by Isabel Wolff
Ahead was the huge rotunda of the Imax, and to the left, the Festival Hall. Below us was a line of waiting taxis, as black and shiny as stag beetles, but Mike walked purposefully on. He turned left into York Road, passing underneath the overhead walkway to the Shell Centre. The pavement was wide so I had an uninterrupted view of him now, about fifty yards ahead. He was walking confidently. Unhesitatingly. He’d clearly come this way many times before. Now, on the right, was the London Eye, its glass pods glinting in the early evening sunlight. I thought, with a pang, of Nick.
Mike had stopped at the crossing. As he waited to go over I hovered at a nearby bus stop in order to preserve a safe distance. Then, as the green man beeped him over, I set off in pursuit again. As he got to the other side he quickened his pace and I was aware that I had a stitch in my side and a grating in my throat. To my right was County Hall, and now I could see Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, its goldleafed turrets winking in the sun. We were on Westminster Bridge—the buses rumbling past—the river broad and brown and shiny beneath it, a stiff breeze blowing my hair.
Mike had walked to the other side, but as I waited for a gap in the traffic, glad to catch my breath, I saw that he didn’t turn right, to cross over the river, as I’d imagined. Instead he went straight on. Now he was entering the grounds of St Thomas’s hospital. As we skirted its perimeter I assumed he’d walk past it, on his way further down the embankment, but, to my surprise, he was following the signs to the main entrance, and now he was going through the sliding doors, sidestepping a patient in a green hospital gown and a foot plaster.
What the hell was Mike doing here? It was hardly the place for a romantic rendezvous. Maybe his girlfriend was a doctor, or a nurse and he was picking her up at the end of her shift. Perhaps he was visiting a friend? Or perhaps…yes…perhaps he was having treatment for something? That must be it, I decided as I passed the flower shop. I felt a sudden surge of relief. He had something wrong with him, but was protecting Hope. Except that it would be a strange time of day to be having outpatient treatment, and in any case what about the silver bracelet, with the gold heart clasp, engraved with the name ‘Clare’? Unless it was Clare who was ill…Yes. That was it, I now saw as I followed Mike down the corridor, towards the North Wing. Clare was a patient here. That’s why he was looking so sad. She’d been in hospital for two months, so it must be serious. I imagined her sunken cheeks, and his tears.
He had stopped at the bank of lifts. As he pressed the button, I quickly retreated out of his eye line towards the café. I’d successfully followed him this far, and didn’t want him to see me. But what would I say if he did? At least, here, I’d have a credible excuse. I’d feign astonishment at ‘bumping into’ him then tell him that I was visiting a friend. But Mike was in no danger of seeing me. He seemed oblivious to the eight or so people around him as he stared at the floor, totally absorbed. There was a ping, and they all drew back as the lift opened, disgorging its human cargo—then they all stepped on and the doors closed again. Mike had gone—and I had no idea where.
I rushed forward to get the next lift. It arrived within seconds and I stepped in then pressed all the buttons. There had been so many people on Mike’s lift that it would probably stop at most floors, so I was going to make sure my lift did too. That way I might just catch a glimpse of him in the corridor as the doors opened each time.
First floor. Door opening, intoned the automated voice. I peered out into the lobby. There was no sign of Mike in either direction. The door closed and we lurched upwards again.
Second floor. Door opening. I couldn’t see Mike, but four more people got on so I made sure I didn’t allow myself to be jostled to the back. A woman in a wheelchair glared at me for not moving, but I needed to keep my vantage point.
Third floor. Door opening…Fourth floor. Door opening…Fifth floor… Each time it stopped I peered out into the corridors, but I didn’t see Mike. I’d lost him…
Seventh Floor. Door opening. The doors drew back, and suddenly there he was, fifteen yards or so to my left, waiting to be let into a ward—I couldn’t see which one as he was standing in front of the sign. As I stepped out, he lifted his hand to the large red buzzer and pressed it. I crept around the corner, my heart banging with the tension of being so close, then I stood by a notice board, pretending to be absorbed in a poster about the MMR jab. I stole a glance at Mike, and saw him press the buzzer again, then I heard an exasperated sigh. He’d obviously been waiting some time. Now he rapped on the glass with his right hand, then suddenly lifted his left hand and waved. The door was opened for him, by a nurse in a green tunic and trousers.
‘Hi Mike,’ I heard her say. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine thanks, Julie. And how is she today?’ he added anxiously as she ushered him inside.
‘About the same. But she’ll be all the better for seeing you.’ The sign on the wall said Post-Natal Unit. No Unauthorised Entry.
I waited a few minutes, staring at notices about breast-feeding and the NCT, but taking in none of it. Then I went up to the door. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I simply had to know more. But I’d only be allowed in if they thought I was a visitor. And I was wondering how I’d get round this, when I heard the lift ping open behind me, and a man and a little boy came out. The man was holding a large bunch of white tulips, and the boy was clutching a big teddy bear with a blue ribbon round its neck. They came and stood alongside me, then the man pressed the buzzer. Now, through the glass panel, I saw a nurse advancing towards us. The door was opened.
‘We’ve come to see my wife, Sandra King,’ he said. The nurse—assuming that we were together—ushered us inside. I breathed a sigh of relief—I was in. Then, as I made my way slowly down the long corridor, aware of the smell of antiseptic mixed with floor polish, my pulse began to race again. I could hear babies crying. The sound shredded my heart—not just for the usual reasons, but because I knew that one of these babies was Mike’s.
I tried to work out the dates. Hope said he’d been behaving suspiciously since the end of January. If he’d been coming here, twice a week, since then, that would mean that the baby must have been premature. Now, as I passed two empty incubators, I understood the true reason for his hostile behaviour at Olivia’s christening. He must have been sitting there, consumed not just with guilt, but with fear. I thought of the baby’s tiny body, its miniscule limbs, thinner than my fingers, attached to trailing wires and tubes. A christening was the last place in the world Mike would have wanted to be.
Now, as I approached the nurses’ station, I tried to imagine the level of deceit that he’d had to maintain in order to conceal all this from Hope. Not just over the last two months, but long before that, as Clare’s pregnancy progressed. I wondered how long they’d been involved. At least a year—maybe two or three. A nurse smiled at me as I walked past the desk, so I smiled back praying that she wouldn’t ask me who I’d come to see. On my right now were the small side-wards, with visitors milling around each curtained bed, and the occasional glimpse of a recumbent mother, or of a swaddled newborn in its see-through bassinet. Now I turned left and found myself in another, vertiginously long, corridor. A woman in a yellow waffle weave dressing gown walked slowly past me, gingerly clutching her abdomen—she’d obviously given birth not long before. And there, right at the very end, oblivious to my presence, was Mike…
He was holding a baby. His baby. He’d taken off his jacket, and had rolled up his sleeves, and had it on his left shoulder. I could see its tiny face, puce with distress. He was patting its back, and walking up and down with it, a few feet in each direction, gently bouncing it, or stopping and rocking back and forth on his heels. The baby was wearing a white babygro and a white hat, and it was crying in the relentless, rhythmic way that newborns do.
‘Araaah…Araaah…Araaah…Araaah…‘
As it stopped to draw breath I could just hear him comforting it. ‘Shhhh…Shhh…Shhhh, darling. It’s okay. It’s okay my little baby�
�you’ll be fine…you’ll be fine. Shhhh now darling…Shhhh now my baby…’
‘Araaah…Araaah…Araaah…’
I retreated further away, then sat on a chair, just watching him for two or three minutes as he walked up and down with the baby in his arms. I was so shocked I could hear myself breathe. And now I tried to imagine telling Hope…
Yes, Hope, I did follow Mike, and yes, I did see where he went—no, I didn’t lose him—but I’m afraid it’s not good news because…yes…he does…he does seem to have someone, and actually it looks as though it’s a bit worse even than that because you see…well…you see…there’s a baby, Hope, and…yes…a baby…yes…I don’t know…I don’t know…I don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy, but…that’s right…it is…it is his baby…I’m sorry, Hope…because I saw it…I did, I definitely saw it with my own eyes…in the hospital…St Thomas’s…oh please don’t cry, Hope…please don’t cry…I’m afraid it is true…it is…Yes, it was definitely Mike…I saw him walking up and down with this baby. Comforting it, because it was crying an awful lot because it must have been born prematurely, although it’s not in an incubator any more, but it still seems to need medical care. And I think that that’s what he’s been doing for the past two months, going to the hospital to visit his baby—and that’s why his behaviour’s been so odd and so—what was the word you used?—emotional. That’s it. And this is why. And you’re just going to have to talk to him about it, and tell him that you know the truth now, you know the truth and then…I’m sorry, Hope. I thought you might be wrong, but you weren’t wrong…you weren’t wrong at all…I’m sorry, Hope…I’m really sorry…
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mm?’
As I came to I saw that the woman who was speaking to me was wearing a badge that said she was a senior midwife; Special Care it announced beneath. ‘Can I help you?’ she repeated. ‘Who is it you’ve come to see?’
‘I’ve come to see…’ I glanced at Mike, and felt my throat constrict.
‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘You look upset.’
‘It’s…rather awkward. Could I just have a word?’
I walked out of the hospital twenty minutes later, in turmoil. How could Hope and Mike stay together now? It would be impossible. I hadn’t spoken to him—I hadn’t wanted to—but I’d found out everything I needed to know, and now I’d have to break it to Hope. I imagined her sitting at home, desperate for me to call, but I wasn’t going to—at least not yet. So I left my mobile on answer mode then walked over Westminster Bridge in the fading light, crossed Parliament Square, then hailed a cab home. As we drove through Victoria I decided that I couldn’t possibly tell Hope the truth over the phone. So instead of going back to the flat, where she could reach me, I decided I’d go and find Luke—not least because I suddenly remembered I’d said I’d try and get to the party. It was a quarter to nine—he’d still be there.
I asked the driver to take me to Chepstow Road. As he dropped me outside the gallery I could see that there were a dozen or so people inside, clutching empty glasses, laughing and talking. I paid the driver, and went in. As I pushed on the door, I saw Hugh. This was all I needed.
‘Hugh,’ I said. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Hi Laura!’ He kissed me on the cheek as though it was perfectly normal that I should catch him at a private view with a woman other than my sister.
‘Hello Chantal,’ I said pleasantly. ‘How funny seeing you both here.’
‘Well I like to support local arts events,’ said Hugh. ‘And Chantal and I have just been for a drink, so she decided to come along too.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, blushing.
‘But we were just leaving,’ Hugh said.
‘Well send my love to Fliss,’ I added brightly.
‘Will do,’ he replied nonchalantly. What a nerve.
‘Laura!’ I heard Luke say. He kissed me.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said. ‘I got delayed by something and…’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said warmly. ‘I’m just so glad you’re here.’
‘That was my brother-in-law,’ I said with a nod through the plate glass window at Hugh’s departing back. ‘He’s married to Felicity.’
‘I know. I remembered meeting him with you once, years ago, and he introduced himself again. So who’s the blonde he was with?’
‘One of Felicity’s friends, Chantal Vane. I think it’s a bit…off actually.’
‘Why? Oh. I see. Do you think they’re…?’
‘I don’t know. I hope to God not.’ I’d had enough problems with my sisters’ husbands. ‘Anyway, how’s it gone?’
He beamed. ‘It’s been fantastic. We had a hundred and fifty people here, and we sold ten paintings. Craig’s already left,’ he added, ‘but let me show you his pictures.’
As we walked round the gallery, I was careful to exclaim over them even though they didn’t do much for me—just primary coloured oils trowelled on to the canvas, impasto, in a vibrant, but seemingly arbitrary way. I tried to take in what Luke was saying about non-representational, abstract art and the intellectual challenges it presents—the way that discussing it takes you almost into the realms of philosophy—but it was hard to concentrate. I felt as though he was talking to me from the other end of a long dark, tunnel. Then he introduced me to some friends of his, Grant and Imogen, whose nine-month-old baby was his goddaughter.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Luke said. ‘Jessica adores her too.’
‘Is she your first one?’ I asked Imogen politely.
‘My first,’ she replied. ‘Grant has two lovely boys of twelve and nine. They adore Alice—don’t they darling? She’s a lucky little girl.’
He nodded happily. ‘She is.’
We exchanged a few further pleasantries, then they said they’d have to get back, and now the last stragglers were drifting away and Luke and I were able to go while his gallery assistant, Kirsty, cleared the last of the glasses and locked up.
‘There was so much interest,’ he said happily, as we strolled back to his house. ‘I was worried that coming so close after Easter there wouldn’t be, but everyone came and there was a real buzz. Are you okay?’ he said suddenly. ‘You seem a bit…quiet.’
‘Well, I’ve got a…headache,’ I said truthfully.
‘Poor you. I’ll make it go away.’
‘I don’t think you can.’ I thought of Hope, still waiting and wondering, unable to get through to me. But I couldn’t ring her now, even if I wanted to, because by now Mike would be back. I decided I’d call her first thing. But how could I possibly tell her something so grave over the phone? I couldn’t. It had to be done face-to-face. Suddenly I knew what to do. Yes. That was it…
‘We’ll spend the rest of the evening quietly,’ Luke said, holding my hand. ‘We could unwind with a film—a nice Hammer Horror, or we could see The Mummy’s Revenge. That’s fun.’
Now we were walking up Lonsdale Road, and we’d drawn level with the house, and Luke had just opened the gate when he suddenly stopped. Lying on the flagstones in his front garden was a pair of jeans.
‘What in God’s name are these doing here?’ As he lifted them up I felt a sudden thud in my rib cage. ‘And these…‘ He picked up a pair of white briefs, and a pink t-shirt which had been lying on the doorstep. ‘What on earth… ?’
‘They’re mine,’ I said quietly.
‘They’re yours?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a sick feeling.
‘Oh. God…‘ He unlocked the door, turned off the burglar alarm, then we went upstairs. He switched on the light in the bedroom.
‘Oh. God…‘ he repeated softly.
The first thing we saw was my silk kimono. It was hard to recognize, given that it had been slashed into about twenty pieces of varying size which were strewn over the bed and floor. There were bits of it on the chest of drawers, on the dressing stool, and on the bedside table. A piece had floated down on to Wilkie and had covered his head, like a handkerchief, as
though he was sunbathing.
‘Oh God…‘ Luke murmured again. ‘I’m sorry, Laura.’ He picked up a scrap of blue silk. ‘I don’t know what to say. I feel…ashamed. I’ll get you another one,’ he added impotently.
‘No…Please…Don’t bother,’ I breathed, too stunned to express my outrage. ‘Really…’
He sank on to the foot of the bed. ‘I’m so sorry Laura…’ He shook his head. ‘She’s just…insane.‘
I went into the bathroom. The lid of the loo was down, and out of the side of it hung one arm of my green cashmere cardigan, as though it had been struggling to get out. As I lifted the seat I was, at least, grateful that the water into which Magda had plunged it appeared to be clean. She had written Bitch! in large capitals, with my lipstick, on the bathroom mirror, and had then ground the remainder into the sink. She had sprayed my hair mousse all over the walls. She had tipped my makeup into the bidet, and squeezed toothpaste all over it. She had put my hairdryer, the flex cut off, in the bin.
I imagined Magda carrying out this destruction in a breathless frenzy—like a fox in a henhouse—fuelled by…what? Then I remembered.
‘It’s because I moved her things.’ I looked in the wardrobe. Sure enough, her Liberty print shirt, her two dresses, her velvet jacket and her shoes had all been restored to their former places.
‘Jesus,’ Luke groaned. He was just sitting on the bed, still holding a piece of my kimono, shaking his head.
‘But the question is…how did she get in?’ He looked at me. ‘How did she get in, Luke?’
‘Well…’
‘She didn’t break in, that’s obvious.’
‘No…’
