by Karen Clarke
As Finn’s face split into a grin that showed his dimples, I experienced a familiar burst of love mingled with fear. What if I wasn’t good enough for him? ‘Play with Jiggles while I heat it up.’ I plucked his favourite toy off the sofa, a faded and matted blue and white cat that used to belong to Dom, and presented it to Finn.
‘Dadda,’ he chortled, grabbing the cat and clutching it under his chin.
‘Dadda will be home soon.’
I moved through the hallway on autopilot and into the country-style kitchen I’d hoped would inspire me to start baking. I took a jar from one of the glossy white cupboards and decanted it into a bowl before placing it in the microwave, eyeing the half-empty bottle of red wine on the worktop. Dom had urged me to have a glass the evening before to relax me. It had knocked me out. I couldn’t even remember climbing the stairs to bed. That happened sometimes; losing time. It was as though I’d gone somewhere in my head, coming to a while later with no recollection of what I’d been doing. I hadn’t told Dom. He was worried enough about me as it was and he had a lot on at work, the details of which eluded me – something about a merger, and an ex-employee suing for unfair dismissal. I often zoned out when he was talking, though I’d once loved sharing details of our days, working in different areas of the same company.
I opened the dishwasher. There were two glasses inside, along with our clean dinner plates, a pair of mugs and gleaming crockery. Dom must have loaded it and set it going before he left for work. Guilt curled through me, imagining him with his shirt sleeves rolled up while I slept on as though I’d completed a marathon, or a full week’s work plus overtime.
I jumped when the microwave pinged, and again when the landline started ringing in the living room. Dom had taken to calling me on it during the day, as I often forgot to switch on my mobile or charge it up. He’d worry if I didn’t answer, but I let it ring out while I checked the temperature in Finn’s Peter Rabbit bowl before hurrying through, worried that I’d left him alone, even though I could hear him babbling to himself.
‘Here we are!’ He was keen to hold his little plastic spoon and dug it into his bowl while smacking his lips together. ‘Good boy!’
I’d thought mothering would come easily, but I tiptoed around my son like he was a priceless object I was terrified of breaking.
‘Let Mummy help.’
Finn waved the spoon, splattering yellow blobs everywhere. Thank God we didn’t have carpet, the wide oak floorboards forgiving of crumbs and stains.
Why not put his highchair in the kitchen? Dom had asked, but I liked it where it was, by the patio doors, overlooking the garden where a swing left by the previous owners hung from the branches of the apple tree.
A jaunty piano tune erupted from my bag on the floor. I dipped my hand in and pulled my phone out, keeping my eyes on Finn as he scooped a fistful of food out of his bowl and mashed it around his face.
‘Hi,’ I said brightly.
‘Sophy, I called the landline, you didn’t pick up.’ Dom’s voice was full of apprehension. ‘How did it go at the baby group?’ he said, as if deciding to skate over why I hadn’t answered.
‘Fine.’ I perched on the edge of a dining chair, reaching to take the spoon from Finn, so I could feed him what was left in his bowl.
‘Did you meet anyone nice?’
The question reminded me of Mum, before Dom and I got together, desperate to pair me off so she’d feel less guilty about having a boyfriend.
‘Yes,’ I said, with sudden conviction. ‘Actually, I did. A woman called Olivia.’ A movement caught my eye through the window, to the side of the garden. There was a gap in the flint and stone wall where a gate had once been, leading to an access lane at the side of the house. For a split second, I thought I glimpsed a pale face peering round, a whisk of pink. Hadn’t Olivia been wearing something that colour?
‘Sophy, that’s great.’ The relief in Dom’s voice was hard to bear. ‘You should invite her round.’
‘I already did.’ I glanced again at the window, but there was no one there, just a flutter of gold as the apple tree shed the last of its leaves. ‘She’s coming for lunch on Friday.’
Chapter 5
Liv
I put Evie to bed around six-thirty, and made my way to my nanny pad, away from Gary’s roaming eyes and grabbing hands, and Clare’s shrill excitement about what she’d bought in town. I was relieved to turn the key in the door, and be alone with my thoughts.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, taking deep breaths.
It had a small shower room, and a lounge area with a bright yellow sofa, a coffee table, and TV. My double bed, suspended above a row of cupboards with a stepladder to reach it, made perfect use of the limited space – though sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night feeling panicked by how close the ceiling was. Feeling as though I was trapped in a coffin.
I flopped on the sofa. Not feeling myself. Seeing Sophy had messed with my head, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I thought about how Mum had closed herself off from Dad and me when Ben died. She went from a bright fun-loving person, to a woman who barely spoke. Dad had tried to bring her out of it, but he was grieving too, and five years after Ben’s death he’d left – moved to New Zealand.
It was a year after that Mum crashed her car. She was on her way to the supermarket, when she thought she saw Ben sitting on a bench in the park, a place he’d taken to going alone in the weeks before he died. It wasn’t him of course; Ben had been gone six years by then. But she lost concentration, skidded off the road, her injuries making her permanently paralysed from the waist down.
If it wasn’t for Sophy Mum wouldn’t be in a wheelchair, Ben would be here now, Dad wouldn’t have left us, and Ryan wouldn’t be a complete mess.
I picked up my phone, deciding to FaceTime Mum. Tell her I’d seen her. I clicked on her details.
A lump rose in my throat, as it always did when I saw Mum’s face appear on the screen, and heard her say, ‘Hello, love.’ She always smiled, though I was never quite sure how genuine it was.
She’d blamed herself for so many years, saying she should have seen the signs, claiming she was a terrible mother. Spending hours analysing the way she’d brought Ben up – Had she been overprotective? Pushed him too hard with his studies? Given him too much attention? Not enough attention? Should she have listened more?
But when Freya became her carer nine years ago, her spirits lifted gradually. Somehow Freya managed to do what Dad and I never could. She got Mum interested in life again. Perhaps because she was separate from the family, allowing Mum to reflect without getting upset herself. She knew the right things to say.
Mum fumbled for her glasses, and slipped them on.
‘Loving the new haircut,’ I said. It was shorter than usual, neat, grey layers close to her head. She was seventy-three, but looked older. She’d met my dad in her mid-thirties, had Ben a few years later and me in her early forties.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ She touched it gently. ‘Freya trimmed it earlier. Have you had a good day?’
She always asked that when I called her, most evenings. I worried about her, feared the past would creep up on her again, and take her back to the dark place that had swallowed her for so long after Ben’s death. I tried to get to see her as much as I could too. In fact I was going over at the weekend.
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘I took Evie to a baby group this morning.’
‘Oh that’s nice,’ she said, her voice brightening at the mention of Evie. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Well that’s why I’m calling.’ Mum suddenly bobbed out of sight, and all I could see was the lounge where I’d spent a lot of happy years as a child. ‘Mum?’
She appeared again with Sparky, her Yorkshire terrier, in her arms. ‘Say hello to Livy,’ she said to the dog, who looked content in her arms.
‘Hello, Sparky,’ I said, with a quirky wave.
Mum sniffed the dog’s head. ‘He keeps rolli
ng in bird droppings,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to ask Freya to give him a bath.’
I smiled. ‘Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘OK,’ she said, still sniffing the dog. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Are you? Because this is really important.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She stared at the screen, as if to prove she was concentrating.
‘The thing is, I’ve found Sophy Edwards.’
‘Oh, Liv. Not this again.’ Mum’s smile disappeared. ‘I thought you’d let that go. Moved on.’
‘Only because I couldn’t find her.’ I took a deep breath. Mum knew how Sophy Edwards had played on my mind for years. ‘Her life’s perfect, Mum.’ I could hear the tears in my voice, anger surging. ‘She’s married to this bloke who looks like he’s jumped out of a magazine, and they live in a massive house in St Albans.’
‘None of that means she’s happy.’
‘She’s got a little boy. A perfect little boy.’
Mum was crying suddenly.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She blotted her cheek with a tissue. ‘It just brings back memories, that’s all.’ Her eyes met mine through the screen. ‘I’ve told you before, Liv. Ben wouldn’t have wanted you to be so full of hate.’
I bit down hard on my lip. It was OK for her. She’d managed to accept things now.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. But Ben would still be here if it wasn’t for Sophy.’
‘Oh, Liv, please let it go.’
‘I can’t.’ Bitterness surged through my veins, and my eyes stung with tears. I hadn’t realised just how angry I was.
She stroked the dog’s head, the screwed-up tissue in her fist. ‘We all miss him, love—’
‘But she’s the reason Dad left, the reason you’re in that wheelchair.’
‘Sweetheart, please.’
I thought back to Ben’s friend Ryan searching for Sophy just after my brother’s death, unable to track her down. How devastated Mum had been when he couldn’t find her. At that time Mum was as angry as I was, to the point she’d stopped eating, couldn’t sleep. She even started drinking for a while and stopped seeing friends.
‘Sophy never came to Ben’s funeral, Mum. She didn’t care about him enough to call us when he died. That’s why I can’t let this go.’ I gulped. This was sixteen years of pent-up rage prickling my skin.
A dark shadow appeared behind Mum, and a face bobbed into view. ‘Hello, Liv.’
‘Oh, Freya.’ I dashed my hand across my cheeks and sniffed. ‘You freaked me out for a minute. I hadn’t realised you were there.’
‘I was in the kitchen, making a cuppa.’
I tried to get my act together, calm down. ‘I love Mum’s hair; you’ve done a great job. Is there nothing you can’t turn your hand to?’
‘Missed my vocation, clearly,’ she said with a smile, as she leant onto Mum’s wheelchair, her small pale grey eyes studying me. Freya was around fifty. Her fair hair was a mass of frizzy curls, and her skin was pale, and almost line-free. ‘It was only a little trim,’ she continued, her voice soft and musical. ‘Just to keep it neat and tidy, aye, Martha?’
‘Oh it is that,’ Mum said, stroking her hair. ‘Nice and tidy, just how I like it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, knowing how good Freya was to Mum. Always popping round to see her even when she wasn’t getting paid. Taking Mum shopping, or for a coffee at the nearby café. She was a good friend to her.
‘My pleasure,’ she said, bobbing out of view. ‘We have great fun together, don’t we, Martha?’
‘We do indeed,’ Mum said, looking up. ‘Freya knows how to cheer me up.’
I felt a pang of guilt. I wasn’t good at cheering Mum up, and had just managed to make her cry. ‘Mum,’ I said, wanting to say sorry.
‘You’re breaking up, love. I can’t—’
And then she was gone, and I realised my fists were clenched into hard balls, my nails embedded into my flesh.
Why couldn’t Mum understand that Sophy had to pay for what she did?
Chapter 6
Sophy
By the time Friday came around, I’d been veering between anticipation and dread to the point where I’d developed an even worse headache than usual. One minute, I was looking forward to having a lunch guest and the opportunity to make a new friend, the next I was wishing I had Olivia’s number so I could ring and call it off.
It had been my turn to get up in the night to Finn, despite the gargantuan effort to wake myself up, but after taking a quick shower, my tiredness eased and my mood took an upward swing.
‘You look nice,’ Dom said, as I entered the bedroom swathed in a towel I’d snatched from the laundry basket.
‘This old thing?’ I patted the smaller towel turbaned around my head, surprised to find I was attempting a joke. ‘I’ve had it for ages.’
Smiling, he came towards me, buttoning his shirt. His hair was damp from the steamy bathroom, drying into waves, which he would spend half the day pushing back from his forehead. I used to love pushing my fingers through it too.
As though reading my mind, Dom held out a hand and drew me to him, a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen for a while. On cue, Finn emitted a series of half-hearted wails in the nursery next door and Dom let me go with a rueful smile. ‘It’s almost as if he knew,’ he said, tucking his shirt into his dark blue suit trousers.
Guiltily relieved at the interruption, knowing I’d have pushed Dom away, I summoned a smile. ‘You have to get to work anyway.’ It wasn’t just that I feared falling pregnant again; I couldn’t quite locate my feelings for Dom these days. It was as if they were concealed behind thick glass coated with repellent.
‘Looking forward to your lunch date?’ he said a few minutes later, as I joined him in the kitchen wearing my fleecy dressing gown, hair damp around my shoulders, carrying Finn. He’d just bashed my nose with his head so my eyes were swimming with tears.
‘Yes, I am.’ I tried to recapture my earlier enthusiasm. ‘It’ll be good to find out more about her.’
‘If she’s got a husband or partner, maybe we could get Mum to babysit one Saturday night and go out for dinner?’
Looking at me over his mug of freshly filtered coffee – he couldn’t stand the instant brand I loved – Dom’s eyes held a glint of something: hope, or maybe it was a challenge. He must be sick of being cooped up here every weekend evening, if he wasn’t working, because his wife no longer felt like socialising – especially after the awkward meal with the couple from Lavender Drive.
‘You didn’t make me a coffee?’ I hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation. ‘I suppose I’m invisible now I’m just a mum.’
To his credit, Dom didn’t respond. He’d heard it all before, had gone to great lengths to reassure me that he loved me and ‘saw’ me more clearly than ever since I’d given birth to our son – that I’d never be invisible to him.
Instead, he turned and picked up my favourite sunshine-patterned mug, which I hadn’t spotted on the counter behind him, and placed it on the breakfast bar in front of me.
‘Have a good day,’ he said quietly, bending to kiss Finn’s hair as he passed, grabbing his bag, jacket and keys on his way to the door. He paused and turned once more, his face harshly lit by a strip of sunlight pouring into the kitchen. ‘Maybe you should make an appointment to see the doctor.’ His tone was kind, but firm. ‘You might need to take something again, just for a while, to get you back on your feet.’
‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed more tears, aware of Finn in my arms solemnly watching our exchange. I hated myself for not being the sunny, smiling, happy mum he deserved.
‘You are taking the vitamins Natasha recommended?’
I nodded, keen to reassure him. His sister had struggled with exhaustion after her son Toby was born and swore that a particular brand of multivitamins, recommended by a nutritionist, had got her back on her feet. She’d sent me several jars but I hadn’t been taking them
long enough yet to feel the effects. ‘I’ll have one with my breakfast.’
He hesitated, as if there were lots of things he wanted to say but didn’t know where to start and settled for, ‘I love you, Sophy. Have a good day.’
‘You have a good day too.’ With your wonderful colleagues, who don’t have miserable wives at home.
Less than two minutes later there was a rap at the front door, followed by a cheerful, ‘Yoo-hoo! It’s only me!’ It was almost as if she’d been waiting for Dom’s car to turn out of the street, towards the station.
My mother-in-law materialised in all her flowery-perfumed, expensive-skirted, smiling glory, a thick, iron-grey bob framing her aristocratic face.
Dom gave her a spare key just after we moved in, insisting she wanted to help so I could get some rest, and she’d taken to dropping in most days, usually after Dom left as though guessing that once alone, I felt out of my depth, still not moulded into motherhood the way I longed to be.
‘How’s my little prince?’ she cooed. Flashing me a smile, she put down her tan leather handbag, shrugged off her tweedy jacket and plucked Finn from my arms.
‘Hi, Elizabeth,’ I said dully. I’d stopped asking her to let me know before dropping in. She was only trying to help because we were family and she was in love with her grandson. I’d only broached the subject once, when I began to wonder whether her almost constant presence might be doing more harm than good, creating a safety barrier that meant I didn’t have to try to be a better mother, but Dom pointed out how helpful she’d been when Finn was born, when my mother couldn’t leave the guesthouse in Portugal she ran with her boyfriend Tomas, and how much Finn adored her.