The Baby Group

by Caroline Corcoran

  ‘Are you okay, Scarlett?’ he says. ‘You’re looking anxious.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ I say. ‘If this happened to you, d’you think you might not be too chilled out? Silly question really – you’re a man, it can’t happen to you. If you made a sex tape, no one would care.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s a sweeping statement but okay, point taken.’

  He looks around the room, like he may have missed someone.

  ‘No Ed?’

  ‘Given the email I sent you I thought that might be best,’ I say. I am snippy now. Frustrated. I’m paying him money. And really, what does he do? I do all of the work.

  Jonathan nods. Head down.

  Ed didn’t take much persuasion not to come. It saved him taking the time off work. And from spending it with me, I suspect. We’re different people to the ones who came in here that first day. There’s no united front. Hands are not held.

  I look around at the walls of this office; nothing personal here, so bare that Jonathan could be borrowing it from a colleague. Out of his window into the grey of Manchester. And I think of looking out of an upper floor somewhere else in this city, years ago. My head is there, resting with its long white blonde hair on a black leather sofa in a slick penthouse apartment in Manchester. The room is stark but even the starkness is expensive. Designer grey paint, wall to wall to wall. The art made up of collector pieces I am too young, too naive to recognise, but he tells me they’re impressive. And you can tell, anyway. Everything here is superior. The electronics spread themselves across walls; the gin is special edition.

  And there in the picture is me, thin like a pre-teen, jiggling my body and unable to sit still then as I throw my head back and laugh. As my drink is topped up, again, higher. As I touch his knee. As I move in closer.

  I look back at Jonathan and suspect more time has passed than it should have in the middle of a conversation while my mind has wandered off.

  ‘So, your email,’ he says, leaning forward onto his desk. ‘I wish you’d told me that was a possibility earlier on.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, I didn’t know it was,’ I reply. ‘I mean, obviously I know it happened. But I didn’t know that whoever did this knew. That it’s something they would come at me for.’

  ‘And now you do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, cold. ‘Now I do.’

  Jonathan folds his lips inwards. Types something quickly on his computer.

  ‘I just need to do whatever the hell I can to stop it coming out,’ I say. ‘To everyone. Including Ed. And my family. Just everyone. I can’t weather another thing, and not this. So how do I do that? Stop it? At least this time there is warning.’

  Jonathan is firm. ‘The same way as we do the other thing. Find whoever sent you the message – and you’re confident it’s the same person that posted the video, right?’

  I nod. I can’t have two people who hate me this much. Surely.

  ‘Find them, then we take this to the police. That’s the only route, Scarlett. Do not start engaging with them.’

  I am so tempted though. Go direct. Find out who they want me to leave alone. See if we can talk this out. Then I laugh; this person posted a sex tape of me online, emailed it to my friends. Do I really think we’ll have a chat over a cup of tea and shake on it?

  And I am sitting there, in the lawyer’s office, but I am standing there, at that dead end again. Fuck. Where the hell do I go from here?

  29

  Scarlett

  2 July

  The white professionally painted walls are closing in on me. Cora’s huge modern house – designed at such a monumental cost to be airy – hanging out solo on its country road seems suddenly like the most claustrophobic place there is and I am struggling to breathe.

  We are here, my daughter and I, on a playdate.

  My head is still in the penthouse.

  With the drinks.

  The jittery body.

  The white blonde hair.

  Do I message them back? Ignore what Jonathan said?

  I walk out of Cora’s living room, leaving Poppy in a playpen with Penelope, Seth and Ananya. The playpen is baby jail; a way to stop them dribbling/ pooing/ wiping slightly gross fingers on the white leather sofa. They spend a lot of time in it at Cora’s house.

  The only time they don’t have to be in the playpen is if they are in the playroom, conceived of by an interior designer who has certainly never met a child.

  I walk past it as I go to wash my hands after changing Poppy’s nappy and – untouched yet today – it is spotless. Pastel pink walls, more cream carpet, expensive white bookcases that are begging for a felt tip pen to decorate them with unidentifiable murals. Still, I think, it’s very Insta friendly. Cora loves it when I post pictures of Poppy and Penelope’s playdates and my followers comment on her house. Loved it. Past tense. Goodbye, Cheshire Mama.

  I stand at the sink and look around at the crazily expensive soap and the Jo Malone candles and the fancy tiles on the floor and I think: Who is all this for?

  Because I might not have Cora’s wealth but I do it too, this performance.

  It helps me convey a version of myself to other people without having to stand in the middle of rooms and shout it: ‘I am good, I am balanced, I am smart, I am cultured, I am on top of life.’

  And now, it’s fallen apart. Stuff has conned me. In the end, stuff didn’t make any difference after all.

  When fancy soap runs out now I forget to replace it so Ed picks up a bar of cheap stuff from the supermarket and I no longer care. When towels need washing, I let it go a week longer, two before I bother and they smell. Washing up lines the surfaces; deli cakes are replaced with stale biscuits.

  My narrative is unravelling.

  It can’t come out. Not another thing. Not the worst thing.

  I tilt my head back against the pristine cistern. Gear myself up to going back into the living room.

  My brain swims with thoughts of the penthouse.

  Just then Emma bundles in, flinging cupboards open and grabbing a roll of cloths.

  ‘Don’t forget the Vanish!’ yells Cora.

  I hear a baby crying and hurry into the living room.

  I look at Cora whose face is doing what it would do if you served her champagne lukewarm. Ananya, no nappy on, grins with just two teeth.

  A smell drifts upwards from the cream carpet.

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaim, realising. Relieved, if I’m honest, that it wasn’t Poppy.

  ‘How did she get out of the playpen?’ asks Emma, coming back in and gingerly picking it up with a cloth.

  ‘Not now, Emma,’ hisses Cora, pushing past Asha to pick up Ananya.

  ‘No, Ananya! Not on the carpet!’ she says, stern.

  Then she shoves her at Asha, holding her like a dumbbell. Ananya starts to cry.

  I draw a sharp intake of breath at how physical she is with her, when she isn’t her own. When she is a baby.

  ‘Maybe it’s an idea to take her home,’ Cora says deadpan as Emma scrubs furiously at the carpet.

  I try to read Asha’s face as she scoops her up and does exactly that, muttering an apology. I look at her and wonder how she isn’t screaming at Cora. I would be. Somebody else’s child!

  I know for a fact that Martha, Flick and the rest of my old friends would never have done that to Poppy. But, it seems, Cora would have.

  I think of Cora sleeping with her yoga teacher and her private number plate and her Botox and her bright pink Cora’s Cupcakes branding and I think for the hundredth time how different we all are. Of what an odd trajectory these intense but distracted friendships have taken.

  Suddenly, I feel edgy. Was it an error, telling them about the video, about my marriage? What’s just happened has thrown me.

  Maybe I should have taken more time before I shared so much.

  The panic starts to submerge me again.

  I grab Poppy from the playpen.

  She protests and w
riggles away from me but I insist, though my forearms shake.

  Everyone looks at me. Can they tell, I wonder, what’s going on in my insides? It feels so huge that it would be impossible for them not to, but maybe that’s just how it is for me. Perhaps everyone else is thinking about their own insides instead.

  ‘We’re going to leave as well,’ I say as Asha bundles Ananya into her clothes and her face burns with embarrassment or rage or both.

  Cora looks up at me, questioning. She has no idea I think that what she did was so inappropriate. Ananya’s mum was right there. But the last thing I want is a confrontation, especially on somebody else’s behalf.

  I throw Poppy into the buggy and head off quickly down the road with minimal goodbyes.

  At home as Poppy sleeps in the buggy, I go to log on to Cheshire Mama, to consume myself with something practical. To stop thinking about the penthouse. To stop me from messaging that number back. Then I remember. Cheshire Mama doesn’t exist any more, like all the other things that don’t exist any more. Fuck, my world is small.

  Instead, I message Flick.

  Could we meet up? I write. Maybe outside of the office to talk without me worrying about everyone watching?

  I hate how pathetic I sound when we used to be equals. When I used to pitch to clients and Felicity would walk past the room and see them smiling and catch my eye. When I knew that if she trusted anyone to pull together a strong proposal, I was that person.

  I reread the message and delete the last part; I don’t need to spell out why I’m avoiding the office. Plus, we have a friendship that transcends work; it’s not unreasonable for me to suggest that we try and hold on to that even while our working relationship is struggling.

  Although really, what is the point of Felicity’s friendship and all of my other old friendships – also limping on with only the odd message linking us now?

  I delete the message. Instead, I message the person who texted me. The person who hates me. Yes, I know, Jonathan. But something has to give.

  Who am I meant to leave alone? I write.

  You know, comes the reply.

  I really don’t, I type, then: Why are you doing this to me?

  But they don’t reply, other than one line telling me not to bother trying to trace the phone, as it’s pay-as-you-go anyway.

  Anon

  It looks to everybody else like my life is normal.

  I turn up for the playdate; I drink the coffee. I go through the motions. I smile at her, at the same time I think about how I would like her to be dead.

  Over and over, it hits me what’s happened to me, to my life, and I hold on to a surface to stay upright. Carrying on doesn’t seem possible.

  Then I regroup and plough on.

  The reply Scarlett sends gives me a boost. An adrenalin rush. You can’t trace me, I remind her, then I whisper into my phone, ‘Hey. It’s me,’ and grin and love my secret. I’ve never had one this big. Life’s never been this exciting. I’m getting into this. It’s why I don’t want to confront her on a text message. It’s a waste. No. I’ve decided now. We will do this in person when I can see her eyes avoid contact and her cheeks flush red and then I will know, absolutely. And once I do, I will break her. Just like she has broken me.

  30

  Scarlett

  11 July

  ‘I couldn’t be prouder of you,’ says my dad. Not to me, obviously, I’m the daughter whose breasts are splashed across the worldwide web. God no. He’s speaking to a different daughter.

  My half-sister Josephine, next to him, is other-worldly. Straight-without-electricals brown hair that goes all the way down her long back adorned with a flower headdress that says ‘beach in the Caribbean and no shoes’ but is actually being paired with a buffet in Greater Manchester, late summer drizzle and some heels from the Selfridges sale. Still.

  She’s young, Josephine, all peachy-cheeked and innocent like brides used to be. Twenty-six, now I think about it, but she seems younger. Her husband Rafe, grey around the temples, is older by what looks like a decade and a half and I suspect wanted to lock this down before his luck ran out. He’s fine, Rafe, but my sister is a goddess.

  I smile at her, even though she isn’t looking at me, and I soak her in. Josephine deserves happiness and kindness and love.

  Her and Rafe’s set-up is old-school: Rafe earns the cash; Josephine ‘has a little hobby’ according to him even though her greetings card business is growing into a lucrative operation.

  ‘And,’ says my dad’s voice, cutting into my thoughts and staring, like me, at this goddess, ‘anyone would be utterly lucky and blessed to have you in their life. You can put that in one of your greetings cards, if you like, Jos. Ha!’

  He raises his glass. ‘To Jos and Rafe!’

  I raise my champagne and neck it quickly as my dad looks around the room and we make eye contact over the top of our glassware. I look away before he can; the contrast between pure Josephine and sullied me too much to acknowledge today.

  ‘She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’ says Aunt Denise, interrupting my thoughts. She is a distant aunt, only seen at weddings and funerals. There are a lot of cheeks suddenly and kisses and pleasantries. And then.

  ‘So, how are you?’ she asks, head on the side, hand on my arm. Why the wrong emphasis?

  But I look at her eyes, which are searching.

  She’s seen the video.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I mutter then show her pictures of Poppy in her flower girl paraphernalia from earlier – Ed’s parents have taken her home now while we stay for the evening do – so I don’t have to speak any more, or look at her eyes, though she can see my hands are shaking.

  I look around the room as she coos over Poppy and try to figure out a way to move away from this woman who has seen me naked. But then, maybe everyone has. I look at each face and they swim in front of me. Have you seen it? Have you? My stomach still isn’t used to this feeling. Still rejects it and threatens to vomit.

  ‘And are you back at work now, my love?’ says Denise.

  The pause presses down on my shoulders.

  Huh. Work.

  I need to get better at this; it’s not going to stop happening.

  I cast a glance at Ed but if I am seeking someone to save me, he is not that person. He stares at the floor, at the wall, anywhere. On your own again, Scarlett, I think bitterly, even when your husband is next to you.

  ‘I decided to take more time off,’ I say, quietly.

  Ed mutters his excuses and heads to the toilet.

  I brace, ready for Aunt Denise to ask about the video, but she doesn’t need to.

  ‘Probably best,’ she murmurs.

  Then she scoops up the bottom of her dress and heads off to the bar for another G&T and I wish it wasn’t Josephine’s wedding day with all of its obligations and mingling so that my sister or my dad could put their arm around me, or even just stop and be kind to me next to the cake. I’ve stopped expecting Ed to take on that role.

  I sit alone at a table and think about how other people experience their sister’s wedding day, in a huddle of love and salmon mains and dancing. Not a moment unaccompanied. A day full of ‘I’ve got to speak to …’ and cramming people in. I drink the remnants of the last bottle of red that’s been abandoned on the table, as everybody else has gone to find friends or to dance, now that Rafe and Josephine have kicked things off with The Beach Boys.

  I stare, missing her. It’s too clear to ignore now: Josephine and I have drifted too, because of the video, because I’m embarrassed. There is barely an area of my life that this video hasn’t driven a bulldozer through.

  ‘I’m presuming you’ve got enough on your plate to not want the hassle of being my bridesmaid?’ Josephine had said when she announced her engagement and we met up for a celebratory lunch nearly two years ago, when we were still very close. I was pregnant. ‘But it’s totally up to you.’

  I had nodded sagely. I was a responsible adult woman. I couldn’t be organising
hen dos and ordering straws in the shape of penises and flouncing around in tulle. I was going to have parenting to do. Now I wish I was side by side with Josephine, flouncing around in some tulle. Oh, to take a day off from adulting to flounce around in some tulle.

  ‘Want to dance?’

  It is not a voice I expect. My husband.

  I stare at him.

  We are staying in a hotel tonight. We have the freedom to stay up late and drink and dance and nothing is restricting us. Why does that feel terrifying? Restrictions, over time perhaps, become excuses. But if I want my marriage to work, I need to take the moments.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and we hold hands as we head to the dance floor. I try to remember our wedding day but I feel coated in a hefty smear of everything that has happened since. My hand is clammy. It hits me again; whatever our palms are doing, we are no longer hand-holders.

  ‘Sit down for a bit?’ Ed says, flat.

  I nod.

  We are back at our table, alone. He gets up again immediately to order drinks. I look over at him. At the bar, he is typing as quickly as he can, a smile on his face that I don’t elicit any more. I watch with an oddly removed interest.

  Whatever he is writing, it’s intent.

  I think of me, with my secrets. With my confidential emails to the lawyer who agreed to keep my counsel; I am the client, after all.

  And so now the lawyer knows things about me that Ed does not and – unless I’m exposed again – won’t ever know.

  Look at us, Ed, I think sadly, what a mess.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, when he comes back.

  ‘Yep,’ he says casually. ‘They didn’t have Fever-Tree. Got you normal tonic.’

  It’s a non-event.

  He could have been typing to a friend. To the plumber, about something boring but urgent we need to sort out in the bathroom. To work, not telling me because he knows I’d be mad at him for focusing on that when we are at my sister’s wedding. But that smile.

  At 5 a.m. the next morning, when I am wide awake with that brutal combination of a hangover and anxiety about my child being asleep in someone else’s home, that image of the focus on Ed’s face as he typed is flashing over and over. What did that focus mean? Was he typing to someone who matters, about something that matters? To someone whose hand he’d grip, tight?