by Jane Corry
My friend’s eyes widened. ‘It looks to me as though your waters might be breaking.’
‘Are you sure?’ They’d talked about this too at class, but somehow I expected there to be more of it. This felt more like I was just weeing myself again. Then almost immediately I felt a spasm of pain across my stomach and grimaced.
‘I think we’d better get you to hospital,’ said Jane, zipping up Alice’s coat.
‘But I’m two weeks early.’
‘Ready or not, you’re going into labour. You need to get hold of Jock.’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Just as well I’ve got the car outside, then.’
I began to panic. ‘But he’ll know we met up!’
‘Stuff it.’ I’d never heard Jane use that expression before. ‘This is an emergency.’
By the time Jane helped me in through the doors of the maternity wing, the pain had increased. It was as though huge waves had seized my body, churning it up, stopping to give me a quick breather and then starting all over again. What was happening to me? It was far worse than the midwife had described a ‘typical’ labour to be.
The pain brought back memories of my miscarriage. ‘I don’t want to lose it like the other one,’ I cried out to Jane.
‘You won’t,’ she said, gripping my hand and holding a wide-eyed Alice with the other. She rushed up to the desk. ‘Can someone help us please? My friend’s having her baby.’
‘I’ve got a terrible headache, too,’ I groaned, feeling my knees buckle under me.
‘Let’s get you in a side-room, love,’ said a nurse.
‘Jock!’ I called out. Part of me knew he’d be furious not to be here. But I was also relieved because I knew he’d try to take over.
‘Don’t worry about your husband, love,’ said the nurse. ‘We’ve got his work number on your file. We’ll call him for you.’
‘You need to go,’ I blurted out to Jane.
‘I can’t!’ she cried. ‘I want to stay here for you.’
‘You mustn’t. Jock will be cross.’
‘What about your mum? What’s her number?’
‘It’s …’
But I couldn’t remember it. The panic was engulfing me. It was just like last time, except that now I was far more advanced. I’d felt the baby moving inside me for months. I had to save it. I just had to.
A band tightened round my upper arm. ‘Betty? Can you hear me, love? We’re taking your blood pressure.’
I could barely focus on what was going on around me. Instead, I heard snatches that included the words ‘high’ and ‘caesarean’.
And after that, it all went blank.
13
Poppy
I can’t help looking behind me as the taxi makes its way slowly through the traffic. What if Matthew is following me in his own car? Could he have got it out of the hotel car park fast enough to do so? Might he have hailed a cab and be just behind?
I want to be sick. Instead, I force myself to text my daughter back. I would ring as she had done (a real sign of desperation in a teenager), but I don’t trust myself not to break down.
Daisy’s French file is drying out in the laundry room after she spilt water on it
I write. And then, just because the old me – the one who hadn’t just slept with another man – would have asked this, I add
What did you get detention for?
There is no reply. Either she hasn’t seen my message, which is unlikely because my eldest daughter’s phone is more or less surgically attached to her hand. Or else she doesn’t want to give me details.
Not that I’m in any position to criticize.
I think about Melissa’s moods, Daisy’s soggy French file. I remember an article I read once about a woman who had been on the brink of leaving her husband for a man at work. She’d even started packing for herself and the children. But then she went to get some clothes from the linen cupboard and realized that she couldn’t do it. There were so many odd socks; so many badly folded school shirts; pillow cases; sheets and even a stack of old baby blankets, smelling of happier times. The very thought of sorting it all out into things they had to take and things that could be left behind was simply too much. So she’d stayed.
It didn’t make sense to me at the time. But it does now. The linen cupboard is a symbol. Dismembering a home, let alone a family, is all too complicated. Too painful. I still remember the agony of coming back from my first year at drama school to comfort my father and finding my mother’s empty wardrobe, the spaces where her shoes used to sit, the gaps on the bookcases where her favourite novels had been.
‘That’ll be seven pounds fifty, madam,’ says the taxi driver, pulling up at the side of the station.
As I hand him a ten-pound note, I wonder when I became a ‘madam’. I was always a ‘miss’ or a ‘love’. ‘Madam’ had seemed reserved for an older generation. For women like Betty. What, I ask myself as I tell the driver to keep the change so I can race into the safety of the station, would my mother-in-law think of me after this? She would, quite rightly, be shocked. Appalled. She’d tell her son to leave me.
For some reason, that hurts almost more than the thought of Stuart’s reaction.
But that’s not going to happen, is it? Because I’m not going to tell them. I’ve made it quite clear to Matthew. I am not leaving my family. He will have to accept that I made a mistake. I was emotionally vulnerable and he took advantage of me.
Yet he didn’t, I recall as I race through the barrier, flashing my ticket, just in time (miraculously) to catch the train for London. I’m the one who had suggested we went upstairs. I had willingly allowed him to take my hand as we’d headed for the lift. I had let him pull my cashmere jumper over my head in Room 404. I had gasped with pleasure as he …
Stop! I have to put this out of my head. I have to forget it.
My phone bleeps. Melissa again? Stuart? Please no. I can’t face his voice yet. Matthew? That would be even worse. But it’s a message from Sally.
Sorry – couldn’t find another Doris. The casting director has gone for another agency. Hope today’s meetings go well.
Meetings? I check my online diary only to remember I’m seeing two different lots of film companies this afternoon to ‘nurture contacts’. It’s the last thing I need. But Sally and I set up these appointments ages ago and I can’t cancel.
All my emotions are spent. I lean back in my seat, feeling utterly overwhelmed as the train flies past green fields and through the odd town where other people – sensible people – are living calm, faithful lives.
There’s a woman across the aisle with two little girls. One is reading quietly. The other has her head bent over a colouring book. I am suddenly reminded of Melissa and Daisy when they were small, except that they were always squabbling and I was constantly knackered, trying to keep my work going and be a good mother at the same time. Somewhere along the line, I’d forgotten to be a wife as well. But how is it possible to do it all?
Other women manage, whispers a little voice in my head. They don’t all sleep with men because they’re tired or disillusioned with their lives.
The seaside jingle on my mobile suddenly bursts into song. It’s Betty. Should I answer it? Will she be able to tell there’s something wrong? But then again, maybe she’ll be more suspicious if I don’t.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to bother you, love. Just wanted to tell you that the girls went off to school fine after one or two little hiccups. I also wondered how your dad was.’
I realize with a shock that I haven’t rung him this morning to see how he is. It’s taken my kind, sweet mother-in-law to remind me of my very purpose for going down to Worthing in the first place.
‘He’s um, not great, actually. But I can’t really talk now. I’ll tell you all when I get back.’
I’m aware as I speak that the woman with the children is looking pointedly at the sign that declares this to be a quiet carriage.
I say goodb
ye to Betty after thanking her for holding the fort, hang up and then slip out into the space by the nearest door. The phone rings several times before my father answers.
‘Dad? Are you OK?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
I’m aware that we have short conversations like this almost every day. But the truth is that I do need to know he’s all right because of his age – even if he doesn’t like me being on his case. I also sense that his reply is particularly defensive today because I’d caught him out over the police calling about the petrol incident.
‘Just wanted to check, that’s all.’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘I just wanted to check …’
‘I can’t hear.’
I’m pretty sure he’s pretending. But there’s no point in going on when he’s in a mood like this. Sombrely I hang up and return to my seat. Still nothing from Stuart, not even to ask how Dad is.
I want to put my head in my hands and weep. There are, it has to be said, lots of things wrong with my marriage. But it had provided something that I hadn’t appreciated before. Security. And now it’s not there, I realize how important it was.
Almost as soon as I return to my seat, my phone rings out again. The mother shoots me another look. It’s from a withheld number. ‘Hello?’ I say tentatively.
‘Pops!’
I freeze. Only one person calls me that.
‘What do you want, Matthew?’
‘Look, I don’t know where you are, but come back. Please. I’m still at the hotel. We can talk.’
I cut in. ‘Stop. I’ve told you before. I made a mistake. I am not leaving my husband for you. If you and Sandra can’t work it out that’s your problem, but I will not be held responsible for that.’
I pause, suddenly horribly aware of what I have said, out loud for everyone to hear. Several heads turn in my direction. The mother I’d observed earlier stands up, issues whispered instructions to her little girls and hustles them out of the carriage; her arms protectively around them as she mutters about ‘people who make noises and say things they shouldn’t in front of innocent children’.
Mortified, I cut Matthew off. I put the phone belatedly on silent and wish with all my heart that I could go back to the morning of the Association of Supporting Artistes and Agents’ Christmas party, when life had still been normal. Then I begin to panic. Supposing someone in the carriage knows me from home? What if there’s an extra or a director or another agent who recognizes me from the business? Coincidences happen. I try to scan the faces but don’t recognize anyone.
Furious with myself for being so indiscreet, I spend the rest of my journey constantly checking my screen in case Matthew has tried to contact me again. Nothing. Thank heavens. Maybe he’s finally got the message. Perhaps he realizes that what he was suggesting is crazy and not an answer to the troubles we’re both facing in our marriages.
When I reach Victoria, I head straight for Boots to buy some wipes and then try to clean myself in one of the cubicles in the Ladies. I feel dirty. Wrong. I want to scrub every last speck of last night from my skin. Then I touch up my make-up, pull myself together and head for those meetings. The second one goes on for much longer than I’d anticipated, but it’s hard work like this that keeps us going. Stuart and I might look well-off on paper, but most of our money is tied up in the house. Everything else we’re putting aside for the girls’ future. Last time I checked, we had around £50,000. I know this is so much more than most people have, but with house prices as they are and university tuition fees looming, we can’t really afford to rest on our laurels.
There’s still nothing more from Matthew, which is a relief. On the other hand, there’s nothing from Stuart either. I call his receptionist, who says he’s with patients all afternoon and can she take a message? I ask her to tell him I called but not to worry about ringing back.
He doesn’t.
It’s almost evening when I get out at our local Tube station. It’s such a relief to get home. To walk down the path leading to our Edwardian three-storey, red-brick semi in this leafy part of north London. To open the door with its pretty pink-and-green stained-glass art-nouveau panel above; to be greeted with the smell of Betty’s fish pie wafting from the kitchen and to have Melissa’s arms around me. ‘I’m sorry about the detention, Mum, but it was only because I spoke out in class last week when I’d been told not to. Besides, it really wasn’t my fault because I knew the answer and the teacher doesn’t like me. It’s so unfair!’
‘Welcome to the real world,’ I nearly tell her. But I stop myself. ‘It’s all part of the learning curve,’ I say instead, almost as if I am trying to reassure myself.
‘Where’s Daisy?’ I add, sensing that Melissa is about to continue her tirade at the injustice of her punishment. I just can’t deal with it right now.
‘At French,’ says Melissa, slipping away now I’ve sort of forgiven her. ‘Gran’s collecting her.’
I often think I need a spreadsheet like some of the other mums at school to remember our various commitments. I had completely forgotten about Daisy’s extra French lessons. They’re quite expensive, but Daisy was falling behind at school so we didn’t have much of a choice. The tutor came highly recommended by another mother. Such is her demand that we had to wait eighteen months before getting a slot.
As if on cue, I hear the front door opening. ‘Coo-ee! It’s only us!’
In comes my mother-in-law in her purple beret and black Lycra leggings with silver ankle boots. She presses her warm cheek against mine in the hall. ‘Stuart rang to say he won’t be late tonight.’ Then she steps back to look at me. ‘You look exhausted, love. Now what’s been going on with your dad?’
Still standing in the hall, I tell her about the petrol and the police.
‘Poor man,’ she tuts. ‘It must be terrible when your mind goes like that.’
I want to tell her that mine has gone too. I’m so racked with guilt and worry that I’ve been on autopilot all day. But I know that’s out of the question. I also know I need a bath. I’m still worried I must smell of Matthew. That quick wipe-down in the station loo hadn’t felt enough.
‘Just going to freshen up after my journey,’ I say, breaking away from her hug. Then I realize. ‘Where’s Daisy?’
‘Outside.’ Betty is looking a bit shifty. ‘She’s just taking care of our visitor.’
My skin goes cold. Not Matthew. He couldn’t just up turn up, could he? Or Sandra? My stomach plunges as I imagine her wheeling herself down the garden path, tear-stained and furious, admonishing me from her chair. But just as my imagination can’t get any wilder, a small white ball of fluff comes flying in through the front door followed by my younger daughter.
‘Isn’t she wonderful?’ Daisy’s eyes are shining. ‘Madame Blanche asked if we could look after her new puppy. So Granny said yes. She’s called Coco. Isn’t that the sweetest name?’
I shoot a ‘How could you?’ look at my mother-in-law. Daisy has been asking for a dog for ages, but both Stuart and I have agreed we can’t take on any more responsibility. Daisy’s French teacher has been over-presumptuous here.
‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ says Betty. ‘The poor woman needed to go somewhere – she seemed frightfully harassed – and didn’t have anywhere to leave it.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘Daisy was a bit upset about her lesson. It didn’t go that well. Those irregular verbs can be pigs.’
My heart goes out to my youngest daughter. Unlike Melissa, who’d been predicted to get top grades at A level, Daisy has never been the academic type. And although she definitely has a talent for sketching, she’s going to need some basic subjects under her belt. ‘OK,’ I say weakly. ‘But please don’t let the puppy go on the sofa.’
‘Ah,’ says Betty as we run after Coco who is heading straight for the sitting room. ‘Looks like it’s a bit too late for that.’
The paw marks are all over my lovely duck-egg blue Colefax & Fowler fabric. Dirt on a clean canva
s. Just like my transgression.
‘That’s a nasty bruise on your arm, dear,’ says my mother-in-law. ‘How did you get that?’
I’d almost forgotten Matthew’s desperate lunge when I’d left. It’s stopped hurting by now but Betty’s right. There’s a big red-and-blue mark.
‘I bumped it getting out of a taxi door,’ I say quickly.
‘Poor you. These’s a new tube of arnica cream in the bathroom cupboard. Make sure you put some on.’
‘Granny,’ calls out Daisy from the kitchen. ‘Come and play with Coco! Isn’t she cute?’
That dog is getting everywhere! I need a break or my head is going to explode. So I leave them to it and go upstairs to run a bath. I add a generous measure of an expensive lavender and lemon verbena bath oil (a freebie from a shoot) and sink in. Then – bliss! – I lie back and close my eyes for a luxurious few moments, stretching out my legs. My phone is on the side in case there are any more work problems or worse …
I submerge my head and try to wash last night out of my mind. That feels a bit better. But when I come up, there’s a ping. Hastily, I reach for a towel to dry my hands and swipe the notification. A picture flashes up.
I freeze. It’s me. Lying in Matthew’s arms.
Took this selfie when you were asleep last night
says Matthew’s text below.
We make a rather good couple, don’t you think?
What is he doing? Suddenly I feel so angry I could throw the phone at the wall. Supposing I’d been next to the children when the picture had popped up. Or Stuart. They might have seen … It didn’t bear thinking about.
Delete it. I am serious, Matthew.
I consider for a moment and then I continue texting.
I am married for heaven’s sake. And so are you. What are you playing at?
The reply is instant.
Pops
it reads. I can hear the rich depth of his voice in the message.
I’m not playing at anything. I’m deadly serious. When two people like us find each other again after all these years, we can’t let each other go …
