Magpie

  ‘Yes,’ Kate says automatically. ‘And the balloons. Honestly, Annabelle, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t have,’ Marisa says. Kate smiles at her but Marisa turns away. Jake is still kneeling next to her, touching her stomach. Looking at them is like sticking her hand in a fire, but Kate is compelled to keep doing it.

  Marisa smiles, and her face has that unlined, faraway quality that makes Kate think again that the real Marisa is buried deep underneath the surface of this conscientiously pleasant one, as though she is wrapped in protective plastic. She is saying and doing all the right things, and yet something doesn’t quite fit.

  Jake fetches the provisions from the car. The room is soon filled with blue floating orbs. The cake is placed on the coffee table in the centre of the room. Annabelle claps with satisfaction, then disappears, re-emerging a few moments later with a tray bearing a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and five glasses.

  ‘You’ll have a glass, won’t you, Marisa?’

  Kate gives an audible whimper. She is so appalled by the idea of Marisa drinking alcohol while pregnant with their child that she isn’t able to stop herself. Marisa turns to look at her, eyes swivelling slowly round like a lizard.

  ‘No, that’s OK, thanks Annabelle. I’ll stick to the elderflower.’

  ‘You sure? One glass can’t hurt.’

  ‘She’s said she doesn’t want one,’ Kate says, her voice loud.

  Annabelle purses her lips. She pops the champagne bottle in silence and when the cork flies to the other side of the room, Chris says, ‘Watch it!’ and they all laugh, apart from Kate, who seems to have lost the capacity to find anything funny.

  With the gin and tonic finished, she accepts the champagne from Annabelle and sips it, reminding herself to take it slowly. Although she wants to numb the awkwardness of this day, Kate also needs to keep her head clear. She tries to speak but it feels as though a piece of lint has got stuck in her throat. She looks at Jake and his parents and at Marisa and she notices how physically similar the four of them are: all blonde and strapping in their own ways, those blue eyes of Annabelle’s mirrored by Marisa’s; Jake and Chris’s shared florid cheeks and strong jawbones. They are poster children for a new Aryan nation, she thinks, while she is the dark, difficult one in the corner who refuses to conform. She latches onto the strangest image of the Sturridges and Marisa as a group of snapping alligators, circling the outsider with ominous intent.

  ‘Well this is nice,’ Annabelle says, crossing her legs daintily at the ankle. ‘I think a toast is in order.’

  She raises her glass, with her long elegant arm.

  ‘It’s been a long journey to this point, but I wanted to make a toast to our baby boy. We can’t wait to meet him.’

  The casually spoken ‘our’ lashes Kate’s heart like a jellyfish sting. She readies herself to raise her champagne flute, but Annabelle hasn’t finished yet.

  ‘And to Marisa,’ she continues, winking – actually winking – at her. ‘Thank you for giving these two such a precious gift. It hasn’t been an easy road for you, as we know …’ There is a loaded pause. ‘But you’ve come through it and we’re all so lucky you came into our lives.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Chris says.

  Jake lifts his glass to cheers and smile with the others, while Marisa sits resplendent on the overstuffed sofa cushions, beaming like the Pope on his balcony. Only Kate doesn’t raise her glass. No one clocks it.

  ‘I hadn’t realised Marisa was making herself so indispensable!’ Kate tries to sound breezy, but the words are shrewish in spite of herself.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Marisa murmurs softly. ‘I haven’t at all. I’m so grateful you’ve had me to stay here, truly.’

  ‘It’s been lovely to have you around,’ Annabelle replies. ‘And you’ve been very helpful with all the village fete preparations.’

  ‘That was nothing …’

  ‘Nonsense. There’s not too many people patient enough – or talented enough, for that matter – to draw posters and flyers. The vicar was thrilled.’

  Chris, topping up Kate’s glass, says waggishly, ‘And we all know how important it is to please the vicar.’

  Marisa and Annabelle erupt into peals of laughter.

  ‘Sorry,’ Annabelle says, waving her hands in front of her face. ‘It’s too complicated to explain.’

  Jake, the corners of his mouth twitching vaguely in a way that could, if necessary, be construed as a smile, reaches forward for the cake knife.

  ‘Shall we cut this thing?’ he says abruptly.

  Cut their fucking throats, Kate thinks.

  ‘Yes, yes, go ahead,’ Annabelle replies. ‘The plates and napkins are just there.’

  Kate watches as Jake slices decisively through the cake. The point of the knife enters at the top of the ‘B’ for ‘Baby’ and thuds when it reaches the solidity of the tray beneath. He slides individual triangles of cake onto each plate and hands them out. The cake is overly sweet and fluffy, more air than sponge. The icing is the fondant kind that has the texture of wallpaper paste. The sugar jolt hits Kate squarely between the eyes and her head aches as it does when thunder is about to break.

  Of all the things she imagined might happen when they asked Marisa to be their surrogate, this is a scenario she could not possibly have anticipated. The fact that Marisa had stopped taking her meds and had deluded herself into believing she was in a relationship with Jake before attacking Kate in the hallway of her own home was almost easier to handle than this charade. Annabelle, the woman who had never fully welcomed Kate into her home, who had always made it clear that she felt her beloved son could do so much better, was now laughing and chatting away so easily with Marisa, it was as though the two of them had known each other for years. Kate watches them communicating with private jokes amid the comfort of their mutual familiarity, and she sees how Marisa seems to come alive under the beam of Annabelle’s attention, and how Annabelle, too, is transformed by this interaction, appearing younger and increasingly vital in her movements. And Chris, also, seems more involved – leaning forwards in his chair to hear better, asking Marisa if she’s comfortable enough or maybe she needs another cushion?

  Kate wants to catch Jake’s eye and share a conspiratorial glance of horror, but she can tell he is avoiding her. She sees his mouth moving and realises he has joined in the conversation but there is a rushing noise in her head and she can’t hear what anyone is saying. She tries to steady her breathing but her lungs feel as though they are being wrung out like a sponge. On the wall behind the sofa there is an oil painting of a clifftop, waves crashing against the grey stone, and she focuses on the brushstrokes until the panic subsides. Her legs buckle when she stands. She steadies herself by reaching for the back of the chair.

  ‘Goodness, we haven’t drunk that much, have we?’ Annabelle says, watching her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jake asks.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ she lies. ‘Just going to the loo.’

  She makes her way out of the room into the welcome coolness of the hallway. In the toilet underneath the stairs, she splashes her face with water and holds her hands under the cold tap. She dries her hands on the monogrammed towel hanging by the basin. Kate opens the lavatory door and she can hear the four of them talking, their voices slipping towards her like skimming stones across water. She feels as she did as a child, when her parents had friends over for dinner and she was meant to be in bed but instead would creep to the edge of the staircase, poking her head through the banister to see what was happening in the dining room below. Sometimes her mother would find her and pack her off and Kate would pad back to bed in her bare feet and be unable to sleep, tormented by the fact that she was not involved in all the fun happening downstairs and that they were not including her.

  In the hallway, without warning, is Annabelle.

&nb
sp; ‘There you are,’ Annabelle says. In the half-gloom, she gives the impression of having grown several inches. Kate steps back.

  ‘We were wondering where you’d got to.’

  Annabelle is unsmiling, her formidable profile turned to its three-quarter point. The silk of her dress shimmers in the half-light like melting ice.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kate says. ‘I hadn’t realised I’d been so long.’

  She forces herself to look Annabelle in the face, refusing to show she is cowed by her presence.

  ‘I’m going to get some more elderflower for Marisa,’ Annabelle says. She sweeps past Kate into the kitchen, but Kate follows, unwilling to let her go. She wants to say something but she isn’t sure what. She is so angry at this woman, so repelled by her interference that she has to cross her arms to stop herself from physically lashing out.

  Annabelle opens the fridge door and takes out a bottle of San Pellegrino, then reaches to the cupboard for a glass which she fills with ice from the rubber tray. She moves with grace, her arms expanding like wings, and she pays no attention to Kate who stands in the doorway, one foot on the kitchen flagstones, one foot on the hallway tiles. She is not sure what she’s going to do or say but then it comes out without Kate having to think.

  ‘Annabelle,’ Kate starts. ‘If you think you can unsettle me with this little power-play you have going on, then you’re very much mistaken.’

  Annabelle stops what she’s doing. The half-poured bottle of San Pellegrino hangs from one hand. Her face is immobile, denuded of expression.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kate.’

  ‘Marisa. I’m talking about Marisa. You seem very – cosy with her all of a sudden.’

  Annabelle gives a quiet exhalation of laughter.

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that she’s been living here for months,’ Annabelle says, her voice level, each word delivered with cool precision. ‘Because you couldn’t cope with the mess you’d got yourself into—’

  ‘That’s not the case—’

  ‘Do me the courtesy of letting me finish.’ Annabelle slams the water bottle onto the table. She is angry, her lips pale and drawn, the veins in her neck sticking out. Kate has never seen her angry, she realises. She has only ever seen Annabelle in a state of controlled passive-aggression, tracking other people’s tender points from the sidelines like a sniper, but never once demeaning herself by showing uncontrolled fury. Until now, that is. Now she is incandescent. And Kate, who finally has her attention, is no longer sure what to do with it.

  ‘Chris and I did everything we could, putting ourselves in God knows what sort of danger, and we nursed that poor girl back to health—’

  ‘That poor girl?’ Kate asks, incredulous.

  ‘Yes. That poor girl. Who you took advantage of because of your demented obsession with having a baby.’

  Kate, shocked, feels tears begin to form.

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Yes it is. Jake’s told us how impossible you’ve been, how he doesn’t feel he can ever satisfy you.’ Annabelle is getting into her stride now, the words delivered like the rapid staccato gunshots of a firing squad. ‘It must have been quite obvious Marisa wasn’t in a fit state, but you insisted on moving her in with you to keep an eye on her and then you acted surprised when it all got too much for her. I mean, honestly, Kate. What were you thinking?’

  Kate hangs her head. Annabelle is right. She should have known. She had pressurised Jake into doing it. She had wanted to believe in Marisa’s perfection so badly that she had ignored any signs that contradicted it.

  Annabelle does not comfort her. Instead, she takes two long steps towards her so that she is inches away from Kate’s face. Her voice drops to an almost-whisper, which feels far more menacing than shouting.

  ‘That child isn’t yours anyway,’ Annabelle says, the words delivered in a fine spray of spittle. ‘Not biologically. It’s quite clear to everyone else that Marisa and Jake are far better suited than you two ever were.’

  ‘What …?’ Kate shakes her head, as if to rid it of the buzzing noise.

  ‘Well just look at them, dear,’ Annabelle says, her lips twisting upwards in a strange little smile. ‘They’re two peas in a pod, aren’t they? You must have noticed!’

  Kate steps backwards, so dizzy that she is sure the kitchen floor must have dissolved underfoot. Her back thumps against the wall and the impact causes the pages of Annabelle’s calendar to flutter. She remembers seeing the initial J there on multiple different days. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about what it really meant but somewhere, in the unacknowledged grimy pit of her denial, she had known.

  ‘He’s been spending an awful lot of time with her,’ Annabelle says, as if reading Kate’s thoughts. ‘You can’t be that dense, Kate. Come on. He’s been down here most weeks and the two of them have been getting on like a house on fire.’

  ‘What? But I thought she didn’t want us here …’

  Annabelle tilts her head in a pose of sympathy.

  ‘She didn’t want you here, Kate. Jake and I had a long chat about it and decided it would be best.’

  Kate remembers the spa weekend and Jake’s early departure. He must have come here, she realises. All those unexplained absences for work. He was here all along. With Marisa. She presses the palm of each hand against the wall, wanting it to break open and swallow her. Annabelle is still speaking.

  ‘… and it’s been lovely to see. Marisa is so easy to talk to, don’t you find? It’s only a matter of time until Jake realises …’

  She stops then, as if aware she has gone too far. Annabelle doesn’t need to complete the thought. Kate can do it for her. It’s only a matter of time until Jake realises he should be with Marisa, the mother of his child. It is only a matter of time until Kate loses everything.

  Kate turns her head to one side, pressing her cheek against the clamminess of stone. She shuts her eyes, tears leaking out. She wishes she could stop crying, but she can’t. She wishes she could drown Annabelle’s voice out but she can’t. She wishes she had the strength to stand up for herself, but she feels consumed by the truth of what Annabelle is saying. She has never been good enough or bright enough or charming enough or blonde enough or fertile enough or sweet enough to be Jake’s equal. Annabelle’s words are confirmation: she is not worthy of being Jake’s girlfriend and not worthy of being the mother of his child – or, indeed, a mother at all. She is damaged, faulty in some way that she cannot define, and Annabelle has known this from the very beginning, scenting her weakness like blood and chasing it until Kate has nowhere left to run. Yes, she thinks, yes, you’re right about it all. I don’t belong here. I never have.

  She slides onto the floor. She has no more energy, she realises. She can’t fight this any more. This last year has sapped her of all her dwindling strength and for the briefest of moments, Kate imagines her total erasure. How much simpler everything would be if she ceased to exist.

  Ignoring her, Annabelle busies herself around the kitchen, calmly finishes preparing Marisa’s drink, then smooths her hair behind her ears, a warrior queen readying herself for the final assault.

  ‘Marisa and I have become close because that girl hasn’t got a mother,’ she says, standing over Kate like a shadow. ‘It should be perfectly clear,’ Annabelle pauses, checking she has Kate’s total attention. ‘Or maybe you can only see that kind of thing when you’ve had a child yourself.’

  Annabelle takes the glass of elderflower and walks past Kate, her dress swishing as she goes. Kate sits on the floor a moment longer. And then she feels a sharp twinge in the side of her belly. It is a deep, muscular ache and it reminds her of those interminable scans she used to have when going through fertility treatment; the way the consultant would sweep the ultrasound wand from side to side, angling it to get a better view of each ovary. The sensation was unlike anything else she
had ever experienced. It was less the presence of pain and more a hollowing out of it.

  The ache would spread across her stomach and down into her groin, the soreness making her clench her teeth until she felt on the verge of passing out, and then the wand would be removed and the consultant would give her tissue paper to wipe herself down, and the memory of pain faded immediately.

  Yet she feels it again now. But this time, the throbbing rises upwards, through her stomach and up towards her chest, fizzing into her shoulders and then when it reaches her throat, she finally recognises it for what it is. Power. She sees with sudden, certain clarity that she is strong precisely because of the pain she has withstood and that she can do this. She levers herself upright.

  Fuck Annabelle, she thinks. That woman is not going to get away with it.

  She walks back down the corridor and into the drawing room, where Annabelle is bending to leave the sparkling elderflower on the side-table. Marisa isn’t there. The sofa cushion is indented where she was sitting. Jake and Chris turn to look at Kate as she enters. Annabelle keeps her back to her.

  ‘Are you all right—?’ Jake starts to ask.

  ‘Where’s Marisa?’

  ‘In the bathroom,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’ He looks worried.

  Kate ignores him. In her mind’s eye, she sees a gun cylinder spinning and clicking and the safety catch sliding off. She imagines lifting the sight up to her eye and pointing the barrel directly at Annabelle’s forehead.

  ‘Annabelle,’ she says. ‘I’d like you to tell everyone what you just told me in the kitchen.’

  Annabelle straightens and sighs audibly.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, what is it now? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kate.’

  Annabelle swivels on her heel and faces her, and Kate is astonished by her composure. Annabelle’s face seems to have become younger and less lined, as though the viciousness of a few minutes ago has invigorated her.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  Annabelle shrugs and lifts her hands, palms facing upwards in a gesture of supplication.