It’s less than a minute before I am standing in the aisle alongside her. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, and I really wouldn’t dream of asking if I wasn’t absolutely desperate, but I need to look something up and I have this terrible phone today. I’m very happy to pay you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Is there any way I could borrow your phone? Please. Just for a minute. It’s my son. He’s only four.’
‘Your four-year-old has a mobile?’ Her tone is all startled disapproval.
‘No. No. I’m not explaining this very well. I don’t want to ring him; I need to look something up about him. He’s been hurt and – look, I don’t want to embarrass myself here.’ I have to pause, the words catching in my throat and my eyes warning her . . . Not. To. Bloody. Ask. Please. ‘Look. I’m desperate. This is my spare phone and I don’t have a data package.’ I hold up the clunky, ancient model.
‘Right. Oh, I see. Yes. Well.’ She glances at her own daughter who is colouring in a picture of a fairy in hideous shades of pink felt tip. ‘Of course. Yes. I suppose.’ She is tapping away at the phone, setting it up for me . . . and I try hard to conceal my envy that her daughter is sitting there. Sighing. Bored.
Safe.
‘I’m really grateful. It won’t take long.’
Five minutes later I’m back in my own seat and words swim in front of me.
. . . an integral part of the immune system.
The spleen, as I feared, is important. A fist-shaped organ which sits under the rib cage and above the stomach. I am scrawling notes in the back of my pocket diary. The web page said something about filtering systems. Platelets and red and white blood cells. If you don’t have one there is a higher risk of infection for life, which means you may have to take penicillin or other antibiotics every single day . . .
And he’s only four.
On the phone it was the ward nurse who let slip about the surgery. Later she backtracked – said she should not have told me until the consultant made a decision and they sort out which boy is which . . .
Suddenly I feel quite sick. The squeamishness over this word – spleen, spleen – makes me feel weak and pathetic and not strong enough for my son. I close my eyes and find I am wishing with all my heart that it is his friend’s spleen that is sitting in some stainless-steel tray on the side of the operating theatre, which is wicked and cruel and makes me terribly ashamed but it is a thought I cannot help because this is what motherhood is suddenly.
My child. My baby.
And in this moment, on this wretched train, no energy to care about anything else.
CHAPTER 2
BEFORE
The worst irony? I moved us to the country because I thought it would be safer.
My plan, not Mark’s. My insistence, actually.
For the first two years of our marriage, we really did love London. The theatres. The restaurants. The bridges. The buzz.
We shared the cliché of a bay-windowed North London flat with black marble worktops, squashy white sofas and regular muggings outside the local kebab shop.
Ours was the metropolitan dream, loved at first and then loathed in equal measure by a gang of friends who segued, pregnancy by pregnancy, from the easy pleasure of tube stations and exotic foodstuffs on our doorsteps to unforeseen fights over too much crime, too little storage and the state of the local state school.
As baby hormones raged in turn around the group, all our friends surprised themselves and each other by drifting away to entirely different lives – Ryan and Elaine to run a holiday complex in France; Sally and Eden to new teaching posts in New Zealand; Hermione and Ian to the dreaded suburbs; and Simon and Stella to the divorce courts.
And then – our turn. ‘London is no place for a family, Mark. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Rubbish, Sophie. It’s a great place for a family – think of the museums.’
‘We never go to the museums, Mark. And I’m serious. Have you seen the local school? Knives are practically on the kit list.’
‘We’ll go private.’
‘We don’t believe in private.’
‘Hypocrisy is permitted post-partum.’ He was staring at my bump as I stood there, five months pregnant, in the black-and-white kitchen of our newly inconvenient one-bed.
Mark’s plan was very simple. We would move to a bigger garden flat with laser-beamed security.
It took me just a few weeks to convince him otherwise – a shameless campaign involving a caveman’s quota of rare fillet steak and a lifetime’s quota of oral sex.
‘I’ll feel safer in the country, Mark. A different person. More cooking. Less stressing. It’s what the baby needs. What we all need.’
And so while Mark continued to argue for the suburbs, I worked on our complete reinvention. If I was going to take the agreed career break for the sake of family life, I would do it with bells on. I had fallen in love with Devon as a child and optimistically imagined Mark could relocate his business to Exeter over time. At worst, Bristol.
‘You’re insane, Sophie. Devon? Do you have any idea how long it will take me to commute from Devon? We’ll be weekending forever.’
And then the brochures began to arrive – tumbling through our London letterbox – with thatches and barns and fields of dreams for hammocks and llamas. Also golf. So that, as the bump grew, so Mark’s resistance finally shrank until Tedbury was suddenly in both our sights.
A ‘village of the year’ with a thirteenth-century church, and a pub, shop and primary school, Tedbury offered the rare bonus of a traditional square with six magnolia trees which for a brief spell each spring rained pink confetti on the residents as they walked their dogs early in the morning and parked their cars late at night.
I’ll be happy in the country. I know it, Mark.
How the phrase came to haunt me, tossing and turning in bed after meeting Emma.
All the boredom and all the frustration? One hundred per cent my fault.
I left London dreaming of this very life, and yet the moment I quit my job as a senior copywriter for a corporate advertiser . . . you guessed it, I missed it. And the very moment I had the longed-for child bawling in my arms with colic, I was the one thinking what have I done? Pining for the buzz of the city. The ‘Mind the Gap’. All of which made me feel this terrible and crippling guilt watching Mark slog up and down the motorway.
He tried to share the blame. Mark genuinely planned to move the business, then later got cold feet. But I’m the one who miscalculated the most.
I’m the one who did not bank on the fox eating my chickens, on the damp wood which would not burn, on the rain clouds which seemed to cling to the moors like cotton wool to a Christmas tree. And on the fact that baby number two was point-blank refusing to happen, stretching my career break into this lonely and never-ending limbo.
Every few months I had the same thought: Go back to work, Sophie . . . The second baby isn’t coming, only to have the idea dashed by my period running late. One tantalising week. Two. Dreaming. Hoping. And then always the same debilitating disappointment . . .
‘So – what’s she like, then?’
I opened one eye to find Mark perched on the bed.
‘What’s who like?’ I was momentarily confused; had not heard my husband come in last night.
‘Have you not been listening, Sophie?’
And now – more guilt, wondering what had happened to Mark’s chin. Didn’t he have a nice chin once? Where had it gone?
Did other wives do this? Look at their husband after each spell apart and think, Goodness. Have you always looked like this?
‘Sorry. Sorry. Not quite awake. Who do you mean?’
‘The mystery woman everyone’s talking about in the pub.’
‘Pub?’
‘You were already in bed asleep when I got in.’
‘So you had a quick one.’
‘Three.’ He kissed me on the forehead, exhaling a dragon’s breath of stale beer by way of confirmation. ‘But I secure
d a new contract this week to keep you in this charmed life. So it was a celebration. Anyway – Nathan was in. And all he could talk about was a furniture van crunching into Heather’s yesterday and some mystery woman he clearly now has the hots for. Reckons she’s some jazz singer. He says you rescued her, so I am under strict instructions to get the full story before golf.’
‘Oh, you’re not playing golf with Nathan again?’
‘So – what’s the deal? Is she famous, then?’
I could feel the frown as I sifted through our conversation. I’d had a very pleasant hour with Emma, but no, not a word about music. In fact, no talk about work at all, which suited me just fine.
‘I didn’t recognise her. And she didn’t say anything.’
‘Oh – you’re hopeless. I’ll make coffee.’
‘She’s quite unusual, actually. Glamorous but with definite Totnes tendencies. She wanted to do some kind of reading for me, which was odd. Romany grandmother or something. But I liked her. In fact she could be just what this place needs. Though much too nice for Nathan. I’ll have to warn her off.’
Mark was now, in deference to Totnes, making mock-hippy peace signs – the nearby town a strange portal to an even stranger past.
‘Is he sure she’s a singer?’
‘Big on the jazz scene, apparently. Been on Jools Holland. But then, you don’t follow music.’
‘I do so.’
‘No, you don’t. And I wouldn’t go meddling regarding Nathan.’ I raised my eyebrows; Mark raised his hands. ‘Right. Coffee.’
He disappeared on to the landing, closing the door as I shut my eyes again and heard Ben’s footsteps. Next the sound of Mark whizzing our son into the air, followed by aeroplane noises and giggles. Ah yes. I smiled, remembering why I married him. Daddy can make breakfast. Daddy can play aeroplanes. Daddy can . . .
And then suddenly Mark was waking me a second time – whether ten minutes later or an hour, I hadn’t the foggiest – standing next to the bed with a tray and an expression of puzzlement. As well as proper frothy coffee, which confirmed a reluctant battle with the espresso machine, there was the newspaper plus a small bunch of flowers, and more mysteriously a packet of Darjeeling tea. A dark green, Tardis-like box with gold writing. Nice quality. Proper leaves.
‘Flowers?’
‘And before you say you shouldn’t have, I didn’t. They were on the doorstep with the tea. So what’s all that about, then?’
‘Our new singer.’
‘Tea?’ He pulled a face, staring at the gift, but I decided to tease – shrugging bewilderment and readjusting the pillows.
An hour later, showered and dressed, I appeared downstairs to a familiar clattering from the under-stairs cupboard – Mark apparently searching for his golf equipment. This was both surprising and entirely fruitless, as the bag was in the garage. I’d watched him transfer it the previous weekend with a running commentary about how much more convenient it would be to just pop it in the car boot.
I said nothing as a series of crashes was followed by swearing. I put the flowers in water and mouthed quietly to Ben to fetch your shoes, darling.
‘Sorry? What was that? I can’t find my golf equipment.’ Mark’s voice from the depths of the cupboard was followed by a single, extremely large crash, the sound of breaking glass and an ominous silence.
I put Ben’s coat on very quickly and ushered him to the door.
‘Try the garage, honey. We’ll see you later.’
The stroll to Priory House was precisely as I feared – both entirely familiar and entirely strange. The crunch of the gravel, the smell of the wild flowers just in blossom along the route, the moo from a cow by the hedge irritated at the intrusion on her breakfast – and yet along with these familiar sights and sounds, an awareness deep in the pit of my stomach that it was not Caroline who would open the large stable door, not Caroline’s kitchen table we would sit at, with its familiar smears and stains. The table at which, just a few months earlier, we sat waiting for a blue line on the test stick; the blue line which never, ever came . . .
Emma’s arrival meant I would have to deal with Priory House in its new clothes rather sooner than expected. And so I tried to picture how it might feel. Same space. Different sofas . . .
‘Are we going to see Caroline, Mummy? Has she come back?’
‘No, Caroline has moved – remember? We’re going to see the new lady and her son, Theo . . . You know – you met him yesterday. They’re going to live at Caroline’s.’
On the doorstep I had to take Ben’s hand to stop him pushing his way in. Caroline never locked the door.
‘Why are we ringing the bell, Mummy? And where will Caroline live when she comes back?’
‘She’s not coming back. Remember? I told you.’
‘Is it because you called her a cockroach?’
‘That’s enough, Ben.’
Then a puzzle – Heather opening the door.
‘Oh heck. Sophie. You’d better come in. Sorry. Emma’s got her hands full.’ She smiled at Ben and led the way through the dining room to the kitchen, in the middle of which Emma was pulling china and bowls from one of several large packing boxes.
I was surprised at the camaraderie, given the new dent in Heather’s wall. ‘No pistols at dawn, then? No mud wrestling? I feared you two might be talking through solicitors . . .’
‘Heavens, no. Emma’s been marvellous. We’ve done all the paperwork with the removal firm already. Fully insured, thank God. There’s nothing much broken so far here, and it doesn’t look as if there’s any structural damage at mine. Just some pointing to be done . . . Plus’ – and here Heather turned to our host, eyes wide – ‘Emma reads fortunes.’
‘So I hear.’
‘She’s done my tea leaves and my palm. A-ma-zing. As good as that bloke on the Barbican. Come on, Sophie. You must have yours done immediately.’
I widened my own eyes as a warning. ‘Well, actually, we’re not stopping. I just came to say thank you for the flowers, Emma, and to offer a favour. I wondered if Theo would like to come and play sometime?’ Then, lowering my voice, ‘In fact, if he’s not too shy, he’d be welcome now. Give you some space to crack on with the unpacking. Don’t worry, though, if it’s too soon. Just a thought.’
‘I’m not shy, but I don’t want to play trains again.’
‘No. No. That’s fine, Theo.’ I winked at Emma, remembering the dispute over the bridge collapse. ‘Well, there are lots of other toys at our house, Theo. But it’s up to you. If you’d rather help Mummy unpack?’
The two boys now eyed each other in their own tacit conspiracy.
‘I’ve got dinosaurs,’ Ben offered, hopefully.
‘Any man-eaters?’
Ben nodded.
‘OK. If there are T-Rexes, I’ll go.’
‘Great – we can play Jurassic Park.’
‘You haven’t seen Jurassic Park, Ben.’
‘I have.’
‘We’ve been over this, Ben. No, he hasn’t,’ I reassured Emma and Heather, winking again. ‘Sore subject.’
Emma ruffled Theo’s hair, laughing as he pulled away, and then reached across to flick the switch on the kettle, insisting we stop for a drink first – ushering the boys into the garden for football.
‘Don’t worry – no tea. No reading. I’ll make a pot of coffee, Sophie. Then you won’t feel on the spot. Librans so hate that.’ Emma was grinning while I glared at Heather.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say a thing. I don’t even know when your birthday is, Sophie, I’m not on Facebook. See, I told you she was good.’
Emma, meanwhile, wiped her hands and sat at the table waiting for the kettle. Also, evidently, for my reaction. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I shouldn’t tease but I’d put money on it. Libran? Yes?’
It was true. October 20th. Though, for a reason I could not entirely understand, there was no way I was about to confirm this.
‘Actually, I have a question for you, Emma. Just t
o make sure I haven’t missed something. Do you sing?’
‘Sing?’
‘Yes. As in, for a living . . .’
CHAPTER 3
BEFORE
Four days later and Emma stared down at Tedbury below her, suddenly working something out.
Yesterday she’d bought postcards from the local shop: a romantic and improbable version of the village, the image all soft focus with a strange mist. Photoshop, she assumed.
She bought a batch, telling the postmaster she would use them as change-of-address cards, then binned the lot the minute she got home; no intention of telling anyone where she was.
And now? From this vantage point, Emma could see that the postcard was no photographer’s trick after all. Far below her, the early-morning mist pooled in the valley exactly as depicted in the image, while on this higher ground the cows chomped obliviously at their breakfast, bathed as she was in contrasting sunlight.
OK. So a trick not of photography but of topography. Emma smiled, aware this mist would not last long and thinking of the grandmother she had to thank for the treat of being introduced to it; the woman, tall and lean, whom she had come to know as Granny Apple and who taught her to rise early for mushroom-gathering. It is the curse of a house, Emma, she’d explained as they foraged barefoot through the dew all those years ago. Houses breed the delusion of more comfort indoors than out. And yet – see. Just look how wrong they are. How much they miss.
Ah yes, Emma thought. How much we miss.
‘Is it smoke, Mummy?’
In France, she had walked with Theo in a little rucksack on her back, but he was beyond that now – a small, yawning voice alongside her. Talking. Moaning. Always talking.
‘No, Theo. It’s mist.’
‘Does it hurt?’
He had moaned especially about coming out this early, but she remembered another of her grandmother’s tricks now.
‘Pancakes when we get back. Our reward.’
‘With maple syrup, Mummy?’
Emma ignored the question, picturing for a moment not the frying pan on the stove outside her grandmother’s dilapidated caravan but the pancakes in France – the skill with which the women at the market rolled them out so thinly on the large, hot grill plates, Theo stretching up on tiptoes to watch. The smell of caramelised sugar and warm chocolate wafting through the air, just like this mist; and then, with the thought of France, the tightening in Emma’s stomach which accompanied any thought involving both her mother and her grandmother – the women who could not sit comfortably together. Not in the same room. Not in the same sentence. Not even in the same daydream.
The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 2
