Magpie

  After the press-ups, Jake shrugs himself into a greying hoodie with ‘Harvard’ written in an arch across the front. He has never been to Harvard but the hoodie is so old now that he can’t remember where it came from. He comes to sit next to her and she feels the heat and smell of his sweat, mossy like a forest.

  ‘Don’t worry about the visits,’ he says, mopping his face with a towel. ‘Let’s go down this Saturday if you’re stressed.’

  ‘I’m not stressed, I just …’ She lets the thought hang.

  ‘The main thing, as we’ve agreed,’ he says, as though speaking to a child, ‘is to keep Marisa calm and happy and—’

  ‘And stable, yes I know.’

  A swell of frustration in her chest. Jake stops mopping and looks at her.

  ‘You are stressed. Mum was right.’

  Her throat contracts.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘I just meant—’

  ‘So you’ve been talking to your mother about me?’

  As a couple, they rarely argue. There seems little point. On the odd occasion that she is unreasonable, Jake meets her with placidness and the situation is defused and she does the same for him. She has never understood it when other couples admit they argue vociferously and claim it as evidence of their passion. But now she is furious. She can sense herself about to say something irreversible.

  Jake is silent.

  ‘I said, have you been talking to your mother about me?’

  He glares at her and she is shocked by the anger she sees in his face.

  ‘Yes, for fuck’s sake, of course I’ve been talking to her. She’s my mother. She’s worried about me – about us.’

  ‘How kind,’ Kate says. ‘But I don’t need her concern.’

  She stands, holding the wine glass so tightly she wonders if she might snap the stem.

  ‘You see, this is just what I mean,’ he says, still sitting on the bench. He has clenched his hands at either end of the towel around his neck. His knuckles are white. ‘I can’t say anything without you flying off the handle.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes! And Mum’s noticed it. She’s worried you’re too involved, too obsessive, that it’s not good for Marisa—’

  ‘I’m the mother,’ Kate screams.

  A window slams in the housing estate opposite and then, all at once, the stairwell lights snap on simultaneously as they are programmed to do at the same time each day. The garden is pitched into a ghoulish half-light.

  ‘Of course I’m going to be involved!’ She notices with surprise that she is still shouting. ‘Obsessive? Bullshit. Our surrogate attacked me! She had a breakdown and thought you were together! I think I’ve earned the right to be concerned, don’t you?’

  ‘Jesus, Kate, keep your voice down. The neighbours will hear.’

  ‘Oh fuck off,’ she says, walking inside the kitchen and slamming the wine glass onto the table so that red drops stain the wood. She knows, instinctively, what Annabelle will have been saying about her: that she’s unhinged, that this drive for a baby has made her lose perspective, that Jake must be careful.

  She remembers a phone conversation with Annabelle a few days ago. Kate had the gritted teeth tension she always got when she saw Annabelle’s name flash up on the mobile screen. She usually called Jake, and only tried Kate if she couldn’t get hold of him, so Kate had answered saying, ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid, Annabelle.’

  ‘What? Oh, no, Kate. I was calling to talk to you, actually.’

  The older woman’s voice was clear on the other end of the line, vowels tinkling against consonants like ice cubes in a gin and tonic.

  ‘OK. How … nice,’ Kate said, checking her watch to see how long would be polite to wait until she could draw this unwanted interruption to a close. ‘Is everything OK? Is Marisa OK?’

  ‘Yes, she’s thriving,’ Annabelle said, and Kate felt it as a rebuke. Why couldn’t she just have said ‘fine’?

  ‘I wanted to see how you were,’ Annabelle continued, placing emphasis on the you, as though it was an unparalleled act of kindness on her behalf.

  ‘That’s … nice,’ Kate repeated. ‘I’m pretty good, thank you.’

  ‘Really?’

  She could hear Annabelle breathe in noisily and the sound of a door closing in the background and she wondered if Chris had walked in or out of the room. Or maybe it wasn’t Chris at all, Kate found herself thinking; maybe it was Marisa.

  ‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be? I mean aside from the unrelenting stress of this entire situation.’ Kate gave a sharp burst of laughter. She had meant to be funny, but the joke landed more bleakly than she’d anticipated. ‘No, but honestly, Annabelle, that’s so sweet of you to check in. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ Annabelle said, her tone unchanged, almost as if Kate hadn’t said anything. ‘I love my son, but I’m also aware that he’s been a bit …’ She paused meaningfully. ‘Distracted, shall we say?’

  Kate didn’t know how to respond. It was true that Jake had been more distant than normal, but this was between the two of them. There was no reason Annabelle should have known. Unless, she thought with a lurch, Jake had been talking to her about their issues?

  ‘He’s been such a support to Marisa,’ Annabelle was saying, ‘and it’s clear how well they get on, and of course he’s been a wonderful support to me too, as he always is. But I do hope he hasn’t been neglecting you, dear Kate.’

  Annabelle was one of the only people who could use the word ‘dear’ as a weapon.

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Kate said, ignoring her own disquiet. ‘He’s been great.’

  ‘Oh,’ Annabelle said, with a light note of surprise. ‘Oh, good, I’m so glad to hear it.’

  Reflecting on that phone call now in the grip of her own anger, Kate refills her glass and steps back outside. Jake has not moved from the bench. She sits back down beside him. She knows that the only way to prove Annabelle wrong is to be calm.

  ‘I’m sorry for shouting,’ she says. ‘I just don’t want Marisa’s needs taking priority over mine. She’s carrying my son, after all.’ There is a pause. ‘I am the mother.’

  Jake, immediately contrite, draws her in close.

  ‘Of course you are,’ he tells her, kissing the top of her head.

  She expects him to say more, but he doesn’t, and after a few minutes of silence she unfolds herself from his arm and sits up, tilting the wine glass to her mouth so that the liquid hits the back of her throat. She downs it.

  ‘Look, let’s go down this Saturday,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, why not? I’ll let Mum know we’re coming.’

  ‘OK, great. Thanks.’

  He turns to smile at her.

  ‘It’ll set your mind at rest.’

  She has always thought that this is such an odd phrase: to set one’s mind, as if it were clay that needed to be fired into a state of stasis.

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ she replies, even though she isn’t.

  The visit is cleared with Annabelle and they head to Gloucestershire that Saturday, listening to a podcast series on the journey down so that they don’t have to talk to each other. Kate is tense, made even more so by her efforts not to show it. Her face is drawn and a speckled patch of grey hair has sprouted along her parting. She has never had to dye her hair before and is curiously reluctant to do so now. Let it grow, she thinks to herself, what does it really matter?

  Jake, by contrast, looks well rested and glossy with good health. He’s been taking a new herbal sleep supplement that he swears by and getting up early each morning to do a session with the straps before going to work. She’s aware that it’s all part of his distraction strategy – a way of staying sane in the most pressurised of circumstances – but she resents it. He is balanced even when
it comes to managing imbalance, which makes her appear unpredictable and sketchy by comparison. Next week, he has ordered a three-day juice cleanse. She is already planning the unhealthy takeaway meals she will eat in deliberate protest. Pizza one night, a cream-laden curry the next, perhaps rounded off with a double cheeseburger with fries. Kate, who has always been a conscious eater, a woman aware of the importance of getting her five a day, a person who owns a blender in which she used to mix together kale and celery and coconut water, is now struck by the absurdity of expending so much energy on things that make no perceptible difference. Her thoughts are so crowded with the reality of what is happening that she barely has time to think of anything other than their baby and the need to keep their relationship together while ensuring Marisa is looked after. Spending time on herself is the last thing she wants to do.

  This is her mindset when they clamber out of the car and walk back into the red-brick house where Annabelle ushers them briskly through to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t made anything special. It was such short notice,’ Annabelle says pointedly. ‘So I’ve just got some veg soup on the go.’

  There is a burnt orange Le Creuset on the Aga, the lid rattling and emitting a steamy, earthy smell. Annabelle has pinned her hair back and is wearing a high-collared lace shirt underneath a cashmere navy jumper. A pair of reading glasses hangs from a gold chain around her neck. She puts them on as she takes the lid off the saucepan and stirs the contents.

  ‘Delicious,’ Jake says. ‘Exactly what I feel like.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Kate adds. ‘Sorry to put you to such trouble.’

  ‘Oh it’s no trouble,’ Annabelle says in a way that suggests the opposite. ‘Chris is off buying some wood for the fire and various bits and pieces. Feeding an extra mouth means we’re running through groceries rather rapidly.’

  ‘You must let us know how much we owe you,’ Kate says. Sweat trickles down her neck. She is still in her coat.

  Annabelle looks at her sharply.

  ‘It’s not a question of money,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, I …’

  Jake presses his hand into Kate’s lower back. She falls silent.

  ‘We really appreciate it, Mum,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

  Annabelle sighs.

  ‘Nonsense. Family first. That’s always been my motto.’

  She peers into the saucepan, the steam clouding her glasses. Kate takes off her coat and hangs it in the hallway. She slips her phone reluctantly into the pocket – Annabelle doesn’t like them to have their mobiles at mealtimes but leaving it behind always feels to Kate as though she’s temporarily cut adrift from a world that understands her as a woman in her own right, rather than Jake’s inconvenient appendage.

  When she returns, Jake and his mother are speaking quietly and quickly. They stop as soon as she walks in.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Annabelle says, getting a seeded loaf from the bread bin and slicing it with practised ease.

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘No, I’ve done it all now. It’s just soup,’ she repeats.

  ‘Shall I grate some cheese?’ Jake asks.

  ‘Actually that would be helpful.’ Annabelle reaches out to squeeze Jake’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Jakey.’

  Kate leans against the wooden dresser, forgetting, as she does so, that it wobbles precariously if any weight is put on it. The plates clatter within. She steps away, standing awkwardly on the flagstones with her arms crossed in front of her as Jake busies himself grating cheddar into big yellow mounds. No matter how much time she has spent in this house or how long she has notionally been a part of this family, Kate always feels so out of place: an interloper from an alien race.

  She fixes her eyes on the opposite wall which has a calendar hanging on it, every month accompanied by a photograph of a different European city. Annabelle is rigorous about noting down all appointments and visits in black marker pen. The square for today has ‘J&K to visit’ in the top left-hand corner. Tomorrow is ‘Meeting with vicar’. Monday is ‘Cleaner’. Typical of Annabelle not to use the cleaner’s name, Kate thinks. She probably doesn’t even know it.

  Her eyes scan back towards the beginning of the month and she notices, with surprise, that the letter J is repeated several times. She tries to remember how often she and Jake have been able to visit, but she knows they haven’t been at all this month. So why is Jake’s initial there?

  ‘Right, I think we’re almost done,’ Annabelle says, lifting the pot away from the stove and onto a woven mat on the table. She catches Kate looking at the calendar and the two women’s eyes meet.

  ‘Too many Js,’ Annabelle says, straightening the butter dish. ‘My fault for naming two children Jake and Julia.’

  ‘Haha, right,’ Kate replies. Doesn’t Julia live in Hong Kong, she wants to ask? Unless these were scheduled phone calls, but that seems unlikely. Before she gets the chance to say anything else, there is a gust of cool air from the back of the kitchen and Marisa walks in from the garden.

  ‘Hi everyone.’

  She is pink-cheeked, hair tied back by a velvet scrunchie, belly neatly rounded. There is no other word for it but blooming. The cliche annoys Kate because it is true.

  ‘Marisa!’ she says, her voice slightly too eager. She goes to hug her, but Marisa steps back and kisses Kate on the cheek instead. Her face is cool and wind-blown. She smells of peanut butter.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ Kate says. ‘How are you feeling? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Let the poor girl get inside,’ Annabelle says, ladling soup into small bowls, each one circled with the word ‘BOWL’ and a pattern of polka-dots.

  Kate looks at the soup, swampy and lumpen, and is pierced with loathing for Annabelle. She closes the door behind Marisa and the kitchen is sucked back into its own heat.

  Marisa bends down to remove her wellingtons. Jake rushes to help her, holding her hand for support as she levers off each one using the cast-iron boot remover Annabelle keeps by the back door. Marisa is wearing a high-collared lace shirt underneath a woollen navy top. Other than the gold glasses chain and the lack of cashmere, her outfit looks exactly like Annabelle’s.

  ‘Righto, everyone come and sit down or the soup’ll get cold.’

  This fucking soup, Kate thinks.

  Jake, satisfied that Marisa’s boots have been dealt with, gives Kate a peck on the lips and ushers her towards the table. It is as though Jake is parenting them both, absent-mindedly treating them like toddlers he must get to sit down on time. She takes her usual seat, which is the only one that doesn’t match the rest of the furniture – it is an old dining chair, the seat padded with cracked leather, whereas all the others are stripped pine. When Annabelle first allotted Kate the chair, she made a big fuss of how it was ‘the throne’ and reserved for ‘very special guests’. If that were actually true, Kate thinks now, then surely it should be given to Marisa?

  ‘Are we not waiting for Dad?’ Jake asks.

  Annabelle rolls her eyes.

  ‘He was meant to be back half an hour ago and I’m not waiting any longer. I can heat some up when he finally makes an appearance.’

  ‘This smells so good, Annabelle,’ Marisa says. Her voice is softer than Kate remembers it, more whispering. She turns to Jake. ‘How was the drive?’

  It’s a meaningless question, one of those politely offered prompts in conversation that no one really cares to answer.

  ‘Fine, fine. Uneventful.’ He smiles at her.

  ‘Good,’ she says, taking a slice of bread and buttering it slowly. ‘And how is work, Kate?’

  ‘Work? Um. Yeah. Good.’

  ‘Good.’

  Annabelle is still rushing around the kitchen asking if they have everything they need and fetching the salt and pepper and wondering if
anyone wants a glass of wine. No one does. They wait for her to sit and, when she does so, she exhales loudly to show this has been an extraordinary imposition on her time but she’s not one to complain. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand.

  ‘Start, start,’ Annabelle says, flapping her hands.

  Marisa seems distant, her gaze vague. Kate imagines it must be the drugs giving her this air of studied tranquility. It is as though she is sitting on the other side of a perspex screen and cannot be reached. Again and again Kate tries to engage her in conversation. Is she feeling tired? How is her appetite? Can she feel the baby kicking? Has she been watching any TV? Is she sleeping well? Marisa smiles and gives monosyllabic answers, inviting no further discussion.

  ‘Goodness, Kate,’ Annabelle says, her spoon hovering. ‘So many questions! Let Marisa eat her lunch before it gets cold.’

  Kate, stung, pushes her bowl away. She has eaten half of it. The soup, after all the attention paid to it, tasted like stale dishwater. She cannot stand up to Annabelle without creating a scene, and she can’t push Marisa further without being accused of ‘unsettling’ her and being banned from visits for weeks. She glares at Jake, wanting him to step in and say something, but he doesn’t.

  ‘Marisa’s been doing some painting, haven’t you, Marisa?’ Annabelle says.

  Marisa’s face lights up.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been loving it.’ She nods her head gratefully at Annabelle. ‘It’s so nice to be doing something creative again without it being a work commission, you know?’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Kate says. ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Still lifes of flowers, mostly.’

  ‘Is it still lifes or still lives?’ Jake asks. ‘I’ve always wondered.’

  Marisa laughs, as animated as she has been since she arrived.

  ‘That’s so funny,’ she says, eyes twinkling. ‘I don’t know. But, honestly, they’re nothing special. Just getting my hand in again.’