Simon came over, perhaps sensing the slight tension,
‘We’re not complaining, the windows are secure, and the balconies impossible to climb over. And anyway it’s key worker housing in EC1! Without this, we’d probably be living with my folks down south—’
Polly looked at him. ‘And you’d probably have killed your dad with a dessert spoon.’
Anna smiled, and shrugged. And munched more carrot sticks, in that slightly irritating way. She probably earned three times Polly’s salary, or five times, everyone in here earned multiples of Polly’s salary, and they likely found the budget supermarket hummus quite disgusting, and everyone was doing their not-very-best to hide it.
This drinks party had been Simon’s idea, a kind of belated housewarming, but she’d had to do all the organizing, rushing from her shift at UC Hospital to the childminder’s, before hurrying to the nearest cheap supermarket to buy dips, canapes, and discount prosecco. Then Simon breezed home, and acted the host, and Polly was left to serve food and pour wine even as she looked after the baby and handed out over-charred padrone peppers. She had been the one that over-charred them. The irritation irked: she had to remind herself Simon often worked much longer hours than her.
A piercing animal yowl interrupted the chatter. Polly and Simon looked at each other. She sighed, dramatically.
‘I’ll go. My turn.’
Polly knew she was overdoing it, martyring herself as the put-upon young mother, when in truth she wanted to escape the little drinks party because she was no good with these techy people. Aaron was OK, Gul from Apple was funny. But most of them were too intense: with their bright-eyed New Age techno talk of Augmented Reality and cryptographic hashes and Godknowswhat. They were like people speaking in tongues, and Polly sometimes felt like interrupting their otherworldly gibberish with the casual anecdote from her day in University College Hospital: oh yes, some guy came into the ward today, and puked up a chunk of lung and he died right in front of me.
Yeah. That was my day.
Polly gently pushed the door to little Grace’s hushed, darkened room. The baby had stopped her six-month-old screaming but was doing that distinctive whimpering. This usually meant Grace was hungry.
Polly felt a wave of guilty relief. She had to feed the baby, so she was officially excused Drinks Duties for as long as needed. Picking up Grace, inhaling her tiny daughter’s perfume, the mother slumped into the nursing chair, and unbuttoned her shirt.
Grace’s gaping mouth found her mother’s less sensitive nipple. The left one. She began feeding. Serenity descended. The room was beautifully dark, and soundproofed. As Grace suckled, Polly listened, above the noise of her baby daughter nursing, to the traffic outside, down there in the streets; it was so muffled it was like the sound of someone lightly snoring, three doors along a corridor. Through the big windows she could see the mighty new towers of East London and Canary Wharf, glittering in the cold: so many huge, black stone obelisks studded with millions of diamond lights.
Grace gripped at her mother’ breast with a miniature hand. Polly lifted the hand, and kissed the tiny, soft, velvety fingertips. As she did, inexplicable tears filled her maternal eyes. This often happened, she noticed, when she was alone with her baby. It was a strange mixture of depression and elation. Both together. It was all so unexpectedly painful, like suckling itself.
The feeding was nearly done. Grace was asleep at the breast. Yet Polly sat, alone, in the blessed quiet, for another hour. Letting her baby sleep. Thinking nothing. Until the guilt at avoiding the party got too much, and she placed her precious daughter carefully back in the crib and folded the little blanket just so, and reluctantly returned to light and music and people in the twelfth-floor living room.
Most of the guests were gone. The handful that were left seemed to be talking – pretty loudly – almost arguing – about Simon’s ex. Jo Ferguson. And that notorious and celebrated article she did on tech giant companies and their overweening power. Or not. Or whatever.
Polly had tried her best not to resent Jo Ferguson, she’d tried not to hate her, but it was difficult. Yes, she’d known that she was marrying Simon Todd on the rebound from his relationship with witty, sexy, bouncily redheaded Jo Ferguson, but she hadn’t expected Jo to be so present in their lives, even now.
Bloody Jo Ferguson, her husband’s fetching schoolyard sweetheart, his first love, his true love, his great love: the love that wouldn’t go away. Whatever Polly did, loving Simon, loyally, making a home for him, giving Simon the child he wanted: that wasn’t enough?
Collecting glasses, Polly transported them to the kitchen, trying to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping.
‘Well, I thought it was very witty, and her critique about privacy was spot on, looking back—’
That was Gul. Funny, sarcastic Gul Foxton. He’d made friends with Jo when she was writing the article, and he was often defending her. And perhaps he was right to defend her. Polly didn’t especially care about the intricacies of this debate, she just felt insulted. Couldn’t they all talk about something else? Didn’t Simon’s friends realize how rude this was, discussing his ex in front of his new wife?
‘But the Facebook privacy stuff was obvious, even then—’
‘Didn’t Arlo nearly lose his job at FB? Bet he was super chuffed – not a man you need as an enemy, Arlo Scudamore.’
‘Arlo is a bloody dickhead.’
That was Jenny. Gul came back:
‘Yes, but rather an important dick, anyway, Simon, have you got something other than this prosecco? It tastes like champagne for two-year-olds.’
Again that was typical of Gul – never frightened to offend. He was sometimes ridiculously blunt and he didn’t care. He was what he was. Polly, in turn, quite liked Gul.
‘Are you OK, darling? How’s Grace?’
Simon was at her side, ferrying glasses into the kitchen.
‘She was hungry so I fed her. She’s fine. All fine. Party gone OK?’
Simon nodded, and smiled, and crossed the room – to say goodbye to some of the last guests. They were donning coats, ordering Ubers.
‘Hey, Pol! I’ve been saving you some of the nicest nibbles, before us nerds ate them all.’
She turned; it was the friendly, round face of Jenny Lansman, peering at her over a plate. Polly looked at the plate, and sighed.
‘There weren’t any nice nibbles, I bought them at Lidl.’
Jenny laughed.
‘Aw, they’re not that bad. Come on, sit down, eat something. Everyone’s gone.’
Happy to yield, Polly sat at the kitchen table, and ate. Jenny sat beside her.
‘So! Tell me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t be daft. I want to know what being a mother is like. I haven’t seen you since you had Grace, right? Tell me!’
It was the first time someone at the party had shown an active interest in Polly – Polly as a person and mother, rather than as Simon’s girlfriend, that tired looking woman, the nurse who lived here and handed out cheap wine.
Swigging from a glass of white, Polly felt a need to share. Why not? As they finished off the canapes, Polly told Jenny the truth: all the bad stuff: the darkness and gloomy moods, the sleeplessness, the cracked nipples, the endless nappies. And the infinite, lonely tedium.
‘No one warns you quite how boring it will be,’ she said, as Jenny nodded sympathetically, and scoffed a tiny sausage roll, and asked,
‘Yes, but, being a mother, in itself, what is that like?’
Polly looked through the kitchen doorway. Only a couple of guests remained.
What was being a mother like?
It was the big question. Turning to Jenny, she answered,
‘Having a baby is the worst thing I ever did. It is painful, relentless, depressing, isolating, and incredibly tiring.’ A pause. ‘It is also the best thing I ever did. I don’t know how, but it is.’
Jenny frowned, and nodded. ‘I would like a kid. If only I could find the rig
ht man. Maybe I’m too picky?’ Pausing, she laughed at herself. ‘That said, I’ve already picked a few.’
They chatted for a few more minutes; then Jenny was up, in her coat – and gone. Only Simon was left, stacking the plates and binning the waste, talking to her.
‘Well, that wasn’t too bad was it, babe? I know you hate all this tech talk.’ He put a hand on her weary shoulder. ‘Go on, you go to bed.’
Polly nodded, gratefully. She headed for their bedroom, where she stripped into a cosy T-shirt, and slipped under the duvet, talking to her HomeHelp.
‘OK, HomeHelp, set an alarm for seven fifteen a.m.’
The quadrille of lights did their dance. Polly settled to sleep immediately, the last sensation was the coolness of her pillow … And then she jolted awake. Sensing something wrong. Her little LED clock said 2.45 a.m. She’d slept hard and dreamlessly for two hours. So why had she woken? Was the baby crying? Polly was so attuned to feeding times, she often woke before the baby even screamed. Like there was a telepathy.
The baby was not crying. She was not due to be fed. When Polly turned over to seek the comfort of her sleeping husband, she realized he was not there. At 2.45 a.m.?
Padding to the door, Polly pulled it open. The only sign of activity was a bar of burning light at the bottom of the closed door that led to the spare room.
What was he doing in there, in the depths of night?
A grey suspicion filled her as she approached. Without knocking, she subtly pushed the door open. There he was, with headphones on. Talking to someone?
He was hunched intently over a laptop that glowed white and blue on his face. What was he looking at? A news site?
She edged closer. He was entirely oblivious to her presence, concentrating on the screen, yet obscuring her view of it. His headphones were blocking out the sound of his wife.
Reaching out, she wrenched the headphones from his head. He turned, alarmed, yet blushing.
‘What the heck – Jesus, Polly, you scared me—’
She listened to the headphones. It was music. But what was he doing on the computer, this intensely, at 3 a.m.? She got a glimpse of a human body on the screen: even as he quickly pressed a key, closing a tab.
‘Stop!’ she said. ‘Don’t touch a thing, don’t close any tabs, I need to see. What’s keeping you up at three a.m.’
‘Why?’
‘Let me see!’
Something in her voice made him surrender. Cold but shivering, in her knickers and T-shirt, Polly leaned close and went through the tabs.
Porn. He was looking at porn. Videos on Xhamster and Alohatube. It was the standard stuff: lesbians, all glammed up and fake-breasted in that Californian way, and here were some Japanese MILFs. Polly didn’t care about this, sometimes she actually watched porn with Simon. She quite liked the gentle kind of lesbian porn, pretty girls in summer dresses, seducing each other.
But, ah. What was this? Polly felt the anger rise, as she went through the tabs. This was why he was doing it so furtively: before he’d turned to professional porn he’d been looking at pictures of Jo.
Lots of naked pictures of Jo. Bloody Jo Ferguson. Here was Jo in bed, with her svelte figure, no stretch marks from babies, a hint of a tan. And here was Jo delicately touching herself, the face half turned, half smiling, at Simon.
‘My God,’ Polly snapped. ‘That’s great. That’s really really reassuring. Thank you so much. You’re actually wanking over your ex? Again?’
‘Wait—’
‘Why, Simon? Why do this?’ The hurt was genuine, a tremor of tears. ‘You do realize you’re married with a baby, Simon? That you have a new wife?’
Polly wanted to stop looking, yet she couldn’t help herself.
‘You bastard.’
‘It’s only photos!’ he said, pathetically. ‘Photos, that’s all. I look at all kinds of things, you know that. I like porn, I look at you as well, sometimes—’
He stammered to a halt. Clearly realizing this wasn’t helping.
Polly clicked on the browsing history, seeking the last tab. And then she felt something beyond dismay, and beyond jealousy.
It was a photo of Liam Goodchild. The man that had that online flirtation with Jo, that emotional infidelity, months of sexts, that led to Simon leaving her. Why was Simon looking at him? This attractive man, dark hair falling to his shoulders. She could see why Jo had fancied him, but why would it matter to Simon now?
Polly’s anger and bewilderment was too much. She raised her voice.
‘I don’t get it. Do you know him? Are you friends? What the hell is going on?’
His shrug was helpless; Polly felt like slapping him.
‘Tell me, what’s the point? You left her because of him, and you’re with me, and yet you’re looking at his photos. Are you in touch with him?’
Again, all he could do was blush, and mumble a bunch of sorrys which meant nothing. And anything. Polly’s mind was awash with possibilities. Was Simon involved somehow with this Liam guy, did he encourage him to test his wife? He was the jealous type. Her husband with his strange, secretive IT job, which he would never properly explain.
Another, harsher noise intruded.
‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ said Polly. ‘That’s all I need.’
Woken by the disturbance, little Grace was howling. Simon said a guilty sorry, then went to the kitchen, presumably for a bottle of breast milk.
Doing his fatherly duty.
Polly watched him disappear. Then she gazed, helpless and angry, at that spectacular view beyond the windows. It was 3 a.m. in Shoreditch and still the traffic of Old Street burned beneath them, a river of diamanté and rubies, flowing in black canyons, all through the night. Like the whole city was becoming a malignant machine, beyond human control.
Grace was still screaming.
17
Jo
The screaming is endless. The convulsions ripple through him, somehow in rhythm with his howls of pain. The eyes roll upwards, small blank white alabaster eggs, hands rigid and clutching. And all the bright light of torches and headlamps shine down on Jamie Trewin’s spasming body. A strange pink froth dribbles down the side of his face, as if he has been sucking lurid sweets.
‘Come on,’ says Tabitha, urgent and low and tugging at my cold, sweating hand. ‘Come on, let’s go to the tent, we’re in the way,’
Even in the darkness I can see the real intent in Tabitha’s desperate gaze: For God’s sake, let’s get out of here, we did this, we’re involved, you saw Purple Man …
And yet, I resist. I have an urge, a terrible, honest, self-harming, audacious urge: to run over, push through the last of the agitated crowd, go up to the police and confess it all: We gave him the drugs. It was us. Arrest me.
‘Look!’ says Tabitha. ‘Jo!’
I don’t need to be told. Something strange is happening. The paramedics are backing away from Jamie, a policeman is shouting—
‘Get away – all of you – get back—’
Jamie, I see, has somehow hauled himself to his feet. Next to the female paramedics he looks so tall, six foot three.
‘Take him down!’
One of the policemen tries to grab him, another leans in to help, but Jamie casually throws them off, as if he is a cartoon monster, like they are kids and he is the only adult. And he is marching straight towards me. How can he know which way to go? He is surely blinded, the eyes are blank and white. Yet he seems to know, because his sightless eyes are fixed on me, as he sprints towards me.
‘Run!’ yells Tabitha. But it is too late. Jamie has me by the neck, his big hard hands are on my throat; with a terrible ease he slams me back on to the cold wet ground, then kneels painfully on my chest. Trying to throttle me to death. I can see the blood whirling in my eyes, even as things turn to black. Even as I feel his spittle on my face, cold and hot and wet and I look up and Daddy’s fingers are even tighter around my neck, he is laughing as he chokes me, he isn’t the Ticklemonster any more: he wants to hu
rt me, kill me, and my brother is screaming Mummy Mummy Mummy, Daddy is killing Jo, MUMMY!
Daddy!
And
Blackness. Greyness. Awake.
I wake up, finally, with a terrible, dry-mouthed gasp. I am lying here. Quite rigid. In the dark. A mannequin laid on the floor. Where am I? Delancey? Yes. I am at home, in my bedroom. On Delancey Street. And the spittle in the dream was the tears on my face, because I have been sobbing in my sleep.
It’s only a dream. Another dream about Jamie. I often have them, they are always awful. I sometimes dream that he attacks me, sometimes I dream that he rapes me. And sometimes, like this time, he turns into my father, sometimes Jamie even becomes Dad that day he died. Jamie in Glastonbury becomes Daddy in his deathbed. Rushed to hospital from the car. Where he gassed himself, like that poetess down the road.
Those are the worst dreams of all.
But this is new: the crying. I have never cried during my sleep before. For several moments, I lie here. Staring at the faint outline of an icy grey-black night surrounding the blue bedroom curtains.
The clock says 3.30 a.m. The very depths of the night, like a trench in the ocean, where the last light glimmers into nothing, and strange ugly life-forms emerge from the black.
My tears dried, I lean across and switch on a bedside lamp. I need a book. Any book. Here. This will do.
The Art of the Script. It’s written by some famous Hollywood scriptwriter who actually won an Oscar, and it inevitably promises to tell me All the Secrets to Writing Your Own Hollywood Hit.
The book falls open on a page of dense text and it swims before my eyes. Then I remember I have all these books on Audible. Dropping the book I switch off the light and say,
‘OK, HomeHelp, read to me from page twenty-seven of Art of the Script.’
Her lights twirl. She answers:
‘OK, starting at page twenty-seven of Art of the Script. “When writing a script, always keep to hand this one-page structure. Beneath each heading, write one or two lines of your own ideas. Then, under Opening Image, which is your first five or ten pages, jot down some themes and locations. A woman on a boat, alone, or perhaps a detective in the snow, looking for a trail of blood. Do this for all your fifteen beats. Keep it by your laptop at all times …”’
The Assistant Page 10
