by Isabel Wolff
‘Well you’re doing it because you asked me to follow Mike, and now I’m going to show you what I found out.’ We walked on without speaking.
‘Is it much further?’ she asked as we got to the other side of the bridge.
‘No. It isn’t.’ I stopped outside St Thomas’s. ‘In fact we’re here.’
‘Where? This is the hospital.’
‘Exactly.’
‘We’re going into the hospital?’
‘We are. Come on.’ We followed the signs round to the main entrance.
‘But why?’ I heard Hope ask. I didn’t answer. ‘Why?’ she repeated as we walked through the sliding doors.
‘Because this is where we’ll find Mike.’ We passed the flower shop and the newsagents, and went through reception to the bank of lifts where ten or twelve people were waiting. ‘This is where he’s been coming.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not ill, is he? Please don’t tell me he’s ill Laura.’
‘He’s not ill.’
‘Then what on earth could he be doing here?’ The lift doors drew back and we got in. ‘Is he visiting someone?’ she murmured. I pressed number seven.
‘Yes. He’s visiting someone.’ The lift stopped at the third floor, and the other passengers got out and no-one got on. We were alone.
‘Clare?’ said Hope. ‘He’s visiting Clare?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh. Oh my God. She’s ill…?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Is that it? He visits her because she’s ill? Poor woman…but what’s wrong with her? It must be serious if he’s been coming here for two months. Why won’t you just tell me, Laura? Why aren’t you saying anything?’
‘Because I want you to see it.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she groaned. ‘Why all the mystery? And if she is ill she’s hardly going to want her boyfriend’s wife turning up at her bedside is she!’
Seventh floor. Doors opening…
As we stepped out, Hope saw the sign on the wall, then stopped. She’d gone white.
‘Is this the right place?’
‘It is.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So…’ there was a tiny gasp. ‘Oh my God…there’s a baby?’
‘There is a baby, yes.’
‘Oh my God,’ she repeated. ‘A baby. There’s a baby…’ She was shaking her head. ‘Oh God… I can’t go in, Laura.’
‘I think you should.’
‘I can’t. I can’t possibly.‘ Her eyes had filled. She was staring at me accusingly.
‘Trust me.’
‘Trust you? Why should I? You’re being vile. Vile…‘ Her mouth was twisted in distress. ‘Sadistic and vile. To bring me here.‘
‘You may think so, but actually, I’m not.’
‘Then why have you brought me here? To rub my nose in it? To see my pain? I don’t understand.’ She was rummaging in her bag for a hanky. ‘I wish I’d never asked you,’ she wept. ‘I wish I’d never, ever asked you to help me!’
‘Well you did,’ I whispered back. I pressed the red buzzer and a nurse opened the door. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You were here a couple of nights ago weren’t you?’ ‘That’s right. This is my sister.’ Hope managed a watery smile.
‘Just go straight down. You know the way.’
By now Hope was whimpering with distress.
‘You…cow,’ she croaked as we washed our hands in the visitors’ loo, as requested. ‘What are you thinking of? Forcing me to come in here so that I can see that my husband has not only had an affair, but a baby. Why are you doing this to me?’ she hissed as she grabbed a green paper towel. ‘What kind of sick pleasure is it giving you to see me…suffer like this?’ She stamped on the pedal bin and threw the towel in. I didn’t reply. ‘Is it something from when we were kids? Something you want to punish me for twenty years later?’
We walked down the corridor, not speaking now, just listening to the crying of the babies and the respectful murmurings of visitors. We could hear our shoes squeaking across the lino.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hope repeated, sotto voce. ‘What did I ever do to you to justify such cruel behaviour, Laura, such deliberately cruel, manipulative, horrible behaviour, I mean why are you doing this to me, why for God’s sake—it’s so vile of you and I just don’t under…stand…I…Oh…‘
In the distance, oblivious to our presence, was Mike. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was walking back and forth, with the baby in his arms, his face filled with compassion and tenderness.
‘Shhh…my darling. Shhhh…don’t cry now. Please don’t cry my little girlie…come on now…that’s it…Shhhh…you’ll be fine…Shhhh…Shhhh…Don’t cry now…don’t cry…’
Hope stood rooted to the spot, as she watched Mike walk the crying baby up and down.
‘I can’t take this.’ She was shaking her head. ‘I can’t…I just…can’t…’
‘Shhhh…Don’t cry now…Don’t cry.’
‘This is where he’s been coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘All this time?’
‘No need to cry…’
‘All this time.’
‘I can’t bear it,’ she croaked. ‘I feel si-ck…Oh God…Oh my God… a baby. A baby. And where’s this…Clare, then?’ she murmured. ‘Where’s she? I want to see her—now that we’re here. I want to see the woman who’s had my husband’s child. The woman who’s destroyed my marriage and my future and my whole…life. Where is she? Where is she? Where is Clare?’ she demanded. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Laura?’
‘He’s holding her,’ I said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s holding her.’
She blinked. ‘But…I don’t understand.’
‘Clare’s the baby.’
‘Clare’s the baby? Oh. Then…who’s the mother?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nor does Mike. He’s never met her—and he never will.’
Hope was looking at me as though I were speaking in tongues.
‘Then…what…?’
‘Clare’s mother is a heroin addict, so Clare was born one too. And the babies of drug-dependent mothers suffer withdrawal symptoms, so they need someone to hold them and cuddle them, and walk them up and down because they tend to be very jittery and they cry a lot. And their muscles are very tense, making it hard for them to go to sleep, so they need extra holding and soothing, which the nurses don’t always have time to do. So that is what Mike, along with a number of other volunteers, has been doing for the past two months. He has no idea that I know, or that I spoke to the nurse who organizes the programme.’
‘Oh,’ said Hope. She was still staring at Mike. Her mouth quivered. Then I saw a tear slide down her face.
‘Shhh my little baby,’ we heard him say. ‘Shhhh…’
‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I see…’
‘Shhh darling…Shhhh, it’s okay…it’s okay my little girl…you’ll be fine…you’ll be fine…don’t cry now…please don’t cry…’
‘So…he hasn’t had an affair?’
‘No.’
‘So…he was just doing it…?’ She blinked in bewilderment.
‘To be kind, Hope.’
‘But then…why didn’t he tell me? Why hide it Laura?’
Mike chose that moment to look up. He registered our presence, then stared at us, his eyes shining with shock.
‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him.’
The next day, when I got to work, there was an e-mail from Hope.
I’ve taken the day off. Meet me for lunch? Hx
‘My treat,’ she said quietly when I met her at Zucca’s. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ She still looked pale—but less tense than she had for a long time, as though a screw in her chest had stopped turning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began as we sat in the window. She picked at her salad. ‘I’m sorry for all the horrible things I sai
d to you last night.’
‘That’s okay. I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark. I knew it would be very stressful, but I didn’t want to say anything beforehand.’
‘You were right not to,’ she said. ‘I needed to see it for myself. I needed to be shocked by it—and I was.’
‘So what happened? After I left?’
‘Mike was just so…amazed to see me. He asked me to go home. Then, when he got back, we stayed up until half two, just talking. That’s why I’ve taken the day off—I was just so exhausted, so I called in sick. Plus the emotional stress of it all had got to me. But…I didn’t know,‘ she said wonderingly. ‘I didn’t realize…‘
‘How much he minded?’
‘I had no idea.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Until I saw him last night. We never talked about it. It was a closed subject.’
‘Why didn’t he open it up?’ There were tears standing in her eyes.
‘Because he knew I wouldn’t change my mind.’
‘I see…’
‘He told me how much he loved me, and that he hadn’t wanted to lose me. So when he heard about the Cuddlers’ Programme at the hospital…’
‘How did he hear about it?’
‘Through someone at work. She was a volunteer, and she happened to mention it to him just before Christmas, so he applied—they vet them very carefully—and he was accepted. He said that he didn’t tell me about it because he knew that if he did, it would lead to a very painful conversation, but he said he’d wanted to hold a baby so much…’ She leaned her face in her hand. ‘He said he wanted to know what it felt like to really hold a baby in his arms. And that little baby, Clare, had been in the unit longer than the other babies because she’s had particular problems—so it was always Clare who Mike walked. But he was told she’d be going home at the end of this week, so he wanted her to have something from him.’
‘The silver bangle.’
She nodded. ‘Because he knows he’ll never see her again. He’ll never know her second name, or who her mother is, or her father, or where she lives, or anything about her. All he knew was that she needed to be held.’ She blinked back her tears. ‘He’d become very…fond of her. He cried when he talked about not seeing her again.’
‘So he had fallen in love with Clare.’
‘Yes.’ She pulled a tissue out of her bag. ‘He had.’
‘So…you talked half the night.’ She nodded. ‘With any…result?’
There was a pause. ‘No. But I’m glad that I at least understood. I finally understood how deprived Mike had felt.’
‘But why hadn’t you guessed?’
‘Because, not only did he not talk about it, he behaved as though he wasn’t remotely interested in babies—but now I know that that was only a front. He said that when we got married he’d thought he wouldn’t mind, but how it had then started to eat away at him, especially as our friends began to have children. He said that every time he had to go to another christening he’d come away feeling bitter and depressed. He said that having Hope meant that he was “hopeless”. It was his sad little private joke.’
‘So that’s why he behaved strangely at Olivia’s christening…’
‘Yes. And that’s why he was never keen on going round to see Hugh and Fliss. He said Felicity got him down, boring on about Olivia the whole time.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I said.
‘But last night, as we sat there, Mike looked around our lovely cream drawing room, and he said how he longed for children to trash it, and scribble on the walls, and spill things on the carpet, and make chaos and mess and noise—all the things I’ve never wanted.’
‘So?’
‘So…’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t…know. I’m just so glad it wasn’t what I thought. Mike wasn’t having an affair, and he was telling the truth when he said he wouldn’t ever have one. But how can I stay with him now? How can I Laura?’ Her eyes had filled again. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. He loves me, but he wants children. And those two things are incompatible.’
My heart sank. ‘So you don’t think you could…change your mind?’
She sighed. ‘I have never wanted children. You know that. I have never wanted to go through a pregnancy or endure the broken nights, or the noise and the stress. I’ve never wanted the awful responsibility, or the anxiety—the white-knuckle ride of parenthood.’ She fiddled with her knife. ‘Not everyone wants children. You can have a lovely life without them, can’t you?’ I didn’t answer. ‘And I can’t help how I feel.’
‘But couldn’t you…? Couldn’t you…?’
She looked at me. ‘Be persuaded?’ She shook her head. ‘No…I don’t think I could.’ She breathed a deep sigh, then looked at me. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking that a couple of years ago, Felicity asked Mike whether he minded not having a family.’
‘Really?’ she murmured.
‘And he just said…that it was a question of love.’
‘Oh. Well…that was a nice thing to say.’
‘Yes. That’s what we thought.’
‘That’s what you said to me, Laura, when I asked you how you could stand Luke’s situation.’
‘Did I?’ I looked at her. ‘Oh, yes. I remember that now…’
We sat there in silence, then she called for the bill. ‘Thank you for helping me, Laura.’ She picked up her bag. ‘I know you didn’t want to.’
‘I wish I hadn’t had to.’
We pushed back our chairs. ‘So…are you going back to work?’
‘No. Tom said I could take the rest of the day off because I came in over Easter.’
‘So what are you doing now?
‘I’m going to have tea with Luke.’ I pulled on the door. ‘And Magda.’
‘Magda? You’re seeing Magda?’
‘I am.’
‘If this is an April Fool, Laura, I’m afraid you’ve missed the twelve o’clock deadline and in any case I’d never fall for it.’
‘It isn’t an April Fool,’ I said.
Although April Fool’s Day was an appropriate day on which to be meeting Magda, I told myself a few minutes later as I sprang the catch on Luke’s gate. I glanced up at his bedroom window and had a sudden vision of my jeans and t-shirt being flung out of it. Or perhaps they’d jumped, to try and save themselves…I realized that I was sweating, despite the fresh breeze. As I lifted my hand to the bell, my heart was hammering in my ribcage.
‘There you are!’ said Luke. He was smiling broadly, but I could see the whites of his eyes. ‘Magda and Jessica are already here.’
‘Lovely…’ I said impotently.
Suddenly, Magda appeared. As she advanced down the hallway she smiled at me warmly, as though greeting a cherished friend.
‘Laura! How nice to meet you properly. Jessica darlink do take Laura’s coat for her.’
Jessica, looking subdued and confused, did as she was told. Magda extended to me a cool, dry hand, which made me aware that my own was horribly damp. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, except that I was accumulating a pool not of tears, but of sweat. As I gave her a clammy handshake I hoped she wouldn’t smell my fear.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said.
As I went into the sitting room I registered two things—resentment at being graciously welcomed into my own boyfriend’s house, by his ex-wife; and searing, excoriating jealousy.
Magda was beautiful.
The photos I’d seen of her hadn’t done her justice. Her skin was very pale, with the blue-white translucency of alabaster; her exceptionally long hair was as heavy and glossy as silk; her eyes were big, and wide set, with the same large blue irises that Jessica had and the same elegantly exposed eyelids; her feet and hands were small, as was her waist. She was…classically beautiful. Like a lovely porcelain doll.
I wanted to hate her, with my own idiosyncratic features and my griddle-panned hair and big feet; but I couldn’t even dislike her, I realized, as she sat there chatting to me animatedly in her
delightfully accented English, putting me at my ease, koshing me with her charm, while Luke hovered in the background, his mouth, like mine, a rictus of anxiety, his upper and lower eyelids just that bit too far apart.
Hungary had produced Edward Teller—inventor of the atomic bomb—and Estée Lauder. Terror and beauty. Magda to a tee.
She was talking to me about the quiz.
‘We love watchink it, don’t we Jessica, darlink?’ Jessica nodded. ‘You are so clever,’ she said smoothing the front of her floral silk dress. ‘But Luke said that you were always verrry clever when you were students together.’
‘Oh she was,’ he said. ‘Top notch.’ Top notch? Luke never said things like ‘top notch’. ‘Tea anyone?’ he added. I thought he was going to produce a tennis racket.
‘I’ll have Lapsank Souchonk,’ she said. ‘You don’t mind makink it do you Luke? What about you, though, Laura? What would you like?’
‘I’d like a herbal tea,’ I muttered. Something calming, I thought to myself. That’s what I need. ‘Erm…camomile would be great. If you’ve got it,’ I added, as though I had no idea that Luke had two boxes of the stuff. I didn’t want to enrage Magda by reminding her that I had an association with the house that entailed a familiarity with the contents of the kitchen cupboards.
‘Righty-o,’ Luke said, clapping his hands together. I had never ever heard him say ‘Righty-o’ in his life. Perhaps you could slip something pharmaceutical into it, Luke, I wanted to add as he went down the stairs. A valium, preferably. Or half a bottle of whisky. A general anaesthetic, maybe. Anything to reduce the tension of this bizarre encounter. Oh and could you go and get me the can of Sure while you’re at it because there’s a damp patch the size of Bangladesh under my left arm.
But Magda was talking away, as though she was the Queen putting some minor Commonwealth official at their ease, or rather, yes, that was it, as though she was Luke’s mum—meeting the nervous girlfriend for the first time and doing her best to be kind and welcoming, reserving judgement about the poor girl’s pasty complexion, or thick ankles, or gauche manner or patent, spot-it-a-mile-off let’s-just-forget-this-shall-we unsuitability. And it was on the tip of my tongue to tell Magda how very, very strange this was for me, sitting there, talking to her in this pleasant way, given that she’d trashed my things a mere forty-eight hours earlier. As she sat there, bludgeoning me with her charisma—she was talking about Chiswick now, something to do with Jessica’s school—I tried to imagine her orgy of destruction but found it impossible. I thought of the dismembered dressing gown which, even now, lay in a black bin liner at the front of the house, like a butchered corpse. I was itching to ask her what emotions had gripped her as she slashed and sliced—but somehow the question would have seemed in poor taste.
