I push my tongue to my teeth and try to ignore the doubts in my mind. I look back at Kim’s picture.
She’s replied to her friend Jae Worth.
Helllllloooo gorgeous. All good, hunny, just got some life admin to sort through . . . NOT FUN. How are you? XX
Life admin. What does that mean?
My anger dissipates. Could it be finalising the adoption, finally? Robin’s ‘deadline’ of Riley’s second birthday has been and gone. The same old excuses. Perhaps this is it.
My heart lifts, then plummets again.
Or could it be the worst thing of all? My greatest fear, ever since we came to the agreement: that she would change her mind, and try to take Riley back.
I was amazed that she was able to hand her over to us in the first place – it felt unnatural.
But then I remembered I had considered having an abortion – for a few minutes actually thought about terminating the baby I was so desperate to have – without ever being able to successfully explain it to anyone who mattered to me.
And then of course, I beat all the odds by waking up one morning to find myself bleeding.
Was it all my fault? The pills I’d taken, despite the doctor’s warning? My inability to hold down liquid? But the night before my miscarriage, I had reached a point so low that it seemed impossible I would ever stand again. It was just an email to a clinic, but it was worse than that, because it was an intention.
To this day, I still have no idea if I would have gone through with it. But that didn’t matter. At 9.24pm that evening, the thought was there. Recorded forever in the Sent Items folder of my email.
I had wanted to get rid of the feeling that I was dying, and if that meant getting rid of my baby, then at that exact moment, I just didn’t care.
So how could I ever judge Kim for giving up her daughter?
Riley Madison Morgan.
Her middle name had been the only thing Kim had asked of us. It was her mother’s name, apparently. She was American.
I wrack my brains, trying to remember those early days with Riley. I only saw Kim once, the day Riley was born, but there was nothing that day – which surely must have been the hardest of days – no sign that she was doubting her decision, or that we had coerced her into it. She was strangely detached during the whole process.
I suppose the money we gave her helped too.
Robin said Kim simply wanted the best for the child, that we would be much better parents than her. And she was right, of course, on the face of it. If you were ticking boxes, counting the things that people thought mattered. We were married, I had a good job, we owned our own home. We actively wanted a child. We were meant to have had one.
I was desperate to fill my empty, guilty arms.
And most importantly and devastatingly of all, Robin was Riley’s biological father.
I think of the house we’re about to move into tomorrow. We promised ourselves that it would be a fresh start. The fresh start we so sorely need.
But how can it be, when nothing has changed? When I have no security whatsoever, and Robin doesn’t even seem to care?
Life admin. What does she mean?
Despite everything, all the times I have nagged Robin, nothing has changed. Kim is still Riley’s legal mother. I still only have parental responsibility for her. I’m still just her stepmother. Our relationship is even more inadequate than mine and my own mother’s. I had just ten years before my mother was taken from me. Is Riley only going to get two years before she loses me? She won’t even remember that I ever loved her.
But I’m powerless. I can’t force Robin or Kim to do anything.
My thoughts begin to race and I struggle to pull them into order. I ping the elastic band on my wrist that Claudia recommended. But I know it’s too late to stop it, the same rollercoaster of symptoms that attacked me from time to time after Riley’s birth, and led to my eventual diagnosis of PTSD.
Robin thought it was ridiculous.
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder? I thought that was just for soldiers?’
But thankfully the psychologist shot him a look that shut him up, before recommending a course of CBT.
‘Flashbacks and re-experiencing are very common after you’ve undergone a traumatic event,’ she said. ‘The nausea, vomiting and feelings of panic you’re experiencing are completely normal, I’m afraid. But the good news is that they can be managed effectively with the right treatment.’
She was right about one thing. They are still common today.
Before I know it, I have scrabbled about under my desk for my small wastepaper basket, and I am throwing up the salad I ate an hour ago, the burning in my throat so familiar that it’s almost a brutal kind of comfort, a reminder that I survived.
I stare down into the bin as I finish, wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.
That’s it. I’m not going to go on like this. I refuse. It’s been too long, too many unkept promises.
I’m going to find Kim, and I’m going to have it out with her once and for all.
Robin
I’d forgotten just how knackering moving house is. Even more so when you have a young child.
‘Takeaway?’ I say to Esther as she takes a seat on the sofa beside me. The bay window area of the living room is still stacked high with boxes, but at least we have somewhere to sit now.
‘OK,’ she replies. ‘There’s that fish and chip shop on the corner?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, standing up and grabbing my wallet from the table. ‘Cod?’
She nods, pushing her dishevelled hair from her eyes. It’s nearly 9pm. Riley is finally asleep – she was far too excited by her huge new bedroom to settle earlier. I went in four times, read her eight stories, Esther went in twice. But, finally, she seems to have worn herself out.
‘Won’t be long,’ I say.
Esther smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks tired, not just from the exertions of moving house after six months of renovations, but tired of me. It reminds me of the look in her eyes as she lay on the bathroom floor. She wants me out of her way.
I don’t like it.
I should never have told her about the sitcom meeting, that there was potential. She’s excited – too excited, more excited than me. For someone who always said she doesn’t like change, she suddenly seems to want everything to change. And I haven’t. I’ve fallen back into my black hole of failure, and I’m about to disappoint her again.
It’s a cold evening and I button up my coat as I stroll along the streets of our new neighbourhood. I can’t quite believe that we live here. In Wimbledon. How nauseatingly provincial. Nick would be proud.
I find the chippy – a quaintly done-up building on the corner of one of the residential roads – and perch on a stool in the window as I wait for them to make my order. I take out my phone and upload the photograph of Esther and Riley outside the house, taken earlier today, to my Facebook page.
Esther is grinning. Riley is holding the keys aloft. I know Sarah probably won’t see it – but she might. I’ve got an open profile and who knows what browsing she does when she’s sitting there waiting to go on stage?
After last week’s pathetic meltdown, I Googled her again. She’s just about to go into the West End – her first theatre show in years – to star in the acclaimed kids’ musical Dragons and Dinosaurs, based on the popular book. Apparently, it’s her daughter’s favourite and when the opportunity came up to star in it for a short run it was ‘too good to miss’.
Funnily enough, it’s Riley’s favourite too.
The television is yet to be plugged in or set up, so after we eat on our laps, the fish and chips still in their cardboard trays, we sit together on the sofa in silence. Is this the right moment to tell her about the script?
On the one hand, I want to. On the
other . . . there’s so much that I’d have to explain if I did. She’ll ask questions, I know she will. And she doesn’t know anything about Sarah. How could I explain that situation to her? How could any man explain that in a way a woman could understand? I know how bad it sounds. I’ve been told enough times.
‘Happy, Mrs Morgan?’ I say.
She looks at me hesitantly.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘I love it.’
She’s thinking about something. She’s not here. Not really. Not here with me.
Is it Kim that’s on her mind? She hasn’t brought her up in a while – the stress of the move has pushed Kim nicely to the back of her mind. I was hopeful I was off the hook there, but perhaps I was being a fool.
I consider suggesting we go to bed, but experience has taught me that that doesn’t work very well for Esther. So instead I lean over and kiss her forehead, and I stare at her face.
‘What are you doing?’ she says, after a few minutes.
‘Just looking at you,’ I say, smiling. ‘Just looking.’
She squirms, frowning slightly, then closes her eyes again.
‘Don’t.’
Her best feature has always been her mouth – full lips lining immaculate white teeth that fill her face when she smiles. Her straight brown hair used to be long and neglected. But last year she cut it to the shoulder, and added a fringe.
‘To hide the wrinkles,’ she said at the time. I called her Chewbacca for a week afterwards. I thought it was pretty funny.
I brush the hair away from her forehead. The roots feel tacky under my fingertips.
Sarah has a fringe. It’s her trademark, almost.
‘I prefer you without a fringe,’ I say.
‘Really?’ she replies, frowning, her hands touching it. ‘It’s just greasy, I need to wash it.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ I say, and her eyes tighten a little. ‘I just think it’s too heavy, covers too much of your face.’
‘Oh,’ she replies, staring at me. ‘I thought it made me look more grown up.’
‘If you like it, that’s all that matters,’ I reply, and I move my face back a little from hers.
Her nose is shiny with sweat, her eyes so wide they could almost be Kim’s. We stare at each other for what feels like ages before she swallows, then leans forward slightly, shifting away from me.
Esther
‘Well, it was lovely to meet you,’ I say, shaking hands with the tall, slim-built man in front of me. Pete Sewell, our newest head of marketing. I notice with surprise that he’s slightly intimidated by me.
Sometimes it amazes me that I’m quite so senior. Imposter syndrome looms large on my shoulder.
‘And you, Esther,’ he says. His palm is warm and dry, the skin strangely soft. ‘Looking forward to working together.’
I smile, look down and pick up my handbag.
‘I’m leaving early tonight,’ I call to my assistant, Anna. ‘But I’m on my phone if you need me. Don’t work too hard!’
She grins.
‘It’s 5.30 – you’re not leaving early! I’m just finishing up myself. Have a nice evening, boss.’
I smile back at her. It’s only once I’m outside on the street I notice that my underarms are damp.
I hail a cab to take me to Sean’s party. Sean is back from his tour and so instead of something low-key, Vivienne decided to hold an enormous party for all his friends as well as hers.
I have no idea if Kim’ll be there or not, but it’s worth a try. It’s the only way I can think of to confront her head-on. She could easily ignore a Facebook message, and I don’t want to give her any more chances to wriggle out of this.
I turn up at the bar, a well-known haunt of theatre types underneath some railway arches near the Thames. It’s only 6pm. The party isn’t due to start until 7pm, but the place is already pulsating with people. I push past the smokers huddled around outside, and make my way in.
I remember there was a theme – ‘still bright young things’, or something ironic like that. A nod to the name of the show Sean has just left, and a nod to Vivienne getting older. Everyone is wearing rainbow colours, like I’ve walked into a gay pride march. I stare down at my black shift dress, tights and boots in horror.
A girl who looks ridiculously young tugs on my arm.
‘’Scuse me, where are the loos?’
She thinks I work here.
‘What . . . ?’ I say. ‘I don’t know. I don’t work here, I’m here for Vivienne’s party?’
‘Oh God, sorry, haven’t got changed yet? She’s over there, by the bar.’
She points me in the right direction and I follow the line of her finger. Viv is standing at the end of the bar, surrounded by a group of people. She’s wearing a dress covered in rainbow stripes.
I walk over to her, squeezing my way through the throngs of people, who apparently don’t notice me at all. I pause for a second, wondering where the ridiculous feelings of inadequacy come from, and I acknowledge them, as Claudia always tells me to do, and then tell them to fuck off, which is a technique I developed on my own.
I’m an executive board member of one of the biggest charities in the country, a mother and a grown-up. Just because I don’t have mermaid hair doesn’t mean I don’t belong here.
‘Hello!’ I say, pushing rather rudely through Vivienne’s entourage until I am standing right in front of her.
Her face splits into a smile and she draws me towards her in a hug.
‘Hello, chicken,’ she says. ‘Thank you for coming. Glad to see you’ve made an effort with your outfit, as always.’
She winks at me but her eyes aren’t sparkling as they usually are.
‘Sorry, I came straight from work . . .’ I tail off. I can’t bring up Kim yet. ‘Didn’t want to upstage you. Amazing dress. How are things?’
She pulls on my arm and gestures for me to come and sit down in the corner with her.
‘I’m six weeks gone,’ she says, so quietly that at first I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
A strange feeling of shock washes over me. Viv has been trying to get pregnant for what feels like years and for some reason, in my head, I had decided that she never would.
‘Wow!’ I say, swallowing. I’m so surprised, I don’t really know how to react. ‘That’s brilliant! Congratulations!’ The words come out on autopilot, shortly followed by that crashing wave of shame that I feel whenever I so much as see a pregnant woman in the street. That little voice that haunts me: look, there’s someone stronger than you. Someone who could cope with the most natural thing in the world.
‘Thank you so much!’ This time, her whole face lights up as she throws her arms around my neck. I respond by holding her tightly, breathing in the thick scent of her perfume. I feel my stomach turn over.
What the hell is happening to me? Not here, please, God, not now.
‘I . . .’ I say, but my hand flies to my mouth and I feel that familiar cramping in my stomach muscles.
No, no, no, I tell my brain. You do not feel sick. You are not going to be sick. You are not pregnant.
Vivienne notices.
‘Are you OK?’ she says. ‘What’s the matter?’
I shake my head, hand still covering my mouth, eyes wide. Then I gesture towards the toilets at the back of the bar, and stand up.
‘Let me come with you,’ Vivienne says. ‘God, you poor thing. Must be something you ate?’
I don’t trust myself to speak, so even though I want to tell her that I’m fine, I let her follow me to the loos. She rubs my back the whole way, clearly concerned that I’m ill, but thankfully lets me go into the cubicle on my own. I shut the door behind me, giving her concerned face as much of a half smile as I can muster, and then lean over the toilet, my hair hanging in my face.
I’m not
going to be sick, of course. I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime, and there’s nothing wrong with me. It’s all psychosomatic, in my head, although Claudia says this doesn’t make it any less real.
I allow the nausea to subside, and then I straighten up, put the lid of the toilet seat down and sit on it, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes on some toilet paper. I’m crying and I hadn’t even realised it.
For God’s sake! I need to get a grip.
There’s a gentle tapping on the door.
‘Do you need me to call someone?’ Vivienne says. ‘Are you OK, darling?’
I stand up and open the door, pulling myself together.
‘Sorry,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Funny turn. Must have been something I ate earlier . . .’
‘Ugh, food poisoning is the worst,’ she says, taking my arm. ‘I’m lucky, I haven’t had any morning sickness yet – just trying to gear myself up for it.’
I smile weakly, grateful that the initial rush of nausea has gone. It was just the shock. As Claudia always says, to be expected.
‘I’m so sorry. I totally rained on your parade there.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
We go back through to the bar and take our seats at the same table.
‘Tell me everything,’ I say, swallowing. All the while my eyes are scanning the room for any sign of Kim. ‘I’m so excited for you.’
‘Well,’ she says, leaning forward and taking my hands. ‘It was kind of crazy. I had just persuaded Sean to book an appointment for a fertility assessment, and then I realised my period was a day late. I didn’t think much of it at all, given how often it had happened and it had been nothing, but I thought, just maybe . . . so I took a test, really expecting it to be negative, but there it was. Two lines. No doubt!’
‘That’s amazing,’ I say, squeezing her hands. ‘It really is. I’m so happy for you.’
‘That’s why we’re doing this ridiculous party,’ Viv says, glancing around at the crowds of multicoloured outfits. ‘A kind of last big celebration before our lives change forever and all that. Although it’s shit for me to be honest because I can’t drink, and Sean seems to be on a mission to get as drunk as possible for some reason.’
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 16