The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  She noticed the slight tremor to the girl’s lip and the reddening of her cheek, as if smarting from Lucy’s words of rationalisation.

  Camille flicked the edge of the brochure with her agitated fingers and glanced at the door, as if figuring out how to make her getaway.

  ‘I don’t want to fall out with you, Camille, in fact the exact opposite.’ She softened her tone.

  The girl stared at the fireplace. ‘I was only saying my dad’s had loads of girlfriends. And my mum thinks it’s pathetic,’ she spat, sounding a lot younger than her seventeen years and looking for all intents and purposes like a child as her leg jumped and her eyes misted with tears of frustration.

  ‘Your dad’s a grown man. Of course he’s had girlfriends, just like I have had boyfriends, but the big difference is, I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his wife,’ she emphasised.

  ‘Oh yeah, of course,’ Camille retorted with a conviction that threw her completely. ‘And I’m sure this time it’s really different,’ she scoffed, as she hopped from the sofa with her brochure under her arm and ran up the stairs.

  ‘Camille!’ Lucy called after her, to no avail.

  Lucy had barely noticed that the sun had begun to sink, leaving the room bathed in the muted grey of evening. A new range of emotions that felt close to madness confused her; her gut swirled with a sick feeling of inadequacy, and a headache sat behind her eyes. It mattered not that she recognised Camille’s venomous words as those of an angry teen, designed to wound, or that she could take comfort from the thin platinum band on her left hand, a sign of Jonah’s commitment to her. Lucy felt agitated and inadequate. Both feelings were alien to her and all the more unsettling for it.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she whispered aloud. Her eyes settled on the bookshelf, staring at the spines of her husband’s collection of books on the French Revolution. Dark thoughts came tumbling in like a rolling tide in the dead of night.

  Camille hates me, I know it. I don’t know how else to try. I thought I’d made headway with her and then this. I’m tired. I want to hide. I can’t keep smiling through. I want time to grieve for what I have lost . . . I feel like everything is an illusion, being Camille’s stepmother, trying to carry a baby . . . what about Jonah? Is he an illusion too? How many others have sat in this room, waiting for him to come home?

  The temperature in the room had dropped; Lucy folded her arms across her chest and tried to muster warmth. She looked up at the sound of Jonah’s key in the door. It was a late night for him, having been wined and dined by a glossy London magazine looking for his advertising business.

  ‘Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought you’d gone out and abandoned me!’ He flicked on the floor lamp and it cast a honey-coloured glow over the wooden floor.

  ‘No. I’m right here,’ she managed.

  ‘Have you been crying?’ He studied her face.

  ‘A bit. Yes.’ She rubbed her stinging eyelids.

  ‘What’s up, Lucy?’ His tone was a little more jovial than her mood demanded, and it bothered her that he didn’t pick up on this.

  She levelled her gaze at him. ‘Lots of things, I guess. I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself and possibly overthinking everything. Camille is . . .’ She let this hang, noting how Jonah pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if he couldn’t stand to hear about another episode.

  ‘Camille is what?’ He sighed.

  Lucy tried to rehearse the words in her head, hoping that they might come out in a way that was casual and not accusatory. ‘How many women have you had living here before me?’ she managed, failing miserably.

  Jonah loosened his tie and undid his top button. ‘What?’ He sank down on to the sofa beside her. ‘Where’s this coming from?’ he asked, laughing.

  She ground her teeth together, hating that he was laughing when her sadness was very real. ‘Camille said earlier that she’d been introduced to lots of women who had lived here before me and it’s made me feel . . .’ – she decided to dilute exactly how it had made her feel: grubby, insecure and vulnerable – ‘it’s made me feel a bit shaky.’

  ‘Well that’s absolutely ridiculous!’ he boomed.

  ‘Possibly,’ she smarted. ‘But it’s playing on my mind a little.’

  ‘Well don’t let it,’ he reasoned.

  Lucy ran her palm over her forehead. If only it were that easy. She felt her anger stir at how he dismissed her concern with his clichéd response.

  ‘I guess I was feeling a little out of sorts, and I’ve been thinking about your very smooth courtship. It got me wondering how many others have been given the same treatment.’

  ‘Are you serious? Tell me this is some kind of joke?’ He sat up straight.

  Lucy placed her arms across her chest. ‘It’s not a joke. I didn’t think you’d been living like a monk, but I guess it never really occurred to me that there might have been others living here, sleeping in our bed before me, meeting Camille . . .’

  ‘I’m nearly fifty! What did you think, that I had a high school sweetheart and then sat back waiting for you?’

  ‘No! I’m not saying that.’ She hated the way his words painted her – the way he was painting her. ‘But Camille said there had been loads and that made me feel uncomfortable.’

  Jonah took a deep breath, the kind that might precede any placatory statement. ‘There have been a few women, yes,’ he confessed. ‘Less than ten, more than three, if I had to summarise, but none of them have lived here. Stayed over here, yes, but not lived here. Eaten supper here, yes, but kept a toothbrush here, no. And frankly I resent the suggestion that I have some kind of turnstile on the front door with an endless troop of women coming in and out, to all of which I give a bloody door key. I’m not that person!’ Jonah shouted, which was rare.

  ‘I’m not saying you are.’ She struggled mentally with how else to make her point.

  ‘Well, it sure sounds like it. I don’t know what to say to you. I was really looking forward to coming home; I have missed you today and sat through a boring dinner with thoughts of you in my head. This is the last thing I thought I’d be walking into.’

  Lucy stared at him, feeling irritated and confused that she had made him feel this way. This was not how she had seen their conversation working out. His words had done little to reassure her and she needed more from him.

  He spoke slowly. ‘You have been through a lot, my Lucy, and everything is still a little raw.’

  ‘That’s true, but I’m tired, Jonah. I’m tired of the way Camille snipes at me, says things that leave me reeling. It’s not fair. I can’t get through to her. I don’t know what her issues are, but I can’t take them on.’

  ‘No, it probably isn’t fair.’ Jonah stared at her. ‘But the way you are behaving, it sounds to me like you might be jealous.’

  She twisted towards him. ‘Why are people saying that to me? Why are you saying that to me?’ She yelled now. ‘I am not the jealous type.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because it sounds a bit like—’

  She cut in: ‘I am not jealous, Jonah. I am pissed off! Mightily pissed off!’

  ‘I can see that, but it’s ridiculous! Good God, your ex has married your cousin. It’s only a matter of time before we have some fantastic family reunion and I get to shake hands with him and look him in the eye. You can only imagine how much I am looking forward to that day,’ he confided. ‘But does it threaten me? Of course not! Because you are my wife! And I love you.’

  She drew breath, trying to ascertain just how far to escalate this row and to figure out whether she had the strength for it right now. ‘I just don’t like to be uninformed. It was the way she said it, “you’re not the first”. It made me feel like an idiot, as if I was temporary.’ There, she had said it, and as she did so the tears of anguish and frustration clogged the back of her nose and stung her eyes.

  As Jonah reached out a hand to pull her towards him, the sitting room door opened and Camille walked in, looking cute in
her pyjamas and new dressing gown. She had freshly washed hair still damp on her shoulders, a glowing complexion and was smiling quite serenely.

  Go away! Please just go away! Lucy urged the girl with her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, sorry, are you two fighting?’ she asked, looking from one to the other. Lucy was acutely aware that she would have heard everything; these old houses were not built for acoustic privacy.

  ‘How was your day?’ Jonah ignored the question and for this Lucy was grateful.

  ‘Great!’ She beamed. ‘I think I’ve chosen my course and it’s so cool.’

  ‘Wow! Things are really moving forward,’ he stated.

  ‘Anyway, sorry to interrupt you two, but, Dad, is it okay if I call Mum from your phone? My battery is low and I can’t find my charger,’ Camille said calmly. But for Lucy, even hearing the words ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ in the same sentence made her feel like a stranger in her own home, a stranger whom no one called Mum.

  Maybe Tansy and Jonah are right. Are you being oversensitive, Lucy?

  ‘Sure. Help yourself. It’s on the hallstand.’

  Camille nodded as she bounced from the room.

  Strangely, the girl’s intervention had slowed the pace, broken the cycle of their row. The two now sat side by side. Lucy re-evaluated her words and tried to think of a way to change the course of their conversation and bring it back to harmony. She was too tired for anything else. She would again bury her sharpened words and hope that time might blunt them.

  Jonah beat her to it. Taking a deep breath, he took her hand into his.

  ‘The thing is, if I could have met you in school, if you could have been my childhood sweetheart, then I would never have loved another. Not only would I have let you braid my hair, but I would have found what I was looking for and I would have been content. But that didn’t happen, and I had to kiss a few frogs before I found my princess.’

  ‘I think it’s supposed to be kiss a few frogs until you find a prince.’ She laughed.

  ‘No, I definitely didn’t want to find my prince. I wanted to find my Lucy.’ Leaning forward, he kissed her nose.

  She looked up at him, his words thawing the ice-laden dread that had filled her up.

  ‘I meant every word I said to you on our wedding day; you are like a glorious second chance that I didn’t think I had any right to, and I treasure you every day.’ He bowed his head. ‘And if you think that after waiting all this time to find you I am going to let anyone or anything put even the smallest dent in our happiness, then you are wrong. I love you, my wife.’

  Lucy’s eyes teared. She felt infinitely better and tried to ignore the quake of fear she felt when she thought about Camille staying with them permanently.

  Jonah whispered in her ear: ‘Now, how about we have an early night and you let me hold you tight?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ she returned the whisper, kissing the close beard on his handsome face.

  The evening had stirred something in her gut that left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. As he placed his arms around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were not resolved. Not yet.

  High school sweetheart. Jonah used this phrase and, as ever, it set my pulse racing. I sometimes think about that first flash of love and lust that can shape you in ways in which you can never imagine. I have friends who, even as their years advance, have confessed that to escape from the chaos of family life they stop, elbow-deep in suds at the sink or with a mountain of paperwork awaiting them, and stare out of a window into the starry sky above and imagine, just for a second, what a life with that boy might have ended up like. They remember the glorious bubble of happiness that filled them morning, noon and night. The way he smelled, the things he said, the first time he touched their skin and the fact that they knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that no one else in the whole wide world had ever, ever had a love like that before. They were Romeo and Juliet, or Scarlett and Rhett, and they were confident that this unique love would never falter . . .

  For me, it’s a little different. If I think of his face, I feel a stab of rejection so acute that I place my shaking hand on my gut and pull it away with caution to see if I am bleeding. I smell bleach and feel the plastic of the mask placed over my nose and mouth. My tears come in a rush without warning, a deluge that blinds me, so I have no choice but to sit and weep and try to bury that face, that image, until my tears stop and I can stand up and carry on with my day.

  FOURTEEN

  Lucy had stayed in close proximity, as requested, hovering in the background in the kitchen while Jonah spoke to Geneviève. She had watched him sweat over making the call to his ex, drawing breath and rehearsing the words. In the end, the woman gave her immediate blessing for Camille to start college at the end of September. His relief had been swift and evident. Lucy, however, had hoped at some level that Geneviève might veto the idea, leaving her off the hook and free from blame should it transpire that Camille had to go back to France.

  Lucy had, in light of this new development, adopted a new strategy: avoidance. She hoped that she would feel better about things the more she got used to the idea, but until that point she worked later in the office, gaining nods of approval and praise for her dedication and results on the eco energy project. At the other end of the day, she was up with the lark, pounding the pavements with a new-found energy to her running that helped her to think less. Her mapped run offered blissful moments of escape during which she was able to ignore the background hum of Jonah’s bullish antics and the fact that he had stopped mentioning their plan to become parents. All that filled her head was the music from her earphones and the feel of the tarmac beneath her feet.

  It was as she ran one morning, while the rest of the world was reaching for its first caffeine fix, that a dull ache spread across her breasts. She decided it was time to invest in a new sports bra; her hatred of shopping meant she would click a few buttons online and get one delivered.

  This thought was suddenly replaced with the realisation that her period was due.

  Her very next thought was that the prospect of falling pregnant was not nearly so joyous when faced with the possibility of losing this baby or of having to share the news in a house that Camille resided in.

  Instantly she berated herself, thinking of the man she loved and recalling how she and Jonah had agreed that a baby would make Camille feel more involved. A new baby to unify them – who could resist that joy? Trying not to get ahead in her thoughts, she slowed her run until it was nothing more than a brisk walk and she arrived home. Jonah had already left for his four days of team building in Scotland. Golf followed by budget planning and sales forecasting were on the agenda. She had smiled through gritted teeth as she waved him off, feeling a gutful of resentment at the fact that he was able to up sticks and go off on his jolly when the house felt like it might explode with all that was being left unsaid.

  Camille slept soundly as Lucy pulled off her trainers and ventured upstairs to the bathroom.

  The routine was more than familiar. She peed on the little stick – she had secreted a supply of them beneath the cotton wool balls in a basket at the bottom of the cabinet. She let the shower run and peeled the vest and sports bra from her skin, throwing it into a pile in the corner of the room. Then she grasped the spatula and blinked at the window that revealed the result.

  Pregnant 1–2

  Staggering back, she sat down on the toilet and gripped the little wand to her chest. She felt quite overwhelmed, confused even. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted a baby, but the situation in the house made her wary of what a positive result might mean.

  ‘Let’s try and do this, little one. Let’s try and go the whole way, because I am waiting for you and I won’t let you down! I won’t!’ she sobbed, trying to remember a time when she had greeted this result with nothing more than a whoop of joy and an electrifying jolt in anticipation of all the good things to come.

  Lucy looked up at the sound of her office door opening.
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  ‘Goodness me, you are actually smiling! Am I in the right office?’ Tansy made a great show of walking back out and checking the name on the door.

  ‘Very funny! And what are you talking about? I always smile.’ She laughed.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Tansy waggled her finger in her direction. ‘You used to, but more recently all we have had is a half-smile.’

  Lucy recalled a similar comment from Fay; it made her feel a little self-conscious.

  Tansy continued: ‘And that half-smile is the facial equivalent of anyone who works in a shop saying “Have a nice day” when they couldn’t care less if you went outside and fell down a manhole. Your expression was the same; necessary, but not always sincere. But this smile, this one today’ – her friend narrowed her eyes – ‘now this is a real one. You are either in love or you’ve got a secret.’

  ‘Well, you already know I’m in love, so that’s not a shocker.’ She looked back at her computer screen, trying to find a neutral expression that would mask the joy that fluttered in her chest.

  Tansy sat down in the chair on the other side of Lucy’s desk and placed her hand on her mouth. ‘So that means it’s a secret. Hmm . . . promotion?’

  Lucy rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘Go away, Tansy.’

  The two sat in silence for a second, until Tansy gasped and raised her voice.

  ‘Oh my God! You’re pregnant!’

  ‘I . . .’ Lucy was taken aback, unsure whether to lie or what to say to throw her friend off the scent.

  ‘You are!’ She sat forward in the chair, gripping the arms. ‘You are aglow and you are knocked up! Tell me I’m wrong!’ She beamed, expectantly.

  ‘I . . .’ Lucy struggled again to find the words.

  ‘You can’t think of a lie quick enough is the answer! Oh my God! You are! You are!’ Tansy placed her hand over her mouth and sniffed at the tears that gathered.