But I don’t step away. I take the wine. And as I do, the other women turn their heads, as if by taking it I have answered all their questions. I want to tell them I’m just being polite, that I have no intention of actually drinking it. But they are already looking the other way.
‘Thanks,’ I say weakly.
‘Nice to meet you, Helen. I’m Rachel.’
And then Rachel clinks her glass against mine, knocks back another deep glug, and winks at me, as if we share a secret.
HELEN
The heat is more bearable today. A breeze from the river flows into Greenwich market hall, and the cloths over the stall tables billow like boat sails. Sunlight shines through glass panels in the roof, casting warm islands on the floor. In the green-painted metal rafters, pigeons coo and clamour. They sail down to the feet of the cafe tables, jabbing at abandoned croissants.
I have always loved the streets around the market: little crooked lanes, handsome Georgian windows, the musty scent of books and antiques. The dusty lamplit gloom of the pubs, with their worn leather and low ceilings. The brackish smell, carried on the breeze from the river. The mysterious names, left over from an age where Greenwich was the centre of the world: Straightsmouth, Gipsy Moth, Turnpin, Cutty Sark.
Daniel and I often come here on a Saturday, even though the whole experience is usually a let-down. You can never get a table at the coffee place, and the queue to take away stretches round the block. The aisles between the stalls are so packed that I am left constantly apologising, my bump pushed up against people’s backs as I squeeze past. We end up wandering aimlessly, looking again and again at the same handmade children’s clothes, quirky hats, worn-out furniture. Squabbling with tourists over tiny samples of expensive cheeses, then feeling obliged to buy some.
I had to get out of the house, though. I’d made my way downstairs this morning – still in my pyjamas, clinging to the filthy banister, attempting to dodge the gauntlet of tools, insulation, dust sheets – to be greeted by a host of embarrassed-looking builders. I mumbled a good morning, but the only one I really know is Vilmos, the boss, and he wasn’t there. I don’t think any of these men spoke English. They just nodded and smiled, clutching their cans of Relentless, cigarettes perched behind their ears. I could already see what the day would have in store. Drilling, dust, smashing plaster. Strange men urinating in my bathroom, dirt being traipsed to and from the kettle. Anything had to be better than staying at home.
I still haven’t completely forgiven Daniel for missing the antenatal class. When I woke the next morning, he was already up and showered, perched on the sofa with his laptop on his knee.
He looked up when he saw me. ‘Hey, how was it?’
I shrugged, fiddling with my dressing-gown cord. ‘Embarrassing.’
‘I’m so sorry, Helen.’
‘I know. It’s just, you know I hate stuff like that. On my own.’
He closed his laptop, rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Tried to explain. The new development he’s working on had got another dreadful write-up in the Evening Standard. It had come out late afternoon, and the client had gone mad, demanded to know why they hadn’t been warned, why the press seemed to have it in for the project. It had been up to Daniel to race up to Edinburgh to meet with the client, try and calm everything down.
‘Couldn’t Rory have dealt with it?’
Even as I said it, though, I knew what the answer would be. Daniel rolled his eyes. ‘Nowhere to be found,’ he said. ‘As usual.’
Daniel had joined my brother Rory at his architecture firm a few years ago. It was my suggestion, and so I can’t help but feel responsible for the fact that my brother has proven a less than ideal business partner. It always seems to be left to Daniel to keep everything going.
Daniel hauled himself up, wrapped his arms around me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘I promise I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go into town this weekend, have a proper look at things for the nursery.’
I pulled away to look at his face. It felt like a significant concession: he finds things like that hard, I know, after what has happened before. He still can’t bear to hope, to put his trust in the idea that this time things really are going to be different.
‘Really? And you won’t spend the whole day complaining?’
He laughed. ‘Promise. We can look at as many tiny pairs of socks as you like. I won’t say a word.’
Today, the market is wonderfully sleepy. Most of the stallholders are sitting back, eating lunch from brown takeaway boxes, chatting. There are no queues, so I take my time choosing serrano ham, hard cheeses, a glistening apricot tart. In the bakery, I pick up a flour-dusted loaf of sourdough. In the stalls outside, I gather handfuls of red and yellow tomatoes in crinkling brown paper, smooth and round as gemstones.
Maybe it won’t be so bad after all. Having nothing to do. I was advised to start my maternity leave early. This isn’t my first pregnancy – the others didn’t end well. I am a high-risk case, scanned every two weeks, my baby checked and checked again. I have been told I need to take it easy. Spend time at home. Do nothing.
I decide to take my time, do a full loop around the market, gulping in the smells of fresh bread and newly cut flowers, the faded melody of the busker on the steps outside. I linger over the stalls I never buy anything from – the ones that sell silver jewellery, old-fashioned children’s toys, home-made candles, rustling skirts, silk dresses, tie-dyed tunics. Things that Mummy liked to look at, when we came here together. I pretend to be interested so that I can touch things. Feel the silver, the velour, the crushed silk. Things that remind me of her.
The lady on the clothes stall – an ageing hippy with a nose piercing and a leathery face – doesn’t seem to mind me lingering. She is eating what smells like a lentil curry from one of the hot-food places, stabbing at chunks of paneer and butternut squash with a fork, a bluebottle batting at the canvas behind her. I sift through her tunics and skirts, moving the hangers one by one with my fingertips. I imagine which ones Mummy might have chosen.
Once, she bought a blue velvet dress here. She held it up against herself, her head cocked to one side, looking in the chipped mirror in the lady’s makeshift changing room. That mirror is still here, with its rainbow rim. I have the dress at home, although I don’t like to look at it much. I keep it in a drawer, hidden away. I can’t understand, sometimes, how things like that are still the same. Things that she touched, things that she wore, that were once warm against her skin, mirrors that held her reflection. They are all still here, in the world, with me. But she is gone, and never coming back.
I head back into the main square, where the coffee place and the metal tables are. I think about getting an orange juice and sitting here for a bit. I could look at Serena’s Instagram for a while, see what she’s up to. She does her yoga class on a Wednesday and usually posts something afterwards, a picture of herself upside down, flexed like an acrobat on a pale pink mat, her trailing hair completing the perfect circle of her body. Or an inspiring quote from a book, which is usually easy enough to find and order online. I think about having a look at these other antenatal classes she’s found, the ones that meet in the bakery. But I’ve already paid hundreds of pounds for the NCT ones. Daniel would go mad.
And that’s when I see her. The girl from the antenatal class. Rachel. She is sitting at one of the metal tables, reading a newspaper, the free one they hand out at the Tube station. That rape case is on the front page again. There’s a hardness in her expression as she reads, her mouth clamped in a tight line.
I could say hello, obviously, but I don’t really have anything to say, and can’t think why I would want to initiate another round of awkward small talk. I’d been desperate to get away by the end of the class, but she had tried to strike up another conversation. I got the impression she was hoping to hang around, have another drink. I’d muttered an excuse and left as quickly as I could, marching home to scold Daniel over his non-appearanc
e.
I can’t resist studying her a bit, though, seeing as I am here unobserved. She looks young to be having a baby, I think – much younger than most of the others in the group. She is quite pretty really, though she has made the mistake of over-plucking her eyebrows, and her long hair is dyed too dark, so that it makes her face look shockingly pale.
Rachel seems completely absorbed in her newspaper. The coffee on the table in front of her looks untouched, a speckle of chocolate powder sitting perfectly on the foam. She has left her phone and purse on the edge of the table, rather recklessly. Anyone could snatch her things from a table like that. I notice the purse is stuffed with notes – so many that she has only been able to zip it up halfway.
Rachel places the newspaper down, picks up her phone and starts tapping away. That chipped purple polish is still clinging to her fingernails. The garish gold backpack is at her feet again, plus a clutch of shopping bags. Her mobile is clad in a gold plastic case, the sort you see on teenagers’ phones, an outline of a Playboy bunny studded on the reverse in diamanté.
I have stared too long. She glances up, spots me immediately. I try to look away, fiddle with my bags, but it is too late.
‘Helen!’
When I glance back up, the serious expression has been replaced by a wide grin, her pointed teeth on show again. She tilts her head to the side and motions me to come over. As she does so, she shoves the bulging wallet into her bag, away from view.
‘So great to see you!’ she cries. I start a tentative wave, but instead she stands up and pulls me into a bear hug, as if we’re old friends who haven’t met in ages, rather than near-strangers who met just a few days before. The hand I’d raised in greeting is squashed, awkwardly, between our two chests.
‘They’ve signed me off work early, too! High blood pressure, same as you. What are the chances?’
What are the chances? I think to myself. I suppose blood pressure issues are hardly uncommon. Although I’d sort of assumed it was linked to my being a bit overweight. Whereas she is so skinny and slight, her small round bump incongruous against her matchstick-thin arms and legs.
‘Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Poor you,’ I say, tentatively. ‘Are you on the labetalol, then?’
She looks blank for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ she says vaguely, glancing off to the left. ‘Something like that.’ Her hands flap my question away, as if it’s not important. ‘Come on, let’s have a coffee. We can catch up properly.’
Catch up? On what? I open my mouth to object, then close it again, my brain having failed to supply me with an excuse. Rachel is looking over my shoulder, beckoning a waiter with a purple-painted fingernail.
‘Excuse me? Hello?’ The frown is back. ‘Fuck me,’ she mutters. ‘Service is slow around here.’
I place my bag and my basket of groceries on the floor between us. As I do, I start to form excuses in my mind. Friends round for dinner, I’ll say. Can’t stay long. I sit down, the silence between us already feeling uncomfortable. I take a stab at small talk.
‘Have you been shopping?’ I ask, gesturing rather stupidly down at her bags.
‘Yes!’ She beams. ‘Baby stuff, obviously. I’ve literally gone mad. I know they say not to buy too much. Can’t help it, though. It’s all so fucking cute!’
I laugh, awkwardly. I know what she means. The little velour jackets, the tiny towels with bear ears on the hoods. It’s like an addiction, once you get started. I’ll have to pretend to Daniel that I’ve waited, as he said we should – that baby shopping this weekend is a big treat. In reality, I’ve been hiding bags from him for weeks.
Rachel presses her lips to the coffee mug and sips, leaving a crescent of coral pink on the rim. ‘So,’ she says, replacing it. ‘Tell me about this husband. Did he have a good excuse?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For not showing up!’
‘Oh.’ I laugh nervously, glancing at the tables either side of us. I wonder if other people are finding her voice a little too loud, or if I’m just imagining it. ‘He just had a nightmare at work. It was one of those things.’
Daniel used to love his job. When he first went into practice with Rory – at the building firm Daddy founded, and that Rory took on when he died – I thought it would be perfect. Even if Rory didn’t always pull his weight, surely it would be easier for Daniel, being his own boss. The firm is based here in Greenwich. He can walk across the park to work, choose his own hours. At least, that’s what Rory appears to do.
But I seem to see Daniel less and less. He comes in with these bags under his eyes, a slant in his shoulders, like he’s carrying rocks in his backpack. He tells me everything’s fine, that it’s just this demanding client, this difficult new project. But between that and the building work at home, it’s as if he has started to hate it. Maybe it’s the pressure of the baby coming too – I don’t know. I should talk to him about it, ask him properly. But sometimes when I see his face when he walks in, I’m worried to ask how his day was.
‘Work! A likely fucking story.’ Rachel laughs, slapping a hand down on the table. Her rings clang against the metal. I jump. A gaggle of pigeons that had gathered at our feet flutters away.
Rachel glances at me, then places her coffee down. She resets her expression, puts a hand on my arm.
‘Sorry, Helen. That was a joke. I’m sure he was gutted.’
‘It’s fine.’ I try to get the conversation back onto a comfortable footing. ‘I was cross with him, to tell you the truth. My brother and his wife were supposed to be there as well, but they couldn’t make it either, so –’
‘Oh yeah, you said. That’s a shame.’ She pauses. ‘Must be exciting, though – to be having babies at the same time. Especially when you live nearby.’
I nod. ‘It’s lovely.’ I couldn’t believe it when Serena told me her and Rory’s baby was due just a few weeks after mine. After all the times before, it felt like a good omen, at last. I’d somehow felt sure, then, that things would be different this time.
‘Do you get on with her? Your brother’s wife?’
‘Serena? Oh God, yes. She’s amazing. She really is like a sister.’ I gush, then feel a hot curtain of blood rising through my face. Do I sound childish? ‘We were at university together, the four of us,’ I add quickly. I’m careful not to say Cambridge – Daniel told me once that it sounded boastful, talking about it all the time, especially to people who might not have even been to university. ‘Rory was in the year above me. And Rory and Daniel are in business together now, so we see them both a lot.’
‘Your husband and your brother? In business together? Doing what?’
‘They’re architects. My father was an architect, too. He was … well, he was sort of a bit famous, I suppose. He died a few years back.’
I pause, automatically, waiting for the usual condolences, the usual curiosity about Daddy. But Rachel doesn’t react. She is using her index finger to spoon the dusting of chocolate powder from the froth of her coffee directly into her mouth. When she is finished, she starts to work the moistened finger around the rim of the cup, where a little tideline of chocolate is stuck to the lip.
‘When Daddy died, Rory took over the firm. Haverstock and Company,’ I continue, even though I’m not entirely sure she is listening. ‘By then, Daniel was doing pretty well at another place – he’d won awards, that sort of thing. So it was an easy decision, really. Rory asked Daniel to come on board as his partner, and now it’s a real family firm. They are really brilliant. Daniel is in the process of remodelling our house. We’re getting rid of the ground-floor bathroom and putting a new one in upstairs – it’s going to have one of those lovely Victorian roll-top baths, and a big walk-in shower, with these gorgeous tiles I found. And we’re putting in a new staircase and landing where that was, and eventually there will be a big basement extension, a whole new floor, with a sunken living space and glass roof, and …’ I stop, wondering if I sound boastful. ‘Anyway. A few other bits. Daniel’s designed it all. We’re q
uite excited about it.’
I sense my talk of the building work is boring Rachel. She finishes her coffee: a little M of froth left behind on her top lip, a smudge of chocolate in either corner of her mouth. I motion to my own lip; she giggles, wipes the marks off. She stretches her hands above her head, lets out an exhale, glances around the market.
‘Shall we have another coffee?’ she suggests, even though I haven’t actually had a coffee yet, just watched her drink the one she had already. ‘You could even risk one with actual caffeine!’ Rachel smiles, taps her leopard-spotted bump. I can’t work out whether she is making fun of me or not. She seems to believe the babies only exist in abstract, that adhering to the health guidelines is entirely a matter of personal taste. ‘Actually, could I just have an orange juice?’
She looks amused. ‘OK. Sure! I’ll go up and order – quicker than waiting for these jokers.’
She says this loudly, causing a passing waiter to look up, dumbfounded. Rachel ignores him, strides into the cafe.
When I see she is safely inside, I can’t resist peering into her shopping bags. Furtively, I lower my hand, separate the top of the bag with my thumb and forefinger and root around to feel the fabrics. Disappointingly, though, I find there are no baby clothes in the first bag at all. All I can see is a scruffy old jumper, dirty around the cuffs, and what looks like a pair of old leggings. A few clothes tags, an empty sunglasses case.
‘Oh, shit!’
I look up sharply. For a second, I’m sure Rachel has spotted me looking into her bags: she’s looking straight at me.
‘He’s given me a coffee instead of orange juice. What an idiot, Helen. Will you be OK drinking it or shall I go back?’
‘Of course,’ I tell her, trying to disguise my relief. ‘One won’t hurt.’
Maybe I can get away with abandoning it, I think, as she sits back down. Like I did the glass of wine.
Then without warning, Rachel has reached over, and her hands are on my belly.
Greenwich Park Page 2
