A sudden gale of laughter erupted through the wall. Frank had left his door ajar while he popped out to the bathroom. The bathroom door was also open, so she could hear the sound of his peeing – a long and very public performance – overlaid with the breathy voice of the quiz-master.
‘That’s it, Wayne and Cheryl, give each other a smackeroo! You’ve got through to our fantastic final round, and that means a chance of winning our incredible, fantabulous holiday of a lifetime on the sun-kissed island paradise of …’
The holiday destination and the flushing of the toilet were both swamped in a fanfare from the band. Tessa cursed the flimsy walls, unwrapped her Twix and bit into it angrily. Television was such a waste of time. Even the news seemed increasingly irrelevant – simply the fodder for more history: wars and cease-fires, strikes and famines, coups, assassinations. She found it hard to concentrate, if she listened to it at all. Michael always hogged the headlines, and the other items were merely frills and padding. So many things seemed to have lost their point or meaning: the cinema and theatre, food and drink, her friends. Both Alexandra and Vicky had invited her to stay – Alexandra in Juxon Street, Vicky at her Weybridge home – but she’d refused their invitations. She’d already frittered too much time away at Balliol, yakking in the bar, or acting in pathetic plays, or writing childish pieces for half-baked magazines. She simply hadn’t known what life was all about – its gravity, its dangers.
The phone was ringing in the hall. She dashed downstairs before Frank could pick it up and start haranguing the poor caller. Pat Hughes had rung last week and received an earful about dog shit on the pavement and Pakis in the classroom before Frank finally bellowed up to her ‘Tess! It’s that girl you said you didn’t want to speak to. Shall I say you’re out?’
She prayed it wasn’t Pat again. She was in no mood for a chinwag, and would only be embarrassed if her friend suggested meeting – didn’t really care if she never saw Pat in her life again, despite April’s constant cluckings about how important it was to keep up old acquaintances, and not shut herself away in her Eiffel Tower.
‘Hello? Who? I’m sorry, the line’s gone rather faint. Oh, Mrs Edwards! Yes, I’m fine.’ She clung on to the wall, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Just hearing the name Edwards could set off instant symptoms – queasy stomach, pounding heart. And Joyce Edwards sounded anxious, which made her fear the worst – gruesome pictures of some emergency or accident flashing through her mind. Was baby Michael ill, Dr Edwards bleeding or unconscious? She listened for a moment more, before letting out a sigh of sheer relief. Her fears were all unfounded. The only casualty was the girl they’d booked to babysit, who’d just rung up to say she had a temperature.
‘So I wondered, Tessa, if you could possibly help us out? We’re going to this party, you see, and it’s a really early start.’
‘Tonight, you mean?’ asked Tessa, hoping against hope that the answer would be no.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Edwards, adding a babble of apologies. ‘I know it’s terribly short notice, and you’re probably booked already, and …’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not.’ She broke off in desperation, searching for solutions. Could she split herself in two, phone Peggy Wentworth and tell her she’d collapsed with flu, or that a really painful abscess had erupted in her mouth? Or maybe she could blame the …
‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry, Mrs Edwards. I just … er … dropped the phone. Look, tonight’s no problem, honestly. I’ve got nothing planned at all. Yes, any time you like. Half past five is fine – see you then. Goodbye.’
Now she was the one with a temperature, so sweaty-hot and feverish she could hardly even think straight. She tried to make a mental list, sort out all the things she had to do – wash her hair, choose her clothes and iron them, phone her mother at the salon and beg her to come to the rescue, then get on to Peggy Wentworth and ask her if she’d mind if April did the babysitting instead. She couldn’t let the Wentworths down, or word might filter back to Mrs Edwards that she was casual, unreliable.
She dialled the salon number, to be told her mother was busy with a perm, so could she call back later. She rushed upstairs to find a suitable outfit – something fairly low-key and restrained, but which would still set off her figure, attract Dr Edwards’ notice. She’d dressed too drably last time, and too glamorously when she’d seen him in the surgery. This all-important third time she must get it absolutely right – strike the perfect balance between artlessness and artifice.
Frank’s door was on the jar again, and she stopped to watch the game-show exulting to its climax – hysterical clapping and cheering from the audience, a final triumphant flourish from the band. She broke into a grin as she realized the applause was all for her. She might be jittery and flustered, torn between hope and dread, but she’d still won tonight’s Big Prize – the incredible fantabulous prize of a whole evening with her son.
Chapter Twenty
‘I’m afraid we’re fearfully late,’ said Joyce. ‘I haven’t even dressed yet. My mother popped in unexpectedly – told me it was a flying visit, then stayed half an hour. Michael! Tessa’s here. Could you show her Jon-Jon’s food and stuff, while I put my glad rags on?’
‘I’m feeding him already,’ Dr Edwards shouted from the kitchen.
Tessa tensed at his brusque voice. She’d imagined how he’d meet her at the door, welcoming and smiling, maybe even touching her – an eager grateful hand-clasp, or a light brush of her arm. But he hadn’t even called hello; sounded decidedly unfriendly.
‘Well, perhaps you could take over, Tessa?’ Joyce suggested, pausing in the hall. ‘My husband’s changed already, and I don’t fancy going out with him if he’s got sicked-up baby food all down his front!’ She laughed, and slipped upstairs, her silky blue-flowered dressing-gown fluttering out behind her.
Tessa hung her coat up, hardly believing what she’d heard. How could anyone not fancy going out with Michael Edwards? She would accompany him anywhere, whatever the state of his clothes. She gripped the wooden coat-stand, as if to brace herself; needed a few seconds to rehearse her opening lines. But when she sidled into the kitchen, all her amusing casual greetings foundered in her throat as she stared at the figure sitting at the table. He was totally transformed, the rich black of his dinner suit enhancing his pale eyes; his shirt so dazzling white it made her own seem grubby; his hair blow-dried, much fuller and more elegant than usual. He had taken off his glasses, which changed his face dramatically, removed a sort of barrier between them. But he refused to meet her eyes, and his ‘hello’ was quite unspirited, lacking in all warmth. He hadn’t even risen to his feet, just muttered some excuse about being busy feeding Jonathan. She switched her gaze from father to son. Michael – not Jonathan – was squirming in his high chair, obviously resenting the intrusion and his interrupted meal. His mouth began to pucker, heralding a scream.
His father tried to circumvent the scream by slipping the spoon between the baby’s lips, but he pushed it peevishly away, let out an anguished wail.
‘Damn!’ said Dr Edwards. ‘We were just beginning to make some progress and now he’s playing up again.’
‘Shall I feed him?’ Tessa offered, the ‘damn’ smarting like a wound.
‘Okay – have a go, but I shouldn’t think he’ll let you. He’s teething at the moment, so meals are merry hell.’
Of course he’ll let me, Tessa countered wordlessly, as she sat down at the table, pulled the dish towards her. ‘What’s he having?’ she enquired, peering at the pappy greenish sludge.
‘Puréed avocado.’
She fought a surge of anger. Avocados, indeed! Ordinary kids made do with Marmite sandwiches, while the Edwardses threw their cash around, had to be superior. The whole luxurious kitchen seemed to mock her mother’s bare one –the panelled units in solid oak, not tatty peeling plastic; the peacock-patterned floor-tiles in place of scuffed brown lino; the microwave, the television, the ostentatious fr
eezer. But it wasn’t just the affluence – she was angry for more tortured reasons: because Dr Edwards seemed so cool and distant; had dressed up not for her, but for some exclusive fat-cat party. He hadn’t even noticed her own clothes and hair and make-up, despite the hours she’d spent on them. And what hurt most of all was the still screaming cantankerous baby. Every time she tried to move the spoon towards his mouth, he’d turn his furious face away, and bellow even louder. She felt horribly embarrassed. Dr Edwards would conclude she was quite useless; had no maternal gift at all. Yet it was probably his own fault – somehow he’d turned their son against her, had spent the last ten days feeding him not avocado purée, but dollops of mashed prejudice, sieved and buttered lies.
The child was now so frantic, he was straining every muscle to escape from his high chair – writhing, twisting, stiffening his whole body when she tried to coax him back. Dr Edwards suddenly jumped up, released the baby from his strap and sat him on his knee. The screams abated instantly, as Michael clung on like a limpet, head against his father’s neck; blocking Tessa out. She felt utterly rejected, even close to tears; pretended to be busy mopping avocado off her skirt.
Dr Edwards grabbed the dish impatiently, as if annoyed at her temerity in moving it. ‘Pass me another tea towel, will you? I’d better stuff a bit more into him, and I don’t fancy ending up with green all down my shirt. You’ll find some clean ones in that third drawer on the right.’
She passed one over, watching the baby’s mood change from querulous and bawling to simperingly affectionate. He snuggled against his father’s chest, clutching at his shirt with flirtatious, chubby hands, his hostile back towards her. Dr Edwards responded in his turn, ruffling his son’s hair, chucking him under the chin, stroking his soft cheek with the back of one broad finger, putting on a special voice, much softer and more captivating than his usual impersonal tone. ‘That’s better, Jon-Jon, isn’t it? You’re Daddy’s little cherub now.’
She looked on with helpless misery; the superfluous spectator playing gooseberry to their love-scene. She could hardly understand the strength and sheer confusion of her feelings. She longed to have the baby on her own knee, nestling close and loving her, but she also craved to be the child herself; to feel Dr Edwards’ adoring arms cradling her small body, his finger brushing gently down her face. She tried not to watch as he picked the teaspoon up again and cajoled his son to eat, making little smacking noises, murmuring endearments. He had never used such words to her – coquettish, almost erotic words, oozing love and tenderness. How fantastic to be fed, to have someone so involved with your every sip and swallow, to praise your every mouthful. Dave had never fed her as a baby – he wasn’t there – and neither was her mother, who’d returned to work only three weeks after the birth. She supposed someone must have given her her bottle, stopped her mouth with a rusk, but she couldn’t remember anything about it. April wouldn’t have had the money to pay a proper child-minder, so it must have been an odd bod, or some neighbour popping in. Dave had fed his younger daughters – she’d sat and watched him do so – the perfect doting father to Lucy and Elizabeth, but not to his first-born.
She kicked her chair back suddenly, mumbling something half-inaudible about going to the loo, though what she needed to excrete was black and clotted anger – more anger than she had ever felt before. Dave, her father, hadn’t been in touch with her since June. He knew about her pregnancy, her illness, loss of Oxford, yet he’d not bothered to pick up the phone or scribble a brief line. Her mother had passed on a few vague and jolly messages from him, but he hadn’t found the time to contact her himself; must be just too busy stuffing avocado purée into Daddy’s little cherubs, Lucy and Elizabeth. And what about Michael up in Newcastle? She’d done her best to expel him from her mind, claw and tug her thoughts back when they kept trespassing up north, but she couldn’t seem to stamp out her resentment. Perhaps he and his new lovebird had conceived a child by now. Was he feeding the smug bitch, so as to fatten up the embryo swelling in her womb – tempting her with mangoes and whipped cream?
She turned on the cold tap, rinsed her hands in a spurt of freezing water, hoping it would douse her rage. She banged the cloakroom door behind her, then stood peering up the staircase, but there was no sign of Mrs Edwards. Couldn’t she be ready on time, when she had nothing else to do but swan around the Leisure Centre, or have coffee with her well-heeled friends after a little cultural chit-chat on the Vikings? April had a full-time job, yet she’d be bathed and changed, knocking at the Wentworths’ door on the dot of eight o’clock.
She took a cautious step towards the table in the hall, which was piled with gift-wrapped packages; edged a little closer, so she could read the tags and labels: ‘Happy Christmas from all at Yew Tree Cottage – and thank you for your help.’ ‘With kind regards from Alicia de Courcy.’ ‘Merry Christmas, Doctor, from the Crawfords.’ Presents from his patients – those three thousand hated rivals on his list. Or perhaps Alicia de Courcy was a more intimate sort of friend, and her ‘kind regards’ meant passion and desire. The name itself was loathsome – exotic and pretentious – the sort of dangerous woman who could easily ensnare him. Dr Michael Edwards had so much in his life – not just seductive patients, but relatives and friends, hobbies, interests, duties, parties, meetings. How could someone like herself be of any consequence, when she was just a speck, a pin-prick, in his crowded timetable?
She heard a sudden noise, a footstep on the stairs, fled back to the kitchen. The baby had now finished his green pap and was playing with the spoon, gurgling at his father; the two of them absorbed once more in love-talk, oblivious to anyone’s existence but their own. ‘Michael!’ she was crying, to both of them, all three of them – the Michael up in Newcastle, the Michael in this kitchen, and to her precious traitor baby – but none of them could hear; none was even aware that she was speaking.
‘Well, how do I look?’
Tessa swung round to the door. Joyce had just come in, all dolled up in a fussy chiffon number in an unpleasant shade of green – a cross between dank pond and mushy peas. Yet the dress had cost a bomb – you could tell that from its cut and style, the way the fabric hung. And her jewellery was the real McCoy, not junk. Somehow Joyce herself was lost, though; her scrawny figure and undistinguished features unable to compete with designer frocks, or pearl and emerald chokers.
Dr Edwards eased the baby back into his chair, so that he could paw and kiss the beauty queen. ‘Lovely, darling – perfect! That soft green really suits you.’
Tessa turned away. His hands were still caressing Joyce’s naked arm and neck, his lips lingering on her cheek. ‘Perfect’ he had called his wife, yet not spared a single glance for her own russet-brown culottes-suit with the white blouse underneath. Okay, it wasn’t haute couture, or even very trendy – she had found it in the Cancer Shop a year or more ago – but it showed her curves off, emphasized her legs, which she’d tried to make still longer by wearing high-heeled boots. The boots were also second-hand, but they laced up to the knee, and even grudging Eric had admitted they were sexy, while Frank had suggested she take over from Madonna, and had asked if he could sign up as her manager? She doubted if Dr Edwards had even noticed that she had legs; he was too enamoured of his wife’s, which looked leprous in their green-tinged tights, and hardly varied in shape and girth from the ankle to the knee. The only thing which distracted him, broke up the sordid clinch, was renewed screaming from the baby. He prised himself reluctantly from bare neck and chiffon flounces, to fetch a banana and a yogurt for his son.
‘Can’t Tessa give him those, Michael? We’re frightfully late already, and it’s a good hour’s drive to Haslemere.’ Joyce took the pot of yogurt from him, squeezed his hand a moment. ‘Why don’t you get the car out, darling, while I explain the drill to Tessa? They’ll think we’re never coming if we hang about much longer.’
You’re the one who’s been hanging about, Tessa thought resentfully, while she took in her instructions – outwardl
y the model of politeness, but inwardly tormented by the ‘Michael’ and the ‘darling’, the squeezing of the hand. Those were her prerogatives, not Joyce’s.
‘Could you be an angel and feed the cat as well?’ Joyce was bustling round now, tidying things away. ‘There’s some minced chicken in the fridge in a jar with ‘‘Nellie’’ on it. My husband ruins that damned cat, cooks free-range chicken for her, would you believe – as if he hadn’t got enough to do! I used to buy Kit-E-Kat, but Nellie won’t touch it, now she’s developed a taste for cordon bleu. Right, we really must get off. Don’t cry, Jon-Jon poppet, Tessa’s going to give you some lovely yummy pudding.’ She kissed the baby, babbled her goodbyes, added a last word about not picking up the phone if it rang, as it was connected to an answering-machine. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be back till late. I do hope that’s all right. It’ll be after midnight – maybe nearer one.’
‘No problem,’ Tessa smiled, wishing she could persuade Joyce to make it later still. Dawn would be just fine – or even teatime the next day. There was so much she longed to do for Michael, but hadn’t had the chance yet: get him up in the morning, give him breakfast, cook him lunch; bath him, wash his hair; wheel him in his pram to the shops or baby clinic; have other mothers compliment her on the beauty of her son. But most of all, she simply wanted to look at him – admire his perfect body. Once Joyce had gone, she’d have him to herself, could make a start on undoing all the falsehoods, trying to win his trust again.
Michael, Michael Page 28