by B M Carroll
‘It’s unfair, but life is unfair sometimes, and we just have to deal with it. Right?’
‘Right, Mum.’
‘And you’re the captain of your club team. It’s a big responsibility, you know. Focus on that and forget about the school team.’
I kiss him on the forehead, then stand up to demand a kiss from Finn, who’s on the top bunk. He has been less than his usual sunny self today as well. Hopefully we’ll all – Sophie included – have a better day tomorrow.
It’s one in the morning by the time I finish the risk analysis and send it off to Sophie. Messages have been flying in from her all evening, asking for updates on where I’m at, loading on more work – more demands – for tomorrow. It’s relentless. She’s relentless.
Don’t let her bully you. Don’t let her bully you.
But how can I stop her? And what is bullying, anyway? What is the difference between being assertive and being intimidating, between persistence and harassment, between high standards and unreasonable demands? Is it bad to strive for perfection when standards can so often be disappointingly low? Where are the lines in today’s world, a world of 24/7 access and connectivity, a world where no one wants to wait, a world where there is no clear start or end to the working day? And is pain an adequate excuse for Sophie’s sometimes appalling behaviour?
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t handle the pressure. Maybe I just don’t have the capacity for a demanding role like this. Maybe I’m not tough enough, quick enough, clever enough. Maybe I’m the flipping problem, not Sophie. But Jane thinks Sophie’s a bully too. Jane, who had Mick to pick up some of the slack at home but still couldn’t keep up with Sophie’s demands. Jane, who was there before Sophie’s accident, before she was in constant pain, and still thought her behaviour was horrendous.
Is there anyone out there, other than Jane and me, who thinks that Sophie McCarthy’s a bully?
Kristina Owens. The name pops into my head unbidden.
Oh, for God’s sake. Now I’m raking over something that’s entirely different. It was a lie that Sophie told. Fourteen years ago! Just a lie.
Stop thinking. Go to bed. You’re tired enough, Hannah.
But my brain is racing. I know I won’t be able to sleep. What happened to Kristina Owens? Did she get married? Have children? Go on to have a happy life? Has she more or less forgotten what happened at the maths camp, put it behind her as an unfortunate accident? Does she keep in touch with any of her old friends from St Brigid’s?
Kristina Owens: I type the name into Google.
There’s a string of Facebook and LinkedIn results. I haven’t been on Facebook since Harry died. At the time, I couldn’t face reading all the messages on his timeline: Rest in peace, Harry; Hope you are somewhere happy, Harry; Take care, mate. I hesitate, my finger hovering over Enter. Stop being such a coward, Hannah.
One click and I’m in. There’s a Kristina Owens who’s fundraising for cancer, and another who runs marathons. There’s a Kristina Owens in Adelaide, and one up in Brisbane. None of them seems to match. I search for St Brigid’s, and after a few minutes I come across a Kristina Nolan, whose maiden name was Owens. The photograph – a woman with large sunglasses and a puffy face – is inconclusive.
Before I know it, I’ve sent her a message: My name is Hannah Evans. I’m looking to make contact with students who graduated from St Brigid’s in 2004/2005. Please let me know if I have the right person.
It’s two in the morning by the time I fall into bed. At three, I’m still wide awake. Worrying about Callum. About my job. About money. About Harry’s timeline, and what other messages have been written on it since I last looked.
My alarm goes off at six and another day starts. It’s not just Sophie being relentless. It’s life in general.
47
Aidan
She’s already here. Sitting at one of the rustic outdoor tables, a multicoloured scarf wound around her neck, a glass of red wine set down in front of her. Her head is bent, her eyes downcast, her arms folded tightly around herself. She presents as a sad and lonely figure, despite the jaunty scarf. Chloe has always liked colour. From her handmade clothes and jewellery to her rainbow nail polish, to the cushions and throws and furnishings in our home. Even when bland palettes were fashionable, and celebrity designers were appealing for restraint, Chloe happily ignored them, splashing colour wherever she could. She looks up and sees me. Her smile is reserved.
‘You’re early,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘I dropped Jasmin off at a friend’s. There was no point in going home for fifteen minutes so I came straight here.’
‘Which friend?’ I ask because in other circumstances Chloe and I would’ve had a discussion about who was taking care of our daughter.
‘Amelia … Jasmin’s new best friend.’
‘Jasmin’s obviously not staying the night?’
‘Obviously …’ Chloe’s smile feels more natural this time. ‘She’s improving, but she’s still a long way from going on a sleepover.’
I indicate her glass of wine, which has been hardly touched. ‘Hey, should I get a bottle?’
She shakes her head. ‘I have the car.’
At the bar I order myself a glass of red, to match hers. Then I sit down next to her, close enough so we can have a private conversation, far enough to ensure there’s no risk of accidental touch. Is it obvious to the other patrons that we’re not a couple? Is the polite distance a giveaway? Chloe had a habit of stretching her legs across my lap, using me as her personal ottoman. Maybe that’s why the distance feels more significant than it probably is.
‘Have you thought about it?’ she asks now, her eyes searching mine.
‘Yeah … constantly.’
‘And?’
Heat is blasting from a nearby outdoor heater. My face is warm but the rest of me is cold, shivery. ‘I don’t want to have them destroyed. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to donate them either. They’re our embryos. It doesn’t feel right to give them to another family.’
‘But it’s not as though we’re going to have the babies ourselves, is it?’ She’s trying to be pragmatic but all I hear is bitterness.
‘No, it’s not,’ I acknowledge with a weary sigh.
There’s a stand-off. An impasse. A rigid silence. How can we agree on anything with this unnatural stiffness between us? I reach for her hand and the effect is instant. Her face softens, becomes more conciliatory, reflecting the changes I feel in me. It’s like a homecoming, having her hand in mine.
‘Please, Chlo, let’s just keep paying the storage bill. There’ll come a time when this will all become clearer, I know there will. But please, let’s give those embryos every chance we can.’
Her hand moves in mine, and for a moment I think she’s going to pull it away. Instead, her grip becomes ever so slightly firmer.
‘OK.’
We stay like that – linked – for an indeterminate amount of time, our conversation fragmented but familiar, until our glasses are almost empty.
‘I should go … I told Jasmin I wouldn’t be long.’
‘Is Amelia a good friend?’ It doesn’t feel right that I’ve never set eyes on my daughter’s best friend. I don’t know where this Amelia lives, or what her parents are like. I don’t know how much Jasmin has said about me, if anything at all.
Chloe’s smile is indulgent. ‘I think so. She seems like a nice girl.’ Then her hand squeezes mine, her face lighting up with an idea. ‘Come with me. We can pick up Jasmin together. You can check Amelia out. Oh, Jasmin would be so thrilled to see you. You can even stay for bedtime.’
Dangerous territory. Yeah, it would be great to see the surprise on Jasmin’s face, to hear her chatter in the back of the car, and be there for bedtime and whatever that entails. She’s my daughter, I have every right to see her, so why this terrible guilt? Because my ex-wife’s hand is still in mine. Because it’s all I can do to keep it to that, and not give in to the temptation to gather her f
ully into my arms. Because of Sophie.
Things haven’t been good between me and Sophie this past week. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, and we’re still barely speaking. I can’t get past the argument in the car. I don’t know if I can forgive her for blaming the accident on Jasmin. The warning signs were there: Sophie being unsympathetic about Jasmin’s sleeping problems, callously suggesting I put a lock on the bedroom door, always so quick with excuses not to have Jasmin to stay over. Sophie dislikes Jasmin. Perhaps even hates her. Now that this fact has become clear to me, and now that I’ve seen her vengeful side, I’m not sure I can trust her the way I did before. Or love her.
It’s a mess, a terrible mess, and going home with Chloe has the potential to make it an even bigger and more complicated mess.
Chloe’s face is glowing from the heater. Warmth radiates from her skin, her eyes, even from that ridiculous scarf, as she waits for my answer. I’ve never stopped loving her, not for one minute, and if leaving her and Jasmin was an attempt to punish myself in the most brutal way possible, then I have succeeded, job done.
‘OK.’ I drain the rest of my wine. ‘Am I on push-up duty, or are you?’
Chloe’s laugh manages to be both sardonic and affectionate. ‘You. Definitely you.’
48
Sophie
We’re still not speaking. The odd frosty monosyllable – ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘please’ – nothing more than necessary. He’s waiting for me to apologize, and I’m considering it only because it looks like he won’t relent unless I do. I admire that about him. That he won’t give in. That he’s tough and stands his ground. That he’s not prepared to roll over for an easy life.
Jasmin is one of his few weaknesses. He can’t see the truth about that child, can’t see how he’s being manipulated, doesn’t believe the girl is capable of doing wrong. The trouble is, I’m one of those forthright people who get to the nub of the issue and say what they think. I guess we’ll have to find a middle ground about Jasmin. I’ll have to pretend to be a bit more understanding than I actually am. Aidan will need to be more objective about his daughter’s behaviour and hold her accountable. We’ll sort it out, I’m sure we will. But it still makes me mad. What that child needs is to be taught a lesson. If her parents won’t do it, then maybe I should. After all, I’m the one who’s suffering here. Tired people make mistakes and cause accidents. That’s why going to sleep is a must. Maybe I can get Jasmin on her own and stress this fact to her. Maybe she’ll listen to me. I’ll resist the urge to smack her and we’ll have a sensible talk, a real heart-to-heart. Something to think about. I’d have to work out how to get some alone time with her, though. Aidan is fucking stuck to her side when she’s at our house.
There’s a knock on my door and John Greenland sticks his head in.
‘Got a moment for a quick chat, Sophie?’
‘Sure.’ I force a smile. I’m not strictly meant to be in the office today – it’s Tuesday – and I was just about to leave, but the executive general manager is not someone to be put off until tomorrow.
‘I wanted to have a talk about this report on the new car-insurance product.’
‘Yes?’ My hackles are up. John’s chats are usually prompted by errors he’s found. I’ve never known anyone – certainly not at his level in the company – with such an eagle eye. Nothing escapes him, which can be both good and bad.
He puts the relevant document on my desk. ‘Page four. Assumption two.’
He has highlighted the assumption and put a question mark beside it. He looms over me while I read – he’s intimidatingly tall, and our difference in size is not helped by the fact that I’m sitting down. My heart sinks as it becomes apparent that he’s found something wrong: the assumption is flawed and not appropriate for the scenario we were looking at.
‘I’m sorry, John. You’re perfectly right. I think this was something Jane was working on before she left …’
I’m not actually sure if it was Jane, but I may as well use her as the scapegoat: it’s not as if she’s here to defend herself, and it’s not as if she doesn’t deserve to have her name blackened. But that’s not to say I won’t reprimand the real culprit if I discover the error originates with someone else.
John’s sigh has a ring of disappointment. ‘Look, that’s the point, Sophie. Maybe it was Jane, or maybe it was someone else. Mistakes will be made. But it’s the manager’s job to pick them up. Your job. And I feel I can’t quite trust what’s coming through from your department at the moment.’
Seriously? That’s so unfair. Of course he can trust my department, trust me. I check everything to the nth degree. Come on, everyone knows how scrupulous I am.
My face burns under his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, John. I’ve been tired lately. I’ll try to be more vigilant.’
There it is again: Tired people make mistakes.
‘Good.’ His smile has an edge to it. ‘That’s why I came round. I knew you’d be right on to it.’
The house is dark and empty when I get in from work. Aidan is out somewhere (there was a polite note on the counter when I came down this morning, saying he would be late). The note felt as short as our recent conversations: he didn’t specify where he was going or what he was doing.
My neck is aching, my head throbbing, and the first thing I do, after turning on the lights and the heating, is take some pain relief. The container is almost empty – I need to renew my prescription. More drugs, just so I can make it through the day. And for what? To be brought down to size by the executive general manager, to be told – more or less – that I’m not doing enough. So fucking unfair. I work hard, too hard. I’m meant to be part-time, for God’s sake.
I fall on to the couch, my jacket still on, while I wait for the medication to take effect. I’m so tired I could vomit. So angry I could scream (in fact, I did scream earlier, at the graduate who made the error that caused the trouble). And so disappointed I could cry. John Greenland has been like a mentor to me since the day I started at Real Cover Insurance. He’s heaped praise and encouragement on me at every juncture, and taken a keen interest in my career. He’s included me in many senior-management initiatives, making it clear that one day he expects me to be in the top echelons of the company. Everybody knows I’m his protégée. Never, in the six years I’ve been working with him, has he been as openly critical as he was today. He obviously thinks I’m not as good as I was before, that I’m slipping. And the hard thing to take, to admit to myself (if not to him), is that it’s true. Of course I’m not as good as I was before. I’m broken, limping from day to day, gulping back painkillers to keep myself going. And we know whose fault that is, don’t we? Fucking Jasmin’s.
I’m cold. My jacket, the heating – nothing’s working, I can’t get warm. One of Aidan’s hoodies is folded over the back of the couch, within arm’s reach. I grab it with the intention of draping the fleece interior across my legs, which are quivering. Something’s hanging out from one of the pockets: white paper, folded over a few times. Probably rubbish. No, not rubbish. An invoice. From a fertility clinic.
Embryos. Three of them. In deep freeze. Aidan and Chloe’s fucking embryos. Of course that’s where they were going the morning of the accident: they were on a fucking baby-making mission. It shouldn’t matter where they were going, but oh, it does. It makes me furious. Really, really furious. Suddenly I’m ripping the invoice, shredding it with my fingers, snow-like flecks floating to land on the cushions and rug.
There. Destroyed. Like me.
The pain is starting to dull – thank you, pills. But something tells me it’s going to refuse to go away fully, that it’ll loom in the background, ready to pounce. I stay on the couch, waiting it out, the battle of the pills versus the pain. I’m both hungry and sick to the stomach. 8 p.m. Sitting, waiting. 9 p.m. Still waiting. Where is he? Who’s he with? What’s he doing? I send him a text: When are you coming home?
No reply. Nothing. It’s almost 10 p.m. now. I should be fed and in bed, rallying my
self for tomorrow. Instead I’m still on the couch, hungry, fuming, waiting.
Finally my phone beeps: With Chloe and Jasmin. Going to stay the night. See you tomorrow.
He’s with Chloe. For all I know, they’re discussing their unborn babies – their fucking embryos – making plans to reunite.
All my rage and disappointment pour into the scream. It fills my mouth, my ears, the whole house.
I can’t bear it. My hands shake uncontrollably as I try to work my phone.
‘Dad …’
‘What is it?’ He must be able to tell from my tone that something is wrong. I feel like a little girl again. Hurt, angry, but so relieved to have him, to be sure of his unconditional love.
‘Do you need me to come over?’
‘Yes,’ I sob. ‘Please come and get me. I want to come home.’
49
Chloe
He stayed the night, slept in my – I mean our – bed, and we fell asleep holding each other. Nothing happened. Everything happened. I couldn’t be happier. It’s not even six in the morning, and here I am, grinning from ear to ear, so absolutely thrilled I could jump up and dance around the room. The light is grey and shadowy, and more than once I turn my head to gaze at him, to reassure myself that he’s really here and this is not a dream.
I’m impatient for him to open his eyes, to hear his validation that something significant has occurred. This is the way things should be, Chloe. Me and you in this bed. Jasmin safe next door. This is normal, this is real. The last year has been nothing but a cruel aberration.
He stirs. Then his eyes flutter. At last.
I roll over on my tummy and prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Good morning,’ I beam.
His return smile is more like a grimace. He is a man of principle and, even though nothing physical happened between us last night – which took great restraint on my part, and I assume his too – there is that sense that we’re cheating. Which is nothing short of ludicrous. Aidan is my husband.