‘She’s gone back to work. I’ve taken paternity leave.’ The nurse had smiled, reassured. It wasn’t her fault, really. It was society that was to blame. If I wasn’t so lazy, I’d try to do something about it.
In the living room, I find my phone. Nothing from Kim. Relief. But a missed call from Mike, my manager. I listen to the voicemail he left.
‘Rob, it’s Mike. Long time . . . so, I’ve had a spot come up at Edinburgh. The girl I had booked in has cancelled – gone into rehab. It’s free Fringe, 8pm, so not great. Good venue though. It’s yours if you want it. I remember you saying you might have some new stuff? So if you’re brave enough . . . give me a call.’
I push my fingers into my eye sockets and rub. It’s only lunchtime, too early for a beer. I find my record bag in the hall and rummage about in it, retrieving a forgotten, unwashed baby bottle, and find my notebook.
For the first six weeks of her life, I went to the bench with Riley every day that it didn’t rain, sat by the river while she napped, and wrote, but it’s been a while now. There must be pages of material in there. In the living room, I slump on to the sofa. I flick my hair out of my eyes, opening the notebook and thumbing through the pages of my scrawled handwriting.
My eye falls on one page in particular, the word at the top of it drawing my eye like a firework.
Esther.
My wife has been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. She had a complicated pregnancy, with severe morning sickness. So bad that she couldn’t turn her head without vomiting. She pulled a muscle in her back, and it still bothers her today. Her skin peeled off in flakes, her eyeballs turned yellow. One vomiting session left her with a cracked rib. Every day of her pregnancy she thought she was going to die. At some points, I thought I might kill her to put her out of the pain she was in. I genuinely thought that might be the right thing to do.
*Pause for sad reaction*
But hey, what with all the puking, at least I finally defeated my arch-enemy: the washing machine. That thing is finally under my control.
HA FUCKING HA.
No wonder I never made it.
Comedy is truth, that’s what they say. You have to make them laugh, but you also have to make them think. But Esther has been very secretive about her PTSD, and what happened with Riley. I know she wouldn’t want me to talk about any of it. Private’s her middle name.
I turn the page.
Kim.
Five foot nine. Hair that smells of coconut. Skin that smells of sweet vanilla, like a boiled lollipop that leaves a film stuck to your teeth, the kind that you regret before you even lick it. Lines under her breasts – silver, like slug trails. Perfectly symmetrical. Too firm, silicone. She’s amazed you’re surprised. Teeth that have been whitened, skin that’s been darkened. The ability to find everything funny. Doesn’t give a shit. But does she? Deep down?
Loved her mum. Finds her dad frustrating. But who else is in her life?
Nothing like Esther. Uniquely Kim. Rootless. Floats through life without getting attached. Drinks too much. What does she really want? What is she afraid of? What’s she hiding?
As summaries go, it’s not a bad one. But there’s nothing funny about it, is there? I can’t laugh at Kim. She’s too much of an enigma.
After our walk on the common earlier in the week, we went to a cafe. Riley woke up, desperate for milk, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gulping at the surface. I fed her, and Kim shifted about in her seat as she watched us. My coffee got cold.
‘Let me hold her while you drink that,’ Kim said, looking down at it.
I felt myself holding Riley a little bit tighter. I had thought she would act differently . . . I had hoped she wouldn’t be interested in Riley at all.
‘Um,’ I replied.
‘Come on, hand her over,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had a cuddle yet. I’m not going to drop her.’
I passed Riley over the top of the table and watched as Kim nestled her into her lap. There was an awkward silence that Kim filled with baby talk, tickling Riley under the chin and making her smile.
She was better at it than I expected. A natural, almost. I swallowed.
I’d never much believed in the power of genes, given my shitty relationship with my own parents, but there it was, right in front of me, slapping me around the face.
I sat back and watched them. Kim looked up at me and I saw it then, the unmistakable likeness between the two of them, caught in her expression. Those shared saucer-eyes. The neatness of their noses.
It would always be there. No matter what Esther told people. No matter how strong she thought she was being, taking on another woman’s child. And not just any other woman’s offspring, but a baby that was the product of her husband’s infidelity.
It would always be there. Even if Kim had lost interest, as I’d assumed she would. Even if she did stay away and let us live as a family.
It would always be there: a bond no one could break.
Kim and Riley.
Mother and child.
Now
Esther
Should I tell the police Riley is not my biological daughter? Would it make any difference?
As we drive away, I notice another police car pull up outside my house.
I look out of the window at the cold streets as they flash past in a blur. Again, I desperately want to tell DC Williams to drive me to where Robin was found in case Riley is somewhere nearby, rather than to the hospital. But DS Tyler seemed sure that I would want to go and see him, my poor injured husband, who’s fighting for his life in A&E, and told me to leave searching for Riley to them.
Why would he have been in Epsom? I rack my brains, trying to think of something – anything, any connection he might have to that part of the country.
‘Please,’ I say, leaning forward from my seat in the back of the car. ‘Please let me know as soon as you hear anything about Riley.’
DS Tyler turns and stares at me.
‘Can you think of anywhere your husband might have taken your daughter? Anyone he might have left her with? A friend or relation? Next-door neighbour?’
I shake my head.
‘No,’ I say, ‘he . . . his family lives miles away. His brother and his wife moved out of London a few years ago. My neighbour Amanda had been watching her for a few hours earlier on, over lunchtime, but she said she dropped her off just before three.’ I try to breathe slowly to combat the nausea but it doesn’t help much, as I learnt during those life-changing weeks when I was pregnant. ‘She’s the only one he’d ever leave her with – we have daughters the same age. But Robin . . . he doesn’t have any proper friends.’
She widens her eyes.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘Riley is his whole life. He’s been a stay-at-home dad since she was born.’ I tail off. I can’t start explaining the whole sorry situation to her. It’s just a mess, a story that feels as though it has no beginning and no end. A catastrophe.
‘A babysitter?’
I shake my head.
‘He wouldn’t . . . Look, he just wouldn’t leave her alone. It doesn’t make any sense. She’s only two. He’d never leave her.’
There are so many thoughts ramming my brain, and I suddenly feel utterly exhausted. The stress of the last few weeks – the secret talks with my solicitor, Jeremy; the endless paperwork; the legal dead ends; the thought of it going to court; and, finally, the deadening realisation that there was probably only one way to remain in Riley’s life, and it might as well have been a life sentence.
But what will happen now? And Riley. Where is she?
I find myself sobbing hysterically in the back seat, the fat tears hurtling out of me, making me choke on my own breath. I bury my face in my hands. Riley, please God, whatever happens, please let her be OK.
‘Is there no one else you can think of?’ DS Tyler says, he
r voice loud enough to cut through my crying.
I need Jeremy here, with me. Someone to make sense of it all, to unpick all the threads and lay them straight, and make sure I don’t tie myself up in them.
I’m selfish, thinking of myself. But it’s only because of her. My baby girl.
‘No one he might have left her with?’ DS Tyler repeats.
I shake my head at the policewoman.
I check my phone. Nothing. No messages. Nothing from anyone. If only Riley was old enough to have a phone of her own, some way I could track her whereabouts.
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?’ DS Tyler asks, and I look back at her in surprise. Surprise that she hasn’t asked this before.
‘I . . .’ I say.
I begin to cry again.
Kim?
Could she . . .
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. Words are fighting in my mind, desperate to escape. I want to scream that I don’t give a shit about Robin, that I was planning on leaving him anyway. That it’s worse than that – that I hate him. That I’ll be glad if he dies.
‘I’m so sorry, I wish I could be more helpful. But I just don’t know.’
One Year Earlier
Esther
Jo, the photographer, takes another burst of shots then smiles up at me from above her camera.
‘Brilliant,’ she says. ‘I think we have all we need.’
‘Can I see some of the pictures?’ I ask, tentatively. Jo motions for me to come over to her laptop, set up on a stool near the tripod, and flicks through a few on the screen.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You’ve made me look like a totally different person.’
‘Hope not,’ says Jo. ‘That would rather defeat the point.’
I smile at her.
‘Sorry, you know what I mean. I look like me, but better. Me when I’ve had eight hours’ sleep.’
‘Then I’ve done my job,’ Jo says, beaming. ‘It’s a big promotion, right? Communications Director. You need to look the part.’
‘You can’t even see my eye bags.’
‘Good lighting, eh? Works miracles. But anyway, you don’t have eye bags.’
I snort.
‘Thanks, you’re very kind, but my daughter has taken to waking up at 5am recently . . .’
‘How old is she?’ Jo asks, closing the lid of her laptop.
‘Sixteen months,’ I reply. ‘It’s exhausting. My husband’s looking after her today . . . I feel terrible for him, we’re both shattered.’
‘No childcare?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Rob’s a stay-at-home dad.’
Her eyes widen. It’s always the same when I tell people – one of two reactions. Surprise tinged with interest or badly concealed disapproval. I wonder if this is what my dad always had to deal with. But it was probably different for him – people would have been more sympathetic because my mother was dead. He didn’t have a choice.
I launch into my usual speech.
‘His own father wasn’t around much when he was a kid, and I think he’s trying to make up for it . . .’ I feel a stab of disloyalty. ‘But he’s brilliant with her. Much better than me.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Jo says, but I’m not sure she means it. ‘I’ve got two kids – my husband barely changed a nappy when they were younger. Not that he wasn’t a good dad, it’s just with me being freelance, having the more flexible job, it made sense for me to look after them.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘My husband’s self-employed too.’
‘Oh interesting,’ she says, and she pauses, computer cable in hand, to look at me. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s . . . a writer,’ I reply, swallowing. I wish I hadn’t brought Robin up now.
‘Journalist?’
‘No, creative . . . he’s . . . he writes comedy . . .’
She smiles.
‘Oh wow, anything I might have heard of?’
I shake my head, burning with humiliation on Robin’s behalf. Remembering all the work he did for the Edinburgh Festival last year, the way his so-called manager replaced him with someone more famous two weeks before he was due to go up.
‘It’s a competitive world,’ I say, lamely. ‘He’s working on a sitcom at the moment. But still trying to break out, I suppose.’
‘Guess it’s a good job you’re so successful then. Well done you.’
She’s joking, making small talk, entirely oblivious to the fact she has identified my sorest spot and ground the toe of her shoe into it. It has started to become a problem. My success; his lack of it. A little crack in our relationship that’s slowly turning into a chasm.
I think of Rob’s reaction when I told him I’d been promoted.
The smile he slapped across his unshaven face, the way it didn’t reach his eyes. The bottle of champagne he bought me with money from the joint account, that he left on the kitchen table instead of putting in the fridge, so it was too warm to drink.
I leave work after the shoot, wondering whether to text Robin to tell him I’m on my way or not. I try to keep him informed of my whereabouts, but he never seems to check his phone, and sometimes I wonder why I bother. When I get home it’s as though he takes perverse pleasure in telling me how busy he is, and how little time he has to read his messages or send me a reply.
Too busy to chase Kim too, apparently. Sixteen months on and the adoption still isn’t finalised, despite her promises.
On the Northern line, I look at my personal emails. I’ve got one from Dad’s solicitor. The sale of his bungalow went through last month, and finally the probate is sorted. It’s taken over a year, and I can’t quite believe it’s all done. Nothing more for me to sort out, no more trips up north to arrange house clearances and speak to estate agents and investigate auction houses. Soon I will be a rich woman, the sole benefactor of my dad’s estate, worth just under half a million pounds.
I haven’t told Robin exactly how much money I’m going to inherit. I don’t know why. We’re married, and we used to share everything. But he hasn’t asked, and there’s an uncomfortable lump in my throat whenever we have to discuss money these days. As I’m the only one with an income, almost all my money goes straight into our joint account to pay the bills, which Robin uses too. He’s pretty frugal, but he still smokes from time to time, which annoys me.
It’s a relief to know that I won’t have to worry about money for a while. With my dad’s money, and my promotion, we’ll be able to relax a bit.
Things have been so tight ever since last year. All of my savings, gone in an instant. But of course I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I was so desperate.
Perhaps we could even afford some childcare, give Robin some real time to get back to his writing. He says he can do bits when Riley naps, but it’s not the same. It’s not a commitment to his work, and I’m worried he’ll get so left behind that he can never get back to it.
I walk slowly to the flat, passing the petrol station opposite. I’ve missed Riley’s bedtime again, and I feel a strange, sudden melancholy. It catches me at the most unexpected moments and I wonder if all mothers are this sentimental, or if there’s something wrong with me?
But there was no getting out of the photoshoot. My photo and new job title will be up on the website next week; the firm might even put out a press release about me. Communications Director for the UK’s largest diabetes charity. Finally, I’m on the executive board. I can’t quite believe it.
I push the key into the lock and open our front door. The flat feels dark and cramped, and the usual mess greets me as I enter. But something is different; Riley is awake. Not just awake, but crying. I dump my handbag on the floor and rush through to her tiny bedroom.
Robin is holding her tightly, but she’s wailing in his ear.
‘What’s happ
ened?’ I say, checking her for any visible sign of injury.
‘Nothing,’ he replies, shortly. ‘Overtired, I think. She just wanted you . . . I explained that you were working but . . .’
‘Mama, Mama!’ Riley screams and flings herself towards me. Robin hands her over awkwardly and she buries her face in my neck. Far from lessening, her cries seem to be increasing.
‘Shh, shh, it’s OK,’ I say, stroking her messy blonde hair. ‘Oh sweetie, it’s OK, Mummy’s here.’
Is it my imagination, or does Robin give a snort? He turns to leave the room.
‘The dinner’s burning,’ he mutters as he retreats.
I manage to calm Riley by reading her two stories while she’s sitting on my lap. I’m still wearing my coat, but she won’t let me put her down. Eventually, she settles in her cot as I lie down on the floor beside her. I’m desperate for the toilet, but I stay next to her, our eyes locked together, wishing I could get a message to Robin to go ahead and eat his dinner. It must be nearly 9pm by the time she falls into a deep enough sleep for me to tiptoe out of the room. I leave the door ajar, and join Robin in the kitchen.
He’s standing by the hob stirring something, a dark frown on his face.
‘It’s ruined now,’ he says. ‘Shit. Why did I think it would be a good idea to do risotto? Typical. It’s like she knew!’
I glance down into the saucepan. The rice has congealed into a single lump that looks like dough.
‘Is that fennel?’ I say, impressed.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Ottolenghi recipe. I know how you like his stuff. I was trying to do something nice for you.’
It’s unlike him not to make a joke out of the situation – it must mean he’s really upset. I put my arms around him, leaning in. It’s been a while since we’ve been physical like this.
I’m trying, I really am. I made a commitment, a promise that I am determined to stick to. I know he’s been pestering Kim, that it’s not his fault that she’s so evasive. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in closer.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 10