I creep slowly up to it, carefully avoiding the floorboards that squeak. A ninja move, much perfected ever since Riley came home with us and the horror of waking her up consumed our every moment.
I peer round the door, but all I can see are Esther’s socked feet, drawn up against her legs. She’s sitting beside Riley’s cot, arms wrapped round herself.
I strain to listen.
At first, I think she’s praying and my eyes widen. But then I realise she’s singing, ever so softly.
No need to run and hide
It’s a wonderful, wonderful life . . .
I struggle at first to place the song, but then I remember it. Eighties jazz-pop. Obscure.
I linger for a few seconds, listening, wondering whether or not to interrupt. But I know she won’t appreciate it, that this is a private moment between her and Riley.
That she’s trying to convince herself, and Riley, that everything’s fine.
Signature Esther. Her only way of coping; push the bad feelings away.
Esther
Thankfully, considering I have only had about two hours’ sleep, I have no meetings this morning. Instead, I am seeing my therapist, Claudia.
I like Claudia, even though she’s intimidatingly posh and I find it hard to believe she could ever empathise with the unconventional mess that is my life. She’s softly spoken, with short, dark hair and sharp eyes.
I have been seeing her every week since before Riley was born. Sometimes I have dreams that she’s killed by another of her clients, and I have no one to turn to. I haven’t told her about that though. I don’t want her to realise quite how dependent I am.
Robin knows nothing about her. He’d be offended that I need someone else to talk to and take it as another sign of me not trusting him enough, not sharing enough with him.
Her practice is in Battersea, a few streets back from the river. I arrive with time to spare and pace the street outside, trying to work out what I will say to her today. Whether today will be ‘the’ day. When I finally let it all out. I know it’s what she wants, what she’s been working towards. She thinks afterwards that I’ll feel stronger. That I’ll be able to tackle Kim myself.
Up until now I’ve been completely unable to talk about what happened to me. But last night has made me realise I can’t go on like this. My mind is like a pressure cooker: waiting to explode.
As I stride up and down the tree-lined street, I pass a man smoking a cigarette. A real one, not a vape. The smell hangs in the morning air, and takes me back to the time I cracked my rib. Just outside the hospital. Someone was leaning against a lamppost, several metres away, chatting on their phone and sucking away on their cigarette. It was usually food that made me retch, but the strength of the smoke seemed so overwhelming that it turned my stomach over anyway, and I leant across the pavement and was sick in the road.
The pain when I tried to breathe afterwards was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I fell to my knees, the tears streaming down my face, and briefly caught the smoker’s eye. Her lips curled in disgust, and it took the little strength I had left not to throw myself in front of the next bus that came by.
My side still aches at the memory. No matter how many times I explain it to him, Robin will never understand what it was like for me. How desperate I felt, how I got to that place.
Inside the clinic, Claudia smiles and offers me a glass of water as she always does. I take my seat opposite her in the bay window that overlooks the busy residential street. She coughs.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, and I realise she’s sucking on a sweet. ‘I’ve got a bit of a tickle. Nothing serious.’
‘I want to talk about the day it happened,’ I say, abruptly. ‘I just think . . . maybe if I get it all out . . . it will help. Sorry, I interrupted you.’
She smiles.
‘Not at all,’ she says. Her voice is mesmeric, a little croak at the end. ‘Please.’
‘The night before I lost my baby, I slept well for the first time in weeks,’ I say. My own voice is hesitant, so I continue speaking. I’m desperate to empty all the thoughts from my head. ‘I wonder if it was because I had done something – sent that email to the clinic. Given myself something to cling on to. A sense of hope. A sense of an ending.’ I sniff, reach for a tissue. ‘It’s all ironic, isn’t it? Maybe I already knew? Maybe my body was trying to tell me something.’
Claudia nods.
‘I woke up and I still felt sick – of course. I had no energy at all. But I managed to keep an ice cube down. I managed to get to the bathroom, to wash my face and brush my teeth. I had to do it all really slowly; every movement was like a tiny test and if I pushed it too far, then I’d be sick again. I pulled my pants down, sat on the toilet . . . I never expected to see the blood.’
‘Robin was out. He’d left about half an hour before. He was helping his brother move house . . . they’d escaped to the country, got a big place in Hampshire near Robin’s parents. Before he left I told him it was fine – that I was fine. And it was easier without him there, most of the time. I couldn’t stand having him see me in that state. It was humiliating. And most of all . . .’
I take a deep breath.
‘Most of all I worried that he’d go off me. I felt so revolting . . . and then there had been the incident on New Year’s Eve, when he had kissed . . . her. I was so scared he’d leave me.’
I rub away the tears with the tissue, pushing forcefully against my skin.
‘Which makes no sense, because he’s always telling me he’ll never leave me, how much he loves me. But if that were true, how could he have cheated on me? Sometimes, I think he’s in love with the idea of me, or the me he wants me to be. I should have rung him,’ I say. ‘I know that now . . . if I had . . . then who knows. But I didn’t. I phoned the midwife instead, and she told me to go to the early pregnancy unit for a scan. I should have rung him then. That’s what . . . that’s why he’s still so angry with me, I think. He can’t stand the fact that I didn’t let him know what was happening.’
‘No one knows how they will react in these situations,’ Claudia says, her words like balm. ‘You did what you had to do.’
‘I was a coward. I knew I couldn’t cope with his feelings as well as my own. I knew if I told him I was bleeding, there’d be all kinds of . . . I don’t know. His emotions, to deal with. We’d fought the night before, when I mentioned that I couldn’t go on, that the pregnancy was killing me . . . Sometimes, his emotions are so big it feels like they swallow me up. And I was confused myself, because I’d been praying for it to end, and now there was a chance it might be . . .’
Claudia’s head is tilted. I watch her swallow, wonder briefly if she’s fighting the urge to cough.
‘At the unit they saw me straight away. I’ll never forget the way the sonographer looked at me.’
I pause, take another deep breath.
‘She asked me if there was any possibility I had got my dates wrong. I remember staring at her, confused, wondering why that mattered. Then she said it. She couldn’t find a heartbeat. That they’d expect one by ten weeks but that there was nothing there. Just an empty sac. No fetal pole. I’m sorry to tell you that you are having a miscarriage. And then – I remember this bit most of all – I realised that I hadn’t been sick since I left home. I was still queasy, of course, but I hadn’t actually been sick since I got to the hospital. I had made it to the hospital – we only live ten minutes’ walk away – got into the lift, sat in the waiting room with all the various smells, plastic bags at the ready . . . and none of it had made me sick. And that’s when I realised that I’d done it. It was my fault. I had wished my own baby away. I’d . . .’ I gasp, letting out a huge sob. ‘Killed her. By wishing she wasn’t there.’
‘It’s natural that you should blame yourself, but you know that it’s not possible that your feelings about your pregnancy and your su
ffering are in any way related to what happened.’
‘But how do you know that for sure?’ I say, staring at her. I’m suddenly angry, with everyone, and everything. ‘Everyone told me that hyperemesis in pregnancy is a sure sign that the baby, at least, is developing well. That it meant the baby was strong, healthy. So how come I beat the odds? How come I got HG and then had a miscarriage – what are the chances of that? One in a million. Mind over matter. Of course it was my fault. Our brains control everything . . . all of us.’
‘But with something like this . . .’ Claudia says, her gentle voice back, her arm reaching forward to comfort me, to make me feel better, to try to assuage my pain.
I am furious.
‘No! No, no, no! You don’t understand! The night before . . . I sent an email to an abortion clinic. Just an enquiry. I told them I was desperate, that the HG was killing me, that I wanted to die. I wanted to know if other . . . if other women in my situation had considered it. I don’t know if I would have been able to go through with it, but the thought was there. And that was enough. I put my intentions out there into the world, and the world answered me. I got what I wanted. I got what I deserved. I took that medication, despite the doctor’s warning that there were side effects, that it might harm the baby. I did it because I was weak and selfish, because the sickness felt never-ending, because I felt like I wanted to die. This is why I didn’t want to talk about it before. I don’t want you to talk me out of my guilt, or persuade me that it’s not my fault. It is my fault. I deserve what happened to me, what Robin did. I failed my baby on the most basic level. It’s the most fundamental part of motherhood – to protect your children – and I was too weak, too . . . pathetic to do it.’
I stare at her, my face burning.
‘The night before, when I reached rock bottom, for the five minutes it took me to send that email, I thought I wanted to get rid of my baby. And instead my baby got rid of me.’
Robin
I haven’t seen Stu for more than three years, but needs must. I’m not going to have Esther pity me. She’s right, I have taken my focus off my work, ever since Mike messed me around with the Edinburgh Festival slot. But my sitcom is in pretty good shape, so perhaps there’s still hope.
Stu has upgraded since I last saw him. Shiny new girlfriend who works in development, shiny new flat on Chiswick High Road, overlooking a bus stop, right in the middle of the action, just a few short strolls to Turnham Green station.
‘This place must cost a fortune,’ I say, staring round at the huge open-plan kitchen-living area.
‘Verity’s parents bought it for her,’ he says, leaning back on the battered leather sofa in front of the window, without a hint of shame.
I take a swig of my beer.
‘I’ll have to meet her one day,’ I say.
Stu nods.
‘Yeah, maybe. She’s tight with Sarah,’ he says, eventually. ‘They worked together on the Sky Atlantic show last year.’
‘Right,’ I say, squeezing the beer bottle between my fingers. ‘Anyway . . . did you have a chance to read my pilot episode? I know it’s been ages, man, but . . . as you can see, I’ve been a bit busy . . .’
I gesture towards Riley, who’s sitting on the rug by the glass coffee table, pulling everything off it.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Stu says, leaning forward. He doesn’t smile at Riley and I feel my insides tighten. ‘It’s a great piece. Really. Funny, chaotic, charming . . . all your signature moves.’
I bite my lip. It’s been so long since anyone said anything kind about my writing, and I allow myself a few seconds to enjoy the feeling of appreciation.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Written from the heart, you know.’ I suddenly feel embarrassed, shy. ‘So do you think you’d know anyone who might be interested? It’s just, man, it’s fucking hard to get back in . . . as you know. It’s hard enough when you’re starting out, but at my age, and after I’ve . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Stu says, not meeting my eye. ‘Listen, I think it’s great. I really do. But . . .’
I stare at him. He gives me a patronising smile.
‘I know it’s water under the bridge, mate, but . . .’ Stu says. ‘It’s just . . . she’s put in a few favours for me over the years, you know? I don’t want to piss her off.’
‘But I thought you said it was great?’
‘It is!’ he says, hands in the air as though in defence. ‘I’m sure someone will snap it up. Seriously. Just go the normal route – submit to agents, that kind of thing. You don’t need me.’
He knows I need him. I need someone. I need some kind of leg-up.
This fucking industry. Everyone sucking up to the people they think will get them the furthest.
I stay just long enough to finish my beer and then make my excuses and leave. People and their long memories! And as if Sarah would really care about me and my measly sitcom anyway. She’s far too busy being rich and famous to worry about what her inadequate ex-boyfriend is doing.
Esther doesn’t see this. Doesn’t see all the times I’ve tried to get back in. Doesn’t realise it’s not like a normal career, where you send your CV off and if you’re good enough, with the right experience, you get the job.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting it to be Esther. But it’s not. It’s Kim.
That’s all I need.
‘Hello?’ I say, pushing Riley’s buggy back towards the station with my free hand.
‘Mate!’ Her voice rings out, overly enthusiastic and loud. I find myself frowning. ‘You picked up! Miracle. I’m back! How are you? How’s the little lady?’
‘Generally, she’s still pretty angry with the world and with not being able to coherently articulate her feelings about life,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’
‘Yeah, I’m . . . all right,’ she replies. She sounds slightly out of breath, as though she’s been running shortly before phoning me. ‘As well as can be expected. What you up to? Want to meet for a drink?’
‘I . . .’ I say, looking down at Riley. ‘When?’
‘Now? Where are you? I’m in town. Just by Victoria. I can come and meet you?’
‘Um,’ I say. I’ve avoided her for more than a year now. Maybe it’s for the best if I see her again. Perhaps she’s changed her mind. Perhaps she has news.
‘OK. I can be in Victoria in half an hour,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you there.’
We meet in a cafe just behind the station. Riley has woken up by the time we get there, and happily destroys a cheese sandwich as I drink a strong coffee. Kim looks tired, as though someone has taken her Instagram filter off. Her eyes are wide, as usual, but they’re bloodshot. And something else. She seems slightly manic, telling me all about her latest unsuitable suitor.
It hasn’t worked out with him. I was hoping it might have done, that she’d be too distracted to keep bothering us.
‘He was an arsehole,’ she is saying, seemingly oblivious to Riley’s presence. ‘It’s the oldest story in the book, you know. Told me he loved me, told me he’d do anything for me, but as soon as I told him about . . . you know – this, my situation – he was off. But honestly, I thought we had a connection, that he really understood me.’
I swallow. Riley squirms in my arms and the jacket potato in front of me begins to congeal.
‘Give her to me,’ she says.
I pass Riley over to her, remembering how awful it felt last time this happened. Everything is unravelling. Nothing is working out as it was meant to.
‘Does it feel strange?’ I say, suddenly, the words seemingly making their way out of my mouth of their own accord. ‘Holding her?’
Kim sniffs, glancing up at me. It’s not like me to be serious; she’s confused. Her eyes are sharp, like pins prickling my face.
‘Of course not,’ she replies, but I know she’s lying. ‘That’s DNA, I guess. Nothing more p
owerful than biology. Even if you are the ones doing the parenting at the moment, while I sort my life out. Which I do appreciate. I really do. I’m getting there.’ She turns and addresses Riley in a baby voice that curdles my stomach. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry it’s taking longer than I thought . . . But she knows. You know I’m your real mummy, don’t you? You do, of course you do, you clever little sprout.’
She turns to me.
‘Listen, mate,’ she says, and her eyes are wide now, imploring. ‘Can we get something sorted? Something regular? Monthly, at least? I know I’m a state but it would make such a difference if I had something to look forward to. Some time with her. She’s growing up so fast. And it might help . . . it might help me get better. What do you think?’
This conversation has gone far enough.
I can’t do this. I need her out of our lives, once and for all.
My head is a mess. I leave the coffee shop, making my way to the Tube and wondering when Esther will get home.
I managed to fob Kim off, told her I’d discuss it with Esther. But the idea of her wanting a permanent role in Riley’s life quite frankly terrifies me.
Of course, I should tell Esther that Kim has been in touch. It would make her day – she’s desperate to get the adoption sorted, finally. If only she knew how unlikely that was now. We had promised no more secrets, but she’s not exactly stuck to that, has she? All her dad’s money . . . She’s more secretive than ever.
I never used to feel this angry with her. I never used to get angry with her at all.
But, despite everything, I still find it hard to forgive Esther for what happened.
What I did that night was a direct consequence of her refusal to let me in. It was the day before Valentine’s Day – ironic indeed. She had been off sick since before Christmas, was in and out of hospital on a drip. I could see she was in agony, but she wouldn’t let me help. I didn’t know what to do.
One freezing January evening, shortly after the hospital had discharged her, saying her levels were finally stable enough for her to go home, I sat at the end of the bed, holding her hand. She was in her usual half-upright position, the only one she said didn’t make her feel sick.
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