I ignored the fact that her detachment when Mattie was in hospital, and her failure to ensure he had corrective plastic surgery every other year, either suggested depression or amounted to neglect.
And all of this makes me wonder if there is something else I’ve been closing my eyes to that is even more horrific.
Something I can hardly bear to contemplate.
LIZ
Saturday 10 June, 2017
Thirty-six
I should have realised the barbecue would be a disaster even before we decided to hold it. Nick and I never hold large get-togethers. We’re both busy; neither of us are extroverts and I’m painfully conscious we have neither the biggest house, nor the deepest wallets in our group. I’m embarrassed by the scrubbiness of our garden compared to Charlotte’s manicured lawns and my mere competence as a chef compared to Jess’s culinary prowess. Still, it’s easy to make excuses, and I reasoned that no one would be expecting barbecued crevettes, like the ones served by the Curtises. And, if I didn’t get everyone together, the children would be a year older, and another summer would have slipped away.
Besides it is a glorious summer. The hottest since ‘76: the grass parched to straw; the sky a cornflower blue; no hint of rain for weeks and weeks on end. The children have changed colour: as brown as nuts, their limbs growing faster than the shoots of the tomato plants rampaging through our ramshackle greenhouse. It’s almost too hot, I think, as I light the barbecue and wait for the flames to lick the coals until they are dusted ash white. A bank of heat rolls up, but even without this the air is oppressive as if a thunderstorm is brewing. The husks of delphiniums stand still; a bullet of an apple drops. There isn’t so much as a whisper of a breeze.
I check the food; lay out rugs for the children to sit on; fill the paddling pool in anticipation of water fights. Sam stops bouncing on the trampoline and lies, spread-eagled, gazing at the leafy canopy above his head.
Everything is set, and yet my stomach twists. I want it to be perfect, I guess because it’s something I never had. I didn’t grow up in a world of barbecues and family gettogethers and so I romanticise that sort of childhood and want to create it for my kids. But I also want to spoil my friends and try to compensate for my failure to be sociable. And if I need this celebration to reconnect – to remind myself that our friendships are strong despite my being subsumed by work and making little recent effort – then so do they.
Mel needs it in particular. It’s been three weeks since Rob left, and I want to show her, Connor and Mollie just how much we love them: that they will always be welcome; that she’s not going to be a single mother who’s ostracised now her family is no longer a neat, easily assimilated gang of four.
Jess probably needs a bit of cosseting too. I’ve only seen her properly twice since Betsey was born three months ago: once, when I dropped round a present, and then for a quick coffee – curtailed because the baby needed feeding. I’m surprised at how quickly the time’s gone. When they arrive, I half-expect to see a seven-pound newborn rather than this solid three-month-old infant – still intensely vulnerable; still incapable of doing anything as simple as sitting up by herself, but nevertheless a creature with thighs so plump they dimple and a shock of thick dark hair.
As for Charlotte, well, I’d invited her because not doing so risked being hurtful. She might not be at the school gate that much but one of the children would be bound to mention it to George, and I would hate her to discover that she’d been left out. I’d wondered if she’d avoid it: to my knowledge, she’s had little to do with Jess since discovering she was pregnant. But they would be delighted, she told me, in an elegantly written email, concluding with the sort of throwaway line that heaped on the pressure and couldn’t help but sound ominous: It might even be fun!!
Mel arrives first. She isn’t in a good state. The combination of the end of the school year and her twelve-year marriage looks as if it’s threatening to break her: she’s lost so much weight so rapidly that the sundress that flattened her chest last summer now gapes to expose sharp clavicles and what she dubs her ‘chicken fillet’ breasts.
‘He wants the kids to meet her, can you believe it?’ she spits. ‘Says she’s such an important part of his life they need to get to know her. I am fucking livid.’ She shakes with rage.
‘He can’t rush them into meeting her like this,’ I say, calculating that we have ten minutes of intensive chat before the others arrive. ‘How are the children?’
‘Connor’s started wetting the bed and Mollie’s sleepwalking. Most nights, we end up sleeping together.’
No wonder she looks so exhausted.
‘Drink? White wine, red wine, beer, gin? Pimm’s, elderflower, still or sparkling?’
‘Something alcoholic. Maybe a gin.’
Wordlessly, I add ice, lemon, cucumber and tonic to a generous shot, decorating the glass with mint to make it pretty.
‘Thank you,’ she says as she takes a deep slug.
The doorbell rings and there’s the bustle of another family arriving: a swell of noise that seems disproportionately intrusive.
‘Hello, hello, hello!’ Andrew bowls into the kitchen, Charlotte and George in his slipstream.
‘Andrew!’ I try to shield Mel as I fold him into a hug.
‘No Rob?’ he asks, looking around as though he might find Mel’s estranged husband lurking in a kitchen cupboard. ‘Where is he? What have you done with the blighter?’
I glance sharply at Charlotte. I told her about Mel in my email and had assumed she would share this with her husband. She looks uncomfortable.
‘He’s not working on a glorious day like this, is he?’ Andrew continues, his smile slipping as he registers Mel’s expression.
‘No.’ She takes a fierce swig of gin. ‘Rob’s shagging.’ And then, because Andrew looks so thrown by her uncharacteristic language: ‘Not me, obviously. A younger model: he’s left me for his PA.’
After that, Jess’s arrival, complete with baby, pram, parasol, changing mat, and a bag bulging with bottles of sterilised water, is a welcome distraction.
‘Jess!’ Charlotte air-kisses her on both cheeks. ‘You look lovely. And, Ed-’ Here, her kiss lingers, as if she’s primed to whisper something intimate. ‘Gosh: a newborn isn’t taking its toll on you! You look as gorgeous as ever. What’s it like coping with one again?’
She draws him off towards the garden, one hand on his arm. I suppose they’re old friends, and this monopolising of him is nothing new, but it seems designed to exclude the very person who gave birth to this baby and whose life has been most affected by it.
‘What’s it like for you, Jess?’ I ask, expecting a wry roll of the eyes in Charlotte’s direction but she’s distracted.
‘Is there much shade in the garden? I’m wondering if we wheeled the pram into the shade of the house and used the parasol, would she be completely covered?’ Her eyes dart around, looking for the perfect spot.
‘I’m sure she’ll be absolutely fine in the shade.’ I help her manoeuvre the huge pram and set the parasol at a jaunty angle. Not one part of Betsey’s skin is exposed.
Jess sits by the pram, sipping a sparkling water, but she clearly can’t relax: she keeps checking that the sun isn’t slanting onto her baby. Betsey bleats: the tired cry of an infant getting herself to sleep.
‘Actually – do you mind if I take Betsey inside?’
‘Of course. You could put her down in Rosa’s bedroom. That’s probably the coolest.’
‘I think I’ll stay with her, in your front room? I don’t like leaving her alone when it’s as hot as this.’
‘The part towards the French windows is probably best.’ I walk her back through. ‘If we draw the curtains, it should be dark enough.’ I shroud the room in gloom as Betsey’s crying cranks up another gear. ‘Shall I bring you some food?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m fine really. I’ll come out in a while.’ She looks embarrassed and I want to reassure her that the crying sounds far
more intense to her than anyone else; that she needn’t hide herself away; that we can all take turns in soothing Bets, giving her a rare break. But she turns her back on me, and curls herself around her baby, the movement exclusive and intensely intimate.
At least everyone else seems content, apart from Mel who is staring into the middle distance as she nurses her gin and tonic. Nick is still sweltering over the barbecue, and the children are fed and watered: Kit and George chomp on hot dogs while the others loll on rugs, apparently sated. Only Frankie bounces frenetically on the trampoline.
Charlotte is saying something that’s made Andrew and Ed laugh and has prompted Nick to wave his barbecue tongs around as he joins in. She’s sharp and clever, her arguments precise and well formulated, and I admire her self-assurance – her belief that her views are at least as important as anyone else’s – even if I find her difficult at times. Perhaps she’s just a man’s woman: more at ease in their company than with other women, I think, as I watch her, basking in their attention. For a moment I want to be part of their conversation rather than hovering between one friend who mourns her relationship and another who frets over her crying child.
From the front of the house, Betsey’s cries continue: a slowing waah-waah-waah now. I pour myself a drink and wonder if it will occur to Ed to swap with his wife so that she can eat.
‘I really should check on Jess,’ he murmurs at one point, and makes a desultory effort to rouse himself, but he’s easily persuaded to sit back down.
‘She’ll be fine. She’ll probably be getting the baby down to sleep. The last thing she’ll want is you disturbing her,’ says Charlotte.
‘You’re probably right,’ he concurs and swigs his beer.
‘One thing I’ve learned,’ Andrew adds – sounding like a smug traditionalist who excuses his own failings by dressing them up as a concession to his spouse – ‘is that it’s never worth interfering in childcare. Always best to demur. Isn’t that right, my darling?’
The look Charlotte gives him could freeze hell.
‘The problem is,’ says Ed, reflectively, ‘that the kids are used to us doing separate jobs. Jess does the practical stuff – and all the stuff with Betsey, of course. I – well, I do the fun stuff . . .’
‘You could try doing the boring stuff ? ‘ Nick half-teases.
‘Yeah. I suppose I could . . .’ Ed looks briefly uncomfortable. Then he turns it into a joke: ‘But why would I want to do that?’
So this is the state of play when the doorbell rings: one anxious woman, whose husband has no intention of helping her; one tearful one; and one feeling a little fraught that this barbecue is not turning out to be the relaxed gettogether she hoped at eight o’clock this morning when she was fiddling around with pomegranate seeds.
That will teach me not to micro-manage; not to hope I can ease everybody’s problems with the very best of intentions and a few homemade sodding burgers, not to mention the blowsy pavlova that no one will want to eat in this heat. I think of the solar-powered fairy lights I’d strung in the tree above the trampoline, conscious as I did so that it was precisely the sort of thing Jess would do. Why do I have to strive to be something I’m not? Why can’t I curb this incessant desire to be the sort of professional woman who makes coriander-and-red-onion burgers while mending marriages and easing her friends’ anxieties? Why do I have to constantly fix things as if I – and here’s the irony – have all the answers? Why can’t I accept myself, and my limitations, more readily?
As if to prove my provenance, my mother is standing on the doorstep, red-faced and uncomfortable, her top exposing a greying bra strap and sunburned flesh. The fabric is damp under her armpits; she is clearly wilting in the heat.
‘Oh – hello!’ My mind goes blank. My mother never just drops round. ‘Come in, come in,’ I say, recovering, but I must look bemused. She is instantly on the defensive.
‘You said you were having a barbecue when you rang me. Lots of people. I didn’t get it wrong, did I?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ I can’t possibly knock her back. Besides, she looks vulnerable: the wrong sort of mother at the wrong sort of event. I have a vague recollection of suggesting she join us. A throwaway line at the end of the phone call, made because I never thought she’d take me up on it. You could drop round if you’re at a loose end.
‘Do you remember my friend, Mel?’ I ask, bringing her into the kitchen where Mel is opening a bottle of Pinot Grigio. ‘I think you met at Rosa’s first or second birthday party? Mel’s my teacher friend, Mum; she’s got a girl and a boy the same age as Sam and Rosa,’ I gabble, conscious that my mother is barely interested in her grandchildren, though I’ve given her little opportunity to know them.
My mother is unimpressed.
‘Let’s get you a drink, shall we?’ I add, handing her a glass of iced water.
She looks at it disdainfully.
‘I’ll have what Mel’s drinking.’
‘Of course.’ I fill a wine glass. ‘Sorry. I’m obsessed with us all remaining hydrated.’
She nods curtly. I’m let off but I mustn’t patronise her, or try to control her behaviour, again.
‘Can I get you a plate of food? Nick’s still got plenty on the go. Nick!’ I gesture to him, as I walk her through the kitchen to the patio. ‘Look who’s arrived?’
‘Janet,’ he says, bending down and kissing her on the cheek. He is so good at hiding his true feelings, never making her conscious of his ambivalence towards her. ‘Lamb, burger, chicken? The kids have wolfed all the sausages, I’m afraid.’
She blinks in the sunlight and I’m subsumed by a sudden tenderness. This is discombobulating: there’s too much choice, too many unfamiliar people; the heat is too intense . . .
‘Lamb, please.’ She turns to me. ‘It’s a bit hot, Lizzie. I think I’ll sit inside.’
‘Of course. Let me bring you some salad.’ I bustle through. Has she noticed Charlotte’s eyes on her? A poor person. In Liz’s garden! I imagine her storing up this detail; feel a shudder of revulsion at her and at myself for exposing my mother to this. My two worlds have met and jarred but as I glance at my mother, she isn’t interested in the company. She’s distracted, listening to something upstairs.
‘Whose is that baby?’
A high-pitched wail has started: a thin ribbon of sound that soars, becoming louder.
‘It’s Betsey. Do you remember my friend Jess had another baby? I thought she was sleeping in the front room – but obviously not.’
‘She’s been crying on and off for the past fifteen minutes, ’ Mel says. ‘Keeping me company.’
‘Fifteen minute’s nothing,’ my mother says, sharply.
I’m surprised: she never talks about our childhoods. ‘Did I cry a lot?’
‘You weren’t the worst.’
‘Poor Mattie. Was he a difficult baby? I was too young to remember . . .’
She shakes her head. She’s not going to be drawn on this.
The cry grows louder as Jess slowly navigates the stairs, one hand on the bannisters, one cradled around her baby. Her hand cups her head; her forearm props Betsey’s body against her as if she is made of hand-blown glass.
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t get her to stop.’
‘Why don’t I take her for a bit so that you can get some food?’ As I say it, I realise she’s never let me hold this baby.
‘Trust me. I’m a doctor,’ I joke, and then: ‘Just for a few minutes to give you a break.’
After some hesitation, she hands her baby over. Betsey looks at me, a bubble of spit forming between her lips.
‘Hello, Betsey.’ I beam, desperate to coax a smile. The shock of contemplating someone new has silenced her, momentarily. Tentatively, she reciprocates.
‘Look, Mum – isn’t she gorgeous?’ I turn to her. ‘Do you want to have a look?’
‘No. You’re all right.’
‘Oh go on.’
‘No, really. I’m fine,’ she snaps, then clears her thr
oat, perhaps realising her reaction seems excessive. ‘Don’t want to set her off crying again. I haven’t seen a baby that young in a while. What is she? Three months?’
‘Thirteen weeks,’ says Jess coming back into the kitchen with a small plate of food. ‘You’re exactly right. I thought things were meant to get easier at three months, but not with this one.’
As if on cue, Betsey’s bottom lip wobbles and she starts to wail, arms outstretched now that she’s registered her mother’s presence. The sound builds and swirls; so raucous that the adults in the garden stop talking and look in our direction, perturbed.
Jess abandons her plate of food and grabs Betsey, her face flushed with embarrassment as she shushes and jiggles.
My mother seems fixated. She can’t stop staring at Betsey as if appalled that a baby could make this noise.
‘You OK, Mum?’
‘No. I . . .’ She pushes her plate away, spilling beads of pomegranate and couscous. A smear of crème fraîche clags the edge of her thumb but she hasn’t noticed. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I want to go. I need to go now.’
She struggles to her feet, gathering her bag, her movements jagged; and all the time, her eyes are on Betsey, her expression fearful.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Trenchard.’ Jess’s voice clots with tears. ‘Liz – I’ll take her home. This isn’t pleasant for any of us. You’ve gone to such an effort and we’re ruining it for you.’
‘No, don’t.’ I won’t have Jess hounded in this way. ‘She’s just a crying baby. We’ve all experienced it. She’ll be settled in a few minutes. There’s no need for anyone to leave.’
But my mother has crossed the room and is almost at the front door, head down, her pace determined.
‘Mum. Please.’ It feels important to salvage this. To prove to Jess that she’s always welcome and to my mother that she mustn’t storm off because of something as innocuous as a baby crying. I put one hand on her forearm but she shrugs it off, violently.
The familiar response kicks in. My heart jolts and old memories domino: a yank of an arm; a grip of a forearm; those whip-sharp slaps, furious and incessant, against the pale backs of my legs.
Little Disasters Page 24