by Cate Woods
By the time Jess arrives home an hour or so later, I’ve got glossy pale-pink nails (hands and feet) and I’m lying on Mara’s fold-up treatment couch in the living room, mid-bikini wax, while Dot sits in her bouncy chair nearby. Jess hovers in the doorway, totally unfazed by the fact that my vagina is currently taking pride of place alongside her leather modular sofa.
‘Howdy, kids, how are we getting on?’
I tip my head back to look at her. ‘Jess, you should have told me Mara was coming!’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘Well it was. And a very kind and lovely surprise too, thank you.’
Despite my initial horror at the thought of having to tackle my appearance, I’m actually enjoying this pampering session. It’s been months since I spent any time on myself, but it turns out that improving your outside actually makes your insides feel better too. That is, until Mara rips off the first lot of wax.
‘Holy shiiiiit!’ Catching my breath, I raise my head to see what the hell is going on down there. ‘Is there anything left?’ I ask weakly.
‘Oh yeah, don’t worry, hon,’ says Mara breezily. ‘I’m giving you a natural Brazilian, which is a bit more bush than usual. I tend to find it more flattering on my mums.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ says Jess, making her way into the room.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I shriek. ‘Things are far from pretty down there since it served as an escape hatch for a human being.’
Mara slaps on another lot of warm wax. ‘It don’t look that bad,’ she muses. ‘I’ve deffo seen worse, believe me.’
‘Thank you, Mara, that’s, um, nice to hear.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I feel her start to tug at the edge of the wax. ‘Right, another deep breath . . .’
There’s a noise like Velcro ripping.
OW OW OW OW.
‘Mara usually gives me a Hollywood,’ says Jess. ‘That’s all of it taken off, the better to show off my perfect vagina.’
‘How do you know it’s perfect?’ I mutter, my teeth gritted.
‘Cos I get told. Apparently my vayjay looks like a beautiful origami flower.’
‘Yeah, mine too, an origami flower that’s been made by a toddler who accidentally rips off a petal and then screws it up into a ball.’
There’s another tearing noise.
FUUUCCCCCKKK.
It’s dark by the time Mara finally leaves, but my new best friend has worked miracles during her time here. I can see that I look better – my hair has been highlighted and trimmed, my brows tweezed and tinted. I drew the line at a spray tan, but the lash extensions are a bloody revelation; I reckon I look better than I have in ages. When I come into the kitchen to retrieve Dot from Jess, who’s been playing with her while Mara blow-dried my hair, my daughter eyes me warily as if she isn’t quite sure who I am.
‘Awww, she doesn’t recognise Mummy without her moustache,’ pouts Jess. ‘Seriously though, doll, you look amazing. Proper hot. Like the old Annie.’
The real surprise, however, is how much better I feel. It’s as if much of my anxiety and self-doubt was ripped out with my pubes. I feel lighter, stronger – and a tiny bit sexy too.
It’s just a shame that nobody will get to see the Brazilian (honestly, my vagina hasn’t looked this spiffy in yonks) but even so, just knowing it’s there has given me a much-needed confidence boost. If Luke really has stopped seeing me as a ‘sexual being’ as he claims, then hopefully my new look will prove him otherwise. I’m not trying to win him back with a flutter of my new lashes, you understand, but I want him to regret what he did to me with every fibre of his sorry being and beg me to take him back. It’s petty, I know, but I want him to want me like he wanted Sigrid. Only then will I be able to decide whether or not I’m ever going to want him ever again.
11
Tuesday arrives far too quickly, and by 10 a.m. I’m walking down my street towards our flat with a dozing Dot strapped to me in her sling, feeling like I’m heading to an interview for a job that I’m not sure I even want.
The glow of confidence I had been left with after Mara worked her magic on Sunday has already begun to fade. Post-wax ingrowing hairs have already started appearing, giving my bikini line an alluring ‘teenage acne’ look. And it certainly doesn’t help that I had a rough night with Dot, who woke up every hour and screamed for no apparent reason. By 4 a.m. I was so exhausted that I ventured onto baby website chatrooms, something I only do when I’m really desperate, as the people who post on there scare the living hell out of me. I was slightly reassured to discover that there is an actual thing called the ‘Four-Month Sleep Regression’, which could well be behind Dot’s wakefulness; yet as ever when it comes to baby-care, the advice on how to deal with this was plentiful, authoritative and utterly contradictory. For example: you should be swaddling your baby to get her to sleep – or you should definitely not be swaddling her, and instead be rocking her in your arms . . . WTF, have you lost your TINY MIND? Don’t ever rock your baby to sleep, you moron! Do you want to still be rocking her to sleep when she’s thirteen? No? Then put her back in her cot while she’s awake and rub her back in a circular motion while making a soothing ‘shhh-ing’ noise (try imitating the sound of the sea on pebbles, or a gentle spring breeze rustling the trees) until she drifts contentedly back to sleep. This may take hours, but sleep will come . . . Or sleep won’t come, in which case pop a dummy in her mouth . . . A dummy? Er, hello? What special kind of monster are you? NEVER EVER give your child a dummy, you will end up having to spend a fortune at the orthodontist, not to mention it’s been proven that kids who have dummies grow up with lower IQs. It’s not called a dummy for nothing, you know . . .
And so on, ad infinitum.
By the time it was what normal people would consider to be morning, I had tried literally every piece of sleep-inducing advice on the internet – apart from the suggestion to ‘add a tot of brandy to baby’s milk’, but only because I didn’t have any to hand – however, the only thing that worked was plugging Dot back on my boob whenever she cried. ‘Demand Feeding’, I believe this is called, probably because it’s so fucking demanding.
Anyway, thanks to Dot’s night-time shenanigans, I’m currently feeling weary, tearful and vulnerable (plus the toothache’s back again), which is a risky state to be in for meeting Luke. If he so much as offers to have Dot for one night, I’m liable to collapse weakly into his arms; I’d profess undying love in exchange for a few hours’ undisturbed sleep.
As I make my way along our garden path, dragging out the last steps up to the house for as long as possible, I notice little green shoots have pushed up in the flowerbeds since I was last here. It’s only been, what, nine days? Christ, it feels like months. I glance up at our kitchen window and all the emotions from the aftermath of that horrible Saturday night come flooding back – the shock, disbelief, betrayal and pain – and I get such a horrible queasy feeling in my stomach I wonder if I might actually be sick. Thankfully the moment passes, but I’m a little concerned about how I’m going to react when faced with Luke. Well, whatever happens, I’ll do my best to remain calm and dignified. I most definitely have the moral high ground here and I intend to keep it that way.
Although I have my key with me, I ring the intercom on the communal front door. I assume Luke will just buzz me up, but moments later I hear feet on the stairs and then here he is at the front door, his dark hair flopping into his eyes, his smile a blend of hope and fear.
‘Hello, Annie.’
He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans; I’m not sure if this choice of outfit is deliberate, but I’ve often told him that this is what I like him in the best. And despite everything that’s happened, I’m furious with myself to discover that I find him as attractive as ever. Damn his perfectly symmetrical face and muscular arms. But he looks troubled, and I note the dark shadows under his eyes with grim satisfaction.
‘You look really great,’ he says. ‘Amazing, in fact.’
I just shrug in reply; I am not going to make this easy for him.
‘How’s Dottie?’ He leans forward to try to see her face, which is pressed up against my chest.
‘She’s asleep,’ I say, recoiling.
There’s an awkward silence. Luke rubs the back of his neck; he looks extremely uncomfortable. Excellent.
‘Thank you so much for coming over,’ he says, after a few moments. ‘I really appreciate it.’
I open my mouth to tell him that he can stuff his thanks, because I loathe him for what he’s done to me – to our family – and that I’m only here for Dot’s sake, but instead all that comes out is a muttered: ‘S’okay.’
‘Well then, let’s go up,’ he says, turning around and heading upstairs.
The flat looks just the same as when I left. My favourite denim jacket is still hanging by the front door (must remember to take that with me when I leave), my spotty wellies are lined up next to Luke’s on the shoe rack, and there’s a stack of unopened bank statements and mobile phone bills on the mantelpiece. So much has changed since I was last here, but, at the same time, nothing at all.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
I stand there awkwardly while Luke faffs around with the bean-grinder, stovetop espresso maker and milk whisk; being half-Italian, he reckons making coffee is his thing. It’s certainly just about his only ‘thing’ in the kitchen.
‘Looks like a lovely day out there,’ he says, as he precisely measures out the coffee grounds.
‘Mmm, feels almost spring-like,’ I reply automatically.
‘Yes, apparently we’ve seen the last of the frosty mornings for a while.’
God, this is weird. Anyone watching our exchange would think we’d never met before; it’s like we’re holding back the deluge of emotion with a wall of polite chit-chat. I’m just relieved that I’ve managed not to scream, cry or puke yet.
Luke puts the milk in the microwave to warm. ‘Take a seat, I’ll bring the coffee straight in,’ he says, nodding towards the living room.
I walk through – and suddenly freeze. The living room smells . . . different. Not unpleasant, but certainly not like it usually does. The smell is musky, floral – like a half-familiar fragrance . . . Christ, that’s not Sigrid’s perfume, is it? Has she been here, rubbing her groin on the soft furnishings, like a cat marking its territory?
At this thought, my heart starts thumping in panic and perhaps that’s what disturbs Dot, because at that moment she starts to stir and I look down to see her stretching and blinking up at me.
‘Hey there, sleeping beauty,’ I murmur, kissing her head. ‘Let’s get you out of there . . .’
By the time Luke comes in with the coffee, I’m sitting on the sofa with Dot on my lap, looking through one of her favourite board-books.
His face lights up. ‘Dottie!’
Dot looks uncertain for a moment, then she beams at Luke in delight. He scoops her up from my lap, swings her round and then hugs her to him.
‘Oh, I’ve missed you so much, little girl . . .’ He stays like that for a while, eyes closed, just holding her to him and breathing in her scent, and my frozen heart thaws a little to see them together. When he opens his eyes again, they are bright with tears.
‘How’s she been?’ he asks. ‘Is she sleeping alright? Have you been coping on your own?’
‘It’s all fine. Dot’s been amazing.’
He nods, takes a deep breath – and then the dam bursts.
‘I’m so, so sorry for everything, Annie,’ says Luke, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I wish I could change what I did. It was a completely idiotic, fucked-up thing to do, but I’m desperate for us to be a family again. Please, tell me what I can do to make this better and I will do it.’
‘Oh come on, Luke, really? You can’t think it’s that simple.’
‘Why not? I screwed up – badly, I know – but I want to make it right again. Really, why can’t it be that simple?’
‘Because you betrayed me with one of my friends just after I’d had our baby. You destroyed our trust. You’ve made me feel like complete shit. You’ve taken what should have been one of the most special times in our lives and turned it into something hideous and painful.’ I swallow down the large lump that’s appeared in my throat again. ‘Do you really think I can just forget about all that?’
‘No, no, of course not, but I want to make this right.’ He sits down next to me on the sofa, still clasping Dot, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Help me out here, Annie, please, how can I fix this?’
Honestly, you’d think he was talking about a broken dishwasher.
‘There’s nothing you can do to fix this. Well, apart from not cheating on me ever again. And I’m not at all sure that you can even manage that.’
‘Annie, I swear that I will never do that to you again. You have to believe me.’
‘But how can I believe anything you say now? You can’t just pick and choose when you trust someone, it’s an all-or-nothing sort of thing, you know?’ Then I remember the trace of mysterious perfume. ‘Has Sigrid been here?’
Luke looks outraged. ‘No!’
I narrow my eyes at him sceptically.
‘Of course she hasn’t! I haven’t seen her since . . . well, since that night.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
A look of guilt flashes across his face and I feel another surge of nausea. ‘You bastard,’ I mutter, shaking my head.
‘We only spoke once, and that was only because she called me to ask if she should get in touch with you.’
I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of that suggestion, but Luke cuts in before I can speak. ‘I told her that would be a terrible idea, okay? And I’ve had nothing more to do with her since.’ He reaches out his hand for mine, but I pull it away. ‘She means nothing to me, Annie, I promise you. I’m never going to see her again.’
I turn away from him; I don’t want him to see the tears that are threatening to flow.
‘I fucked up,’ Luke goes on. ‘Big time. I’ve got no excuse for any of it. But I’m desperate to have you and Dot home so we can try and sort this out together. You two are my world. Please, I made a stupid mistake, but you have to give me a chance to make things right.’
‘No, ordering fish when you wanted chicken is a stupid mistake. What you did is on another level altogether.’
He sighs. ‘Won’t you at least move back home so we can deal with this as a family?’
I turn to look at him. ‘No, I’m going to stay at Jessica’s for a while. I need space to try and process all this.’
He looks pained. ‘How long’s “a while”?’
‘I don’t know. As long as it takes for me to work out what’s best for me and Dot in the future.’
‘What do you mean?’ Luke’s voice suddenly has an edge. ‘You’re not seriously thinking about splitting up our family over this, are you?’
I gawp at him. ‘What did you expect? You cheated on me. Surely it can’t come as a surprise that I’m thinking about breaking up with you?’
‘It was just a bloody kiss!’ He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. ‘It meant nothing!’
I feel a surge of anger that leaves my chest tight and my heart pounding. I could so easily scream and rant at him, but I need to keep it together for Dot’s sake.
‘Luke, please tell me you know that kissing another woman – on several occasions, one of which happens to be next to your sleeping baby while your girlfriend is downstairs – is definitely not “nothing”.’
That shuts him up. We sit next to each other without talking, brooding on our own thoughts and watching Dot, who is now lying on the floor with her toys. I knew this conversation wasn’t going to be easy, but Luke seems to have assumed that he could just apologise and then our lives would go happily on as before. Does he really think this is something he can just brush under the carpet?
After a while I break the uneasy silence. ‘You should probably kn
ow that I’m thinking about getting a job.’
I wasn’t going to mention this, but after the way he’s reacted I’m feeling bloody-minded.
Luke’s head snaps up. I’m pleased to see he looks appalled. ‘You’re what?’
‘Fiona has lined me up an interview to be the in-house photographer at her estate agents.’
‘But what will happen to Dot?’
‘Well, she could come with me to work. Or she could go to a childminder, or nursery.’
Luke stares at me, eyes widening in horror; you’d think I’d just suggested selling her for drugs.
‘Annie, she’s barely four months old!’ He shakes his head. ‘Absolutely no way.’
I manage to swallow my rage, although it’s getting tougher to do so. ‘Luke, are you forbidding me to get a job?’
‘Of course not, but . . . I just don’t think it’s the best thing for our daughter right now.’
‘Okay, do you want to stay home and look after her?’
‘That’s a ridiculous thing to suggest, you know I can’t quit my job,’ he snaps. ‘I’m the one earning the money.’
Stay calm, Annie. ‘Well, now I’m going to be earning some money too. And Dot will be perfectly fine.’
‘She’s far too young for this, Annie, she needs to be with her mother.’ He looks at me uncertainly, as if deciding just how far he should push this, before apparently settling on the nuclear option: ‘Don’t you think you should be putting Dot’s needs first?’
Well, that does it: all the pent-up rage and resentment comes bursting out.
‘How dare you suggest I wouldn’t do my best for my daughter! Everything I do – everything – is done with Dot as my priority, and for you to suggest otherwise is . . . well . . . just about the worst thing you’ve ever done, apart from nearly fucking the doula!’ My voice disappears in a squeak of fury. ‘Oh, and while we’re on the subject of putting others’ needs first, shouldn’t you perhaps have put mine and Dot’s before those of your PENIS?’