Messages four and five are just the sound of Carmen sighing and hanging up.
The emails are more of the same.
This is not a normal situation. Editors never get to go anywhere. Especially not freelance editors.
If I look at it one way, this is an incredible opportunity. For whatever reason — probably just to annoy Carmen — Wanda has decided my presence is necessary to the completion of her book. And for Carmen to capitulate to that demand means Carmen is utterly backed into a corner. She is out of options. She’s emailed to offer me my normal hourly rate for every hour — day or night — that I am away from home. This is unheard of. They are completely panicking. I’d be a fool to say no.
But there are two small reasons to say no, and they are slumped against each other on the sofa, munching cashews and staring unblinkingly at an episode of Bananas in Pyjamas, a show they would ordinarily consider so babyish they would actually rather play a game than watch it. These kids are shattered.
I’ve never left them. Sure, they leave me every second week for two nights with Troy and Helen, but I’ve never left them. I’m not sure why that feels like a distinction worth making.
‘Where is Wanda’s place? Isn’t it up near Noosa? That sounds awesome,’ says Laura, interrupting my trip down Maternal Panic Lane. ‘Why are you even hesitating?
‘I can’t possibly go.’
‘Why not? The kids?’
‘Of course the kids. I’ve never even left them to go work in an office in the city. I can’t just abandon them and disappear interstate for God knows how long.’
‘No one’s suggesting you abandon them,’ Laura says mildly. ‘They have a father and stepmother three doors away, Mark and the boys and me five minutes away, and Dad. Any of us could look after them for a few days.’
‘But what if something happened?’
‘You’d be a couple of hours away. You would come back.’
I look into the living room at Freya and Tim and it feels like my heart and my stomach are inching towards each other, trying to either snuggle the other for comfort or squeeze the life out of them.
‘Won’t they feel abandoned?’ I ask Laura. ‘Don’t you think it will feel like now I’ve left them too, just like Troy did?’
‘No, I don’t think they will, because they aren’t massive catastrophists like you — who reads too much into everything — and because they will have a nice time and won’t miss you nearly as much as you think they will. And trust me, you won’t miss them as much as you think you will either, and that will give you a whole other avenue of things to feel guilty about, which I think you’ll love.’
I think about this while I take cucumbers and lettuce from the fridge and wash them in the sink.
‘Also, Em, if you ever want to be anywhere even approaching financially independent of Troy, you need get back in the work game properly. You’ve been lucky you haven’t had to do much paid work since your kids were born, but I think that hasn’t been the best thing for you, as a person. You’ve always been a bit all or nothing about stuff, and I think you’ve sort of disappeared into motherhood in a way that’s okay for a while, but long term, it’s not ideal.’
I wonder if Freya will lecture Tim about his life choices when they’re grown up. Or if it will be the other way around. Laura’s never been shy about telling me how she thinks I should run my life, but since Mum died she’s really taken it on as a serious enterprise. I’m sure she thinks she’s channelling Mum.
I suppose I could ask Dad to come stay here and look after them. He’d be pleased to see me doing something with what remains of my career. And while I don’t think Laura’s point about disappearing into motherhood is valid at all, she’s right about the issue of money. Troy doesn’t have to support me to the extent he does. He might not always be willing or able to. I would be much happier not relying on the vagaries of the juice market to keep my kids in school shoes and biscuits.
‘Mum!’ shouts Tim from the sofa. ‘We’re hungry. We need some biscuits.’
‘We’re about to have dinner.’
‘But we need some biscuits.’
‘We’re eating in five minutes.’
‘But we really need some biscuits now.’
‘Are you hesitating because you’re scared you’re not up to the task professionally?’ Laura isn’t going to let this go.
‘Mum! Biscuits!’
And just like that, my mind is made up.
‘Stop yelling at me, Tim. You’re not having any biscuits, because it is dinnertime. And even if it weren’t, you haven’t once said please. I’m not your biscuit slave. And Laura, stop hassling me. You aren’t Mum. It isn’t your job. If Troy and you and Dad can mind the kids, I’ll go.’
Laura looks satisfied. ‘Good. That’s the right decision.’
Her smugness is too much. ‘You don’t know that,’ I say. ‘Stop pretending you know what’s right and what’s wrong. Anything could happen at any time, for any reason. I might go to Wanda’s place and get bitten by a snake and die, or be electrocuted by a faulty toaster. You just don’t know and you never can.’
A tear breaks free from Laura’s welling eyes and she rubs it angrily away.
‘I miss her too, Emma. Just as much as you do.’
‘She never got to see me be a mum,’ I say quietly. ‘She got to see you do it and you knew she thought you were good at it. I don’t know if I’m doing it right and I never will.’
Laura puts her arms around me. My tears drip off the end of my nose and soak into the back of her jumper.
‘You’re doing it right,’ she whispers. ‘Mum would think you’re an amazing mother, Em. You just need to make sure you’re an amazing Emma as well.’
The children, sensing a hug all the way from the other room, come in and put their arms around us too.
‘Are you sad, Mummy?’ asks Freya.
‘A little bit,’ I admit.
‘Me too,’ she tells me, because misery loves company. ‘We should all have a biscuit.’
* * *
After we feed the kids lasagne, which they devour in spite of their amuse-bouche of Chocolate Montes, Laura scrubs the camping filth off them with a long, hot bath, while I quickly head to the chemist to make sure this situation doesn’t get any worse. I text Troy and explain my trip. I want him to be able to discuss it with Helen before he says yes or no to having the kids for at least three days.
He calls me when I get back five minutes later, sounding delighted and a little relieved.
‘Of course we’ll have them. That would be terrific. I’ll be pretty flat out at work, but Helen’s very happy to help out. To be honest, Em,’ he drops his voice a little, ‘Lola’s been a complete shit this week. I don’t know what is wrong with her but she’s saying no to everything and chucking massive wobblies all the time.’
‘Maybe she’s missing us,’ I suggest.
‘Oh,’ he says, as if this is the first time such a thought has occurred to him, and maybe it is. ‘Yeah, that could be it. I suppose she’s used to spending a fair bit of time with you guys, isn’t she?’
How can someone be this thick?
‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to look after several children at a time than just one,’ he tells me, as if he’s discovered gravity.
We arrange that Dad will come here in the morning, get Tim to school, then he, Troy and Helen will figure out the rest of the childcare arrangements between them. I won’t be at all surprised if that means Dad ends up looking after both girls while Tim’s at school, but when I call him to explain, he seems cheerful enough about that possibility.
‘And Dad,’ I say, ‘if Helen asks you to take Lola somewhere, tell her to get stuffed.’
* * *
I wake the next morning at six on the dot, the first person up in the house. Whenever this happens I can’t stop myself thinking it’s because my children have died or been abducted during the night. Instead of being able to enjoy the peace and quiet, I’m always compelled t
o rush into their bedrooms to check they are present and breathing. In doing so I always wake them up.
But this morning there is no time for me to even consider lying in bed. I need to be out of the house and in a cab to the airport at seven o’clock. I haven’t packed for me. I packed for the kids last night, in case they stay at Troy and Helen’s, but now that it’s my turn I’m rather thrown.
I haven’t packed just for myself in so long that once I’ve thrown some clothes, shoes, my laptop and toiletries into a bag, it still feels like I must have forgotten a dozen things. No night nappies? No wipes? No snacks, drink bottles, sippy cups, stuffed animals, battered copy of The Tiger Who Came to Tea, extra changes of clothes for the flight for when a pressure-packed orange juice is opened onto my lap, ziplock bags for orange-juice-soaked clothes, an iPad loaded with so many episodes of Dinosaur Train that it can’t open a single other app? No giant over-the-ear headphones shaped like tigers? No stroller?
My small bag, with everything I think I’ll need for three days, contains less than I would take out with me for a walk to the shops with my children. It’s a marvel. I start to feel the tiniest twinges of excitement.
At six fifteen Dad arrives, and the doorbell wakes the children. They both bound down the hallway to meet him and neither exhibits even the slightest hint of apprehension over me leaving them for the first time.
Tim just wants to show his grandad the sticks he’s brought back from camping yesterday, and Freya won’t stop telling him that they should pick up Lola soon and go to the park.
Before I know it the taxi is beeping in the street and I have to go. The kids are eating Weet-Bix in the kitchen, and they both give me a fairly cursory hug and submit to a kiss. I sniff Freya’s soft hair, trying to absorb her back into my body, but she gives me a shove.
And with that I am away. In a taxi, bound for the airport. The strings that bind my children to my heart unwind further and further and get thinner and thinner. I cry and tell the completely uninterested cabbie that I’ve never left my kids before.
‘Really?’ He is astonished. ‘In six years? Mate, that’s no good for anyone. I’ve left three wives in six years and they’re way harder to outrun than a couple of kids.’
I think he’s trying to be nice but it’s such an odd comment that for the rest of the trip I busy myself with my phone, and there’s plenty to do because Carmen has sent me ten emails overnight, explaining in minute detail where the project is up to and what still needs to be done.
The impression I get is that Wanda has tried to be a bit coy with some of her exploits, and that’s absolutely not what Carmen signed her up for. She wants all the gory details of all the affairs and, reading between the lines, if Wanda’s not prepared to disclose them then I am to make them up myself.
Getting through the airport is so easy I feel like I might be a ghost. I’m unencumbered by small bodies and excess baggage, and when I need to stand in a queue I just . . . stand in a queue, quietly, without anyone swinging on the stanchions and kicking other passengers in the legs. Getting through security is almost a pleasure, not having to wrench a stuffed tiger out of anyone’s arms and later convince them that it wasn’t replaced with an exact replica when it went through the X-ray machine.
On the flight, which is only an hour and a half, I don’t read or watch a movie or listen to music. I stare out the window, first at the vanishing city, then at the clouds, and finally at the landscape as we approach our destination. It’s green and lush, squares of fields interspersed with darker forested areas, and all along the edge is the ocean, which looks from here like a pretty scalloped ribbon trimming the coast.
I marvel at where I am. It’s ten-thirty in the morning, on a Monday. I should be sitting in a waiting room while Lola attends a French lesson, reading children’s books in French I don’t understand to Freya because I rarely remember to bring anything for her to do.
I get off the plane and look around. The arrivals area is small. I asked Carmen if I should rent a car to get out to Wanda’s place but she assured me that Wanda would send someone to pick me up.
To my great surprise, standing front and centre and holding a handwritten sign that reads Emma Baker?, is Philip. I’ve never seen anyone put a question mark after the name on a sign like that, but it makes immediate sense to me. Of course there should be a question mark. The sign is asking ‘Are you Emma Baker?’ But why he’s holding a sign with my name on it when he’s already met me is a bit mysterious.
He smiles when he spots me. I smile back. It’s like seeing an old friend. Quite an old friend, really. He’s really handsome — I’d forgotten that. I don’t know exactly how old he is, but he’d have to be about fifty. Too old for me. Although all the actors I had a crush on when I was a teenager are in their fifties now, I realise. As a seventeen-year-old it seemed quite plausible that I would grow up to marry Colin Firth. I suppose I just thought I would catch up to him in age.
I walk up to Philip and he hugs me, slightly awkwardly. It is, after all, only our second meeting in person, but I feel like we’ve always known each other. ‘I’m still Emma Baker,’ I tell him. ‘Did you think you wouldn’t recognise me after three months?’
‘I was worried you wouldn’t recognise me!’ he replies. ‘Silly of me, probably, but I never think people will remember me. Was your flight excellent? I love that flight. I think this is one of the most beautiful places to approach from the air. I hope you had a window seat?’
‘It was a fine flight, and I did have a window seat,’ I say.
‘Oh that’s good. I’m very pleased to hear it. I always think it’s so much better to be the climber overer than the climbed over.’
‘I thought you had left,’ I say.
‘I did go, but then I came back — as you can see,’ he says. ‘One of my projects in the South Pacific was delayed by bad weather, and I didn’t think it was worth going all the way back to Europe when I could just continue to make a nuisance of myself here. Hopefully I’ll be off again soon.’
He reaches for my bag and gestures with his other arm. ‘Car’s just out here. I love little airports like this, don’t you? The parking is always free, and about six steps from the gate. And you’re always going somewhere fun when you arrive at a one-room airport, I find.’
‘Well I’m here to work,’ I remind him, ‘but it’s certainly a beautiful spot.’
‘Yes, of course you are. Wanda’s very excited you’re coming. Almost more excited than she was when Carmen agreed to leave.’
With no warning that we’ve reached the car, Philip suddenly slings my bag into the back of an open-top sports car. It’s a Mercedes, an old-looking one — candy-apple red and very beautiful. Philip opens the passenger door for me, and waits while I settle myself into the leather seat before gently closing the heavy door and darting around to the driver’s side.
‘What did happen with Carmen?’ I ask as Philip reverses out of the parking space and we head for the exit. ‘She said something about not seeing eye to eye with Wanda.’
He laughs. ‘That’s putting it mildly. Carmen was in a flap when she got here, and she seemed determined to infect Wanda with that same sense of urgency. Of course that just made Wanda panic and get cross, and I suppose you could say she then went on an even slower go-slow with the book.’
‘I know that move,’ I say. ‘It’s what my three-year-old does when I try to rush her into putting on her shoes when we have to leave the house.’
‘There is something of the three-year-old about Wanda,’ he agrees. ‘Maybe you can bring whatever techniques you use on — what’s your three-year-old’s name?’
‘Freya.’
‘Whatever you do to get Freya to put her shoes on, maybe you can try that on Wanda.’
‘All right,’ I tell him. ‘We’re going to need a lot of chocolate biscuits.’
He laughs and I look out at the lush fields and feel, for the first time in a long, long time, that maybe the old me isn’t entirely gone. Maybe ther
e’s a chance for me after all.
Half an hour later Philip turns off the main road, guiding the car between two stone pillars from which two white gates have swung open at our approach. From there we drive for another five minutes up and over gently rolling hills until we reach a second set of gates. We rumble over the cattle grid and make our final approach to the house along a palm-lined driveway.
Chapter Eighteen
Philip swings the car around the gravel driveway and comes to a stop in front of the house, which looks like a vast Hamptons-style plantation house, only with two medieval-style round stone towers. It’s absurd.
‘Ta-da,’ he says, switching off the engine. ‘Welcome to Wandaland.’
‘That’s not really its name, is it?’ I ask, astonished.
‘If it’s not, then Monty will have to redo the driveway,’ he says, and points towards the front of the house. On top of the dark red gravel, someone has sprinkled tiny white stones to spell out ‘Wandaland’ in script. ‘He does it every day. No one cares if it gets messed up, which obviously it does because it’s right in front of the door, but it’s a little labour of love for him. He started doing it after they visited Nepal and he saw the sand mandalas the monks make.’
I consider my own marriage. Troy never did anything even close to as romantic as this. Sometimes he used to draw a heart on the steamed-up shower screen, but he’d always ruin the moment by pressing his bum up against it straight away.
Philip leads me inside. It’s like walking into a luxury hotel. The air smells like a duty-free shop, and when I close my eyes and try to figure out why, I identify the fragrance of expensive leather upholstery and Chanel No. 5.
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