The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  They crossed roads and ducked through traffic, while Jonah masterfully held up a hand to cyclists and couriers, intent on slowing them down. She looked up and recognised the entrance to St Clement’s Gardens.

  Jonah shrugged his arms from his jacket as they made their way along the meandering path, eventually laying it on the grass under a spreading plane tree before settling back and inviting his bride to sit. Lucy crouched and took a seat on the pale silk lining of his jacket.

  ‘I’m worried your suit will get dirty.’ She ran her hand over the shiny fabric. The new platinum band on her finger glinted in the sunshine.

  ‘I’m not.’ He retrieved a packet of sour strawberry laces from his trouser pocket and pulled one out, handing it to her.

  ‘My favourite! Strawberry laces!’ She clapped before lowering the sour, worm-like liquorice into her mouth with Jonah sat by her side. ‘This is lovely.’ She looked around at the weathered graves, impressive statues, moss-covered obelisks and faded grandeur of the Regency era, nestling on the beautifully kept grass. A leafy oasis in central London where the sharpened edges and shiny glass of modern architecture encroached on the space if she let her gaze wander too high over the walls.

  ‘How do you like being married?’ he asked, leaning over to graze her mouth with a light kiss.

  ‘I like it very much so far.’ She looked at her watch. ‘All twenty-two minutes of it.’

  Jonah kissed her again. ‘I wanted to bring you here not only because it’s beautiful—’

  ‘Which it is,’ she interrupted, speaking as she poked the remainder of the sour strawberry lace back into her mouth from where it had escaped.

  ‘But it’s also good to be among the dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ She pulled a face. ‘Not quite the wedding speech I’d envisaged, but do carry on.’

  He took her hand into his. ‘I love you, Lucy Carpenter.’

  She smiled at this, and felt quite coy at the first use of her new name.

  ‘I love you,’ he continued. ‘You are the very best thing that has ever happened to me. You’re like a prize for the best raffle in the world that I didn’t even know I had entered.’

  ‘Thank you. I think. Although right now I feel like a prize – a mid-week steak dinner for two.’ She laughed.

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘What I am trying to say is that you are like a glorious second chance that I didn’t think I had any right to, and I will treasure you every day, because, as all these people know’ – he circled his hand around them – ‘since they are long dead and buried, time passes in a blink. They were us once, sat here, and now they’re not.’

  His sobering words made her wish she wasn’t chewing on the childish waxy candy that she couldn’t seem to swallow. She nodded.

  ‘I love you, Lucy, my wife, and I want us to make the most of every single brilliant day that we get together. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ she managed, swallowing the sour treat before her husband leant in for a kiss.

  ‘Look at you, sitting there smiling,’ her husband teased her, as he walked into the sitting room.

  ‘Sorry. I shall try to look more miserable.’ She gave a mock frown and turned down her mouth.

  ‘That’s better.’ He took in her stern face. ‘You know, there is something very sexy about watching you knit.’ Jonah slumped down on the end of their oversized sofa in his jeans and sweatshirt, sinking into the squidgy cushion with a mug of tea in his hand.

  ‘I don’t see how.’ She laughed, curling her feet in her bedsocks up under her legs. ‘It’s what most people associate with their granny.’ She paused, laying the needles in her lap with the wool still looped around her fingers. ‘Probably because it is often our granny who teaches us how to knit; at least it was mine who taught me. It’s partly why I love it; makes me feel close to her. I can hear her tutoring me if I get stuck or make a mistake.’

  She’d been only seven the day her gran taught her, and by then the old woman’s voice had borne the crackle of age: ‘You need to concentrate, watch me and then you can do it for yourself. How does that sound?’

  ‘Good.’ She nodded, huddling closer to her gran on the stiff-backed sofa where a lace cover hung down to protect the never-seen green velour. Lucy’s nose twitched against the peculiar smell of her gran’s house – a mixture of mints, cologne, lavender and something vaguely medicinal.

  ‘Here we go.’ Her gran looped a long tail of wool over her little finger before winding it around her index finger; working quickly with the knitting needle and her finger, she popped tiny loops on to the metal rod. ‘This is called casting on,’ she explained, ‘and these little woollen lines are your stitches. We need to keep them nice and even.’

  Lucy nodded, wriggling closer still to get a better look over her gran’s plump yet dexterous fingers.

  ‘And just you wait and see, something magical happens, Lucy, just by adding more loops, and with more twists of the needle you can make all kinds of wondrous things!’

  ‘Like what?’ she had whispered.

  ‘Like scarves for people you love, and most important’ – she had bent down and almost mouthed her next words – ‘baby clothes,’ giving them an almost sacred significance that had stayed with Lucy.

  ‘Good Lord,’ her husband’s words drew her to the present. ‘When you put it like that, I must admit all sexy thoughts have indeed vanished from my mind.’ Jonah curled his top lip. ‘I am now only able to picture your grandma.’

  ‘How dare you pull that face? You never met my gran. For all you know she might have been very sexy.’ She laughed.

  He cradled her foot in his hand and rubbed her toes inside the pretty sock, gently shaking his head. ‘Maybe sexy was the wrong word; I know I’m certainly regretting using it. I think the word “sweet” might be better; watching you knit makes you look nurturing and homely. I like watching you do it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s like the alternative you, the true you, the one who doesn’t wear a suit and worry about budgets and advertising campaigns. When you knit, you are my Lucy.’

  Lucy flexed her foot against her husband’s palm. ‘I am always your Lucy. And I like the end result of my knitting very much. Look at this.’ She held up the slender needles, from which dangled a half-formed white matinee jacket; the lacy scalloped stitches were delicate and pretty.

  ‘It’s beautiful, you clever old thing.’ Jonah’s compliment made her smile.

  ‘For my gran, knitting for the new babies of the family was almost a rite of passage, a way of welcoming them. My mum and aunts used to pass the little garments around, so we all wore Gran’s knitting at some point. We have endless pictures of Fay and me, my cousins and their kids too, in the same cardigans, bonnets and tiny booties with lace or ribbon threaded through the top. And since she died, all of those items have become so much more precious. I think that when you knit for someone, it takes so much time and concentration, it’s literally impossible to make a garment like this without love.’

  ‘That’s a great thing,’ Jonah agreed.

  ‘I can’t believe our little bunny will be wearing this, can you?’ She beamed, holding it up once again and feeling another wave of pride at her handiwork.

  Jonah shook his head and blinked as if a little overcome at the prospect. ‘And just so we are clear, I will only let you dress him in this girlie stuff until he is a few months old; then I will most definitely be stepping in and insisting that he wear denim and army camouflage and football shirts.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Anyway, we don’t even know if it’s a boy – might be a little girl.’ She smiled at the image, caring little about the sex of her baby, knowing that when it arrived it would miraculously be the exact baby she had been hoping for.

  ‘I just picture a boy. I don’t know why,’ he confessed.

  ‘Maybe because you already have Camille?’ She nodded towards one of several pictures of Jonah’s willowy teenage daughter, who lived with her mum, Geneviève, and stepdad, Jean-Luc, i
n La Charente, France.

  ‘Possibly, or maybe it’s just my instinct.’ He reached across and rubbed her still flat tum. Lucy felt a kernel of warmth beneath his touch; it bloomed inside her into joy. Here she was, married, happy at work and pregnant. She was winning the race.

  ‘Well, one of us will be right.’ She smiled. ‘Did I tell you what I read today?’ Without waiting for an answer, she reached down and placed her knitting on the scrubbed wooden table by the side of the sofa and picked up the book that was never far from her fingertips – a pregnancy manual.

  She had vowed not to read ahead, knowing that the excitement would be more than she could contain. Instead, she awaited every marker, reading and learning each milestone. Today was one of those days.

  Flipping open the pages, she let her eyes rove the illustrations that fascinated her and smiled before lifting the book closer to her face and reading deliberately.

  ‘At week eleven your baby is growing well and is now about the size of a chicken’s egg but it is much tougher, with quite sturdy bones. It will now weigh up to fourteen grams.’ She lowered the book. ‘Can you believe that? Fourteen grams and already so tough. Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘It really is.’ He chortled. They were both so happy. She knew that for Jonah this pregnancy was a chance for him to experience all he had missed with Camille.

  ‘When do you think we can start telling people?’ she asked eagerly, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘Well, we agreed that twelve weeks would be a good time, so anytime from now on I guess, but I think you should bear in mind that, once you do, it’ll set in motion a whole chain of events.’

  ‘At work, you mean?’ She pictured the half-smiles of her bosses, their congratulations tinged with sourness at the inconvenience her absence would cause, but that was just too bad. She knew they were very good at talking the talk when it came to flexibility and accommodating maternity leave, but the reality behind closed doors was a little different, sadly.

  ‘Yes, at work.’ He released her foot and sat up straight. ‘It won’t be easy for them to lose someone in your position; it will create ripples.’

  ‘It won’t be forever.’ She kept her eyes low.

  ‘Lucy.’ He laughed. ‘I have a strong suspicion that when you get your hands on this baby, hell or high water will not drag you back to that desk. You will be besotted – you are already! And the idea of you handing him over for someone else to look after is laughable. I know you are leaving all options open and I think that’s the right thing to do, but I would bet my Hawaiian shirt on you wanting to stay home.’

  ‘And you love that shirt!’ She smiled, beaming at the seed of truth in his words. From the second she had found out she was pregnant, her excitement had bounced like a rubber ball in her mind, distracting her from every task in hand and demanding her attention. It took all of her strength not to run the length of every street with her arms spread wide, shouting ‘I’m going to have a baby!’

  ‘I do. But I can’t see you hotfooting it back to the world of advertising anytime soon after, can you?’ Jonah asked earnestly.

  Lucy chose to ignore the shard of panic that pierced her thoughts. She was undoubtedly looking forward to becoming a mum, but the idea of giving up a job she loved and a role that she had worked so hard to attain caused a ripple of self-doubt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, slouching down on to the cushions and putting her head on his shoulder. ‘I am hoping that I can find a balance. I’ve worked too hard to just walk away from all that I’ve achieved in my career, plus I love it, I really do and I don’t want to give it up. I guess I’m hoping that a middle ground will appear somewhere. Millions of women manage to strike that balance – Tansy, for example, and Fay has always worked. I think it’d make me a better mum if I kept my dreams and aspirations alive. Maybe I’m being greedy, but I don’t think I need to choose. And talking of Fay, I’d quite like to tell her. She will of course tell my mum straight away. But I was thinking maybe this weekend?’

  ‘Of course! Let’s do it. And I get it; it’s exciting.’ He kissed the top of her scalp. ‘But remember that once you tell your sister, she will tell the whole world; she won’t be able to keep it secret.’

  Lucy nodded, knowing this would be true. She felt a shiver at the prospect of breaking the news to her mum, Jan. She rubbed the top of her arms to ward off the sudden chill that shot up her spine and settled on her shoulders.

  ‘Mummy, mummy? I think I’m having a baby . . .’

  Jonah’s voice was low. ‘You okay? You look miles away.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Of course.’ She nodded with more enthusiasm than she felt.

  Jonah continued: ‘You know, don’t you, that Fay will start to harass you with a gutful of good intentions and a headful of experience about what it was like when she was pregnant with Maisie and Rory, and that will drive you mad, and you will then start to avoid her or argue with her or both.’

  ‘You’re very good at this,’ she remarked.

  ‘Good at what?’ he asked.

  ‘You know, sussing out the whole family dynamic. Considering you have only been saddled with us all for just over a year, you’ve got your head around it very quickly.’

  ‘You make it sound like a compliment.’ He chuckled.

  ‘It is! Goodness me, you are impressive, Mr Carpenter.’ She wrapped her arms around his arm and held it to her. ‘But I also think that somewhere in your rationale lies a reluctance for this little bit of news to get out, because once it has, you will then have to talk to Geneviève and Camille, and if I had to guess I would say that you are trying to avoid it.’

  She felt a deep sigh leave his body.

  ‘Oh, I hate that you might be right,’ he confessed.

  She knew there was no ‘might’ about it.

  Both instinctively let their eyes wander to the photograph sitting in front of a collection of books on the overstuffed shelves. It was of their wedding day, an image snapped on a phone that Jonah held at arm’s length as they stared up at the screen.

  The planning for their wedding was the first time Lucy had fully understood the impact of Jonah’s first marriage on their lives. Not only was he wary of his feisty ex-wife, whose tendency towards hysteria had not been tempered by her marriage to a French farmer, but he was also like a rabbit caught in the headlights when it came to his sixteen-year-old daughter, Camille.

  ‘The thing is, love, the longer you leave telling them about the baby, the more you will dread it and the worse it will be. And that takes a bit of the gloss off your happiness, which isn’t fair on anyone,’ she rationalised, running her hands over her stomach. ‘You might be pleasantly surprised – Geneviève might actually be happy for us!’

  ‘I know. She might,’ he agreed. ‘But on the other hand, she might not, and I can’t stand the idea of more conflict; we can’t talk like normal humans. She’s impossible, twists everything I say and has this knack of making me feel like the bad guy all the time. It was bad enough when I told her we’d got married. Instead of congratulating me, she huffed loudly and muttered “Typical”. She’s just mean.’ He pinched his nose.

  ‘It’s difficult sometimes when an ex moves on.’

  ‘It’s been years!’ he reminded her.

  ‘I know, and it’s hard to explain, but sometimes, even though you don’t want that person any more, and no matter how you have split, acrimoniously or otherwise, it’s still a bit jarring to hear that the person you once loved has moved on. I think it’s the fact that someone has taken your place. None of us like to think we are dispensable.’

  ‘But surely that’s not always the case? I was happy she had Jean-Luc, the poor man, delighted for him to take my place as you put it, and more than glad that she became someone else’s headache.’ He laughed.

  ‘Ah, don’t be mean. Plus, things are different now; you’ve got me here to fight in your corner.’ She nuzzled against him.

  ‘I have, and you’ve given me confidence. I mean,
you don’t think I’m an idiot, do you?’

  ‘Not all the time.’ She smiled.

  ‘And I joke about it, but I know she must influence Camille,’ he continued, ‘and that gets me more than anything, like there’s this big debate going on and I’m not there to defend myself. She gets more airtime than me.’

  Lucy understood. She had been eager to meet her stepdaughter from the get-go, badgering Jonah to make it happen.

  ‘Soon. Soon,’ had been the familiar, muted response, before he found a way to distract or silence her, usually with a kiss or cake.

  ‘Won’t she mind not coming to the wedding?’ she had asked more than once as they booked the registrar, selected matching wedding bands and woke on the day itself. The girl’s absence had bothered her.

  ‘Isn’t it far easier if we don’t invite anyone?’ he had suggested. ‘I think it should be just the two of us and a couple of anonymous witnesses. We’ll do it and then announce to the world, “Hey, guess what we just did!” That way no one gets offended. A blanket ban on guests means we get the day we want.’

  ‘So you’re not even going to tell Camille?’ She had struggled with this, knowing that her sixteen-year-old self would at least have liked to know about it. It rankled her still that the announcement had been made after the event, done over the phone without her involvement in a rather unceremonious ‘and by the way . . .’ manner. She felt it devalued their big news.

  ‘Trust me; it’s fine. She’ll only tell Geneviève and, you know . . .’

  Lucy didn’t know, but she was beginning to understand that Jonah was more than a little anxious where his ex-wife and child were concerned.