by Cate Woods
After a while – seconds? minutes? – Sigrid comes back into the kitchen, followed by Luke. They are bright-eyed and smiling, like they’ve had a few drinks. All I can do is stare at them, dazed. It feels like a pair of unicorns have just trotted into the kitchen.
‘So,’ beams Luke. ‘Mystic Meg here reckons our daughter could grow up to be a professional footballer. I’m calling Chelsea FC first thing tomorrow.’
Sigrid gives him a jokey little shove. ‘I didn’t say that, I just said that she clearly has excellent muscle tone and is going to be an early walker.’
I just stare and stare, trying to force this terrible new reality to sink in. This deadness I’m feeling is a bit disconcerting; perhaps I’m in shock?
Luke is the first to notice that something is up, his brow furrowing as he takes in my expression. ‘Annie? What is it?’
I still can’t speak, but now Sigrid notices something isn’t quite right, too. Her smile fades and she glances nervously at Luke. I can tell exactly what they’re both thinking: what does she know?
And then suddenly Dot’s cry fills the room, amplified by the monitor that is still turned up high, and I watch as realisation spreads over Luke’s face like a stain and the implications sink in. His eyes go wide, his mouth hangs slack, and he takes a step towards me and then stops, glancing over at Sigrid, whose expression is the mirror image of his own. Dot mercifully goes silent again, returning to sleep.
God knows why, but I feel utterly calm, sort of like I’m floating outside my body watching me watch them, but it’s the dangerous sort of calm that you know at some point in the near future will shatter into jagged shards of anger and pain.
I finally manage to speak. ‘At what point did the two of you start . . .’ My voice cracks; I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
Luke takes another step towards me, his arms outstretched. ‘Annie, whatever you think you may have heard, you’ve got it all wrong, honestly.’
‘Don’t touch me,’ I snap, surprised by a sudden stab of emotion, a preview of the rage to come. But just as quickly as it hits, it fades, and that spooky calm returns. ‘I asked you a question. Given the circumstances, I think it would be polite to answer.’
‘Annie, what we’ve done is unforgivable,’ says Sigrid, ‘but it’s not what you think, I promise you . . .’
‘So I’ve been hallucinating again, have I? Or is fucking the new father all part of your post-birth service?’
She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. ‘Don’t even try to talk your way out of this, because I saw the two of you at it last week. Not so averse to red hats after all, are you, Luke?’
‘Annie, we haven’t had sex, I swear to you.’ Sigrid holds her hand to her chest, so bloody sincere, a paragon of perfect innocence and integrity.
Luke latches onto this, nodding furiously. ‘We just kissed, that’s all – nothing else!’
‘Ah, so what just happened upstairs isn’t such a big deal then?’ This shuts them both up. ‘To be honest, a one-off shag would have been almost easier to forgive, although no doubt you’ve been working yourselves up to that. Now, if you could please answer my original question, when did this start?’
The pair of them look shiftily at each other but say nothing. All I want is for them to tell me what happened so that I can get as far away from them as possible. The longer this silence drags on, the closer my composure is to exploding: I feel like a rubber band that is being slowly stretched, longer and tighter until it quivers, and I just know it’s about to snap back.
Sigrid is the first to speak, destroying any remaining iota of respect I had for Luke. ‘Do you remember that day when you were having trouble breastfeeding and you phoned asking me to come round and help? Well, after you’d gone to bed that evening, I stayed for a while and Luke and I chatted. Nothing happened that evening, but there was a . . . a spark.’
‘Go on.’
‘So we met up a few days later for a coffee,’ says Sigrid.
‘I phoned Sigrid to ask her to meet,’ mumbles Luke. ‘She didn’t want to, but I pressured her into it.’
‘But why?’ My voice chokes with emotion, and I doggedly fight back the tears. ‘I’d just given birth to your child! We were a family! Wasn’t that enough for you? Am I not enough for you?’
‘Of course you are, Annie, please, I love you . . .’
‘Then why have you been chasing after her?’
‘It’s not like that at all! It’s just – fuck, how can I explain . . .’ He drags his hands through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut. ‘It’s like . . . after you had Dot, I was so in awe of you, of what you’d achieved. You made our daughter. You gave birth to her! It was mind-blowing, and I saw you in a whole new light. The sexual feelings I had towards you suddenly felt wildly inappropriate, because you were this incredible . . . creator of life. And I know it’s absolutely no excuse, and what I’ve done is unforgivable, but I suppose because of that I sort of stopped seeing you as a . . . as a sexual being.’
‘Jesus, spare me the Madonna and whore bullshit!’ I erupt, my fury swelling by the second. ‘I tell you, Luke, your mother has SO much to answer for . . .’ I take a deep breath, trying to stay in control. ‘So, because I had turned into the blessed Virgin Mary, you thought you’d try your luck with Ulrika-fucking-Jonsson over there.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ Luke looks helpless. ‘Annie, you know what a huge shock it is, becoming a parent. You’ve found it tough too, haven’t you?’
‘Everyone finds it tough with a newborn baby, Luke, but most people manage not to have an affair as a coping mechanism.’
‘Annie, I really wouldn’t call this an affair . . .’ murmurs Sigrid.
‘Just shut up! Shut up!’ I shriek, then take another breath to compose myself. ‘Luke, do go on, I think you were just trying to talk your way out of this?’
He fixes me with a look of desperation, but ploughs on. ‘What I was trying to explain was that I found fatherhood overwhelming. The idea that this new little person was entirely dependent on us for everything . . . I was shattered by the weight of the responsibility, Annie. And then Sigrid was just there and I . . . I liked the feeling of flirting, of being able to forget about all the responsibility for a bit and to be . . . free again, I suppose. And then one thing led to another and, well, here we are. I’ve got no excuse. I know I’m an arsehole.’
‘No, you’re far worse than that. You are a weak, pathetic little man, and you’re a coward.’ I turn to Sigrid. ‘So what’s your excuse? Chakras out of whack, were they?’
She just stares at her feet and says nothing, and I’m engulfed by such a surge of sadness that it virtually winds me. Sigrid’s betrayal is almost worse than Luke’s. This is the woman who handed me my baby after I had given birth, who held my hand while my poor, torn vagina was stitched back up again, who I trusted like a sister. The lump in my throat is making it hard to talk now and I know I can’t keep it together for much longer, but I need to know every single sordid detail.
Digging my nails into my palms to stay in control, I turn back to Luke. ‘So how many other times did you two “go for coffee”?’
‘Two or three,’ he mumbles. ‘But we wouldn’t have taken it any further.’
‘Bullshit. I heard the two of you upstairs. You were planning on meeting up next week.’
‘Annie, I love you, you’ve got to believe me!’ Luke is begging me now, close to tears himself. ‘I can’t bear the thought of losing you and Dot. Nothing really happened, I promise! This was just a stupid . . . moment of madness! Please, Annie, you need to get this in proportion!’
I can tell Luke regrets saying this as soon as the words are out of his mouth.
‘Get this in proportion? Let me get this straight, just so we’re all on the same page here. I’ve overheard my boyfriend, the father of my three-month-old baby, sticking his tongue down the throat of a woman I thought was my friend. What exactly do you suggest would be a proportionate reaction in this situation? Because pers
onally, I feel I’m being pretty fucking reasonable, all things considered.’
Silence. Luke is standing with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking at me like a scolded Labrador, while Sigrid is snivelling in the corner. I turn to face her.
‘Anything to say for yourself, Sigrid? Because really, I’m not sure this is a doula win. I can’t say I’ll be reviewing your services that favourably on Yell-dot-com after this.’
She is properly crying now, the tears sending rivers of mascara and bronzer running down her face. Not such a natural beauty after all, then.
‘I’m so, so sorry, Annie,’ she whispers. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’
‘Well, you have.’ I close my eyes and the tears brim over. ‘Just go. Get out.’
Thankfully she does, and quickly; moments later I hear the door close behind her. The numbness is fading fast and anger and loathing are rushing in to take its place. I turn to face Luke and realise I’m shaking.
‘How could you do this to me?’ My breath is coming in gasps. ‘We’ve just had a baby! My body is shot to pieces, I barely know who I am anymore, my hormones are all over the place and you decide this would be a good time to cheat on me! There might be a shittier time to do the dirty, but right now I can’t think of it.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Luke, and I can’t stand the sound of his whiny voice. ‘It meant nothing, I promise you! Can we just sit down and talk about this, please, Annie?’
‘No.’
‘If you’d just give me a chance to explain . . .’
‘I thought you explained already? Something about not fancying me anymore, wasn’t it?’
‘No, no, that’s not it at all, I . . .’
‘Fuck you, Luke.’
I slump to the floor, defeated, and finally the floodgates open, and it’s almost a relief to allow the pain to pull me under. Luke comes over and tries to comfort me, but I can’t bear for him to be anywhere near me; eventually he mutters something about ‘giving me some space’, and a little while later I hear the front door close.
I drag myself up to our bedroom and cry until the sheets are soaked and I’m blanketed by sodden tissues. Usually my friends – Fi, Jessica and Claris – and my sister, Tabitha, would be the very first people I’d call in a crisis, but right now I can’t face putting into words what’s just happened. Because then I’d have to accept the fact that it actually has. Ridiculously, at some point during my sob-fest, I feel a tiny chink of hope when I think, ‘I’ll phone Sigrid in the morning, she’ll know what I should do’, and then I remember, and I squash my face into the pillow and howl. In fact, I quickly realise that it’s better not to think at all, because when my brain does take charge, the likely consequences of tonight’s bombshell leave me breathless with panic. Just a few hours ago my world felt calm, secure, but now the future is a terrifying blizzard of question-marks: where will Dot and I live? How will I support us? I feel like I’m barely coping with parenthood as it is – will I be up to raising her all on my own? And will I be able to trust anyone ever again?
Just after 1 a.m. Dot wakes wanting a feed, which is probably a good thing because it forces me to put my emotional breakdown on hold and drag myself downstairs to warm the milk that I pumped earlier this afternoon – and thank God I did, because I can’t bear the thought of breastfeeding and passing any of these horrific, tortuous feelings onto Dot through my milk.
After a moment’s protest over the bottle rather than the anticipated boob, Dot settles down and starts to drink. I watch her as she feeds – so tiny and perfect, blissfully unaware of the mess her parents have made of everything – and the tears flow constantly down my cheeks, as if a tap’s been left on.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ I whisper, over and over. ‘I’m so sorry.’
After her milk Dot falls back to sleep at once and I guess I must eventually too, because the next thing I know I’m being jolted awake by her cry again, and I open my eyes to see the grey dawn light filtering through a chink in the bedroom curtains. I’ve got a splitting headache and my whole body aches. The space next to me is empty – Luke hasn’t come home. Perhaps he’s with Sigrid. In my mind I see the two of them lying together, limbs entwined, reassuring each other that really, what they’ve done isn’t so awful, and sympathising about poor, dumb Annie. The tears start again; it’s almost a relief to let myself tumble back into that pit of despair, where I don’t need to think about the future. But Dot’s increasingly urgent cries pull me back out and I think: no, I have to get a grip. I need to be strong for Dot. I can wallow some other time, but right now I need to make a plan.
I feed Dot, get her dressed, and then while she’s content on her play mat, I go in search of my phone. There are missed calls and messages from Luke, which I ignore; instead I dial my sister’s number. It’s still early, but Tabitha’s never been one for lie-ins and I’m banking on the fact she’ll already be up baking croissants or something. Sure enough, she picks up after a couple of rings.
‘Hey, early bird,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
‘Tabby, something’s happened.’ Don’t cry. Keep it together.
‘Annie? What is it?’
‘It’s Luke.’ It’s a struggle to get the words out. ‘He’s been . . . cheating on me. With Sigrid. The doula.’
There’s a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I don’t know what to do, Tabs. I just want to run away but I can’t, because of Dot.’ Despite my best efforts, I start to sob. ‘Oh God, poor Dottie! What’s going to happen to us?’
‘Right, I’m coming to get you,’ says Tabitha firmly. ‘Pack a bag for you and one for Dot. Bring the essentials and don’t worry if you forget something, Jon can always run out to the shops later. I’ll be with you within the hour. You’re going to stay in our spare room.’
‘But that’s your nursery . . .’
‘Not yet, it isn’t. We’ll sort this out, alright?’
I feel wimperingly grateful to her for taking charge. ‘Thank you, Tabby.’
‘Where’s Luke now?’
‘I don’t know. He left last night, I’m not sure where he’s gone.’
‘Well, if that bastard does appear, tell him he better not be there when I arrive, because if he is I won’t be held liable for my actions.’
I manage a small smile; I’ve cried so much over the past twelve hours it makes my face feel weird. ‘Thank you, Tabby. I’m so sorry about all this.’
‘Don’t be, it’s hardly your fault. I love you and I’ll be there soon. We’ll get through this, okay?’
‘Okay.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Tabby?’
‘Yes?’
I gulp down the lump in my throat. ‘I wish Mum was here.’
8
Five years ago Tabby and I lost our parents. They were driving through France when a lorry lost control and ploughed into their car. They died instantly, the police assured us; they would have felt nothing, they wouldn’t have suffered. For some reason I latched onto this obsessively in the days after the crash. I know it had been said to comfort us, but I questioned it endlessly: how do we really know they felt nothing? How can anyone know what happens in the moments before you die? Besides, I felt plenty. I had always been close to my parents – I would call my mum most days, and get home for Sunday lunch as often as my busy clubbing and lie-in schedule would allow – but their deaths hit me harder than I could ever have imagined. First it was an all-consuming grief, then bleak depression enlivened by occasional outbursts of fury: at the lorry driver, at the police, at the couple who my mum and dad had been holidaying with – even at my parents themselves. Suffice to say, I was not handling it at all well.
At the time of the crash I was living my best possible life, working as second assistant to a famous fashion photographer called Jay Patterson. For a girl who had wanted to be Annie Leibovitz since she was old enough to drool over the fashion shoots in Vogue, it was a dream job, and one that had taken me y
ears of hard slog and shameless blagging to land. I had knocked on every door I could find – and if it stayed shut then I just booted it open.
As well as working alongside the industry’s top names, the upsides to being Jay Patterson’s bitch (well, deputy bitch) included worldwide travel, endless parties and designer freebies. The downsides were the total lack of job security and the fact that my boss was a cocaine-fuelled egomaniac who liked to pay prostitutes to wee on him. I had planned to stick it out with him for two more years because it would look good on my CV, but when I broke down in the wake of my parents’ death and couldn’t get out of bed, let alone to work, I was rapidly replaced by the next ruthlessly ambitious wannabe. It took me six months to get back on my feet, by which time the world of fashion had moved on; Barb was last season’s boot-cut jean in a world of ripped skinnies. I managed to get the odd freelance photography job, but without any of my old drive or passion the bills started to mount up, and eventually I had to face facts: I could either be a homeless, aspiring photographer, or I could get a ‘proper job’ and pay the rent. I signed up with a secretarial temp agency and my first job was at a German investment bank, working for – you’ve guessed it – Luke.
By this time a year had passed since the crash and I was a very different girl to the ambitious extrovert of my photography days. I craved security; the unpredictability and chaos that I’d once found such a buzz now held zero appeal. My longest ‘proper’ relationship up until this point (I don’t count the bed-hopping of my fashion years) had only lasted a year or so with a fellow photography student called Yoshi, who’d gone back to Tokyo once our course was finished – I still can’t pass a Yo Sushi without getting a bit misty-eyed – but now I wanted nothing more than to settle down with a lovely, grown-up man who would look after poor little orphan Annie.
Luke was part of the corporate world, focused and hard-working, a traditional man’s man. Not to mention he had a body like David Gandy. To this day, nobody can rock tailored pinstripe trousers quite like him. That first morning when I walked into his office to introduce myself, I think I might actually have said: ‘Hi Luke, I’m Annie Taylor, the temp who’ll be filling in for Vicky while she’s on holiday, and, if I may say so, sir, PHWOAR.’