Before I Let You In

by Jenny Blackhurst

  Bea replied almost instantly.

  Sounds good. Let me know when. Xx

  Karen was just about to tap out another message, her thumb hovering above the screen, when she heard Michael’s key in the door.

  6

  Eleanor

  As Eleanor left the café, she felt the calm and freedom seep away from her like a physical drain on her body. She had to go and pick Noah up from her mum’s, then it would be back to school for Toby, followed by tea and bathtime. When Adam arrived home, he was usually too knackered to put the boys to bed, so she’d end up doing that too. It would be 8.30 before she could sit down, and then she’d be listening for the monitor all evening, eventually crawling into bed for her three hours’ sleep before Noah woke again.

  As she drove, she thought of Bea and Karen and what they would be doing with their evenings. With Michael away, Karen would probably work, typing up notes, making referrals and sorting invoices, all done from the comfort of her own sofa with a glass of wine in her hand and a trashy movie on TV. Bea would spend her evening at the gym, popping to Eleanor’s long enough to disturb the kids – no matter what she promised – then getting changed to head out with the girls from work, no doubt. She’d drink and laugh until late and then climb into bed safe in the knowledge that tomorrow was Saturday and she could sleep in before lunch out with Karen or one of her other friends.

  Eleanor’s evening looked a bit different. If Noah went down okay she had calls to make about the surprise party she and Bea were arranging for Karen’s birthday in six weeks, and she wanted to make a list of decorations they would need for the VIP suite in the restaurant she’d booked – she still hadn’t decided if they should have a theme. She and Bea had spent a whole afternoon window-shopping for ideas when they’d first started planning it months ago, and all they’d managed to decide was no pink. Then tomorrow Toby had football at 10 a.m., so she and Noah would go to that with him while Adam worked, then they’d all have lunch together before a birthday party with the other mums from the school, followed by a takeaway and a film in the evening. Such a glamorous life.

  She often tried to remind herself that this was what she’d wanted – that this stage of the boys’ lives wouldn’t last forever and she’d miss it when they were teenagers and she could do what she liked. By then, though, she was pretty sure she’d be too knackered from the last ten years to get her glad rags on and go to a nightclub. Did nightclubs even let you in over forty? Maybe there was a special room for people who’d spent their thirties covered in baby sick. And by the time Noah was old enough, Toby would be eighteen, and the thought of him bumping into his mum in C21 sent her into a cold sweat.

  Her phone rang, Adam’s name flashing on the caller ID.

  ‘Hey, love.’ She put him on hands-free and shouted into the receiver.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks, what’s up?’ It wasn’t that Adam never called her in the day any more; it was just that there was always a reason, which usually involved adding to her to-do list. Can you just pick me up …? Can you just post that …? ‘Just’ had become a dirty word in their household.

  ‘Okay. Work’s hectic, though. Just calling to say I’ll be a bit late. Overran today, and I’ve got to fit another call in before I can break for tonight.’

  Her heart sank a little at the words. She envied Adam his ability to let his life ‘run over a bit’ safe in the knowledge that she’d be there to sort everything out. The tea, the house, the kids. Was this how she’d imagined her life when she’d met him? Was domestic drudgery to be her only reward for taking on him and his eighteen-month-old son?

  That wasn’t how she really felt, of course. Toby was every bit her son. She’d raised him for seven years, he called her Mum and he was none the wiser that it wasn’t true. She knew the girls thought she and Adam should tell him about his real mother, but the truth was that she couldn’t bear the thought of their perfect family becoming a little less perfect. Having him shout, ‘You’re not my real mum’ during an argument, or going off to look for the egg donor who dared to call herself his natural mother. There was nothing natural about choosing drink and drugs over your kids. That woman hadn’t earned the right to be the shadow that hung over their lives. And yet she was, because deep down Eleanor knew she was being an awful person for keeping Toby from knowing where he came from. She knew it was selfish and mean, and she justified it by telling herself – and anyone who would listen – that it was for his own good. What kid wanted to know his mother had abandoned him before he could even tell her how much he loved her and needed her? Toby didn’t need that; they didn’t need to be a problem family.

  ‘Okay, baby, I’ll take care of things.’ Eleanor tried not to sigh, but didn’t quite manage it. If he noticed, though, he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Thanks, love.’ There was relief in his voice; there wouldn’t be a fight right now. And even if she was furious later, he could give her a hug and a kiss and say he was sorry and it would all be done with. She couldn’t bear to drag out fights and Adam knew it. ‘You’re a star.’ That was her, Eleanor the star, Eleanor the super-mum. Eleanor the selfish, lying actress.

  ‘Hello, baba!’ As she walked into her mum’s house, Noah started to kick his legs in delight. ‘How’s he been?’

  ‘Absolute gold.’

  She scooped the little boy up and realised how much her arms had missed his weight.

  Just as her mum got up to put the kettle on, Eleanor’s mobile rang.

  Private number. ‘Did someone forget to claim their PPI?’ she murmured to Noah, and cancelled the call. Seconds later, it rang again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Whitney? It’s Georgia Fenton, from Toby’s school.’

  Her stomach lurched. Oh God, what’s happened?

  ‘What’s wrong? Is Toby okay?’

  ‘Yes, Toby’s fine, don’t worry.’ The school secretary’s voice was calm as always. She could be ringing to say that Toby’s leg had fallen off and she’d deliver the news in a panic-free tone. ‘It’s just that it’s the last day of term and all the children leave early today, but no one’s here to collect Toby. We sent out a newsletter weeks ago.’

  Shit. How had she missed that? She always checked Toby’s bag in the evenings, after he’d gone to bed. Maybe not every night, but definitely in the last two weeks.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I’ll be straight there for him.’

  ‘Great, thanks. It’s not a problem for someone to wait with him; it’s just that we have our end-of-term meeting in ten minutes …’ And you, useless mother, are an inconvenience.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

  It took her ten minutes just to collect Noah’s things and bundle him into the car. By the time she arrived at the school, out of breath and dishevelled, it had been half an hour since the call. Toby was sitting in the office looking thoroughly fed up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, aiming her apology at both the secretary and her son. ‘Are you okay, dude?’

  He glared at her. ‘Everyone left ages ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, really I am. I didn’t know.’ She looked up at Mrs Fenton, who tried not to look as annoyed as Toby. ‘I’m sorry about your meeting.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mrs Whitney, really. I bet you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment.’ She shot a pointed look at the car seat, where Noah was cooing happily at the sight of his brother.

  ‘Yes, well, it won’t happen again. I’m not usually disorganised; I mean, I have a whole routine …’ It sounded pathetic even to her. Georgia Fenton might not believe her, but it was true. She ran the house with precision and had promised herself that a new baby wouldn’t change that. She was not the type of person to let things fall apart.

  ‘Even the best-laid plans of mice and men …’ Mrs Fenton ushered them towards the door.

  ‘That was so embarrassing!’ Toby hadn’t stopped glaring since she’d picked him up, an
d after a silent car journey home he made his announcement the minute she opened the front door. ‘I bet you wouldn’t have forgotten that thing!’ He shot a killer look at the car seat, where Noah was now sleeping soundly.

  ‘Tobes, come on, I didn’t forget …’ But it was no good. He’d already run upstairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

  7

  Now

  What happened to the newsletter?

  Which newsletter? The one from Toby’s school? I threw it away.

  You put it in the bin? At home or at work?

  At home, I think. Why is this relevant? It was just a newsletter. Come and visit our forest school, et cetera. I barely read it.

  Did you know it was from Toby’s school?

  Of course I did. He goes to our old school.

  How did you think the newsletter had got into your bag?

  I thought Eleanor had dropped it there at lunch.

  Was it on the top of your bag?

  No, it wasn’t.

  What do you think now about how the letter got in there?

  I know what you want me to say. That she put it in there. That she’d been planning this long before we even knew she existed. You’re right, it must have been her.

  Aren’t you going to say anything?

  8

  Obsession. It starts slowly, like a train pulling out of a station. You can still see the houses and trees around you, you can still make out the details of people in their windows or dark green tractors in their light green fields; then it starts to gain momentum, and the houses are still there, but the people aren’t visible in the windows any more. Colours start to blur, dark green bleeds into light, and you realise that if you don’t find a way to get off now, you are going to spin off the track altogether.

  That’s how it was with me, at least. I’ve been watching them for years now and I never saw the train speeding up, never noticed the colours around me beginning to merge until it was too late. The way they bounced off one another even as five-years-olds – I wanted it, I craved it. I prayed that one day they would need me the way they needed each other.

  As they grew older, they grew closer – not like other girls I studied, so easily torn apart by boys or differing interests. They were like sisters – closer even, because they had chosen each other.

  If you asked me to pin down the moment it all changed, I would tell you it was impossible. A series of unfortunate events that jolted our lives off their tracks. Sliding-door moments, they call them. If I had chosen to prepare my letters before entering the post office that day; if I had remembered to pick up the packet of envelopes from my kitchen drawer rather than having to steal a dozen loose ones from the stationery cupboard at work; if a family of rats hadn’t chosen that week to chew through the electrics at the local post office, forcing me into the town, things would have turned out differently for four women.

  I had been rushing, the task I had set myself that day firm and unerring in my mind. I’d already been put so far behind by my uncharacteristic disorganisation, I didn’t have time to mess around. I was determined not to be sidetracked by the books that lined the shelves of WHSmith, or by the stationery strategically placed at the entrance of the post office contained within the bookstore. So determined was I to beat the lunchtime rush that I almost didn’t see them, probably wouldn’t have if Bea hadn’t chosen that moment to let out a shrieking laugh, a laugh I would have picked out at a Justin Bieber concert, and in that instant I almost felt the flapping of the butterfly wings that would cause a tsunami in our lives.

  I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

  They walked past the entrance to the post office, just the two of them that day, Eleanor heavily pregnant and insisting they use the lift, her hand resting on her stomach to emphasise her encumbered state, Bea humouring her, although I was certain she would be groaning inwardly at her friend’s theatrics

  I turned away from them too quickly, almost stumbling into the woman next to me in the queue. I muttered an apology, or perhaps the words had formed in my mind but got lost before they had crossed my lips. Ignoring the rush of blood to my face and shoving my post back into my bag, I bolted towards the stairs, not knowing what I planned to do when I reached the top, and saw them leave the lift.

  In truth, I did nothing, just watched from behind a gondola of brightly coloured cards emblazoned with birthday greetings as they linked arms like carefree fifteen-year-old girls, rather than the thirty-something women they were, and left the store, the air inside seeming more alive for having had them in it.

  By the time I reached the fresh air of the high street, the roar of blood in my ears had slowed to a steady pulsing, the flames that had blazed under my collar had been extinguished and my legs no longer shook. I flattened my back against the cool stone wall and let all my senses return to their resting state, allowed my eyes to close for a second as my composure returned.

  It might seem irrational – allowing that small act of seeing them in a place that I hadn’t expected them to be to shake me to the extent it did. In some ways it was akin to seeing your teacher in their normal clothes and realising that they continue to exist when you are not looking at them, that their life carries on even without you holding up the microscope to it. I hadn’t been prepared. I hadn’t even known Bea had the day off work – and I thought I was at a point where I knew everything about them. Obviously I hadn’t been paying close enough attention. I’d let the ball drop and now here we were.

  My sliding door, my choice. Would I return home now, letters shoved hastily into my handbag, and let my normal life whitewash over the last ten minutes, ugly graffiti on a wall quickly replaced by a pastel hue? If I had, who knows how differently things would have turned out? That slow IV full of obsession that dripped into my veins over the weeks that followed – would it still have consumed me as completely as if it were heroin?

  I wandered around the town without purpose or explanation after that, terrified at the thought that I might see them again and terrified that I wouldn’t. When I did – of course in a town this small it was inevitable – I was relieved that my reaction was less physical than the first time. See? I wasn’t in the grip of my obsession; I was still in control.

  This time I drank in the details of the women who strolled with a casual air of contentment through the shopping centre as though I was seeing them for the first time, not the millionth. Bea wore designer heels and clutched her handbag like it was an Oscar, walking slightly ahead of Eleanor as though guarding her groaning baby bump with her very life. Eleanor herself kept one hand on her stomach, stylish even in maternity wear.

  And now my reaction was decidedly more measured. Sure, my heart was beating a bit faster, and I noticed how warm it was in the shopping centre, but it wasn’t like I threw up or passed out or anything dramatic like that. And when I saw them go into the café for lunch – well, I was going to just grab a sandwich from Wilko’s with what little time I had left, but the café across the street from them looked nice, and I deserved something good to eat. There was nothing more to it than that. Drip, drip.

  What harm could come from just watching them? I’d made an art form of it over the years.

  I thought about them on the way home, of course, but that was because I’d just seen them – it’s not like they were always at the forefront of my mind. I had my own life. It’s hard to believe now, but my existence hadn’t always revolved so fully around where they were or what they were doing.

  Bea had ordered a glass of wine with her lunch, laughing at the disapproving looks from her abstinent friend. Obviously I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when they laughed I imagined that they were commenting on how Karen – always the sensible one – wouldn’t have approved of wine on a work day. Maybe Bea wouldn’t return to work at all – why else would she be drinking midweek? I imagined that their voices weren’t loud but still managed to practically block out everyone else in the café, and noticed how they didn’t even look up to se
e if anyone was staring with disapproval when they laughed, or when Bea knocked the basket of complimentary crisps flying off the table.

  I was still thinking about Eleanor’s raucous laughter when my phone rang. It was work asking me to pick up the hump-day cakes, and my attention was ripped away from the women as quickly as if I’d never seen them.

  9

  Eleanor

  The cupboards heaving with freshly brought produce sure to spoil before it made its way into one of the culinary delights she vowed to make ‘one of these days’ and all visible surfaces wiped over with a baby wipe, Eleanor sighed and flicked on the kettle. She crossed two of the jobs off the everlasting list stuck to the pinboard in the kitchen, and was just adding three more when her mobile started playing ‘All About That Bass’ from the other room.

  ‘Hey you.’ She answered Bea’s call with her phone under her chin. ‘I forgot to say good save the other day. I’m guessing you forgot to book the restaurant?’

  Bea sighed. ‘Yup. And it’s taken on the day we wanted it – we’ll have to resend all the bloody invites and I know you worked really hard on them. Sorry, Els. Do we change the date or the venue?’

  ‘Neither.’ Eleanor grinned, and then realised Bea couldn’t see her smugness. ‘I booked it months ago when we first talked about this birthday thing. Before the baby brain took over.’

  Eleanor pushed Iron Man to one side with her foot to gather up that morning’s discarded pyjamas. She picked through the pile of clothes, silently judging which ones were good for another wear before they were added to her ever-increasing washing pile. Pants, wash. Socks, wash. Pyjama top, no visible stains … She held it against her face and inhaled. Wash.