And because I’m now in a good mood, I send Daniel one more message, reminding him about sports day. He won’t come, but it’s not my fault.
Julia
I dress carefully this morning, knowing I’ll be seeing Steve. It’s not like I actually look good in anything – even my maternity clothes don’t seem to fit me properly. If something fits my growing waist, then it’s too tight on my boobs, and if it fits my boobs, then it billows – but in a frumpy watermelon way, not in a boho-chic way. And the maternity fashions all seem focused on the wrong colours for me, so I look even more washed out than I actually am.
In an effort to hide my pregnancy acne and skin discoloration, I put on too much make-up and look like a clown. So I scrub it off, leaving my face glowing red and one of my many spots bleeding. I toy with the idea of becoming a religious Muslim for the duration of my pregnancy so that I can hide my face with a hijab.
Eventually I kind of give up. I put on comfortable pregnancy leggings, even though I think they smell vaguely of pee, and pair them with one of Daniel’s shirts and a string of fake pearls. I leave my glowing red face, but add lip gloss. Looking in the mirror, I accept that Steve is not going to break down in tears at the thought of what he’s missed. In fact, he might do a little happy dance. Who could blame him?
I arrive at work late and the meeting’s already started. Gerald looks flushed and agitated when I walk in. My unofficial role in the firm is the people pleaser – the one who makes the small talk and adds the corporate gloss. In his dun-coloured cardigans peppered with dandruff, Gerald is not going to win big contracts no matter how good he is at his job. And Steve’s company is the biggest contract we’ve ever landed. We need to keep it.
Gerald jumps up when I enter the meeting room – a dull room furnished with what seems to be someone’s old dining room table, and which is currently dark because it hasn’t occurred to Gerald or his secretary to open the blinds. I stroll over and try to make it look perfectly normal to start a meeting by letting in a bit of natural light.
‘Oh,’ says Gerald, delighted. ‘That’s what’s wrong.’
I turn to face the room. Steve and his boss, Malcolm, are staring at me. I try to summon efficient Julia from somewhere in my psyche, and walk over to shake hands. The two men stand up, and we do firm, business-like handshakes all round, saying things like ‘Good to see you again.’ And I can see that Steve, who is taller than I remember, is taking me in, in all my bloated pregnant glory. Suddenly I worry that he won’t even realise that I’m pregnant; he’ll just think that I’m really fat. Gerald soon sorts that out though.
‘Julia’s pregnant,’ he says.
We’re all a bit taken aback.
‘Congratulations,’ says Steve after what seems like hours.
‘Yes,’ says Malcolm. ‘How wonderful.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but please don’t think that it will in any way impact on our service to you. Has anyone offered you something to drink?’
Of course no one has, so I bustle about organising teas and coffees with Ann, the secretary, who looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language when I ask her to get them, and I end up writing down the order for her outside the door.
I come back in to the meeting room, where once again there’s an awkward silence – Gerald’s speciality.
‘So,’ I say, opening the file in front of me, ‘let’s talk.’
The meeting goes smoothly after that. Steve is mostly quiet, but Malcolm is obviously happy with what I’m saying. There’s a stutter when Malcolm closes the papers in front of him, and says, ‘We’re very happy with the work this firm has done so far – but it has been mostly Julia servicing our account. What’s going to happen when she’s on maternity leave?’ He directs this question at Gerald, who looks as if he’s never heard of such a thing.
‘Maternity leave?’ he echoes.
‘Yes,’ says Steve, in that dry voice I suddenly remember. ‘You know, that thing where you’re legally obliged to let people look after their newborn babies.’
I stifle a giggle – Gerald is looking appalled.
‘Maybe,’ continues Steve, ‘you’re planning to have Julia come in with the baby? Feed and change it between tax returns?’
Gerald looks at me hopefully, but I shake my head and turn to Malcolm.
‘As you can probably tell,’ I say, ‘we haven’t actually discussed the details of my maternity leave. However, I can assure you that Gerald is completely familiar with your company and in fact does most of the hard work on this account.’
That’s not entirely true, but he is familiar with it, and he could do the work in his sleep. We just have to hire someone who can help him with working a computer. I decide not to mention that.
After the meeting I say goodbye as quickly as I can, and race to my office, relieved. But Steve follows me.
‘So,’ he says.
‘So,’ I answer, and I sit down at my desk with a sigh.
‘I don’t mean to pry or be inappropriate, but I’m guessing this’ – he indicates my body in a vague gesture – ‘has something to do with us. Or with what turned out not to be us.’
I force a smile. ‘In a way. Although it only happened afterwards. I’m sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ he says. ‘You’re glowing – pregnancy clearly suits you.’
I laugh. ‘I am so not glowing,’ I say. ‘Well, not in a good way at least.’
‘You look beautiful to me. Your partner is a lucky man.’
‘Yes,’ I say, but there’s doubt in my voice and Steve raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s complicated.’ And I’m thinking that Daniel hasn’t ever said pregnancy suits me.
‘Well, I’m sure it will all work out,’ says Steve.
‘Yes,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘As my mum always says, nobody said life is simple.’
‘Indeed,’ says Steve. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to working together again. We just better make a plan as to what will happen when you go on leave. I’m not sure I can handle Gerald for four months. Maybe we can hurry the work so I don’t have to face that.’
We both laugh, and I remember how easy his laugh was. I remember how easy working with him was, except for the part where I became obsessed with him. But that’s over now, and suddenly I’m looking forward to the next few months.
Claire
Somehow I get everything done. The last two of the weddings from the ‘big batch’ are this weekend, so I double-confirm every detail and check in with both brides so that they feel cared for. Both want to chat, but I manage to cut them short, and there are no last-minute crises, which is almost unheard of for these weddings. But I also have to start mapping out the huge Farmers’ Market Festival the hotel throws on its grounds every year – and I’m a bit behind schedule with that. Then I realise that some of my ideas for the school fete can double as ideas for the market – so I create a new Pinterest board and transfer some of the pins before sending the link to the hotel manager. Finally, I draw up a schedule of weddings at the wedding venue over the next two months – very few, as is usual at this time of the year – and I draft some tweets and Facebook posts about our new idea: ‘Last-minute winter weddings.’
Then I take one of the casseroles I bought at the deli this morning and drop it off at Ivy’s, and I make us both a cup of tea. Ivy is cheerful in the face of her post-operative recovery, and is talking about starting yoga when her hip stops hurting.
‘People do all sorts of things with their new hips,’ she says. ‘I want to be in on the action.’
I agree that I might do some yoga classes with her, and she claps her hands in delight and is soon tapping away at her phone to invite the other pottery widows. But talk of mutual friends leads us to Julia.
The widows are among the very few people who actually know what Julia did to me, and they were horrified when I told them. Grace was the saddest: ‘She seemed like such a nice girl,’ she kept saying. And Ivy, who I’m closest to, was the angriest: ‘Li
ttle bitch,’ she said in her sweet-old-lady voice. ‘Ah well,’ said Liz, the widow who mourned her husband least. ‘You’re probably better off without him. Nothing like a man to cramp your style.’ And then the three of them cackled like witches and even I laughed.
‘Do you miss him?’ Ivy asks me this morning, and it’s a hard question. Late at night after a long day I miss him. I miss laughing with him, and the silliness, and that when he listened, he really listened. I miss sex. I miss knowing what tomorrow looks like.
But it’s also easier. I just get on with things – I don’t have to worry about where Daniel is and what meals he’ll be home for and when he’s doing what. As I saw this morning, it’s not like he was ever that much help.
‘Less than I should,’ is what I eventually tell Ivy.
‘Always the way,’ she says philosophically. ‘But he probably misses you.’
‘Ivy,’ I say, ‘he’s got a nubile young girlfriend who’s funny and interesting and who thinks he’s God. He’s escaped the drudgery of daily fatherhood, for now at least. Compared to Julia, I’m old and I’m boring and I nag. I doubt he misses me at all.’
Ivy looks at me. ‘You under-estimate yourself, Claire. You’re a very special person.’
‘Daniel used to think so,’ I say. ‘Just not any more.’
Ivy nods, too wise to try to convince me otherwise. ‘Then he’s a fool, Claire. And there are lots of other men out there.’
‘So, so not interested, Ivy.’ Of the many scenarios I play out in my head at night, finding another man is not one of them.
After Ivy, I grab a sandwich for lunch, and then head back to the school for sports day. On the way, Daniel messages me: Can’t make sports day. Sorry, babe.
I’m actually quite impressed he thought to let me know. I’m less impressed that he’s calling me ‘babe’, and that he doesn’t think he maybe needs to up his game with Mackenzie now that he sees her less.
I park at the school, and sit for a moment composing various responses in my head. Then it strikes me that I spend the most enormous amount of energy thinking of how to communicate with Daniel. So I just type, Whatever, and send it.
But I feel heavy as I get out of the car. I’m tired deep down inside me, and now I have to face all these women. I sigh and hitch my bag over my shoulder.
There’s no other option, so I glue on the smile.
But when I get to the field, I find myself faced with a choice after all. Most parents are casually sitting on the large steps designed for spectators. I can see Janice and Tiffany and a group of other mums I call friends sitting there together, and Janice waves to call me over. I can see from this distance how happy she is to see me – no doubt she has some charitable event she needs to discuss with me. She really is a very giving, involved person.
As I walk towards them, I notice that there are also a few parents scattered on the benches that run down the side of the field, basking in Joburg’s warm winter sun. Up in front of me is a mother from our class called Laurel, sitting alone on a bench. Laurel doesn’t like me, I don’t think. I once saw her roll her eyes when I spoke at a class meeting, and she barely greets me even though I always say a chirpy, ‘Hi there,’ when I pass her. I don’t know what I’ve done to her, but I try to shrug it off – we can’t all like everybody. But as a result, I’ve avoided Laurel when I can.
But today the idea of sitting with someone who doesn’t like me – who doesn’t want anything from me – is strangely attractive. I approach the bench.
‘Hi, Laurel. Can I sit here?’ I say. I feel a bit nervous.
Laurel turns to me, and her eyes widen slightly.
‘Claire,’ she says, almost like she’s identifying me to herself. She pulls her bag towards her to make room for me next to her. ‘Sure, no problem.’ I sit down. Laurel is watching the girls, who are already on the field. The grade 1s are sitting in their houses on the bandstands across the field. I squint till I find Mackenzie, and wave. She waves back, with a big smile, and I feel warm. I blow her a kiss, and settle back on the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Janice on the steps. She looks confused and I know I’ve done the wrong thing – I’d better get up and join them. Janice doesn’t deserve to be hurt, and I can’t possibly explain it all to her. Laurel’s eyes follow mine.
‘Your friends are over there,’ she says as if she can’t see me looking at them.
‘Yes.’ I try summon the energy to move.
‘They look a bit anxious without you . . .’ Laurel pauses for a moment, then adds, ‘Actually, they always look a bit anxious without you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like they’re not sure what to do without your guidance,’ she says. ‘Like they don’t know how to live when you aren’t there to show them.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ agrees Laurel matter-of-factly. ‘It probably is.’
I look at her. ‘You don’t like us. You don’t like me.’
Most people would splutter and protest if you said something like that. But Laurel doesn’t.
‘I don’t know you,’ she answers, unfazed. ‘But you seem too good to be true. You always look lovely, you’re cheerful, you organise things, and I understand that you even work. Nobody’s that good. I wonder about you.’ Her voice is calm and level. There’s no nastiness in it.
‘You’re very honest,’ I say.
‘Sorry.’ She sounds abashed for the first time. ‘I am too honest. People don’t like it – my husband’s always telling me to tone it down. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings – I’m sure you’re very nice.’
I laugh. ‘Actually, you don’t think I’m very nice,’ I point out. ‘You just told me.’
She looks at me properly for the first time. ‘And you don’t mind?’
‘You really don’t know me,’ I say. ‘If you get to know me, and you still don’t like me, maybe then I’ll be bothered.’
‘Okay,’ says Laurel. ‘When should we start?’
‘Start with . . . ?’
‘Getting to know each other.’
I smile. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to. And there’s a danger you might end up liking me, and then you’ll turn into one of them.’ I indicate Janice and company. ‘You’ll have to sit and talk to us and be on committees and, God help you, buy tickets to Janice’s charities. Plus we have a uniform, you know.’ It’s true that Janice, Tiffany, and I are wearing almost identical outfits, probably from the same shop. My tirade started as a joke but now I’m feeling defensive, and I don’t know if I’m more angry at Janice and Tiffany, or Laurel, or myself.
Laurel chuckles. ‘Well, it’s a real danger because I already like you better.’
My anger evaporates. ‘You see?’ I say. ‘You’re going to wake up in the middle of the night with a mad urge to buy a jacket exactly like mine. And theirs.’
‘It is rather nice . . . So,’ she says when she’s recovered from laughing, ‘why aren’t you sitting with your sheep?’
I think carefully before I answer. ‘Because they need me to be a certain person, and I’m not sure if she’s still here.’
Laurel is interested now, and turns to me. ‘Why?’
I pause for only a moment. ‘Because my husband fucked one of my best friends and now they’re having a baby and I don’t know who I am any more.’ I smile tightly, looking at the little girls on the field running a relay. ‘You see,’ I say. ‘I’m not what I seem.’ I’m taken aback when Laurel laughs.
‘That’s nothing,’ she says. ‘I’m sleeping with the netball coach.’ She indicates a slightly butch woman standing on the sidelines of the racetrack holding a flag – and carefully not looking at Laurel. ‘You want to talk about not knowing who you are any more? I can talk about that all day.’ She laughs. ‘Unless Sandy calls. Apparently when Sandy calls, I’m unable to talk sense about anything.’
I’m staring at her open-mouthed. ‘Really? Or are you just trying to shock me?’
�
�Are you shocked?’ asks Laurel.
I’m still not sure if Laurel is baiting me. ‘Of course I’m shocked! You don’t expect to sit down next to a virtual stranger and discover she’s doing the netball coach.’
Laurel throws back her head and laughs. Her salt-and-pepper hair catches the sun, and I’m suddenly aware of how careful my appearance is. Sandy-the-netball-coach turns to look at us, and I can see instantly that Laurel isn’t lying.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, nudging her. ‘It’s true. You devil.’
‘So,’ says Laurel, ‘if your sheep can spare you, want to go grab some supper tonight and talk about how we don’t know ourselves?’
I look at Laurel. ‘You know what? That sounds like a good idea.’
Julia
When I get home, I’m in a good mood for a change. Working with people other than Gerald always energises me. I decide that we won’t eat at home – we’ll go out for once. I book a table at Tortellini’s, which everyone is raving about, and I message Daniel to tell him. And Daniel’s home when I get there, which is also a pleasant surprise. But Daniel is all glowering and sulky, and even though I try to lift the mood by giving him a glass of wine and telling him to put his feet up (feeling like I’m Claire), he stays grumpy.
‘Want to talk about it?’ I say.
‘About what?’
‘About your bad mood.’
He sighs, and does seem to relax slightly. ‘It’s Claire.’ He closes his eyes and puts back his head. ‘She’s so unreasonable.’
I feel a curl of hope begin to unwind in my chest. I’ve been very careful not to push Daniel, not to ask him when he’s going to start his divorce proceedings. I tell myself it’s enough that he’s moved in with me, that it will all happen in good time. But it bothers me that he’s never mentioned it in the five months he’s been living with me, that there’s been no talk of divorce and us getting married. He’s lucky I’m not one of those people who feels strongly about being married when my baby is born – especially under the circumstances – but I still think about it.
The Aftermath Page 11