by Suzy K Quinn
I keep pushing, every time I feel the urge.
I don’t have any self-consciousness about anything. I don’t care about being naked. Or the fact my waters have broken around my knees. All I care about is that Marc is here.
Something shifts inside me and my hands come between my legs.
‘Marc!’
I feel the baby’s head in my hands, and then the rest of its little body slides out.
‘Alice!’ Marc calls, helping me cradle the baby’s head. ‘Dr Christian!’ He takes the baby from my hands and holds it to his chest.
‘Is it okay?’ I ask. ‘Is it breathing?’
Suddenly I hear the tiniest cry. Followed by a choky little cough.
I fall back on my haunches.
‘She,’ says Marc, smiling. ‘She is breathing. And she is beautiful. Just like her mother.’
82
A tiny, grouchy looking little baby, with brown hair, lies in Marc’s arms. She’s bright pink and covered in white stuff. Her skin is white and her lips bright red. Her eyes are tight shut and she puckers her lips into an annoyed little cry.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Tears slide down my cheeks.
‘Can I take her?’ I reach over and cradle our little girl in my arms. ‘Hello beautiful girl,’ I say. ‘Hello.’
‘So do you have any girl’s names lined up?’ Marc smiles. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘Well lucky for you I was open minded,’ I say, gazing down. ‘And I have the perfect name.’
‘Which is?’
‘Ivy.’
The next few weeks are sort of a blur. But a happy blur.
I spend a few days at the townhouse eating toast and drinking hot chocolate, and then we relocate to our country home – which has been perfectly prepared for our new arrival.
I’d been nesting for months before Ivy came, so our country house is spotlessly clean and full of every baby thing imaginable.
Marc and I spend all our time together with baby Ivy, watching her sleep and feed.
I do absolutely no cooking at all, on Marc’s insistence, and a chef comes every meal time to prepare the most amazing, healthy food. And the odd pizza.
It’s a whole new world, waking up every few hours every night, and a bit daunting. But I’d do anything for Ivy. Anything at all. And I know Marc would too.
Before we know it, Christmas is upon us.
We insist the whole family come to our country home for Christmas dinner. We invite Denise too, of course. And Tom and Tanya, whose families are both overseas. And Michael.
On Christmas morning, I carry baby Ivy down to see the Christmas tree and lights. Marc watches me like a hawk on the stairs. He’s still petrified I might get too weak and drop her.
I tell Marc over and over that I’m fine, but he still won’t quite believe me. I think the birth freaked him out a bit. Seeing me so frail. But I’d go through it again next week if it meant having Ivy with us.
I smile at the pile of Christmas presents under the tree. Marc has bought half of London for baby Ivy. She’s going to be the most spoiled little girl imaginable. But I’m going to work hard to make sure she has good values. And appreciates everything she gets.
‘You know, I don’t think Ivy understands presents just yet,’ I tell Marc. ‘She can’t even smile.’
Marc frowns. ‘My daughter will have the very best of everything. Are you sure you’re okay carrying her on the stairs—’
I laugh. ‘For the millionth time, yes.’
We open some of baby Ivy’s presents. Expensive clothes, toys and toiletries. But Ivy doesn’t understand what’s going on. I think she likes the Christmas tree better than anything.
‘Since our daughter seems to like trees and lights better than presents,’ says Marc, ‘perhaps you’d like to open your gift now.’
‘Marc! The tradition in our family—’
‘You have a new family. Me and Ivy. And I say our tradition should be opening presents first thing in the morning. Children shouldn’t have to wait all day.’
‘Fine. Just this once. But we’ll talk again next year.’
‘Glad to see you still do as you’re told Mrs Blackwell. At least some of the time. Here.’ He passes me a small box wrapped with beautiful cream paper.
‘You know, I didn’t quite manage to get you a present,’ I admit. ‘Ivy here came a little quicker than I thought. And with the movie and everything … I was disorganised this year.’
‘You’re forgiven,’ says Marc. ‘Now open your present.’
I tear off the paper and find a purple jewellery box.
‘This looks beautiful.’
‘You haven’t even opened it yet.’
When I open the box, the smile leaves my lips. In a good way.
‘Oh Marc. This is … oh wow.’
Inside is a silver necklace with aivy leaf and rose hanging from it.
‘Turn it over,’ says Marc.
I do, and see an engraving on the back of the ivy leaf.
It says, ‘Light and dark together forever, Marc.’
I bite my lip.
‘You don’t like it?’ Marc asks, his eyes wide with concern.
I shake my head, feeling tears coming. ‘Oh Marc. I love it. I just don’t want to cry.’
Marc laughs and puts his arms around us.
‘I will always look after you and our daughter. You know that don’t you?’
‘I know.’
83
It turns out to be the most amazing Christmas day ever.
Dad, Denise, Michael, Annabel and Daniel, Jen and Leo and Tom and Tanya all end up sitting in our huge living room, in front of the roaring fire.
We talk and laugh and drink and eat, and spend a lot of time watching baby Ivy.
‘This is the happiest I’ve ever been,’ I tell Marc, snuggling up by the fire.
‘Do you think Ivy might be too hot?’ says Marc, ever the anxious parent.
‘I think she’s just fine. Look at all the love in this room. How could she ever come to any harm?’
Marc’s jaw hardens. ‘I’d die before any harm came to her.’
‘I know. Me too.’
Jen gazes at Ivy, her hand tight in Leo’s.
‘Maybe we could have one of these soon?’ says Leo, giving Jen a playful wink.
‘Are you kidding me?’ says Jen. ‘I’ve literally just started my business. And we haven’t even got married yet.’
‘So let’s hurry up and get married. Fly to Vegas tonight. Get it done and dusted, then have a baby.’
‘LEO!’ says Jen. ‘I’ve been planning this wedding for months. It’s going to be the event of the century.’
‘So un-plan it. You know what they say. The cheaper the wedding, the longer the marriage.’
Jen smiles. ‘I would love to have a baby with you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know. So let’s do it.’
Jen rolls her eyes. ‘Leo! Sometimes things have to be planned.’
‘But the best things are always spontaneous.’ Leo plants a loud kiss on Jen’s cheek. ‘If we have a baby next year, it will be the same age as Ivy here. They can be best friends.’
‘Mine and Sophia’s children will be best friends no matter what their age,’ says Jen confidently.
Baby Ivy is on best behaviour when our family and friends are around. But as they say their goodbyes, she begins to get restless.
No amount of feeding, rocking or shushing will calm her down.
‘Perhaps she’s coming down with something,’ says Marc, his voice full of concern. ‘I should call the doctor.’
‘Marc. It’s okay. She always gets like this at the end of the day. Let’s just take her for a walk.’
‘It’s freezing out there,’ says Marc.
‘And you’ve bought her enough thermal outfits to survive the Antarctic,’ I point out. ‘Come on. She just needs some fresh air to help her sleep.’
Reluctantly, Marc helps
me bundle Ivy into the pram, wrapped in clothes and blankets.
We push her outside over the gravel and I look up at the clear, black sky.
The second Ivy hits the fresh air she quietens down.
‘See?’ I tell Marc, pushing the pram over the gravel. ‘She just needed a walk. That’s all. Let’s take her across the fields.’
Marc and I push Ivy along dark country lanes, watching her beautiful pale little face as her eyes gently close. Pretty soon she’s fast asleep.
‘I am going to give this little baby everything,’ says Marc. ‘I will take care of her for the rest of her life.’
‘Don’t spoil her,’ I say.
‘Of course I’ll spoil her,’ says Marc. ‘That’s my job as her father.’
‘You’re not disappointed you didn’t have a son then?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘I know you’re not.’
‘I said all along I didn’t mind about the sex. But I suppose I just assumed … the Blackwell’s always have sons first.’
‘Well I guess she’s not a Blackwell then.’
‘Oh yes she is. But she’s my rose too. Just like you.’
Book V – Ivy and Roses
1
The silver box glimmers from the mantelpiece.
It’s large and thick – the size of a heavy coffee-table book and just as heavy.
I’ve been ignoring it for days now.
You have to open it some time, says a little voice.
I know.
Through the farmhouse windows, I see rose buds on thorny stems. The grass is taller than it’s been in a while, and pink and white blossom decorates the fruit trees.
Spring.
A time of new beginnings.
I glance at Ivy, sleeping in her woven basket.
She’s getting too big for that basket now, but I like to have her with me. As close as possible, wherever I am.
Sometimes, life feels so perfect that I can’t believe I got so lucky.
I’m married to one of Hollywood’s greatest actors – my former teacher, and a man I am deeply, obsessively in love with.
Marc Blackwell dotes on me, and is the perfect, protective father to our beautiful baby, Ivy.
Our luxurious farmhouse is set on five acres of land, and surrounded by flowering, grassy gardens.
Some of the bigger fruit trees will be perfect for a rope swing when Ivy grows up. And then of course, there are the horses for her to ride on.
Security around the farmhouse is the best there is – no photographer or journalist can get near us.
All in all, things should be amazing. And they are. Most of the time. But sometimes I feel like … oh, it’s silly.
Everything is perfect.
And yet still the silver parcel glimmers.
I watch the pink sun setting over farmland.
Marc will be home soon.
I long for him when he’s in the city, and often wait by the window, watching the darkening sky and listening for the crunch of his car on gravel.
Wandering into the kitchen, I take a bowl of pasta dough from the fridge. It’s covered with lightly olive-oiled cling film and perfect for rolling.
Dough should relax a little before it’s rolled – that was one of my mother’s many secrets for perfect pasta.
I’ve prepared so much food today, it’s just crazy.
Strings of spaghetti hang from the pan rails, the tea towel hooks and rolling pins bridging cans of tomatoes.
I’ve made sheets of pasta too, for lasagne or ravioli – I haven’t decided which yet.
There’s already enough pasta for twenty people, but that’s not the half of it.
In my new wood-burning oven, three pizzas bubble and cook.
A giant tiramisu, covered in hand-tempered chocolate shards, waits in the fridge.
I keep telling myself I’m loving my new role as a housewife. That my overcooking means we’ll never go short of pasta.
But the truth is, I’m a little bored at home.
Rodney manages the cleaning, so the whole house is always polished, hoovered and smelling faintly of lemon.
A fancy laundry service washes all our clothes and delivers it back, wrapped in lavender-scented wax paper.
Being a mother is wonderful, but …
No.
I love Ivy to death and want to be with her always. Every minute of the day. That other life I had … it’s a million miles away now.
I’m just checking the pizza, when I hear the low growl of Marc’s car.
Marc.
I catch my reflection in our shiny, wood-burning oven, and see a smile light my face and brighten my eyes.
‘Perfect timing,’ I call out, when I hear the front door.
Hearing the clip of Marc’s shoes, I open the oven door and slide a long, wooden pizza spatula into the fiery insides.
I’ve made Marc’s favourite – spiced olive, spinach and feta.
Anticipation warms my chest as Marc strides into the kitchen.
My husband.
2
Marc wears a sharp, black suit and white shirt, open a little at the neck. His hands are in his pockets and he’s frowning, his jaw hard and tight.
For a moment, Marc takes in the metres of pasta hanging in sheets and strands around the kitchen.
His thick, brown hair is a little dishevelled. And his dark eyebrows are pulled together over extremely serious blue eyes.
‘Is something wrong?’ I drop pizza onto a long olive-wood board, then dust floury hands on my striped chef’s apron.
Marc’s lips twitch into a smile. ‘Sophia, this restaurant of yours gets more productive by the day. How many customers were you expecting tonight?’
‘Just you. Rodney’s sorting the car.’
His smile grows. ‘Twenty portions of pasta for two people? And pizza too? I’m happy to see that your commitment to freezer stocking continues.’
‘I like cooking. Ivy’s sleeping in the living room. Do you want to see her?’
‘Do you need to ask?’
I put my finger to my lips and lead him into the lounge, pointing to our beautiful baby girl asleep in her woven basket.
Ivy’s tiny little face is still and peaceful.
We both watch her for a moment. Then Marc crouches down and puts his ear to her chest.
He sits back on his knees, taking her in.
I smile, knowing the craziness of checking Ivy’s breathing. She’s fine. We both know she’s fine. But still we check.
‘She’ll sleep for hours now,’ I whisper. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
‘Ah yes,’ says Marc, getting to his feet. ‘I forgot. Restaurant Sophia hates serving cold food.’
‘It tastes fresher when it’s hot.’
Marc frowns as he passes the mantelpiece. ‘You still haven’t opened your parcel?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Just … what’s the hurry? It’s only going to be something I can’t do. Or won’t do. So why torture myself? My life is here with Ivy. The real world … it’s not for me right now.’
‘The real world?’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Here was I thinking you already lived in the real world. With Ivy and me.’
‘You know what I mean. You go out to work. I stay here. That’s just how it is.’
In the kitchen, Marc watches me, forearm rested on the breakfast bar. His fingers drum the polished oak. ‘You know, I love having you here. At home.’
‘I love being here too,’ I say absentmindedly, slicing up pizza with a rolling cutter, then carrying the board to our kitchen table.
We have a formal dining room, but we almost always end up eating in the kitchen. The table is big enough to seat six anyway – it’s not like anything in this house is small.
‘You don’t sound overly convinced,’ says Marc, eyebrows pulled together as he joins me at the table.
I shrug. ‘Maybe I’m a little lonely in the day sometimes.’
Marc pulls out a solid, wooden chair, still watching me with those intense eyes of his. ‘Perhaps you should have some friends over.’
‘Everyone’s too busy with their own lives. Tom and Tanya are studying. Jen is busy in London. I don’t like to ask people.’
I couldn’t be happier for Jen, my best friend for so many years. Her business is really working out. And Tom and Tanya – I only met them last year at Ivy College, but they’re now two of my best friends and wouldn’t want them missing study because of me.
I take a seat, and Marc leans over to kiss the top of my head. ‘So how about I arrange a trip?’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘Just the two of us. Cure this loneliness of yours.’
‘You mean the three of us.’
‘Actually, I meant just you and me. You’ve been distracted ever since that parcel arrived. Perhaps a break from childcare would do you good. Give you some perspective.’
‘I couldn’t leave Ivy.’
‘Plenty of people employ a nanny, Sophia. Everyone I know with children, as a matter of fact.’
‘I just couldn’t. Not yet.’
Marc frowns, turning his attention to the table. ‘You’ve been folding napkins again.’
I eye the swan napkins at each place setting. Only Marc and I are eating, but I’ve made swans for all six places. Just to make the table look neat.
I’ve also filled three vases with fresh daffodils from our garden. They’ll be the last we see this year, so I wanted to make the most of them.
‘Sophia—’
I sit down forcefully, grabbing a swan napkin and flapping it out on my lap. ‘Yes, I folded some napkins. So what?’
Marc sits opposite, his dark eyes playful. ‘I think you’re right about this loneliness. You obviously need something to fill your time. I have a few ideas.’
‘I’m just … playing at being a good housewife. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Make a nice home for you and our baby.’
‘And you do a wonderful job of it.’ Marc serves me pizza.
‘Oh wait! There’s salad too.’ I spring up.
‘Sit down. You’ve done enough running around today. I’ll get it.’ Marc goes to the fridge.
‘I’ve hardly run around at all,’ I tell him, dropping down in my chair. ‘Rodney does such a good job of managing this house. All I have to do is take care of Ivy.’