She's Mine

by A A Chaudhuri

  Heidi

  Before

  ‘Heidi, darling, there’s something I need to tell you; something that’s going to be hard for you to hear at first, but I believe it’s for the best.’

  I look at my mother with inquisitive eyes. It’s unusually warm today, and we’re sitting in the shadiest part of our garden, on a swinging chair under a sprawling maple tree. I loved rocking on this chair when I was little; my very own personal swing, no need for a trip to the park. I still do, in truth, even though tomorrow I become a teenager, and must surely put away childish whims.

  I’m very mature for my age, apparently. I’ve heard some of the older ladies at the club Mother goes to whisper as much to her. ‘She’s so well behaved, so well spoken, you could take her anywhere. If only all children of her age had such impeccable manners.’

  I suppose that comes from being an only child. Ever since I can remember, I’ve gone everywhere with my mother or childminder. In fact, when I’m not at school, she hardly ever lets me out of her – or the childminder’s – sight. Once in a while, she lets me go over to a friend’s house, but she always gives me strict instructions never to leave the premises under any circumstances, until it’s time to go home.

  Until I was eleven, I had a tutor called Mrs Bates. There were times when I resented being cooped up inside with her, when I knew other children my age were busy mixing with each other, running riot in the playground, forming solid friendships, getting invited to birthday parties. But it wasn’t all bad. Mrs Bates was a lovely woman. Willowy, dark-haired, with feline green eyes and porcelain skin, she was strict and earnestly religious, but also kind and fair, and she made lessons interesting and fun. Once I asked her why she thought Mother had chosen to have me home-schooled, rather than attend a normal primary school like other children my age. She said my mother had been through a lot and was right to be wary of the dangers out there. That I was very lucky to have a mother who loved me as much as she did, and that I mustn’t resent her for wanting to protect me. Every so often, Mother goes away for the weekend, to where I don’t know, and I don’t ask. But when she does, she leaves me with Mrs Bates, who she knows she can trust to keep me safe.

  ‘There are a lot of bad people out there, and your mother just wants to protect you. Always remember that.’

  Put that way to a six-year-old, it all made perfect sense. And I did remember. I never forgot. I love my mother with all my heart, and it’s the most wonderful feeling knowing that I am completely and utterly loved by her. She told me what an unhappy childhood she’d had. Like me, an only child, but lacking in maternal love. No cuddles, no one to tuck her up in bed with a tender kiss and a fond goodnight. No soothing words after a terrifying nightmare. I feel so sad when she tells me these stories because I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been for her growing up. My mother is the kindest person I know, and she deserved to be loved. She told me how it made her heart sing to be the mother to me she never had, and just hearing her say that meant the world to me. When I’m with her, I always feel safe. She’s the one person who will never let me down. Whom I can rely on come what may.

  When I turned eleven, Mother decided it was time for me to go to school. I was old enough to be trusted, to be aware of the dangers out there. Although it was a big change for both me and her, it was a change I welcomed with open arms. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with my mother. She’s my best friend (on weekends we bake, watch movies, go for strolls in the park, play tennis), but I also need to spend time with kids my own age. It’s only natural.

  My school is great. The teachers are brilliant, the timetable varied and stimulating, and I already have a good idea of what I want to do with my life.

  Although there are a few unfriendly types, that’s just normal, and most of the girls in my class are lovely. I also have a massive crush on this boy in the year above, and I think he might like me too (we exchange shy smiles in the corridors regularly), but I daren’t tell Mother. She’s so protective.

  At times, I find her love somewhat smothering. Feel like telling her to loosen the cord and let me be a normal teenager. But when I feel like I’m on the verge of lashing out at her possessiveness, I remember what Mrs Bates said, remind myself how lucky I am to have her, and my frustration immediately thaws.

  Father’s quite protective, too, but he’s not as intense as Mother. Perhaps because he knows what good care she takes of me, and because he doesn’t have time on his hands to constantly worry about me. He works long hours, frequently goes away on business trips, and I only ever see him properly at weekends. Even then, he works until lunchtime on a Saturday, or is off playing rugby.

  He and Mother seem to have a good relationship, although I wouldn’t say they’re particularly affectionate with one another. I’m too young and inexperienced to know if this is normal, and I don’t see enough of my friends’ parents together to know what’s typical after years of marriage. Plus, we never have anyone come to stay with us. I can only assume that it is. The point is, I hardly ever hear them argue, and Father is always pretty amenable to whatever Mother wants. Not that she’s high maintenance, she just likes to run the house in a certain way, and he seems happy to leave all the domestic stuff to her. In fact, I’ve never heard him argue against anything she suggests, almost like she’s got something on him. Although maybe that’s just my imagination getting carried away.

  Just then, a butterfly flutters past my line of vision. It’s so beautiful, and I almost want to reach out and capture it, keep it in my room, just so I can admire it every day. But I know how cruel that would be, and I don’t want to be cruel, I want to be a good person. Like us –

  the pinnacle of Creation – God’s lesser creatures also deserve to run wild, fly free, rather than be caged for someone else’s pleasure. That’s what Mrs Bates used to say. Not that I am comparing myself to a butterfly or anything. I’m just saying, is all.

  ‘Heidi.’ My mother’s voice brings me back to reality and I remember why we are here. She has something important to tell me. I haven’t a clue what she’s about to say, but there’s an uncharacteristic edge to her voice, and I experience a feeling of dread that frightens the life out of me. I’m terrified she’s going to announce that she or Father is sick, or that they’re splitting up. Being my mother, my flesh and blood, she can read my mind, sense my unease.

  ‘It’s OK, sweet girl. Your father and I are fine. We’re not ill and we’re not splitting up.’

  Relief washes over me like a new lease of life, and my face breaks into a wide smile. ‘What is it then, Mother?’

  I watch her inhale deeply. If it’s not illness or divorce, what can it possibly be that’s troubling her so much?

  She cups my cheeks with her soft, comforting hands, looks into my eyes, her own eyes filling with tears, although there’s also a wildness to them which unnerves me, then says softly, ‘Heidi, darling, I am not your real mother.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Janine

  Now

  ‘Janine, it’s Miranda.’

  I’ve just got off the phone with my daughter. Another draining conversation. Although she’s much more self-assured than I was at her age – probably because, unlike my own mother, who never gave a fig about me, I’ve always been there for her – I know she hates the fact that she’s adopted. I constantly tell her it doesn’t matter that she’s not my flesh and blood, that I have loved her from the first day she entered my and Nate’s world. But I suppose it’s only natural for her to feel insecure, to always have that nagging feeling at the back of her mind that she wasn’t good enough for her real parents. I’ve discussed her insecurity with Chrissy over the years, who’s always at pains to point out that, Sarah is probably a lot more secure than Ella and Daniel, despite them being my own flesh and blood, so what does that tell you?! She’s right, I guess.

  Anyway, right now my incredibly smart daughter is having a hard time at work. There’s this project she’s been assigned to, and it’s tak
ing its toll. I told her repeatedly that she’s doing fine, that I’m certain she’ll be brilliant, and everything will work out in the end. And I think she felt reassured by the end of our conversation, which made me feel better. But no sooner had I put down the phone, than you, Miranda, called.

  I could really do without talking to you at this moment. I always end our conversations, which invariably revolve around Chrissy and Greg – after all, they’re the common denominator that links us – feeling exhausted because you don’t let me get a word in edgeways. You’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. Overpowering, a bit of a motor mouth, although I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a corporate lawyer, after all, and Nate always said they were the worst. Which is a bit contradictory coming from him, seeing as he was one too. Perhaps that’s why you married Duncan. He’s another one who loves the sound of his own voice.

  At first, I thought maybe you talked too much out of nerves. Because you were apprehensive about entering Chrissy’s world, being Greg’s ex, and therefore keen to make a good impression. People often do that to ingratiate themselves with others, don’t they? They think if they’re quiet, it’ll make them appear standoffish. But I’m always suspicious of people who talk too much. And I won’t lie, I was suspicious of you to begin with. I mean, it hadn’t seemed natural for you to want to become friends with your ex’s new girlfriend, especially when it was obvious that you were still madly in love with him. I could tell by the way you’d talk about him, still do, in fact. And I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve caught you gazing at him wistfully. Like at their wedding, and Heidi’s christening. It was as plain as the nose on your face that you wished more than anything it was you standing beside Greg on both occasions; two of the happiest days of his life. You thought no one was watching, but I was. You looked like you were in pain, and I can’t say I blame you entirely for that. I know what it feels like to love someone so much you feel like you might die if you can’t have them. That’s how I felt about Nate. And although I think you were genuinely upset for Greg when Heidi went missing, I also think a part of you enjoyed seeing Chrissy suffer. Maybe you saw it as kismet, I don’t know. I do know what a crappy childhood you had, with no mother and a father as hard as nails. And although you claim neither you nor Duncan wanted kids, I secretly think you pined for them. None of us know the full story there, I’m sure of it. Not even Greg. But you’re hiding something. Of that, I’m certain.

  I take a laboured breath, summon up the strength to speak to you.

  ‘Hi, Miranda, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s Chrissy, that’s what’s up. Obviously, you know about what happened?’

  No hi, how are you doing? Just straight in there like a bull in a china shop.

  I feel like saying, Yes, of course I do, I was her friend long before you came on the scene, plus I only live down the sodding road, unlike you nearly 300 bloody miles away. But I don’t say any of that. Just breathe deeply again, say as calmly as possible, ‘Yes, I saw her yesterday. She was very shaken up, which is completely understandable considering what the note said.’

  A second’s pause and I wonder what’s coming next. ‘That’s just it,’ you say.

  ‘What’s just it?’

  ‘I think she’s hiding something from us. I think she has been for some time now, and whoever sent that note knows it too. Listen, I like Chrissy – you know I do – but I’m really worried about Greg. She has you to look out for her, but who does he have? I’m wondering whether I should come down and make sure he’s OK? What do you think?’

  You devious cow. I just can’t believe it. Are you seriously trying to sidle your way back into Greg’s affections at a time like this? You know that their marriage is hanging by a thread; maybe you think the note will be the nail in the coffin and cause him to go running back into your arms. I have to admit, in some ways, I admire your tenacity where winning back Greg’s affections are concerned. But I also find your desperation somewhat loathsome.

  You carry on without giving me a chance to reply, a Machiavellian tone to your voice. ‘You know, after Heidi went missing, I always thought Chrissy was hiding something. Just by the way she shut herself off from us all, Greg especially. I hate to say this, but the fact is, Janine, you view Chrissy through rose-tinted glasses, but I’m not sure she’s as innocent as you like to make out. Let’s face it, the way she raised Daniel and Ella was unforgivable. I mean, they bloody hate her!’

  ‘Why are you trying to stir up trouble?’ I say angrily. ‘You’re meant to be her friend. Is there something you’re not telling me about Duncan? Have you two split up? Is that why we never see him?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well?’ I persist.

  ‘Duncan and I have been living separate lives for a long time now.’

  Knew it!

  ‘Have you told Greg?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want to burden him with my problems.’

  How considerate of you.

  ‘Tell me straight, Miranda. Is it your aim to get back with Greg? Are you trying to make trouble between him and Chrissy?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘It’s a reasonable question to ask. Everyone knows you’re still in love with him. And now you’re calling me saying Chrissy’s hiding something, that you and Duncan aren’t together any more, that you want to come down here and comfort Greg – what else am I supposed to think?’

  ‘Don’t tell me the same thought hasn’t occurred to you, based on what the note says, the way Chrissy’s always so reticent when it comes to talking about that day, the way she treated Ella and Daniel growing up.’

  ‘She lost a child! What do you think that does to a person?’

  There’s a pause, then you say, ‘OK, I’m just worried about Greg, that’s all. I really don’t want to split them up, I just want him to be happy. But if you think me coming down will do more harm than good, I won’t. OK?’

  ‘Sure, OK,’ I say.

  ‘Please don’t tell Chrissy about our conversation. I know that you want to protect her, and I’m really not out to get her. I sincerely want the best for her and Greg, but until we know what the sender of that note was getting at, I don’t think they’ll be able to have peace.’

  You’re right on that score. It’ll be like a millstone around their necks, driving them to distraction, not knowing who sent the note, whether it’s just another crackpot or someone they know, someone who has reason to bear a grudge.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I concede. ‘And I won’t tell Chrissy about our conversation. But like I said, I’m not sure they need a house guest right now. They need to work this through together. At any rate, I’m just around the corner if they need a friend.’

  We say our goodbyes and I put down the phone, exhausted as predicted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christine

  Before

  My jaw is aching with all the smiling, and I worry about the new lines and crow’s feet that must surely be developing around my eyes. Just because I am vain like that.

  Everyone warned me this would happen. It’s not just the official photographer who wants to take a gazillion photos of the bride and groom on their special day; there are also the well-wishers, the guests, even passers-by, keen to get snaps of the happy couple, particularly the bride. Even if she’s not particularly beautiful, or is looking as grumpy as hell, they want a photo. Snaps that will be shared around like a pack of cards. Bandied about for a week, maybe two, then never looked at again, except, perhaps, by the bride and groom on anniversaries, and to prove to their future children that they were once young and in love.

  I do the same at other people’s weddings. There’s nothing like a wedding to put people in a good mood. Like the birth of a child, it’s an uplifting occasion. It’s about having a purpose, a meaning in life. A wedding is something to celebrate, look forward to, because it signifies the greatest thing in life: love. And because it marks the beginning, rather than the end, of something. And
isn’t that what we humans fear the most? The end of something? The end of a relationship, the end of childhood and, most of all, the end of life?

  It’s not just the bride and groom who look incredible on their big day. The bridesmaids, the best man, the ushers also look amazing. As do the guests. A wedding is the perfect excuse for that new dress, new pair of shoes, new hat, new hairdo. A licence to spoil ourselves and spend stupid amounts of money.

  It’s a beautiful day, aesthetically and spiritually. A day filled with merriment, dancing, food and too much booze. And today, at my own wedding, despite feeling rather exhausted from all the posing, I am happy, simply because I know how fortunate I am to be marrying a good man. A man who truly loves me. And, without question, I love him too.

  Why, then, when I look at you, do I get this insatiable urge to tear your clothes off and shag you senseless? I have everything I could ever want. A fantastic career, an amazing house, supportive parents, a wonderful older brother, and a kind, intelligent, thoughtful new husband who I know would take a bullet for me. And to top it all off, once this day is over, Greg and I will be jetting off to the Maldives for a fortnight. Two weeks of uninterrupted bliss on a heavenly island.

  Why, then, do I imagine myself committing adultery with you on that island, rather than my husband making love to me? Why do I imagine us stripped naked, entwined on a deserted beach, sand clinging to our bronzed, sweaty bodies, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths as you thrust yourself into me and I moan with pleasure and experience the most amazing orgasm? I can’t seem to shake the vision as I smile, then smile again, and pretend the only thoughts I have right now are of my husband and how happy I am that this day has finally arrived and I am Mrs Greg Donovan.

  ‘Chrissy, over here!’ I turn my head and see Giles, a friend from uni, gesturing to his camera, wanting me to pose for him.

  ‘Can’t we just escape upstairs to our room?’ Greg whispers in my ear, squeezing the bodice of my dress as he does so.