by Cate Woods
Luke always likes to hear about what Dot and I have got up to while he’s been at work, so as I finish preparing dinner I tell him about our day, deliberately leaving out any mention of my morning’s outing while I decide whether or not I should just forget the whole thing. Luckily, I have big news: Dot rolled over for the first time this afternoon, which according to all my baby books makes her something of a rolling prodigy.
‘Well, she’s obviously going to be sporty,’ says Luke, his eyes lighting up with pride. ‘I should get a football for her, get started on ball skills early . . . And how about we take her skiing next year? I could look into it now, I bet we could get a really good deal if we book early . . . What do you think, Annie?’
I burst out laughing – not because the idea itself is laughable (although it actually is, because Dot won’t even be two by then so may not even be walking, let alone skiing) – but because I’m overjoyed to hear Luke making plans for us as a family. I very much doubt a man who was thinking about running off with another woman would be so eager to fix up a holiday with his current girlfriend, especially this far in advance.
Yet for all the evidence suggesting that it wasn’t Luke I saw this morning, the vision of the man in the red hat is seared into my mind. While Luke is upstairs changing out of his suit, I reluctantly come to the conclusion that I am going to have to ask him about it. Otherwise I’ll forever have doubts, which will at some point in the future – no doubt in the middle of an argument about something totally unrelated – suddenly explode messily out of me.
By the time he comes back downstairs I have plated up the shepherd’s pie, poured the wine and am sitting at the table waiting for him. I was pretty shambolic in the kitchen before Luke and I got together, but I’ve now got a solid repertoire of crowd-pleasing dishes under my belt. This is partly thanks to my friend Claris, who has her own catering company and has taught me her best easy-yet-impressive recipes, and partly because now I don’t have a career I have no excuse not to be able to cook. Nowadays I even own an apron – and I wear it.
Luke slides into the seat opposite me. ‘This looks delicious, patatina, thank you.’ (Patatina is Luke’s nickname for me. It means ‘little potato’ in Italian. It’s endearing, apparently.)
‘Great!’ I say, a little too brightly. ‘Buon appetito!’
As Luke tucks in, I take a large gulp of wine for courage. It’s now or never . . .
‘So,’ I ask, my voice deliberately light, ‘what did you get up to today?’
Luke shrugs, eyes on his plate. Avoiding eye contact. ‘Not much, really. The usual crap.’
I try again. ‘Did you get out of the office at all?’
‘I nipped out at lunchtime to get some sushi, but that was it. You know what it’s like on Wednesdays.’ He waves his fork at his plate. ‘This shepherd’s pie is delicious, Annie.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ I say, smiling through the jitters. ‘So . . . you just had meetings all morning then?’
‘Pretty much,’ says Luke, still focused on his food. ‘What have you done differently with this, Annie? Have you put lentils in it?’
Oh Christ, this is torture. Why doesn’t he give me a straight answer? I’ve never really had a reason to analyse what he’s saying quite so closely; perhaps Luke’s always this vague, and I just haven’t noticed? Clearly, I need to take a more direct approach.
I take a deep breath and just come out with it. ‘Luke, do you have a red woolly hat? Like a beanie?’
Ah, now I’ve got his attention: he looks up and his eyes lock onto mine. I feel a stab of fear – what if he says yes? What am I going to do then? – but although his expression is quizzical, he doesn’t look remotely guilty, and after a moment he shakes his head.
‘Come on, I’m a Chelsea fan – remember? Wouldn’t be seen dead in red. Why d’you ask?’
‘Oh, there was one in the hallway this morning. I wondered if you’d dropped it.’
‘It probably belongs to Damian,’ shrugs Luke casually, mentioning our neighbour. ‘He’s a Gooner, poor bloke.’
And with that he returns to his food. Surely if it was him I saw today, my question would have indicated that he’d been caught red-handed – or rather, red-hatted – and there would be at least a flash of concern, or some inkling of guilt. I can’t believe Luke is that good a liar.
I still feel the need to test him further though, to put my mind completely at rest.
‘So, I had an interesting morning,’ I say, after we eat in silence for a few moments.
‘Oh yeah, what did you get up to?’
‘Fi offered to babysit, so I went shopping.’ And now for the killer blow: ‘On Oxford Street.’
The moment I utter the words I hold my breath, on tenterhooks for his reaction: I’ve as good as told him that I caught him cheating – if, indeed, the mystery cheater was him. But without even the slightest of pauses, Luke looks up and beams, his face radiating pleasure.
‘That’s fantastic! You were seriously overdue a bit of me-time. So how did it feel, being out in the real world again? Did you manage not to phone Fiona every five minutes to check on Dottie?’
He looks so happy for me that I’m engulfed by a wave of shame. I’ve got this totally wrong, haven’t I? I’ve thrown everything I had at Luke, but he gave me absolutely no cause to doubt him: there was no weird body language, no stiffness, no awkward silences. All I had to go on is a distant half-glimpse of someone who looks a bit like him (from the back) out of a grubby bus window – and this from a woman who recently microwaved her phone. If this was a court of law, the verdict would be unanimous: ‘Not guilty, m’lud.’
I feel the tension drain from my body, and I realise just how much I’ve worked myself up over this non-event. Well, that was a waste of a day’s brainpower on needless worrying.
After dinner we snuggle up on the sofa together and watch a film. Thanks to Luke’s doting Italian mama Lucia, who regards feminism as the devil’s work and raised her only son amongst four daughters as a prince, my boyfriend has some fairly old-fashioned views on gender roles (while he certainly wouldn’t go as far as insisting that a woman’s place is in the home, I know he’s perfectly happy that he’s the breadwinner and I’m in charge of the house and Dot). But tonight he is noticeably caring and attentive, fetching me a cup of tea and offering me a foot rub. He’s certainly not acting like a man who’s about to run off with another woman. If anything – and I don’t think this is too much of a leap, in light of the ring-size query – he seems more like a man with marriage on his mind. I’ve never been that fussed about getting hitched, but since having Dot I’m definitely warming to the idea. It might be nice to have a party to make our little family official, and Dot would look seriously cute tottering down the aisle in a tutu and sparkly trainers. Perhaps Luke’s feeling the same way too?
It’s nearly 10 p.m. and I’m thinking about getting ready for bed when Luke’s mobile starts to ring. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he picks it up, checks the caller ID, puts it back on the sofa without answering (screen down) and returns his attention to the TV. I feel an unpleasant stirring of something that I hope is indigestion.
‘Aren’t you going to get that?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anyone you know?’
Luke shrugs. ‘Just work stuff. Whatever it is can certainly wait until morning.’
The ringing stops, and I have to firmly remind myself that it’s far from unusual for Luke to get work calls this late, and that I should be glad he’s not interrupting our time together to deal with it.
I sit up and stretch. ‘Well, I’m going to give Dot her dream feed and then call it a night.’
‘Okay, patatina,’ says Luke, leaning over for a kiss. ‘I’ll be up shortly.’
I’m halfway up the stairs when he calls to me. ‘Oh, Annie, I nearly forgot; I’m afraid I’m going to have to work late on Friday.’
I stop in my tracks. Friday is the one day of the week he always comes home early so
that he’s here for Dot’s bath and bedtime; I don’t think he’s ever missed it.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level.
‘Yeah, sorry, there are these important clients coming over from the States. But I’ll make it up to you on Saturday night, I promise. Our big date, remember?’
Then he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and despite myself I return his grin; he looks so excited. Plus am I really going to mistrust him forever just because I imagined seeing him cheat on me?
‘Can’t wait,’ I say, blowing him a kiss.
Dot doesn’t stir when I open her door and creep over to her cot. She is lying on her back and in the light from the hallway I can just make out her ridiculously long eyelashes, her tiny nose – Luke’s, not mine, thank God – and that perfect pink rosebud mouth. I lean down until I’m close enough to hear her breathing and smell that gorgeous baby-scent and stay like that for a few moments in the warm darkness, just watching her sleep.
At times like this I’m almost frightened by the strength of my love for my daughter; in fact, I don’t think the word ‘love’ really cuts it in this situation: this overwhelming, all-consuming, 24/7 obsession is something else entirely. Shortly after Dot was born, I remember watching a David Attenborough documentary in which a baby wildebeest wandered away from its herd while a hyena was circling, hungrily, and I was hit by such a fierce, desperate surge of protectiveness that it left me breathless. I realised then just how vulnerable I am now; I knew without a doubt that if anything bad ever happened to my child, it would destroy me.
Dot doesn’t even open her eyes when I lift her from the cot and carry her over to the rocking chair in the corner where we have our late-night feeding sessions. She latches on instantly, her little mouth working away rhythmically; the breastfeeding comes so easily now I’ve almost forgotten the struggle we initially had to get the hang of it. While Dot’s guzzling I pull out my phone to play Candy Crush (she can often be on there for a good half hour) and I discover a text from Fi.
How did it go? Anything to report? Hope all good. Call if you need to chat. Fx
After a moment’s consideration, I start to type a very long text recounting the conversation I had with Luke this evening – his reaction, my conclusions, blah blah blah – but then, in the glow of the night light, my eyes fall on the silver-framed photo that hangs over Dot’s cot. It was taken minutes after I’d given birth: Dot is just a tiny pink scrap lying on my chest, nuzzled into my neck, while I smile down at her, looking pretty good considering what I’d just been through. Luke has his arms around both of us and is gazing into the camera with an expression that hovers somewhere between astonishment and ecstasy. I love that picture; it’s a perfect distillation of all the incredible emotions of that moment. And then I glance down at Dot, who is still chugging away at my boob, cheeks flushed, perfectly content with her little world. I drop a kiss on her head, then delete my original outpouring and write:
Thanks for checking up on me, Fi, but it was a false alarm. I’m going mad clearly! Nothing to worry about at all xxx
4
I have this theory that your name plays a significant role in deciding your destiny. Think about it: would Madonna have become the world’s biggest star if she was named, say, Pam? Would Beyoncé be a bootylicious pop goddess if she’d been christened Janice? I don’t think so. Which goes to show why I’m a little less than satisfied with my name: Ann. Three letters, none of which are even remotely interesting. Not for me a Tantalising T or a Brilliant B – I’m stuck with one Average and two Normals. My parents didn’t even think to stick an Enigmatic at the end, which at least might have added a dash of French flair. So since I was a kid, I’ve tried to offset some of my name’s blah-ness by going by Annie.
It doesn’t help that my younger sister was given the far more dazzling name of Tabitha – and if Tabitha Taylor wasn’t alliteratively alluring enough, she recently married a man named Jonathan Tempest, so is now Tabitha Taylor-Tempest, which sounds like the best character in a Jilly Cooper novel. As if to prove my brilliant name theory, Tabitha’s life is like a character’s in a Jilly Cooper novel, too: she works in an art gallery, her husband’s family live in a Cotswolds manor house, she is kind and beautiful – with the cutest little button nose – and she makes jam in her spare time. I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m jealous, because I’m not – I adore her. Tabby’s three months pregnant and I can’t wait to be an auntie – not least because none of my other close friends have had babies yet, so I’ll finally have someone to talk to about blocked milk ducts and cradle cap.
Seeing as we’re all in our thirties now, I guess it’s quite surprising that I’m the only one of my group to have become a mum. Fiona is über-broody, but wants to wait until she and her fella Finn are married before starting a family; Claris, who I’ve known since primary school, is in a committed relationship with her new catering business; and my newly divorced friend Jessica has never wanted to be a mother, even when she was (briefly) married, because, and I quote, ‘Having a child is so fucking predictable.’ Also: ‘I don’t need the hassle.’ And: ‘A baby would get in the way of me having sex with lots of unsuitable men.’ In the circumstances, I think it best for all concerned if she keeps her coil in.
I’d hoped I might make some mum friends at NCT antenatal classes, but Luke didn’t want to go. His official excuse was that he was too busy at work, but I think it was more to do with the fact that he didn’t fancy discussing vaginal mucus plugs or role-playing the different stages of labour with a roomful of strangers; he’s just not that type of guy. Surprisingly, however, I did manage to get him to come to a hypnobirthing class – although that was only because it was on a Sunday when Chelsea weren’t playing, and I told him he might get a massage.
That one class was all it took for Luke to realise that he would really prefer to be outside the hospital delivery suite while I was giving birth. He was extremely apologetic, but it was actually a relief: he’s quite squeamish about bodily functions, and from what I understood there was a significant possibility of pooing during labour (me, not him) and I didn’t want to have to worry about repulsing Luke on top of everything else that would be going on. Besides, while hypnobirthing might have scared off one birth partner, it supplied me with another, far better one: the class teacher, Sigrid.
If you could create the ideal person to help you through a twenty-eight-hour labour, including some intense forceps action, then it would be Sigrid. The woman should have ‘human epidural’ printed on her business card. She looks like a Scandinavian hippy goddess – all blonde plaits, freckles and open chakras – and just the sound of her voice is enough to send you into a blissed-out trance. Luke jokes that she’s the living embodiment of joss sticks and mung beans, but then he’s deeply suspicious of anything remotely ‘alternative’.
As well as teaching hypnobirthing, Sigrid works as a doula, which is another word for someone you pay to allow you to scream at them during labour, and thank God she agreed to be mine for Dot’s birth. Understandably, going through something akin to trench warfare creates a bond, and we’ve since become good friends; in fact, she’s coming over to babysit Dot for our big date on Saturday night. Yet for all her earth motherliness, Sigrid doesn’t have any children of her own, which means that I still have a vacancy for someone to moan/drink wine with in the afternoons. As a result, I’ve just started taking Dot to a mother and baby music group in the hope that I’ll meet a like-minded soul who’s not averse to mixing breastfeeding with booze.
Raggy Rhyme Time takes place every Thursday morning in our local church hall and is run by a middle-aged woman dressed up as a rag doll, with painted-on red cheeks, a ginger wool wig and the dead eyes of a long-term hostage. ‘Raggy’ plays the guitar and sings ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ while the mums sit in a circle shaking tambourines and the babies chew the mini-maracas and cry. As far as I can work out, the children get absolutely nothing out of this – as most of them are too young to sing,
play the panpipes or even support the weight of their own heads – but at least the mums can feel that they are assisting the development of their offspring’s cognitive and motor skills. Plus – more importantly – it provides an opportunity to complain about how little sleep you’ve had over custard creams at the end of the session.
Today is the second time I’ve been and I nod to a couple of women I recognise from last week. Dot slept through our first visit, but at least that gave me a chance to learn the actions to ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’, and today I try to get to grips with the twenty-seven new verses that have been added to ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ since I was a child (‘Row row row your boat, gently round a puddle . . .’).
After the singing is finally finished and Raggy has disappeared off to neck some vodka, the mums congregate around the tea urn. All the excitement has sent Dot to sleep, so I put her in the pushchair and then, feeling like the new kid in class, approach one of the women I’m already on nodding terms with.
‘Hello.’ I smile brightly. ‘How old’s your little one?’
‘Sienna’s four months. Just got your first tooth, haven’t you, poppet?’
We coo over her baby, who is dressed in what I’d call Princess Charlotte chic: smocked dress, cashmere cardigan and patent booties. In comparison, Dot’s plain white Babygro makes her look like an asylum inmate – but at least it doesn’t require dry-cleaning.
‘I’m Annie,’ I say. ‘Mother of Dot.’
‘Oh, you’ll have to get used to introducing yourself like that,’ chips in another woman, who is grappling her baby with the dexterity of a seasoned pro. ‘My eldest is at nursery and I’m only ever addressed as “Theo’s Mum”. I don’t think they even know my real name.’
Her real name, it turns out, is Margo, she is a mum of three, and once we get the initial parenting chat out of the way – ‘Five hours’ sleep? I had three and a half – and I’ve got mastitis in my left tit’ – I discover that she is head of HR at a French aerospace company. Sienna’s mum, it transpires, is director of a large publishing house, while another woman who joins us with her twins is the CFO of a Swiss bank. All this collective corporate brilliance, brainpower and ass-kicking-ness, now spent doing the ‘Hokey Cokey’. It just seems . . . well, a bit of a waste.