The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  In later life, probably as the pain has subsided a little and I have patched the holes in my life that you would have filled, with work, with Jonah, with holidays and all manner of happy distractions, I will then have to go through it all again. Not only have I had to watch my friends and family holding their babies, but I will then want to slope off to a dark place while they press pictures of grandchildren into my palms and regale me with the achievements of the cleverest, cutest kids ever born, beaming with a pride that I can only dream of.

  It’s as if the punishment for me will go on and on until my dying day. The little ripples of not having you here with me will get bigger and bigger, as the years pass, until I can no longer see the point at which it began, but will live in the middle, trapped by the rolling rings of consequence from that one thing: losing you. You will always remain the one thing that I crave. The one thing I want. And that thought, this realisation, makes me sadder than I can ever say.

  TWELVE

  Lucy stood in the shower, lamenting the arrival of her period, soaping her body with vigour and disliking her inability to do anything about the situation. She considered this monthly event, knowing that for some it brought sweet relief. For others it was just an irritation to be suffered, an inconvenience during any holiday or special occasion. But for her, it was a tangible sign of her failure, and it was hard not to let it get her down.

  You’ve got to be patient, Lucy! Her little pep talk did little to alleviate her disappointment. She watched her loss snake along the shower tray in a thin, dark, winding tributary, and cried quietly into the deluge.

  Dressing quickly, knowing that time was of the essence, she towel-dried her hair, creeping down the stairs before Jonah woke and Camille surfaced, happy that Camille’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday. She had decided to go to town. This was a chance to build a bridge, and not just any bridge, but one that sparkled with pizazz and fairy dust! Fay’s comments had troubled her, and this was a chance to show just how grown-up she could be about the whole situation.

  The two helium balloons that had been collected the day before and had spent the night hiding in her wardrobe were now standing in pride of place in the corner of the kitchen, hovering on long blue ribbons that were weighted at the bottom. A large shiny silver number one bobbed next to a large shiny silver number seven. They made quite a statement. The cake, which she had ordered from the snazzy Pru Plum’s bakery in Mayfair, was stunning. Knowing that Camille wanted something a bit different, she had chosen this magnificent creation that now sat in pride of place on an ornate glass cake stand on the breakfast table. Sitting on top of a dense, rich base of buttery shortbread crumble was a pristine New York baked cheesecake that had been artfully decorated around the border with a wealth of glazed halved strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, all finished with a dusting of powdered sugar. In fine dark chocolate script were the words ‘Happy Birthday Camille’. It looked beautiful and was just the perfect dessert for the tea party they had planned for this afternoon.

  Jonah’s card sat propped against the wrapped gifts, and hers sat beside his. They decided to send one each, wanting Camille to have as many cards as possible to adorn the shelf. There was one that had arrived in the week from France, and this too now stood proudly with the others, including one from West Malling, Kent, and one in Lucy’s mother’s instantly recognisable handwriting.

  Lucy made the pancake batter and set it to rest on the side before painstakingly coring, peeling and chopping an array of ripe fruits, including nectarines, apples and pears, which she placed into a glass bowl. She then prepared virgin cocktails of cranberry juice, freshly squeezed lime and sparkling mineral water, poured them into long glasses, garnished them with a rip of mint, and left them to cool in the fridge. A batch of plump, buttery croissants was warming in the bottom oven, and a bowl of glossy strawberry compote was ready to be served. Fresh coffee had brewed, sending its heady aroma out into the atmosphere, and now all she needed was the birthday girl.

  Jonah bounced down the stairs, arriving in the kitchen in his bare feet. ‘Oh my! This looks and smells wonderful; you have been busy.’

  ‘I thought it would be a nice thing to do.’

  ‘It really is. You are lovely. You should have woken me up.’ He yawned. ‘I’d have helped you.’ He rubbed his eyes and fastened his cotton dressing gown over his T-shirt and plaid lounge pants.

  ‘Jonah, you can hardly stay awake now, let alone if I’d got you up any earlier!’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, I wanted a little bit of time alone.’

  ‘Oh, not working on the weekend again? Do I have to confiscate your work laptop?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You know the rule.’

  ‘No.’ She concentrated on pouring him a cup of coffee. ‘I got my period today.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy.’ He walked over and took her in his arms. ‘We just need to keep practising – that’s the good news, right?’ He kissed the top of her head. She knew he was trying to turn the sad moment into a humorous one, and he nearly succeeded. Lucy knew deep down, however, that these words were not enough of a sticking plaster to keep her dark thoughts at bay.

  Suddenly they were aware of the thump of footsteps on the stairs, and they parted.

  ‘Happy birthday to you . . .’ they both sang loudly and out of tune, each bolstered by the other’s carefree performance. Camille stepped down into the kitchen looking freshly risen with her hair mussed and her skin glowing. She covered her eyes in mock embarrassment, before beaming broadly at the sight that greeted her.

  ‘Oh, wow! Look at my balloons – they are so cool!’ She stood with her pyjama sleeves pulled down over her dainty hands, hands over her mouth, looking at the stack of gifts and inhaling the rich aromas of what promised to be a lovely breakfast. ‘Oh, and look at my cake!’ she squealed, noticing the stunning centrepiece for the first time.

  ‘It’s from Pru Plum’s,’ Lucy pointed out, wanting Camille to know she had gone to the trouble to make things as perfect as they could be.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy. It’s gorgeous.’ Camille unexpectedly walked across the room and placed her arms around her stepmother. Lucy felt a surge of something close to love as the girl held her tightly.

  ‘You are very welcome,’ she whispered, as she held her in a warm embrace. ‘Happy birthday, Camille.’

  As the two women parted and Lucy turned her attention to retrieving the cocktails from the fridge, she noticed Jonah had turned his back to them both at the sink. If she didn’t know him better, she would have sworn that he was crying.

  The birthday breakfast was a feast of mammoth proportions. With her and Jonah’s playlists shuffling on the sound system, Camille saw fit to mock both of their tastes in music, and by the time the pancake course was cleared away, croissants polished off, cocktails drunk and the fruit salad ladled into bowls, they had conceded, and Camille put her phone into the docking station, filling the kitchen with the heavy guitar and monotone, indecipherable crooning that she favoured. She and Jonah put their heads in their hands and laughed.

  ‘It’s not my fault you guys are so old!’ Camille mocked lovingly.

  Lucy pushed the little stack of presents towards her stepdaughter. ‘Come on, open your gifts!’ she urged. ‘Before we get any older.’

  ‘I’ll start with my cards first.’

  Lucy smiled, remembering doing the same when she was younger, wanting to savour every second and make it last.

  She and Jonah sipped coffee and forked mouthfuls of fruit into their already full tummies while they watched Camille, with a bright spot of colour on each cheek, carefully extract every card and read the messages slowly, holding each one up to show who it was from. It was a task she undertook with humility and evident joy, which was heart-warming.

  The card from Geneviève and Jean-Luc was short and sweet, depicting a large, glittery gift tied in a bow. Inside were three short lines and a whole bunch of kisses.

  ‘From my mum!’ She smiled and placed it on the shelf. Lucy couldn’t help but n
otice that the card was the generic kind she might grab in a hurry from a convenience store, bought in a rush along with milk and plastic-tasting white bread and without too much consideration of the recipient. She buried the thought; maybe she was just being mean and again the lack of gift could be explained because it was hard to send things over that distance, and costly too. Lucy knew without a doubt, however, that if it were her daughter it wouldn’t matter where she was in the world. That girl would receive a gift and a card with the words ‘For My Daughter!’ emblazoned on the front and a carefully chosen reminder of home.

  Happy Birthday, this is for you, a single kiss to mark your special day, my darling . . .

  ‘Oh, thank you both! That’s great. I can get that blouse that’s just come into Bill’s! Thank you!’ Camille fanned the two twenty-pound notes that had been placed inside her card and slowly read the message from her dad.

  Lucy felt her stomach bunch in anticipation as Camille then pulled from the envelope the cream, hand-cut card she had chosen. On the front was a sketch depicting a vintage handbag, the kind she hoped Camille would like.

  ‘I love this!’ Camille raved. ‘I can get it framed! Can we get one of those little frames from Ikea?’ Her enthusiasm brought a lump to Lucy’s throat.

  ‘Of course we can.’ She smiled; it was a great feeling to know that she had chosen well. The message she had written was simple and well considered: ‘To Camille, I wish for you nothing but wonderful things in your coming year. May your dreams come true and may the path that leads you to them be without bumps! With love, Lucy x’.

  ‘Thank you.’ Camille smiled again before attacking her gifts with childlike abandon. Holding up the tan leather anklet with a beautiful turquoise stone that Fay had sent, Camille beamed. ‘Oh my God! I love it!’ She immediately placed it around her ankle and admired the way it looked by twisting her leg to the side and photographing it in close-up on her phone and sending the image to her friend Alice for good measure. Lucy reminded herself to let Fay know just how delighted she had been with her gift.

  The grey cotton waffle robe Lucy had chosen for her was similarly well received, along with a box of chocolates, two spiral-bound notebooks for school and three disposable purple fountain pens, which Lucy had chosen on the basis that she would like the gift herself.

  ‘Oh these are so cool! I love stationery!’ Camille enthused.

  ‘Me too!’ she echoed, ridiculously happy to have unearthed another connection.

  Both flicked through the empty notebooks, agreeing, much to Jonah’s bemusement, that there was nothing quite as nice as a fresh, clean notebook, awaiting the touch of an ink pen and the endless possibilities of what it might contain.

  With all her presents unwrapped, Camille sat back on the bench and surveyed the detritus of gifts and food and wrapping paper.

  ‘I’ve never had such a lovely birthday morning, ever!’

  Lucy doubted this was true, not when Camille and her mum were so close, but she loved her for saying so nonetheless.

  She and Jonah cleared the kitchen, stopping to kiss and chat, as the radio burbled away in the background and the sound of Camille, singing happily in the bath, filtered through the floorboards from above.

  ‘I think she’s having a great day,’ he commented, raising his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Thank you. She got some lovely gifts. You are so good at this stuff. I can’t remember the last time I saw her on her actual birthday, but I know it was years ago. And I didn’t do half as good a job as this. I think we went out for a wander around the Victoria and Albert Museum if I remember rightly.’

  ‘It’s been easy and fun! My mum and dad always made a big deal of our birthdays when we were small, and I remember how lovely it was to feel like I was special on a day that was so ordinary for everyone else. And for the record, I would have loved a day at the V&A. Still would.’

  ‘I find it a bit strange how you and your mum don’t seem that close, and yet you had this idyllic childhood. What happened?’ He sounded curious.

  Lucy shrugged as she placed the birthday cake in the fridge. ‘I don’t know. I think things changed for me after my dad died, and they certainly changed for her.’ She busied herself inside the door, organising the bottles and jars that had been shoved in rather haphazardly.

  ‘Your father would be so ashamed!’

  ‘But not for Fay? I mean, she and Jan seem to get on really well,’ he pushed.

  ‘I don’t know, Jonah. Maybe she just likes Fay more, or maybe Fay is just a goody-goody!’ She tried to employ his favoured method of layering humour to ease the situation.

  ‘I don’t see Fay as a goody-goody, not at all. I don’t know, just something I was wondering about. It always feels like there is a little bit of an edge to the way you and your mum interact. It’s like you’ve just had a fight. I know that sounds crazy.’ He laughed.

  ‘I don’t know what more to say, Jonah; why don’t you ask my mum?’ She closed the fridge door a little forcefully. Please don’t push me on this. Her thoughts were loud and intrusive in her mind.

  The two were quiet for a second or two. Lucy gathered up the discarded shreds of wrapping paper and scrunched them into a ball before pushing it into the recycling box.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting the elusive Dex this afternoon.’ Jonah sucked in through his teeth and straightened his back as he dried the cocktail glasses with a dishcloth.

  She was glad of the change of topic. And was similarly excited about meeting the boy who apparently took her stepdaughter out to lunch, introduced her to his friends who visited them at Bill’s, and took her for a spin on his BMX around Queen’s Park. It would be good to finally put a face to the name. ‘Really? You are looking forward to it? Your words say one thing, but your body language screams the exact opposite!’ She laughed.

  ‘I’m trying.’ He winked. ‘It’s an odd feeling. I still think she’s a little girl and yet here she is, old enough to drive a car, God help us all.’

  She high-fived this; her fear of Camille on the road was just as real.

  ‘And as if that is not enough to petrify me, she’s bringing home a boy she’s dating. I mean, if you can call it that. I think it’s more of a friendship.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I could put the brakes on the world and keep time at bay for a few more years. I knew how to handle her when she played with My Little Pony and all it took to make her day was a Happy Meal with her dad.’

  She hated that he might never get to do these things with their baby.

  ‘It’ll be fine. And you know that you will always be able to make her day with a Happy Meal if she’s eating it with you.’

  ‘Minus the hamburger now of course.’ Jonah laughed.

  ‘Of course.’ She rubbed his arm. ‘And as for Dex, he will probably be feeling more nervous than we are. We shall make him welcome.’

  ‘Oh, Lord above – now I am nervous. Supposing he’s horrible, arrogant?’ He put the cloth on the drainer and stared at her.

  ‘Again, we have to remember that this is Camille’s choice. Plus, if he is, we can take comfort from the fact that it’s purely a little holiday fling and she will be abandoning us for France in a month or so. These little romances are good practice. I had one with a boy once.’ She paused, thinking of Scott . . .

  ‘Oh, do tell me more!’ He laughed.

  Lucy opened her mouth and sought a reasonable substitution in her mind. ‘Let me see . . . we met at a caravan park in Tenby, he let me braid his hair, and I thought that was a great recipe for future love and happiness.’

  He laughed again. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘I think about nine.’

  ‘Okay. My jealousy has faded, and for the record if you want to braid my hair you can.’

  ‘That’s so sweet, darling, but you haven’t enough to braid.’

  ‘Ouch!’ He ran his hand over his thinning pate. ‘That was brutal.’

  Lucy had thoroughly enjoyed her interaction with Camille that morning and had loved preparing
for her birthday. Their conversation, however, reminded her that in just a few weeks they would have the house to themselves again and she would no longer feel the need to tiptoe around Camille, craving her approval.

  This would also be the best time to get back on track with trying for a baby, and at this thought her spirit felt a lift of joy.

  With Jonah out for a run, no doubt trying to jog off the three croissants and two pancakes he had devoured, Lucy took advantage of the quiet lull in her day. It had been an early start, and she was glad of the opportunity to sit on her bed with her latest knitting pattern spread out in front of her, running over the instructions with her finger on the text, reading out loud: ‘Place the needle under the top stitch and bring the yarn back over the first stitch. Twist around in a loop and repeat . . . What? That makes absolutely no sense!’ She scratched her head with the end of the needle and read it again.

  She felt the beginnings of regret that she had chosen to make an intricate blanket, with a raised pattern and a soft, feathered, lacy edge. She had only managed a few rows, and now her only hope was that as her familiarity with the pattern increased, so too would her confidence and then her speed.

  Lucy looked up as Camille slowly pushed open the bedroom door, half knocking and calling out ‘Hello?’ as she did so, offering plenty of time to afford Lucy some privacy should she need it.

  ‘Hey, Camille. Just having a breather.’ She always felt a little guilty for taking time out to relax.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Camille sat on the edge of the bed with one leg beneath her and ran her hand over the pattern.

  ‘I’m knitting.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knitted!’ She laughed with a little disdain to her tone.

  ‘You can laugh, but it’s the most relaxing thing I know. I can sit for hours and knit and I get lost in it. I forget my troubles and think about nothing other than the wool between my fingers, and sometimes when I stop knitting, I find that solutions pop into my head. It’s like pressing my reset button. It stops me overthinking.’