The Godmother

by Carrie Adams

  “He has to see her go,” said Nick, “otherwise it won’t work.”

  “Yes, stand up and when Francesca gives you the sign, pretend to go to the loo.”

  “Pretend to go to the loo?” I repeated, bemused. I thought my tone alone would make it abundantly clear that I had no intention of playing their game.

  “Wait, what’s the sign?” asked Francesca, rocking slightly.

  Am I this stupid when I’m pissed? I wondered. I couldn’t be. I didn’t feel that stupid. I always thought I was incredibly funny and held my drink particularly well.

  “A wink,” said Nick.

  “Too obvious,” said Sasha.

  “You’re right,” he said, looking a little crestfallen.

  “I’ll say ‘now,’ but quietly,” shouted Francesca.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Right, stand up, Tessa, but stand there until Fran says—”

  “I’m not going to stand up.”

  “Come on, it’ll be interesting,” said Sasha.

  “Not interesting, very silly.”

  “Oh, come on, Tessa, give us old marrieds something to talk about.” It was Nick who said this, and I know that he didn’t mean anything by it because the man hasn’t got a bad bone in his body, but honestly, what was I—a performing seal? I felt an invisible red ball balancing on my nose and had an irresistible urge to throw my head back and hawk loudly in the hope of being thrown the head of a mackerel in return. I stood. I was not their live entertainment.

  “That’s my girl,” said Nick.

  “I’m leaving you because you are all ridiculous and I need several shots of something lethal before I can find any of you even vaguely amu—”

  “NOW,” shrieked Francesca, making everyone look around in the direction of James Kent who was, to my utter amazement, walking towards our table.

  I turned back to Francesca, feeling my skin redden. “Subtle,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Plan B?”

  “Pretend to make a phone call and you need to get out of this noise,” said Sasha, locating a few of her famous brain cells.

  “I want you to know,” I said, pulling my phone out of my bag, “that I hate you all.” I looked at my phone. Three missed calls. All from Billy. Thank the Lord, a genuine reason to be standing here like a lemon. I started dialing frantically. I saw Fran’s eyes widen so I knew that James was behind me. I turned.

  “Is it pumpkin time already?” said James.

  “I’m not going anywhere, I just need to make a phone call.”

  “The lobby is empty,” he said, and took my arm. I felt four pairs of eyes glued to us as we walked away. I glanced backwards. They all smiled. Well Nick, Fran and Sasha smiled. Ben didn’t. After giving me irritating thumbs-up signs they returned to their witchy huddle to congratulate themselves. Ben, however, continued to watch me. I got caught in his stare. Even as James led me through the doors to the entrance, Ben’s eyes remained firmly fixed on me and mine on his.

  The double doors swung back into place, swallowing the noise of the party with a ladylike burp and the sight of those deep blue eyes. The stairwell seemed like a sanctuary after the maelstrom of the party. My ears rang while they adjusted to the drop in decibels, my lungs offered themselves up in gratitude to the smoke-free air. The peace was short-lived. Up ahead on street level there was more pandemonium. Faces, ten deep, filled the pavement, rocking side to side to see whether someone on the inside could get them in.

  “Shit,” I said. “She’ll never get in.”

  “I may be able to help,” said James. “Find out if she’s in the queue.”

  I rang Billy’s number.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said immediately.

  “For?”

  “I was late. The queue goes round the building, I’m just going to leave you to it…”

  “Don’t you dare. Come to the entrance.”

  “Thing is—”

  “Just come to the front of the queue. I’m here.”

  “It’s not going to work; some bloke from the telly is behind me. There are too many people in there, that’s what they said.”

  “That’s what they always say. Now, come to the front. Stay on the phone.” I looked at James. “Are you sure you can do this? I can get Neil, I don’t care what he says.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “It’s fine. She’s on her own, isn’t she?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “You’re alone, right?”

  “Well, the thing is…”

  “You brought someone?” I was delighted, despite the problems this could make.

  “I didn’t think plus two would be such a problem and…”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

  I grimaced and held up two fingers to James, two nice fingers.

  “Oh, I can see you,” said Billy. I pointed Billy out to James and decided to leave him to it. Just in case it didn’t work. I didn’t want to embarrass him as well as Helen. I watched from afar, trying to see which of the men pressing themselves up against Billy was my date’s date. Sensing a lifting of the twisted red chord, the crowd surged. I saw Billy lurch forward, I saw James’s hand stretch out to hers, I watched her come through the human barrier of barrel-chested bouncers and emerge triumphant into the cool vestibule. James Kent was a magic man. Billy got lost again in a group of people waiting to check in their coats, James returned to me.

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “The bouncer is a comic.”

  “A good one?”

  “No. But he’s coming to my office Monday morning.”

  “I owe you.”

  “And I shall collect.”

  Billy arrived from handing in her coat. She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Who did you bring?”

  She was about to reply when I heard my name ring out loudly around the stone foyer. From behind Billy an apparition in green velvet sprang forward, immune to the stares and baffled silence her high-pitched voice had commanded over the other guests savoring some time away from the bedlam.

  “GODMUMMY TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Cora’s run through the assortment of legs between us would have made David Beckham proud. With an involuntary but brief look of reproach at Billy, I crouched down and as usual spread out my arms and braced myself for impact. She was wearing the long green ballerina skirt and little green velvet jacket that I had given her for Christmas which made her look more elfin than normal. “What a surprise to see you here, little one,” I said, inhaling her fluffy scent.

  “You always come to my parties,” said Cora.

  This was true. I hadn’t missed a single one. There was a time in Cora’s young life when we thought she may never make it to one birthday, so it seemed sacrilege to miss any of them.

  “Mummy got the day wrong and booked Magda for tomorrow, Magda had tickets for a band tonight and couldn’t miss it. But don’t tell her I told you, because she thinks you all think she’s incontinent, but it was just a mistake.”

  I clenched my jaw tightly shut to stop the laugh escaping. That was Cora to a T—full of wisdom and malapropisms in equal measure.

  Billy appeared behind Cora, her long hair washed this time, and wafting in dark tresses behind her. When she is stressed, you can see the nervous energy tearing through her at hyper speed. When she is relaxed, she looks like she could fly. That night she was at hyper speed.

  “God, I’m sorry—so late. Magda got a cold and I so wanted to see you all so Cora suggested she put her pretty dress on, and we both came.”

  I knew the last part of that sentence was true.

  Perhaps in hindsight I had bullied Billy a fraction too much if she thought bringing a seven-year-old to a coke-fuelled, smoked-filled, over-crowded media party was a better idea than calling me and telling me she couldn’t come. I smiled broadly at Cora, then Billy. “A brilliant idea. You both look lovely.”

  Cora beamed.

  James approache
d. “You probably need a drink after that experience. I’m going to the bar, can I get you a drink?”

  He spoke to Billy. She looked totally perplexed, so I introduced them. Billy isn’t used to talking to people she doesn’t know. I think she thinks she is invisible.

  “What about champagne?” I said, fishing out my credit card. “To say thank you for that miracle stunt you just pulled.”

  “Put that away,” said James so firmly that I did.

  “And what can I get for you, Cora?” asked James.

  Cora beamed again. “Pineapple juice, please.”

  “Cora, honey, they might not have—”

  James interrupted me. “This is a five-star club. If they don’t have pineapple juice then they don’t deserve their stars.”

  “There is a girl in my class who gets stars she doesn’t deserve,” said Cora seriously. “I’m afraid it does happen.”

  “You’re right,” said James. “All too often.”

  Cora nodded in agreement, her brows knitted together. “Apple then, they should have apple.”

  “It’s a bit of a bun fight in there—absolute chaos,” I said to Billy.

  “We won’t stay long.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you have a nightmare getting into town?”

  “Actually, it was quite fun getting ready together,” she said, ducking the question of dragging Cora out on the tube on a Saturday night. “We danced around the room in our pants and sang High Five songs. The new Abba.”

  “Always is the best bit,” I said, taking Billy’s arm and clutching Cora’s small hand. “Remember the hours we spent getting ready, just so we could go out looking like everyone else?”

  “Drinking wine out of mugs.”

  “Or the bottle, if we hadn’t done the washing up,” I recalled.

  “That was a long time ago,” said Billy.

  “Don’t say that, it feels like yesterday to me.”

  “Probably was in your case.”

  I poked her in the ribs. We reached the double doors. “Ready?”

  Billy and Cora nodded. We pushed open the doors and walked into a wall of sound. I elbowed, jostled, rumbled and tussled our way back to the table. Everyone was delighted to see Cora and she was immediately passed around like the trophy she is, until she finally settled on Ben’s knee. Ben is her favorite. He would be, she knows him best. We do the surrogate parenting thing quite a lot when Billy needs a break and Sasha is away.

  “Where are the buns?” asked Cora.

  “What?”

  “The buns for the bun fight?”

  Everyone laughed. Except me. I stared at Cora, playing with Ben’s ear. And I wondered how long I had been borrowing someone else’s child to play with someone else’s husband and kidding myself it was normal.

  “Where are Helen and Neil?” asked Francesca.

  James Kent arrived with two bottles of champagne and seven glasses. I jumped up. “I’ll go and find her,” I said. “And bring her over for a drink.”

  I returned to the VIP bar and approached the emaciated woman. She averted her eyes, so I made my intentions very clear.

  “I don’t want to come in, I was just hoping my friend Helen Zhao could come out for a while and join us for a drink.”

  “She isn’t in there.”

  I frowned.

  “I know for a fact,” said the woman, “there was a bit of a scene.”

  “A scene?” I was confused.

  “She has drunk a bit too much. You’ll probably find her in the loo.”

  “Neil Williams’s wife, are you sure?”

  “Yes, his wife. Bit embarrassing for him, really.”

  I was horrified by her over-familiarity, frightened for the reason why that might be, but, more than that, I was concerned for Helen. “She has just had twins,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why.

  The woman shrugged at me. It may have been in a noncommittal way, but to me it looked like “More fool her,” or, worse, “What do you expect, then?” I suddenly felt for Helen in a way I never had before. No wonder she’d drunk too much inside that insidious space; it was protection against the anorexic dementor standing in front of me, and the rest of her kind. There is little in this world less attractive to me than when the sisterhood breaks down.

  I left her standing behind the rope and went up to the pods. There were eight of them. They were unisex, had no engaged sign and offered no queuing system. It was therefore impossible to know which of the pods Helen might be in. I started circling them, my head craning backwards and forwards at the slightest sign of any movement. I plotted them like battleships in my brain and crossed them off as I watched men and women spill out of them, usually in pairs.

  After about ten minutes I located two that had shown no sign of life. I had once missed an entire wedding passed out in a Portaloo, so I knew it was possible. I approached the first. I knocked gently. There was no answer. I leaned closer and was about to call Helen’s name when I heard a noise that sounded like retching.

  “Helen? Are you all right?” I called out, loudly enough for some people near me to look over.

  The retching stopped. In my experience retching doesn’t stop to command.

  “Sorry,” I said to the white plastic door and moved away as the retching started up again. I went and hovered out of sight until the people whose attention I’d attracted moved away. Five minutes later the retching pod door opened and a man and a woman stepped out, walked to the top of the stairs and, without exchanging a word, parted company. Was it just me, or was it getting harder out here?

  I moved to the last pod that had shown no signs of activity. Luckily, it was the one that was furthest away from the stairwell, and the door faced the wall. I knocked again and again; there was no answer. I leaned closer. I couldn’t hear retching, or grunting, but I could hear something. It sounded mechanical. A pulsating, mechanical sound, like something was malfunctioning inside. I looked for an out of order sign, but there wasn’t one. Then I heard a human sound. A sob. Thinking back on it, it was more of a yelp, more animal than human, but it was female.

  “Helen?” I said, more urgently. “It’s me, Tessa. Let me in.”

  There was no reply.

  “Right,” I said loudly. “I’m going to get someone to open the door from the outside.”

  “No!” came the immediate response.

  “Then let me in now, there is no one about, no one can—” The door opened a fraction.

  “See you.” I pulled it wider, gave a last furtive glance to check no one was watching, and stepped inside the pod.

  Helen stared at me from the loo seat. Her black eye makeup was smeared over her face. She had snot hanging out of her left nostril. Her lower lip hung open like a boxer’s after a fight. Her bare shoulders were hunched forward. Her dress was around her waist, leaving her top half naked. On each small breast was a clear plastic cone that tugged at the unyielding flesh. The mechanical noise I’d heard was the sound of suction. At the base of each cone were two clear pipes that joined a third, like a stethoscope, near her belly button. The single pipe ran into a plastic bottle which Helen held in a white-knuckled grip. She appeared to be immune to the intermittent pull on her breasts. I prised the device out of her hand, found the switch, and turned it off. One cone fell off Helen’s breast with a pop. The skin hung loose and empty over her ribcage. Her nipple was purple and swollen. I gently pulled the second cone away. It was then that I noticed the tiny specks of blood on the tip of Helen’s nipple. I glanced at the bottle in my hand. Creeping down the tube into the few droplets of thin grey liquid at the bottom of the bottle were beads of blood.

  There was no resistance from Helen as I pulled her dress back up and fed her skinny arms through the straps. She didn’t attempt to help as I struggled to place the straps back in place on her bony shoulders but her eyes never left mine. I took her head and pulled her towards my stomach and held her there, silently, waiting for her to awaken from her trance. Finally she spoke.
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  “I’m going to ruin your beautiful dress,” said Helen.

  “Sod the dress,” I replied. “What happened?”

  “I just wanted to have fun, like it used to be.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “I didn’t drink,” insisted Helen.

  “It doesn’t matter that you had a drink, Helen, no one would blame you.”

  “I can’t drink, I’m still breastfeeding.”

  “Why are you hiding in here then, with that?” I pointed at the contraption lying lifeless in the sink. Helen squinted at the electric breast pump, then back up at me.

  “Tessa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think he loves me?”

  Coming from a professional blind-sider, I should have seen that coming. But I didn’t. Instead, I panicked. “Come on, Helen, let’s get you home.”

  “I can’t go out there.”

  “It’s all right, I have a plan.” I sent out the SOS call by quietly texting Billy while I held Helen to me. Next, I bent down and pulled Helen’s hair away from her face. Nothing wet loo paper and some professional cover up couldn’t cure, and after a lifetime of spots, I was the master of cover-up. Helen had darker skin tone to me, so she was a little pale by the time I’d finished, but at least she no longer looked insane. There was a knock on the pod door. Helen jumped.

  “Don’t tell Neil,” she said.

  “Tell him what?”

  Helen didn’t answer. I turned the lock. Billy held our coats in her hand. She fed mine through the slit in the door. As I got Helen into my coat, she watched me anxiously. “I’ve tried to be a good mother and wife, why is it so hard, why can’t I do it? Why is it so hard?”

  I could feel the hysteria inside her build. The hysteria that had forced her into a plastic cubicle to cry her makeup into paste. The hysteria that had left her wasted, spent and exhausted. I pulled her up.

  “All you have to do is get out of here. We’ll deal with everything else when we’re home.” Who was I to make such sweeping statements? How telling it was that I really thought I could, with sheer will, make it all better for everyone. Even myself.