The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  The nurse had looked a little sheepish, offering in a kindly tone, ‘I know it’s a horrible term, we’re not supposed to use it any more, but some of the literature is a little out of date.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should get new literature,’ Lucy had suggested, as she flicked the corner of the page back and forth with her thumb.

  The nurse had nodded her agreement.

  Jonah had squeezed her hand. She stared at him, not knowing how to put into words just how devastating it was to think of her baby as a retained product of conception. A thing. A product. Waste.

  ‘This can’t have been an easy time for you,’ the doctor spoke, drawing her into the now.

  ‘No, it hasn’t.’ She smiled at the understatement. ‘We were wondering’ – she coughed, trying to maintain her composure and move the discussion along – ‘if there was someone we could go and talk to for advice. Maybe I’m doing something wrong?’ She took a sharp intake of breath; speaking these words aloud caused a pain in her chest.

  The doctor smiled at her and his face changed from stern to kindly. He removed his glasses and placed them on his desk before folding his hands over his ample belly.

  ‘This is a conversation that I have too often, sadly. And I wish it were as simple as giving you the one golden solution that would make things work, but that isn’t the case.’ He paused. ‘There are so many reasons for early miscarriage; it could be down to abnormal development at a very early stage, hormones or even a minor infection and a whole host of other things.’ He waved his hand in an arc. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Mrs Carpenter, trust me. I see hundreds of women who experience the exact same thing as you and then go on to have a perfectly healthy full-term baby. In fact, this is usually what happens.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ She gave a faltering smile. ‘Should I maybe go and see a specialist anyway, just in case?’

  The doctor gave a single nod. ‘That is your prerogative, of course, but we wouldn’t be able to organise it for you until you had experienced at least three, or maybe more, early miscarriages.’

  ‘So I would have to go through it again before I got a referral?’ She found this unbelievable.

  ‘Yes.’ The doctor nodded and looked down, indicating that he too found the policy regretful. ‘That is the process, largely because of the reasons we have discussed – that usually women who have two or three early miscarriages do then go on to have perfectly healthy babies. And it makes the investigation and any treatment redundant.’

  ‘I don’t want to go through it again, and I’m too scared to take the risk.’

  ‘I understand that is how you feel right now, but please do take heart that just because of your experiences, this is by no means an indicator that it won’t be possible for you in the future. There is no reason for you not to try again, if that is what you decide, as and when you are ready.’

  ‘I wish I could do something more proactive than just wait and see.’ She sniffed.

  He nodded. ‘And you could go and see a specialist, but I should warn you that about half of the couples who have investigations, which can be timely and expensive, don’t ever find out why they miscarried. And I understand how frustrating this must sound but, on the positive side, this is because it reinforces what I said earlier, that there is a good chance of the next pregnancy being successful without any treatment at all.’ He sat back in his chair.

  Lucy looked at the man who seemed so full of optimism that she herself did not feel. ‘Thank you, Dr Millard.’

  ‘Not at all. I hope that what I have told you has offered you a ray of hope, of sunshine.’

  ‘Not really,’ she answered honestly, as she stood. ‘I did want to ask you one thing.’ She hesitated, nervous.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I . . . I have a picture in my head of my little girl,’ she began.

  Dr Millard nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I talk to her and I feel like she’s waiting somewhere for me, and I am worried that it’s not normal to behave like that,’ she stated, as she gathered her bag on to her shoulder, preparing to leave.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, what’s normal? I think you have been through a lot. A lot.’ He paused. ‘And that takes its toll. Do you have someone to talk to?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Keep talking – that’s key. And for the record, I don’t think you need to worry about your behaviour; it’s just another sign that you are a mum-in-waiting.’ He smiled.

  Lucy left the surgery with a hollow feeling of disappointment lining her gut. She had hoped for more, a silver bullet, a magic cure, anything. She now trod the pavement, off to meet Camille from her first day of work. She heard the doctor’s words and hoped and prayed that this was not her destiny – to always be a mum-in-waiting.

  Camille came bounding out of the dark interior of Bill’s with such exuberance it surprised Lucy. This was the most animated she had ever seen her. The girl landed on the pavement in front of her, having almost leapt Tigger-like from the doorway. Lucy was a little taken aback by her short shorts, denim cut-offs that showed an ample amount of her bottom and which she had teamed with a thin off-white cotton T-shirt that was a little sheer. It was tricky; Lucy would have felt far too self-conscious to leave the house looking like that, even if she did have the curves. The voice of reason in her head told her that Camille should be a little more covered up at sixteen, but it was a minefield and one she was wary of entering. She didn’t want to mention anything that would give this stunning girl an ounce of self-doubt over her beautiful figure, and similarly she felt awkward about raising the fact that she felt Camille’s clothes were a little too sexualised. Maybe it was her that was out of touch? She smiled broadly as the conversation flowed from her stepdaughter, watching as she tucked her hair behind her ears and flapped her hands around to demonstrate what she was trying to describe. It made a pleasant change from the monosyllabic or reluctant responses that Lucy had to tease out of her ordinarily.

  ‘. . . and I’m working with Emily and Dex, and Dex is so cute! He’s seventeen and part-time like me and the rest of the time he’s at college and he’s going to be a DJ and he already does, like, really big club nights. And Emily is really cool too. It’s her parents’ store and she’s full-time, but she’s also a tattoo artist.’

  ‘Don’t let her practise on you; your dad would flip!’ she managed to interject.

  ‘Her tattoos are really beautiful; she’s got like roses with thorns and other little flowers growing off the vine and they are these really pretty shades of pink and orange and she wears this awesome clashing bright red lipstick and her hair is like amazing!’ She stopped to draw breath. ‘And the clothes in the store are incredible. Leather jackets from the fifties – is that like before the war?’

  ‘Almost.’ Lucy smiled, thinking it might be a good idea to invest in a history book for Camille to take back to school.

  ‘And Dex said he’d teach me to drive. I told him I was seventeen in three weeks.’

  ‘So you are!’ Lucy blushed, having quite forgotten the girl’s birthday was looming. ‘Although I’m not sure it’s a good idea to get driving lessons from someone you have only just met; he might be a really bad driver.’ She laughed, her message semi-serious. ‘And in fact I don’t think it’s a good idea to drive in central London at all, not until you have found your feet.’

  ‘Dex said it’s easy; he had to learn to drive and get an old car because he’s always had to rely on himself. He has no one looking after him. It makes me sad. He’s got no dad, no family, apart from his mum, who is like a complete bitch, and it was the only way he could think to get away from her.’

  ‘Camille!’ Lucy stopped walking and looked at the girl.

  ‘What?’ Camille stopped walking too; she turned to face Lucy, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

  ‘I detest that word. It’s horrible. And you can’t talk about someone like that, especially not someone you have never met, and someone’s mum.’ She was aware of her authori
tative tone, but the girl was only sixteen and was in her care.

  ‘What do you care? You don’t even know her!’ Camille shouted.

  ‘And neither do you, but that’s not really the point.’

  ‘Lighten up, Lucy. Here’s a newsflash for you: not all mums bake cakes and help you with your homework; some are in fact complete bitches!’ Camille emphasised the last word in absolute defiance. This not only shocked Lucy, but hurt her too. She had the distinct feeling that this was directed at her.

  Lucy opened her mouth to respond, preferring that they didn’t have this altercation in the street, but, as she did so, Camille turned and broke into a run, disappearing around the corner at the end of the road. It was such a sea change from the jovial chat they had been enjoying only seconds before that it left her a little stunned. She looked up and down the pavement to which she was rooted, almost as if looking for a clue as to what had just happened.

  I think it’s fair to say that I never think about the negative aspects of you. I never picture telling you off or feeling pissed off with you in any way. I can only ever see you as a smiling, beautiful, happy girl. I think about you and I sitting at the table in the kitchen and poring over prospectuses for colleges and universities, trying to decide over a mug of tea what might be best for your future. I watch you tap the pencil against your teeth, still undecided between architect, veterinary surgeon and lawyer. We weigh up the pros and cons of each and, exhausted by the task, we take a break for a tea refill and a piece of flapjack. And I feel like your friend as well as your mum, and that feels amazing.

  TEN

  Lucy took her time, walking home slowly with a layer of upset and confusion sitting on top of the emptiness she had felt since her visit to Dr Millard. She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer for strength before putting her key in the door. The first thing she heard was Camille’s crying, huge gulping sobs that came from the sitting room, interspersed with the sound of Jonah cooing his words of comfort.

  ‘Don’t cry, Cam! Don’t let anything spoil your first day at work; this should be a happy day,’ he soothed.

  ‘It was a happy day!’ Camille shouted.

  Lucy let her bag fall to the floor and walked into the sitting room with a feeling of dread. Jonah’s expression was one of confusion. He looked torn. His body twitched, as if he wanted to jump up and talk to her but knew that when Camille was crying his rightful place was by her side. She felt the cold creep of exclusion wash over her once again and it wasn’t pleasant.

  Camille looked up at her with tear-stained eyes and sank further back in the cushions with her mouth set in a pout.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to run off, Camille.’ She looked at the girl, who avoided her eyes.

  ‘I think she’s got herself a bit flustered.’ Jonah’s smile was fleeting. It disturbed her to see how quickly he tried to justify Camille’s actions without speaking to Lucy first. It made it very clear in whose corner he stood.

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I was a bit flustered too. I’m not used to being spoken to like that, and equally I would never talk to anyone like that, especially in the street, but I can see how upset Camille is right now, so—’ She was in the middle of offering an olive branch, about to suggest that the histrionics were attributable to a lot of excitement in a strange environment, a way for the girl to save face and for them all to move on, when Camille sat forward and spoke over her.

  ‘You just don’t get it, Lucy! Not everyone has a perfect life!’ The petulant outburst was that of a little girl, a stark reminder to Lucy that she was just that. This was not a disagreement with any intellectual parity between the two.

  ‘I know that, Camille, and I wasn’t making a judgement on anyone’s life or anyone’s parenting.’ She looked skyward at the near absurdity of the conversation and how quickly it had deteriorated into this fiasco.

  Jonah’s words floated into her mind: ‘Geneviève’s having a bit of a tough time with Camille. I told her it’s probably normal teenage rebellion . . .’ Suddenly, she understood all too well what the woman might have been referring to. She chose a softer tone of reconciliation. ‘What I objected to was the word you used, in public, very loudly, in my neighbourhood. A word that I find reprehensible.’

  ‘What word?’ Jonah looked at Camille.

  Lucy looked at the girl, waiting for her to speak, wanting her to come clean. She was now certain, after hearing Jonah ask the question, that Camille’s account could not have been that full or accurate.

  Camille shrugged.

  ‘What word, Lucy?’ He looked at her. She understood he was seeking clarification, but couldn’t shift an underlying resentment at the fact that she was being questioned in the same vein as Camille.

  She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Do you know what? I have had a bit of a day, to put it mildly. I am going to go and have a long soak in the bath and leave you two to chat. If you want to talk to me when I am done, Camille, you know where I am.’

  Lucy lay in the bath, listening to the drip of the ancient plumbing and casting her eyes over the jumble of bottles that littered the top of the medicine cabinet in the corner. They were mostly old cologne bottles that were wrapped in a thin, sticky film of dust and needed throwing away. This was just one collection of Jonah’s that drove her crazy, from the disused, defunct sports rackets and bats that filled a shelf in the wardrobe to his shoebox full of beer mats that clogged precious drawer space in their bedroom. There had been a time when she first moved in when she found his clutter endearing, homely; now she simply wished she could spring-clean without feeling guilty or being accused of destroying his heritage. She closed her eyes and lay down in the hot water, letting the warm foam of her bubble bath cover her skin. With her ears submerged, she could hear the distorted burble of the conversation in the sitting room, as high squeaks and low baritone responses reverberated up underneath the tub and hit her ears. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she let her mind wander to the cool, calm interior of her apartment on the Thames Path. She pictured neat and tidy Ross over on the other side of town, running his hands over the clutter-free surfaces and walking into the spacious wardrobe, and she wept with envy. At that moment in time she would have liked nothing more than to go there for a break, to revel in the solitude and dance barefoot on the tiled floors while drinking wine and wearing a face pack.

  Don’t be stupid, Lucy, she reprimanded herself. This will pass. You are just tired. Too tired.

  She had fully intended to go downstairs after her bath and grab a drink with Jonah, observing the old adage that you should never go to bed leaving things unsaid. The lure of the soft mattress had proved too much, however. Lucy had slipped seamlessly from her bathrobe into her pyjamas and under the duvet. Flitting in and out of sleep, she lay with a small inch of pink cotton fabric nestled in her palm, finding comfort in the contact, as she always did. She looked up at the ceiling through narrowed lids, as the last of the evening sun filtered through the leaves of the silver birch by their window, casting a dappled gold across the room. The pattern shifted in the gentle breeze. Birds perched on the telegraph pole tweeted up a cacophony that to her tired ears sounded a lot like bickering. The bedroom door opened slowly.

  ‘I thought you were going to come back downstairs. I’ve been waiting for you.’ His tone was a little accusatory, suggesting she might have been deliberately hiding out.

  He might have been right.

  ‘I thought I would too, but I got rather comfy and seem to have taken root.’ She smiled, patting the mattress and pushing the pink cotton item up under her sleeve to retrieve later. Jonah kicked off his shoes and, still in his suit trousers and with his shirt sleeves rolled up, he lay next to her on the bed, his head resting on the stack of pillows that he always threw on to the floor, one by one, as the night progressed. The two lay side by side on their backs, both looking up at the beautiful display across the ceiling. It was certainly easier to talk when not sitting face to face.

  �
��How’s Camille?’ Her concern was genuine; she hoped she had stopped crying.

  ‘She’s good. Had a little weep then spoke to her friend in Poitiers – Alison?’

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, Alice; and then she went up for an early night with a box of crackers and tub of cream cheese. I don’t think any amount of distress could dampen her appetite.’ He laughed.

  ‘Oh, Jonah, what a horrible day. I don’t really know what happened with her. One minute she was gabbling, happily talking about work and the people she had met and I genuinely felt like we were making friends.’ She looked across at him briefly, aware of how shallow that might sound; she was, after all, the girl’s stepmother. ‘Then she used the word “bitch” so casually and aggressively and I told her that was not okay and she got so mad. I certainly didn’t want to take the gloss off her first day at work. I think I was alarmed at how easily it slipped from her mouth and the fact that it was aimed at a woman she had never met, but then I was more alarmed at how quickly it escalated. Maybe I overreacted.’ She paused, waiting for him to offer an insight. In truth, she was hoping for reassurance that she hadn’t been in the wrong.

  Jonah took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s different for her generation. I think they do swear more—’

  ‘No, you misunderstand me,’ she cut in. ‘It’s not swearing I have a problem with – I mean, I’d rather she didn’t, of course – but if it had been just that I would have given her a look of disapproval, a bit of a jokey reprimand to keep the peace and we could have moved on, but it was more than that. It was that particular word. I meant what I said to her – I detest it. There is no male equivalent; it’s vicious. I find it judgemental.’