by Carrie Elks
“I started legal action, but Claire threatened to leave the country. If she did that I'd never see Mathilda again. It's fucking killing me, but there's nothing else I could do.”
“So you came here? Was that the right decision? What if she changes her mind and you're half a world away?”
“I can get back within twenty-four hours. I'm hoping my being away will give her the chance to cool off.” He looks out of the window, his eyes shadowed, brow lined. “Anyway, it was killing me being so close and not seeing her.”
I can understand that.
David's quiet for a minute and his introspection allows me to take in my surroundings. Converted from the ground floor of what was once a Victorian, terraced house, his flat differs from ours. The bay window that has limited use in our upstairs bedroom is glorious here, streaming in light, the curve accentuated by a window seat that follows the edge of the glass. There are photos of Mathilda everywhere; as a new-born cradled in his muscled, tanned arms, as an almost-toddler with golden curls that cling to her head like a cap. You can tell she’s his from the shape of her eyes, the way her smile makes her nose crinkle.
She’s beautiful in the way only a baby can be. Skin flawless, face innocent, untouched by the world. I wonder if she misses him, if she stares at the door waiting for her daddy to swing her around. I hope one day she will realise none of this is his fault.
“So, your husband popped over last night.” David changes the subject and I can't say I blame him. I go along with it, even though I've heard the story from Alex.
“He did? How did it go?”
David smiles, his teeth white and perfect. “He's all right. He said he was a dick and that he was sorry. I said it was okay and we opened a tinny.”
“That'll explain why he was half-cut when he got home.”
“Half-cut?”
“Drunk, pissed. Swimming in beer,” I explain. David starts to smirk. “How much did you give him anyway?”
“Enough.” He mimes pulling a zip along his mouth. I've known enough of Alex's friends to understand this is guy code. If a wife asks, you don't tell.
“Well, I'm glad you both cleared the air. And he was a dick the other night. I told him so. He's not the same when he comes off the stage, it's like he's so pumped up there's nothing left but aggression.” I blush when I remember exactly how he got rid of it. By bending me over a sink with my knickers around my ankles. “He's a nice guy in real life.”
“He has to be, you married him after all.” David stands up, grabbing my empty mug from the table. “Another coffee?” I glance over at the buggy in the corner of the room. Max is sound asleep, sucking at his fingers, his face screwed up as if dreaming is stealing all his concentration. There's a patch of red on each of his arms where he scratches furiously at night.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don't want to disturb you.” I'd only popped in to ask him if he was free next weekend. Fear of Flying are playing at a small festival in Oxfordshire. Though Alex and the band will be there all weekend, a few of us are traveling down on Saturday to watch their set. I'm nervous about taking Max to a festival—in a field in the middle of nowhere—but I figure there's safety in numbers. Maybe we can form some kind of human shield around him.
“I was getting bored with work anyway. I figure the least I can do is pay you for the ticket in caffeine.” He flashes his northern-territory grin again. “I like the sound of Alex's sister.”
“Amy?” My eyes widen. “Isn't she a bit young for you?” I don't mean that. What I really mean is don't go there. Amy has been on-again, off-again with the same guy since they were school kids. Their relationship is more unstable than nitro-glycerine. If David gets too close it's likely to burn him.
“The librarian?” he clarifies and my eyes widen. He's talking about Andrea, Alex's other sister. Calm, reliable Andrea—the one member of the family who eschews volatility. She's the opposite of what I imagine David would like. She likes books, cooking, quiet nights in. Alex jokes she's been middle-aged since she was a teenager.
“Yeah, that one. I'm imagining her in dark glasses and a messy bun. Skirt stopping right below her arse.”
I squint my eyes, trying to see her objectively. She's always been Alex's sister to me, fluttering around, looking after everybody, panicking when the roast takes too long to cook.
“She's sweet.” It comes out as a warning. My tone surprises me, but with his muscled bulk and lascivious smile, David looks like he eats librarians for a mid-morning snack. Plus she's Alex's sister, and I don't care how much they managed to smooth things over last night, David shouldn't go there.
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head. The teensiest bit of regret starts to bloom in my gut. “She's single, I think she likes it that way. Andrea is an independent woman.” If she has any flings she keeps them well out of the way of her mum's house in Plaistow. I've probably only seen her with a guy twice in the last five years.
My warnings do nothing to cool David's interest. When I mention her independence his eyes light up. “She sounds perfect.”
Seeing Andrea through his eyes makes my stomach hurt. I feel guilty I've dismissed her as being a sister, a daughter. Now, the thought of her is blooming in my mind like a rose, and though I'm no matchmaker, I can't help but wonder what she'd think of him. Because from the little I know of David, she may be the one thing he needs.
“She is.”
“So what are the plans for the concert?”
“The festival? I haven't firmed anything up yet, but I'm hoping Andie might drive.” She's the only one of us with a car—as old and temperamental as it is. Alex will be going in the van with the band, but that still means four of us plus Max need to squeeze into Andrea's car. “It should be fun, though,” I say brightly. “Lots of good bands are playing there.”
I'm understating it. Landing a spot at the festival has been a huge coup; Alex is so excited he's practically vibrating. The whole band are constantly talking about record deals and YouTube discovery, and if I'm being truly honest I feel a little bit left out. Even worse, I feel as though I'm a dead weight, holding Alex down when he should be soaring.
If it wasn't for Max and me, I know he would have given up his building jobs by now. It makes sense he should be recording songs and travelling the country rather than carrying bricks and laying floorboards. Underlying it all—the black thought I keep trying to swallow away—is the awareness that I was the one who wanted a baby more than Alex. Even if he came around, I can't help but feel that one day he might resent me.
“I saw the list of bands, they're amazing.” David smiles, totally unaware of the shamed thoughts flashing through my mind. “It's going to be great, thanks so much for asking me.”
“You're welcome.” I mean it, I really do. “As long as you know you're second in command with baby duty. Amy's never changed a nappy in her life, and I can't see Andrea being a fan of dirty ones.”
“Dirty nappies I can do,” he agrees easily. “A small price to pay.”
* * *
The day passes in a blur of naps and baby rice, set to a soundtrack of gurgles and wails. When I glance in the mirror at seven o'clock I realise I haven't even brushed my hair, let alone put on any make up. Not that it matters; apart from my jaunt downstairs to see David, the farthest I've been all day is a trip out to the local shop to pick up a pint of milk.
When Max is finally asleep, I check my phone to see if Alex has called or texted. It's their night at the recording studio, so I'm not surprised when there's no message. I busy myself with cleaning up the kitchen, putting some bottles on to sterilise as I sip at a cup of tea. Apart from his night time feed, Max is finally weaned to the bottle, and I'm hoping to drop the final one, just as soon as he sleeps through the night.
Sleep. It seems like the Promised Land, a nirvana I can never reach. Alex's mum has suggested controlled crying, but the irony is I'm too tired to listen to his grizzles. Faced with a choice between a night awake list
ening to him cry, versus a short feed followed by blissful sleep, I'm going to take the easy way out.
At nine, I take a welcome shower, letting the hot water soothe my skin. Steam fills the cubicle like fog in a horror movie, rising up, seeping through the cracks. I stay in there for so long that even my towel is damp when I get out, and the glass is misted and opaque. There's the outline of a heart in the mirror, with an A above and an L below, and the sight makes me roll my eyes. I'm guessing Alex did it this morning, all happy and sated from our night time shenanigans.
I'm in my pyjamas by the time Alex gets home. He climbs the stairs to the flat like a ninja, because the first time I hear him is when his key slips into the lock. The mechanism clangs as he turns it, and I hear him having to lean on the door where the wood is stuck. It opens with a bang.
“Hey, babe. How was your day?” He shrugs off his coat and walks over, kissing my cheek. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. He smells of beer and smoke. Not the cigarette kind, either. He doesn't seem to notice my grimace, instead he flings himself into a chair, running his hand through his hair. “Max okay?”
“Fine.” My mood has turned on a sixpence. I've gone from mellowed out to annoyed in one breath. Alex knows how I feel about drugs. I've been working in a clinic for five years, for goodness sake; I've seen the effects they have on families, on relationships. Even the mildest of weed can destroy lives. And yes, I dabbled when I was younger—smoked pot and tried cocaine—but I haven't touched anything for years, haven't wanted to. I've seen too many people suffer as a result of them.
Alex is completely oblivious. He grabs the remote control from the coffee table and switches on the TV, flipping through the channels until he finds a football game. Crossing his legs, he puts his feet on the table, leaning back into his chair.
“How was the session?” It's an effort to keep my tone cordial.
“Yeah, it was good. We managed to lay down a couple of tracks.” His eyes are on the screen as he talks to me, as if I'm the distraction. It's no good, I can feel the anger simmering. If I don't say something I'm going to explode.
“Have you been smoking?”
This time he looks at me. Surprise lifts up his brow. “We shared a joint afterward.” He shrugs. No big deal, not to him.
“Who's we?” Now I feel like his mum. This is not what I want to be doing at half past ten on a Monday night.
“Me and Stu.” He mutes the TV, though I notice he doesn't turn it off altogether. “What's the problem anyway? It's not like I was stuffing my nose or injecting. It was only a joint, sweetheart.” He says the word with a sneer, cancelling out the endearment.
“Don't patronise me. I know people who have died from joints, or ended up with personality disorders. Why d'you think the stuff is banned?”
Alex folds his arms in front of his chest, hands sliding over his biceps. Then he deliberately turns his head away and mumbles something.
He knows that drives me crazy.
“What?” It's like talking to a kid. “Did you say something?”
He shrugs. “Doesn't matter.”
I'm nothing if not persistent. “What did you say?” I demand.
A long, deep sigh. “What I said, Lara, is that you're the one with the personality disorder.”
What the hell?
I sit there for a moment, stunned. I know he's drunk, and high, but that's not a free pass to being an asshole. I can't deny there's a part of me that is really hurt by his comment, by the tiny truth inside that stings. Yes, I have changed since having Max. I found it really bloody hard at first, and suffered from the baby blues. But who doesn't change? Babies are supposed to do that to you.
Not that Alex has got the memo. His life has gone on pretty much in the way it always has. Work, the band, drinking, smoking. I'm struggling to think of one thing he's had to give up since becoming a dad.
“Fuck you.” It comes out louder than I intend it to. “I can't believe you said that.”
“If the cap fits, baby.”
I want to shove the cap up his behind. “Rather than criticise me, maybe you should take a good look at yourself. Twenty-nine years old yet still a big bloody kid. Your mum has a lot to answer for.”
“Leave my mum out of it,” he warns. “She's been nothing but nice to you.”
“If she was nice she'd have taught you how to cook, or iron, or told you that a toilet doesn't magically clean itself. But no, she pampers you and makes your tea and thinks the sun shines out of your arse.” Oh, I'm on a roll now. All those little things we swallow down when things are good have a tendency to rise up when the water gets murky. Tiny irritations, mini-judgements, they're all stewing in my thoughts.
“I can cook a fucking meal. Stop moaning about how hard you have it; what the fuck do you do at home all day anyway? While I'm bringing home the money so you can put your fucking feet up?” He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees. There's a mean twist to his lips that both frightens and exhilarates me.
“I'm bringing home maternity pay. And I'll be back at work in a couple of weeks, leaving our baby in a nursery for someone else to look after. Because I can't afford to do anything else.” Angry tears sting at my eyes. “So don't you ever have a go at me about money; I'm bringing in more than my share.” I hate the way I can feel my lip trembling. Not because I'm sad but because I'm angry. Fury has always made my eyes water.
“It's all my fucking fault is it? Poor Lara, having to get a bloody job because her husband's inadequate. Did you ever think that if weren’t for you and Max I might actually be out there making something of myself? That we could really make a go of the band if I didn't have to work on some shitty building yard all day so we can afford our bloody rent?” He's actually shouting now.
“Well, I'm so fucking sorry we're holding you back.” I don't swear that much, but it slips out, lubricated by ire. “Max is your baby too, you know.”
“You're the one who wanted him in the first place, not me.”
I'm breathless. Stunned. What a truly horrible thing to say. The tears that fall down my cheeks aren't from anger anymore. Shock, maybe, sadness for sure. I close my eyes and more tears squeeze out, hot and fat as they roll. And though I cover my dry mouth with the palm of my hand, a sob still manages to escape.
“Lara?” His voice is quieter, anxious. “Babe? I didn't mean it. You know I love Maxie. I'd kill for him. He's the love of my life, apart from you.” My eyes are still squeezed shut, but I hear him approach, the thud of the floorboards as he kneels beside me. He takes the hand that isn't clutching my mouth and sandwiches it between his own. “I'm sorry, I'm such a wanker. I know how hard going back to work is for you. It's killing me to see you so upset.” He cups my face, wiping away my tears. “Please don't cry, baby.”
How can my mouth be so dry when my face is soaked? I take a deep breath, opening my eyes, and through the blurry haze I see his concerned expression. He leans closer, kissing the tears from my cheeks, his lips soft against my skin. “I love you, and I love Max,” he murmurs against me. “You know that, right?”
Shakily, I nod my head. I do know that. I'm also grown up enough to understand we don't always mean the words we say in anger. But, I can't help feeling there's a small kernel of truth there, a festering resentment that we are a burden he has to carry. I hate the way motherhood has made me feel so vulnerable. I'm able to take it when people hurt and attack me, but not my baby. Not Max.
“I'll lay off the joints, I promise.” More kisses. “I know it annoys you so I'll try not to do it.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice croaky.
He kisses me again, this time on the mouth, his hands pressed to my cheeks. My lips are cracked, but moistened by tears, and when I kiss him back I taste their saltiness. It mingles with the flavour of beer and smoke, the mixture filling my head with memories of our argument, of the way we both hurt each other.
“I'm sorry.”
“I'm so fucking sorry, baby.”
We say it in tandem,
lips moving as we whisper into each other's mouths. My whole body relaxes, the tension disappearing from my muscles, and I melt into him as he holds me. Though his kisses are hard and fast, that's all they are, kisses. Not a prelude to making-up sex, or an angry roll, simply soft and sweet and everything I need.
We stay like that for a long time. Alex kneeling on the floor, while I’m perched on the edge of the seat. His hands caress my face as I dig mine into the nape of his neck, my nails scraping at the part where his hairline meets his skin. We are hot breath and soft lips, sliding tongues and muted sighs. The bitter edge of our argument dissipates, leaving only the shadow of pain and warm, sugary love.
7
Two weeks later and the thing I’ve been dreading arrives; my first day back at work. Even when Max is asleep I spend most of the night tossing and turning, waking up with the sheets tangled around my legs like cotton cuffs. My body is covered with a sheen of sweat, my skin overheated by the proximity of Alex's warm, muscled chest. His right arm is flung across me, as if he's trying to hold me down. I wonder if I kept him awake, too. I have anxieties enough for both of us.
Going back to work seems like a mountain to climb. I fret about settling Max at nursery, about getting to the clinic on time. I worry about remembering where all my files are and whether I'll be able to use the computer. It’s stupid because I know this stuff, I can do it with my eyes closed, and I suspect all of it is my subconscious distracting me from the biggest issue of all.
The fact I have to leave my baby.
I get up and peek into his cot, noticing Max is fast asleep. Tiptoeing, I make my way to the bathroom and take a long shower, luxuriating in the ten minutes I get to spend alone with my thoughts. Then I remember Alex's definition of those words and I start to giggle, managing to cut myself as I drag a razor down my armpit.
