by Jemma Wayne
A week after that, she had silently streamed tears for the full hour of her facial. The beauty therapist had said nothing, but continued to stroke her skin.
Often still, she will have to hurry out of a shop when she is unexpectedly confronted by a buggy, or a pregnant woman, or a child, like Amelia, or the others she has to see every day at school, and it feels as though she’ll never breathe again.
She has not burdened George with these moments. She has not written them into her letters home. She has not told anyone. Because of course, that’s why the miscarriage was a secret: pain was far too unattractive an emotion to share.
Veronica stopped tormenting the candles and moved to the window seat in the front room. It was still a good twenty minutes until Sarah was due, but she glanced up and down the street anyway.
George had performed commendably over the past four nights during which sex was required. The haloed week of ovulation had crept doggedly towards them, thin white sticks decreeing when the moment had arrived, and as always they accepted the declaration like a deserved punishment. Veronica hated that this is what their sex life had been reduced to. She hated more that George didn’t do a better job of pretending otherwise. Even on the nights when she attempted to set the mood, wearing a silky piece of something small, he waited for her to spell out what was needed, never seeking her out, never desiring her. Even once she made it clear, he seemed to approach the bed with a heavy sense of duty. The worst nights were when they’d been quarrelling, over nothing usually – a disagreement about weekend plans, a misunderstood word, an excuse for being late – but in a way that manifested all of their unsaid frustrations. In the old days, if she was annoyed at George, there was no way she would then have had sex with him. Perhaps at the end of an argument, in the throes of apology or rekindling, but not while still charged with anger and venom and blame. Fertility, however, only peaked for a few days – the sticks told her so – so there was no time to wait for an organic resolution to their quarrel, she couldn’t afford to abide her emotions or exert any choice; sex was necessary. She hated this. It stirred something dormant inside her. She hated submitting her body when her mind screamed otherwise. She lay there, but she hated it, and sensed him hating it, and for those moments hated him too. She prayed nevertheless, for a baby, half his.
Veronica heard the bathroom door upstairs close and George’s feet travelling back and forth across the bedroom. Now that the prime period of fertility had passed, the dynamic between them had shifted slightly, easing into a brief interlude of respite. It would intensify again in a couple of weeks as the time to test for pregnancy approached, mired always in the weight of their combined hope, but neither of them would mention the harried anticipation they carried. Neither of them would speak it. After all, anxiety was as unattractive as grief. Not jolly or good company. Far better to get on with things, not minding about trivial matters such as changing schools or moving house or living without one’s parents.
It had taken them twenty months to conceive the first time. It had been almost a year since the miscarriage.
George appeared at the door to the front room. Fresh. Smart. Smiling.
They blustered in.
“So sorry,” breathed Sarah, removing her coat. “The children’s bedtime ran on, and the babysitter was late, and there was traffic on the Finchley Road.”
“But we’re here at last,” smiled David, placing a hand softly on Sarah’s arm.
Smiling back at him, George reached out for David’s other hand and shook it with practised confidence, a brand of which, Veronica had noticed, often made other men shrink a little. Not David. He accepted his palm with quieter conviction, but manifest warmth, and on the back of a comment she couldn’t quite hear, both he and George set about giggling like old chums. Without Amelia and the boy littered around his legs, David gathered about him a charisma Veronica hadn’t noticed before. Sarah remained close to him, her legs wrapped in pale, loose trousers, a silk top tucked in at the waist, a single necklace adorning her freckled décolletage. She was the kind of pretty that didn’t jump at you across a room – not stunning, her hair neither blonde nor brown, too hawkish a nose, and a little short; but when you looked closely, she was nevertheless lovely. They hugged in an awkward embrace, the men watching.
The more Veronica thought about it, she realised that it had been such a fleeting year of friendship, and she wondered if this was why Sarah had seemed reluctant about reconnecting. Perhaps it had simply not mattered to her. Veronica herself could barely remember the names of any of the other girls from that year, with whom she was sure she had equally shared maths and science and PE; but the solidity of Sarah had rooted. The solidity of that summer. She loved the way that in Sarah’s ordinary house, amongst her ordinary family, there never seemed to be a concern about saying the wrong thing, or being rude, or not being interesting enough to deserve attention. Veronica had been fascinated by that, noticing how it gave Sarah an inner, easy confidence, which although she exuded blindly, exploded out of her – a deep, inalienable sense of self-worth directing her effortlessly through the pitfalls of Year 7. Externally, Veronica mirrored this confidence with exaggerated vim. She had the money, and the looks, and she knew this. People thought her bold and assured, more so than Sarah; but next to her friend, she always knew she was lacking.
Veronica took the coats and found herself covertly mimicking Sarah’s grateful smile as she put them away. Why had she done that?
“Can I help you with anything?” Sarah called from behind her, and Veronica swivelled back around.
“Not in the slightest.” She smiled broadly as she noticed David’s arm around Sarah’s waist, but behind Sarah’s back she made yet another face, and it began to occur to Veronica how incredibly jealous she had been of Sarah back then – of her proper family unit, proper love. Everything she longed for. Veronica wondered why, in the light of that, she was so keen on reviving the friendship, tormenting herself. But she knew why. It was for the flicker of remembered contentment. It was for the younger, bolder girl itching gently beneath her skin.
The tour went as planned, the wine was poured, sticky salmon accompanied long, digressing accounts of which universities they had attended, how they’d fallen into their various careers, and when they’d met their partners. It occurred to Veronica that in fact her very first partner, her very first kiss, had been procured at Sarah’s house. That summer. Sarah had not then been ready for such things, and had they been guessing all those years ago, they would surely have bet on Veronica marrying first, Veronica being the one to spawn a family. Had they bet on those things? As they reminisced across the table, memories crawled out of sealed wood.
For Veronica, it was a peculiar, scrambling resurfacing. She had so long held Sarah and the wholesome summer at her house in nostalgic regard, that she had somehow forgotten all about the less virtuous pastimes they’d together created: the obsessions they’d had with lists and people, and choices, and hierarchies, and the future. As conversation floated around her, Veronica struggled to remember the details, but slowly, the hum of Sarah’s voice seemed to rub away at rose-tint, and Veronica shook her head in sudden comprehension. Because of course. Of course! It was never Sarah’s happy home that had made her feel such contentment. That would only have grated on her. No, it was the constant battle between them. It was because she’d proven that summer, that despite her own lack of the family life she longed for, she could gain the upper hand, even in Sarah’s home.
It wouldn’t have been as contrived as that. At the time, aged twelve, Veronica had probably felt only an inexorable yearning. But she realised now that like fixing, before fixing, this too had been a pattern for her, the precise point from which her confidence stemmed: the triumph of not only being fine without the things she secretly lacked, but better, better than fine, better than anyone else, better than everyone else. Only that meant that others had to be worse, feel worse.
No wonder Sarah had been reluctant to reignite things.
Though now, the loser was not Sarah, but her, Veronica – weak, timid, without power. No longer better, but visibly, emptily, lesser. Exposed.
Looking at Sarah across the table, it occurred to Veronica that she’d never actually been the winner, not even when they were children. The difference was only that she’d had armour then. Armour that she’d foolishly shed.
It had happened gradually. As she’d grown into herself – discovering teaching, meeting the children in Kenya, and then George – the taking off of metal was imperceptible really, inching in its progression. But one day, instead of pretending to be enough, she somehow had become, truly, authentically, enough.
Until once again, she wasn’t. Not even for George.
Veronica took a sip of water and tried again to recall the years before that. How she had done it. How she’d convinced herself, and Sarah, and others, that she was better. What her armour had been made from. And then it hit her. Even without remembering the blurred details of that summer, it was clear. Before she’d become a fixer, a builder-upper, the easiest route to triumph, to being ‘better’, her old trick, had been to pilfer from others.
“So the museum is officially all about the RAF,” David was saying as Veronica tuned back in to the conversation. “Life-size models, flight simulators, the works. But what I’m in charge of is the fine art, which you might not expect to find there but actually we have Rothenstein, we have Kennington. It’s a fabulous way to track the evolution of thought and perception during times of war, especially when you set that against conventional narratives of those eras.”
“David knows everything about art,” Sarah chipped in, glancing, Veronica noticed, at her. “I am an artistic ignoramus unfortunately.”
Veronica nodded, and smiled. It was not the first time that evening that Sarah had negated her own achievements in favour of her husband’s, and a thought tickled inside her. If she wanted to pilfer, how easy it would be. “And you work there, part-time?” asked Veronica innocently.
“Three mornings a week and till three o’clock on a Friday. Of course, when Harry was a baby it wasn’t possible, but I’ve been back over six months now. He goes to Sarah’s parents’ two mornings and my mum helps out with the third, so it’s wonderful really. He’s so close with all the grandparents, Amelia was the same, and the rest of the time he’s got me, and Sarah as much as possible. What will you two do? Are you planning a few rug rats?”
George flashed Veronica a concerned look, but she didn’t meet his eye, concentrating instead on heaping thick slices of the shop-bought pastries onto plates. When she’d fetched them from the kitchen earlier, she’d substituted her wine with a carefully colour-matched non-alcoholic elderflower. “How much is as much as possible?” she said.
“The mornings,” replied Sarah, accepting the deflection, perhaps more sensitive than her husband to possible reasons for childlessness. Primed with pity. “We all wake early so I have an hour or two with them before I head off. Then some evenings I make it back before bed. And there’re the weekends. These look delicious.”
Veronica put down the serving spoon and looked Sarah in the eye. “Oh, poor things,” she said.
Slowly, Sarah raised a wary eyebrow and took an even slower sip of her wine. Without looking at him, Veronica could feel George’s eyes on her again, this time not anxious but questioning. Again, she didn’t meet his stare. Something in her veins had quickened.
“I think Veronica just means that it’s an unconventional set-up,” rescued George. And then, to David, “I hear raising kids is the hardest job.”
“Most rewarding,” David smiled, putting his arm protectively around Sarah. “But we can’t all be so lucky. Sarah took the first three months off with each of them, but she’s always been the more ambitious of the two of us, and the higher earner, so it was a good solution. My idea as it happens. Actually, we planned it years ago, sort of. We got together first year of uni – Sarah was crushing law, I was pretending to do History of Art; she was always going to be the professional and I the struggling artist.”
“Except you weren’t so keen in the end on the struggling,” smiled Sarah.
“I had a few exhibitions early on.”
Veronica watched as Sarah placed her hand on his shoulder. “Really, you should see his stuff.”
“But I lost the juice for it. In the end I was happier exploring other people’s art than creating my own. I do like painting with the kids though. Do you have any hobbies, George?”
“Golf. Had to throw in the rugger after the last surgery but—”
“And that’s enough for you now?” Veronica interrupted. She put her own hand over George’s and smiled at David endearingly. “What a sacrifice.”
“But it’s more than a hobby still, your painting, really, isn’t it David?” rushed Sarah. “Hobby suggests it’s only for leisure, that it couldn’t be your profession. But of course, it was your profession so now it’s just more of a freelance, private thing, right? He’s hugely talented. And so valued at the museum. Really, David’s far cleverer than I am.”
David frowned, at both of the women. “I’ve never been much of a golfer.”
An uncomfortable pause followed, during which Sarah smiled at David, and David avoided the smile, nodding amiably at George, who in turn looked bemusedly to Veronica. Now it was Veronica who took a slow, deliberate sip of elderflower-wine. But her mind raced. What on earth was she doing? George must have thought she’d gone mad; she, usually so adept at putting people at ease, suddenly a saboteur? It was childish. Undignified. And unplanned. Yet it was irresistible. And now that she’d begun, she remembered the rhythm as though she’d never stopped swaying to it; the careful dance of concealed slurs, the compliment turned insult, the craft of condescension. For the first time in many months, she felt in control, and powerful. Besides, they were tiny, tiny manipulations. Trifling. She was only experimenting, not doing harm.
“Well,” laughed Veronica warmly, pulling herself back. “Amelia seems very well adjusted on it, so you must be doing something right.”
Yes, good. She mustn’t go too far. She was no longer an insecure child; she didn’t have the excuse of that. Besides, despite the jealousies that were clearly re-emerging, she liked Sarah, genuinely, she always had. It had been an actual joy to see her so unexpectedly, nostalgia wrapped neatly in a power suit and bob. Even now, in the discomfort of awkward pause, titbits of tenderness crept to the fore – secrets they’d told, the summer smell of Sarah’s house, a nonsense language they’d invented. Warm, comforting memories, the flavour of Bolognese. Having said that, other memories were resurfacing too, like how intoxicating it felt when the power was tipping her way.
“Didn’t your parents do something similar, Sarah?” spoke Veronica carefully. “That wonderful summer I spent at yours, I seem to remember your father being there constantly.”
“Dad was a barrister, same as me, so unlikely,” Sarah replied, buoyed it seemed by safer territory. “Though he brought his work home a lot. And there were lulls between cases, so maybe that summer–”
“And your mum had that crazy clinic with all the hippy dippies coming in and out of her sweet little office. Is she still into all that homeopathic mumbo jumbo? Oh, and how’s Eliza?”
Sarah flinched, visibly. Both men stopped eating. Had Veronica gone too far? What with? Hippy dippies? Hadn’t they both used to joke about that? Yes, all summer long they’d giggled at the pashmina-draped women and bead-adorned men who parked outside the suburban house in cars that almost always brandished a rainbow-clad bumper sticker. Veronica noticed David flash Sarah a meaningful look, and Sarah subtly shake her head to subdue it.
“Mum’s busier than ever,” she smiled with exaggerated cheer. “It’s Dad who’s retired. That was a strange old summer though, wasn’t it? And then you left for that school in Kent. We thought we’d see each other in a few weeks, and then, never again. Until now of course.”
“Until now,” agreed Veronica, raising
her elderflower carefully to toast the reconnection.
But Sarah continued. “We didn’t spend much time with Eliza though, really, did we? We were so intent on, swimming. I’m surprised you remember her. Do you remember her?”
There was something about the way Sarah intoned ‘swimming’. The slight pause. And all at once Veronica did remember the swimming pool, sunken at the far end of the garden, and the pool house next to it. Her stomach lurched abruptly. “Gosh, the swimming!” Veronica exclaimed. Sarah shook her head very slightly, but now that Veronica had remembered, there was so much to say. “We swam naked in Sarah’s pool,” she mock whispered to George.
David glanced up at Sarah inquiringly, mirth dancing at the tip of his mouth.
“But Eliza hardly swam, did she?” Sarah flailed on. “Eliza read all summer.”
“Probably because you hated her. She treated Sarah like an infant,” Veronica explained to the men before turning back to Sarah. “You hated her. Do you remember her party? That was my first kiss, you know. I just remembered that this evening. It’s funny, I just remembered a lot of things this evening.”
“I didn’t hate Eliza,” said Sarah softly.
Veronica noticed David reaching for Sarah’s hand under the table, their fingers locking in familiar intimacy. George had his own clasped around a glass of wine.
“No, of course. But you did detest her a little. You were jealous I think. She was older, and very beautiful.” Veronica said this again to the men, not quite meaning to sway to the beat, but feeling the pulse of it. “And you were still much more a child. You definitely didn’t like me getting friendly with her.”
“Eliza was beautiful,” agreed Sarah. “But I wasn’t jealous.”
“I think you told me one evening that Eliza had… Oh wow—” Veronica stopped. “Do you remember that game – ‘What would you do’?”