by Roxie Cooper
I fold the moist tissue up into a neat little square, ironing it out with my fingers.
‘You know, my mum always said the universe sends the perfect person to you. Fate will actually put them in front of you. That’s what happened with my dad. They were so perfect for each other,’ I tell her and Jane smiles. ‘And I always thought that would happen for me at some point. They’d come into my life and I’d be wowed, sorted. Everything would be perfect. I didn’t expect this perfect guy to come into my life with his wife. So he can’t be my “one”, can he?’
‘That’s where we disagree, Stephanie. I don’t think fate or destiny or whatever it is you believe in is that tidy. They may well be placed in front of you, as you say, but you might have to do the rest of the work.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ I ask, baffled as to how she can. For a second, she looks slightly uncomfortable; this conversation is clearly straying outside the remit of the professional guidance she can offer, but I really am keen to know what she thinks. She shuffles in her chair, readjusting her crossed legs.
‘Look at some of the greatest love affairs in history,’ she says. ‘Johnny Cash and June Carter. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. John Lennon and Yoko Ono. What do they all have in common?’
‘Yeah, all deeply in love,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Good for them.’
‘All of them were affairs. A lot of people got hurt as the result of those unions coming together, but we all know them as being some of the biggest love stories. And, more interestingly, the infidelity somehow becomes socially acceptable, because they’re famous and it’s glamorous and involves these larger-than-life characters …’
I hang on to every word she says, unable to take my eyes off her as she talks.
‘Look, I’m not here to judge you,’ she says. ‘That isn’t my function. I’m not here to tell you whether infidelity is right or wrong. But it certainly isn’t black or white, either. You really think anyone would want to deprive Johnny and June of the happiness they had for thirty-odd years, just so that he could remain in his unhappy marriage?’
She looks at me, and I don’t know what to say. Obviously, the answer is no.
‘I don’t think anyone would want that. That would be ridiculous and stupid, wouldn’t it?’ I reply.
‘Yes. Yes, it would.’ She smiles then. ‘And I’m obviously not saying you’re deeply unhappy in your marriage. I was just making a point.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’
Glancing at the clock in the corner of the room, she gives me the now-familiar nod indicating that’s enough for today. Of all the sessions I’ve had with her, this is the one I really don’t want to end. I want to stay and chat to her for longer.
‘OK, Stephanie. That was a good session. I’ll see you next month, if you’re not too busy with the baby. Good luck with everything,’ she says, smiling at me in that way she always does.
I think about what she said all the way home while listening to Johnny Cash’s ‘Walk The Line’ at full volume. I drive back the long way, down the winding country roads, enjoying the early evening sunshine as it pours in. This is one of my favourite things to do, and I do it often. There’s nothing quite like the freedom of taking off in your wheels and going for a long drive.
As I feel the familiar kick against my ribs, a noticeable limb pokes out of my right side, and then a tidal wave of movement shudders over to my left; she’s woken up.
My little girl, who I’ve only seen on grainy black-and-white scan pictures. I’ve spent hours staring at them; the rounded shape of her little head, the tiny button nose, her curved spine … and I marvel. How did I make such a beautiful, perfect thing? I mean, I know I didn’t do it on my own – Matt did a tiny bit in the beginning but, let’s be honest, his part was over the second he yanked his penis out of me and I’m growing an actual human being.
I didn’t think I’d be the maternal type, actually. I thought pregnancy would be something to be endured, not enjoyed. How wrong I was. From the second I saw my girl on that screen in the scanning room at the twelve-week appointment, I embraced every single ailment and milestone. I’d lie in bed on a Sunday morning, stroking my bump, watching her move, giggling at how cute it was. I sang to her. I talked to her about her about my mum – her grandma. I imagined all the things she would have done with her: baking fairy cakes, painting in her art studio and chasing her around the garden.
It’s also brought me a bit closer to Dad. He started crying when I told him. I think, after everything I’ve been through, he just wants to see me settled and happy. He took us all out for dinner to celebrate and his face beamed throughout the entire meal.
‘I’m so pleased you get to experience this,’ he said, enveloping me in a huge cuddle.
‘Me too, Dad,’ I replied.
Every Wednesday marked the next week in the pregnancy, so I’d excitedly turn to that stage in the baby book, eager to see what my baby was doing, and growing, now. I thought I’d hate getting bigger, but I love it. And for the first time in my adult life, I don’t care about not drinking.
She has become the most important thing in my life, the only thing I’ve ever done right. Right now, the only thing I care about is being a good mother. I want my daughter to feel about me the way I felt about my own mum. That unconditional love, paralleled by no other; nurtured and loved no matter what happens. I hope I can do it right, because I know how it feels to have that ripped away from you, to have your emotional core shattered apart overnight. I might not be perfect, by anyone’s standards, but I will never, ever let my child down.
I love it when she does this. She reacts quite well to music, jigging about, stretching her limbs and rolling around.
She likes Johnny Cash, it would seem.
CHAPTER 16
Saturday 15 October 2011
Jamie
I didn’t quite compute what it was at first. Doing the food shop with Seb on a sunny July morning, he was kicking off in the ice cream aisle because he wanted an ice pop, so I opened a box and gave him one.
There was no message with it, just a picture of a baby girl, identifiable only by her little pink babygro. My heart ached a bit. I don’t know why, and I know I have absolutely no right to say that, but it did. Probably in the same way hers did when she found out about Sebby. It’s a weird situation. About a minute later, she sent another message:
Evie Elaine Bywater. Born 9 June. I wanted to tell you but didn’t know if I should. Hope you’re well. X
And it went from there.
Stephanie said she still wanted to meet in October, back at Heathwood Hall this year. Being a newbie to the newborn biz, she said a night away would be a welcome break from the sleepless nights, so if we could arrive late and leave early, that would be great. We’ve booked one room because we both agreed it was pointless to pay for two when, never in all these years, have we ever stayed in them both, so it made sense.
I don’t think either of us believed it.
I arrive first. The staff recognise us now and I’m pretty sure they know what the score is. They must have all kinds of shenanigans going on here.
Waiting for her to arrive in ‘our’ room, I think back to the last time I saw her. The very last time I held her, touched her, was that non-kiss at King’s Cross Station. It wasn’t something I’d planned, it just happened. I’m glad she saw the sculpture, though. It’s a lovely piece, which parallels our own situation in many ways. I wanted to let her know how I felt without telling her directly. As the time came to say goodbye, I panicked about how to say it, being wrenched away from her at the platform. The non-kiss just seemed perfect.
Now, here we are. Back at Heathwood Hall.
Doing OK, so far. She came in, beaming, looking thrilled to see me. We hugged, smiled a lot. Her hair is shorter and it suits her.
Sitting on the sofa as we open a bottle of wine, we do the usual round-up of news and I love her take on things.
She becomes all animated when telling me about the p
arty she had with Ebony to celebrate the wedding of Kate Middleton and Prince William in April.
‘I was obviously heavily pregnant, so Ebs brought a tonne of food around and we just sat and ate all day, watching the entire thing on TV,’ she tells me. ‘I mean, for twelve hours all we did was cry, bitch about outfits and swoon over the princes. It was the best day ever! You must have watched it?’
‘I took Seb to the park,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘His mum got into it, but it wasn’t really my thing.’
‘Ah, I just loved it. The whole thing was like a dream. They looked so happy, I couldn’t stop crying! The way he looked at her, kissed her, everything …’ She drifts off into her own world.
I love how she’s been affected by motherhood. She seems to have a new layer to her, like she’s more complete in some way. She speaks of her daughter with such fondness and love. Her sister has Evie tonight.
She asks if I went on holiday this year and I briefly mention I went to Majorca for a week. Asking if I had a good time I tell her it was great. I don’t say Helen and I rowed for most of it because a holiday with a one-year-old is not a holiday for anyone – apart from the baby.
‘So, how are you?’ I ask.
‘Knackered! You have a baby, so you know the drill.’
‘No,’ I say, stroking her hair. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m all right, really. It’s such a huge, life-changing thing, isn’t it?’ She sighs. ‘She’s given me so much love and purpose in life. I’ve never really had that before she came along.’
‘How can you say that? You have people who love you. You’re an incredible person,’ I tell her. I hate that she can’t see this herself.
She shrugs, taking a drink of white wine from the glass she’s cradling in her right hand.
‘You’re always so hard on yourself,’ I tell her. ‘Look at you.’
She screws her face up, clearly uncomfortable with this level of praise. I don’t think she hears it too often, which pisses me off.
‘I don’t feel amazing at the moment, to be honest.’
‘What? You’ve just had a baby and you still manage to look beautiful.’
Stephanie tucks her hair behind her ears and rearranges the cushions on her lap.
‘No, I’m not beautiful,’ she says and laughs.
‘Well, I think you are,’ I reply, in all seriousness.
A moment of silence falls between us before she jumps up and walks over to her overnight bag which is on the cream chaise-longue underneath the window. Retrieving some kind of black pyjama things, she walks off towards the bathroom.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask her.
‘Oh, umm, just going to get changed. I’m not really comfortable in this dress,’ she replies, sheepishly, twiddling the garments around in her hands as she does so, smoothing them out. She looks at them – not me. ‘I don’t like my body since I had the baby. I don’t feel very attractive. Sorry. I mean, I know I’m not what I used to be,’ she says, glancing up, almost embarrassed.
Probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life – inside and out – standing there, looking awkward, feeling terrible because she’s put on a few pounds after producing a human.
I walk over to her, removing the pyjama set (or whatever it is) from her hands and throw it on the floor. Placing my hands on her waist, I pull her close to me so that our faces are right up against each other. Sliding them up her back, and gently past her neck on to her face, I run them slowly down the curves of her body through her dress, not taking my eyes off hers the entire time.
‘I remember this body,’ I whisper to her.
She tenses slightly as my hands skim over her breasts, which have grown since last year. Her waist and hips have become more defined. As my hands sweep over her tummy, I kiss her softly. She pushes herself into me, grabbing my hair. I firmly move my hands around to her arse, scrunching her dress up as I do and peeling it up and off her body. I throw it on the floor and she stands in front of me wearing only a black bra and knickers.
Delicately running my fingers from the top of her legs to her breasts, which makes her giggle, I hold her face in my hands. Brushing her lips with my thumbs, I rest my face close to hers so that her bright green eyes are lost with mine.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more beautiful,’ I tell her. And I mean it.
She smiles in the way she does which makes her eyes light up. They crinkle at the edges, taking on a personality of their own. Usually, whenever I give her a compliment she looks away; gazes at the ground or glances uncomfortably out the window. But this time, she doesn’t. She looks straight back at me.
‘Thank you,’ she says, softly.
By 11.30 we’ve sloped into bed after having a glass of wine each and one cup of tea and we’re chatting in bed with the curtains open. The moon has settled right outside the window so it shines in just enough light to negate the pitch-black brutality.
This is actually perfect.
‘You know, it would, of course, be possible to see each other more often now,’ Stephanie says, her sweet voice cutting through the darkness.
My body tenses slightly.
‘It would. But it’s probably better we keep it as it is. It works, don’t you think?’ I say, forcing the words out. I’m grateful for the fact it’s dark and she can’t see how much it pains me to say this, as I lie on my side, facing her. Our fingers intertwined, resting on the space between us.
‘Wouldn’t you want to see me more often?’ she asks.
Christ, yes. All the time.
I take a second to consider my answer, not because I don’t know what it is, but because it’s physically hard to say.
‘Stephanie,’ I say then, ‘the time I spend with you is so, so special and I love it so much … I can’t allow it to be more than what we have now.’
She doesn’t say anything, which is never a good sign.
‘But we can still have what we have, just … more often.’
I run my hand up her arm and up into her hair. Shuffling closer to her, I have to say this, knowing it’s going to hurt.
‘It would make it harder,’ I tell her. ‘I’d see you for a few hours, then I’d want to spend the night with you. Then I’d want to spend the weekend with you. Then I’d want to spend the week with you, then I’d want to start calling you to ask how your week’s been, or texting you on a morning, then meeting up through the week just to see your face …’
She remains quiet and her breathing gets a little heavier.
‘Do you know how many times I’ve almost called you? Had my finger over the call button? Wanted to phone on the off-chance that I’d get your voicemail, just to hear your voice?’ I ask. ‘More than you can imagine.’
‘So, what stopped you?’
‘I can only see you if I have strict boundaries in place. It gets too complex if I see you more than what we have.’
‘Well, if you feel like that and it’s so complex, that – in itself – raises questions you may need to think about …’
‘Steph, you’ve always known the score, that I’m not going anywhere—’
‘I know, but—’
‘No, I need to say this. My life would be so much easier if I didn’t love my wife, or if I was thoroughly miserable. But it’s just not the case.’ I have no idea how she’s taking it – but she needs to hear it. ‘And that’s what’s so difficult to get my head around. The anxiety of it all makes my heart feel like it’s being torn in two different directions and it fucks me up, Stephanie.’
Rolling over on to my back, I run my hands through my hair. What am I doing to these women? I don’t deserve either of them.
The silence is heavy between us for what feels like a lifetime. She needs to know this, but saying it feels like a deliberate betrayal of her.
‘I know it’s hard – for both of us,’ she says, cuddling into me. ‘So let’s just keep it the way things are. You’re right, it’s simpler that way.’
I wrap my ar
ms around her, giving her an extra squeeze as I kiss the top of her head. She smells divine. I couldn’t tell you what of – some sort of girly shampoo – but it’s gorgeous.
‘Thank you for being honest,’ she whispers through the darkness. ‘I know, even though it’s not always easy. But I appreciate it. It helps me understand who you are.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I ask, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
‘I’m actually going straight to work from here.’
‘Work? Aren’t you on maternity leave?’
‘Well, technically, yes,’ she says, ‘but something needs doing for the art award competition and it’s quicker if I do it rather than leaving it to everyone else.’
‘Art award?’
‘It’s a thing we do every year. In memory of my mum.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, that sounds lovely. What exactly is it?’
‘Well, my mum was a local artist and after she died, we set up an art award in her name. Every year we run a competition for local artists.’
‘Ah, really?’
‘Yes. In, fact, you’d be eligible to enter now. Now you’re local, I mean.’
‘I suppose I would. Don’t think it would be right, though.’
‘Well, you’re good enough. Brilliant enough, obviously. But I understand.’
‘But, more to the point,’ I go on. ‘Your mum was an artist?! How did I not know this?’
I’ve known Steph for five years now and we know each other so well, in some respects, and not at all in others. Her eyes light up when she mentions her mum. They sparkle whenever she talks about her and her smile spreads right across her face, the kind of smile which you have no control over. But then she’ll stop and change the subject, as though a searing pain spreads throughout her body, preventing her from carrying on.
‘I don’t really talk about her very much,’ she says.
‘Why not?’
‘Because losing her was the worst thing that happened to me.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
I feel her body tense. Her fingers stop caressing me and she lays her palm flat on my chest. I take hold of her hand, kissing her knuckles before returning it to its original spot on my torso.