. She looked forward to working on it.
Her day had flown by, and in truth if Ramona hadn’t sent her a text saying, ‘You on train now, okay?’ she would probably be at her desk, oblivious to the hour. For the umpteenth time, she asked herself if she was selfish trying to have it all. She wanted to be the best possible parent to Josh, Ellie and Olivia and continue her successful role as a publisher. She had coupled her passion for books with a vision and ability to work with both creative and commercial intuition. But guilt and self-doubt were worthy adversaries to her ambitions. She spent part of her days feeling like a failure. Her juggle struggle seemed to result in a large number of dropped balls.
As the train trundled on, she closed her eyes and tried to find a happy place, somewhere to forget how busy her life was, for a few minutes. Her mind wandered to the Valencian coast. She loved it there. Karen imagined the warmth of the Spanish sun tickle its way over her body. Spain. Her mother lived there and while she missed seeing her on a more regular basis, it was wonderful having a bolt-hole to escape to every now and then. She had brought Ramona and the children there after Rachel died. That trip had been a lifesaver. But it had also left her lagging behind on her many deadlines.
Rachel. Just thinking her friend’s name sent a sharp pain shoot across her ribcage. She pictured her heart broken in two inside her, hanging together by a thin thread that could snap in an instant.
Wouldn’t it be so much easier if one could forget the things that cause us so much pain?
She pictured her children’s faces: Josh, Ellie, Olivia. She tried to remain focused on them. Because, if not, she’d jump off the train at the next stop and hightail it as quickly as she could to the nearest bar. She’d order herself a vodka cocktail of forgetfulness.
It was just so horrendously hard to get her head around the fact that she’d never see Rachel again. Their lives had been linked together through so many highs and lows it was unfathomable to her that Rachel wasn’t here any more to help her through this next difficult stage.
She put her headphones on to listen to an audio book she’d managed to snag from a friend in US. By immersing herself into the world of Pompeii by Robert Harris she tried to forget how sad she was, how scared. And it worked, because before she had another thought, she was walking through her front door at home. Ramona was standing in the kitchen waiting for her, tapping her foot impatiently, arms folded across her chest.
‘Hello, darling,’ Karen said, when Josh flung himself into her arms. He smelled of Play-Doh, markers and raspberry Petits Filous yoghurt.
‘I missed you, Mama.’
‘I missed you too.’ Karen replied, kissing his forehead. He was six years old, blond and the sweetest little boy. He loved life and more than anything else he loved her. While there was much in her life that could be described as shitty, she could never quite get her head around the fact that she was so charmed with her children. Because not only did she have Josh, to her joy, her heart had expanded to love tri-fold when the twins came along. She walked over to the play pen, with Josh clinging on to her leg, dragging him behind her as she went. He squealed with delight at his game.
‘Hello, double trouble.’ She said, scooping up Ellie, whom she placed on one hip, then Olivia whom she placed on the other. ‘How are Mummy’s girls?’
‘I here, still waiting for you.’ Ramona shouted over to her.
‘One moment. I know you are rushing out, I’ve not forgotten. But these little monkeys come first,’ Karen said, her voice tight.
The tut that exploded from Ramona’s mouth let her know that this sentiment wasn’t appreciated. There was never enough time. Karen’s life had become one long, exhausting rush of running to and fro, back and forth, all the while dropping those bloody balls, one by one, with a loud crash to the ground.
Karen placed the girls back in their playpen and left them fighting over a teething ring. Ramona now had her coat on and was hovering at the door.
‘One moment, before you leave. How did it go today?’ Karen asked. ‘Anything I need to know?’
‘All fine,’ Ramona said. ‘I feed, I wash them. I get them ready for bed. Anyways, I go now, Karen.’
‘You are a wonder.’ Karen decided to push her luck. ‘Have you got five minutes? I need to jump in the shower because I’ve managed to step in something on the train that is making my skin crawl.’ Her body involuntarily shivered in response.
‘I no time for showers. I need to go. My Jean-Luc, he no speak no English or Spanish, and I no speak no French. How we talk? How we communicate? You answer me that?’
Karen giggled.
‘What so funny?’ Ramona asked.
Karen put a hand over her mouth and bit back the laughter. ‘Nothing. Honestly.’
‘Anyways. I go now,’ Ramona said.
‘Bon chance,’ Karen said.
‘What?’
‘Bon chance – it’s French for good luck.’
Ramona nodded her head and repeated the words. ‘Bon chance. I like it. Au revoir. That’s goodbye. I learn that myself.’
Karen waved her off and tried to remember when she last felt the flush of first love like that. With Mark, her last boyfriend? No. That was lust, pure and simple, and he was never right for her. Or her children. She shuddered when she thought about how he’d been so tough on Josh. Why did things have to be so bloody difficult?
She realised that a shower was out of the question until the children went to sleep. So for now, she’d have to do the best she could with the mess on her foot with good old baby wipes. It wasn’t the first time they’d come to the rescue. Honestly, over the past six years, she reckoned she had single-handedly been responsible for keeping the baby wipes industry going here in Manchester. They’d gone through thousands of them. This morning when Ellie had spat up on top of her jacket, just before she was due to leave for work, she’d used half a dozen of them cleaning herself up. Little moist miracle workers.
When her foot was finally back to its usual dry condition, she put the kettle on. She knew she should eat something, but she found her interest in food was at an all-time low these days. She’d had a takeaway salad from Pret A Manger earlier at lunchtime, and even that, she struggled to finish.
A craving for a drink snuck up on her once more, creeping its way around her body. A glass of red wine. A Spanish Rioja perhaps. Or a large Grey Goose vodka, with tonic and a splash of lime. She licked her lips, the thirst for alcohol so intense she shivered. Her sobriety hung in the balance. She knew it and she felt powerless to take back control.
In the past, when on the odd occasion she’d felt a speed wobble, as she and Rachel always called them, she’d have just picked up the phone and rung her best friend. Rachel could always talk her down, whatever trouble she found herself in. She’d have got into her beat-up red car and driven over here, her arms full with doughnuts and lattes.
She imagined herself telling Rachel all about her day, right up to the unmentionable sticky goo she’d brought home with her and her conversation with Ramona. And she could almost hear Rachel’s laughter ring out in the empty kitchen. She’d have loved hearing about Ramona and her new French lover. They could have got at least an hour out of the double entendres on that one. And she knew that by the time Rachel left to go home to Adam, everything would have been okay again. Thirst quenched by the love of a best friend.
Loneliness overwhelmed her.
She could imagine Rachel right now, urging her to ring Jenny. When she’d left for America, Karen had started off well, sending emails to her on a regular basis. And Jenny had always answered them. Her stories of settling into the Big Apple were witty and always funny. But then one day, one of them didn’t answer the email straight away. Was it her or Jenny? It didn’t matter. Either ways, it started a new pattern of not responding for a few days, then a week – and before long their
emails trickled out.
The truth of it was this, pure and simple: they’d become lazy. Rachel had been the buffer in between them both. She kept in touch and was always filling Karen in on Jenny’s adventures. And she assumed Rachel did the same with Jenny too, on Karen’s life.
But now that Rachel was gone, the bridge between the two of them was gone too, leaving another gaping hole in her life.
Rachel would say to her, call Jenny, build that bridge. After all, she had been genuinely happy to see Jenny back. She looked wonderful. New York had suited her. Okay Rachel, I’ll ring her tonight.
Once she’d put the children to bed, she settled herself on her couch and dialled Jenny’s number.
‘Hello, Jenny. It’s Karen. Is it a good time?’ Karen said.
‘Oh hi.’ Jenny sounded distracted.
‘How are you? How’s the pregnancy going?’ Karen asked.
‘Right now, it’s bloody horrendous. I’ve only gone and got piles. Bloody horrible painful piles. Pete’s disappeared off the face of the earth, nowhere to be seen. He’s like the flaming scarlet pimpernel these days. I seek him here, I seek him there . . .’ Jenny complained.
‘Is something wrong?’ Karen asked, mildly alarmed. ‘Are you okay?’
Jenny sighed. ‘I’m fine. It’s Pete I’m worried about. I don’t know what’s going on with him this week. He’s not talking to me, not properly.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I was so happy when you two decided to give it another go,’ Karen replied.
‘So was I. But since I’ve moved back in, I seem to spend a lot of time here on my tod,’ Jenny admitted.
‘I know what that feels like. My kids are fast asleep and the house is so quiet,’ Karen said.
‘Lucky you,’ Jenny replied. ‘Little Adam is still running around the house. Bloody Audrey gave him this huge bar of chocolate yesterday, he’s still not come down from that high, twenty-four hours later!’
‘Grandmothers, tell me about it. When we were at Mum’s a few weeks back, she changed every routine I’ve established with the twins, within hours of me arriving. I swore I wouldn’t let her, but . . .’ Karen said.
Cold Feet: The Lost Years Page 6
