by Fiona Gibson
‘Yeah,’ Astrid says sternly, ‘and she snuck off early so she could see you play, devoted girlfriend that she is.’
Spike’s face droops. ‘Yeah. Well, I’m sorry. That must’ve been uncomfortable for you.’
Astrid smiles, takes hold of his shoulders and kisses him firmly on the mouth. ‘I’ve had better nights, but never mind. Now move it, you. I need to get ready.’
‘Okay, okay…’ He follows her downstairs to the front door which she opens with a flourish, mouthing bye-bye, apparently not caring that anyone could walk by and see her clad only in a chemise.
‘Bye,’ he says, stepping out onto her path. He knows he’s sulking, and he turns to give her a big smile, but Astrid has already shut her front door.
Spike doesn’t feel guilty, he decides as he leaves her street of tidy redbrick terraces. It’s not thirteen years he and Lou have been together, he realises now, but sixteen. God, that makes him feel old. Spike is two years off fifty, a fact he rarely dwells on, but which now causes a flutter of panic in his chest.
He met Lou at the end of her foundation year at art school: a beautiful, fresh-faced doll of a girl who’d gone on to study jewellery, scooping prizes galore, while he’d scraped a living with the odd short-lived job – van driver, kitchen porter, postman – whilst trying to revive his music career. At twenty-one, Spike had had a hit with a plaintive, acoustic love song based on the Black Beauty TV theme tune, imaginatively entitled ‘My Beauty’ which had, for one summer, been the slow-dance song of choice. He’d moved from Glasgow to London, hoping to follow it up with another release to showcase his talents, but his second single had flopped, as had his third, and then his record label had dropped him and the horse telly thing had become a bit of a joke. There’d been a brief frisson of hope three years later, when his manager had called him, suggesting continuing the horse theme with ‘an ironic, tongue-in-cheek version of Follyfoot or maybe even White Horses, you remember that one …’
‘I don’t want to be seventies-horse-telly-man,’ Spike had snapped. Broke and desolate, he’d drifted back to Glasgow and into the arms of a cute art student called Lou. Is he passionate about her, after all this time? Not really, he reflects, striding past Sound Shack, his favourite music shop in York and giving Rick, the owner, a nod through the window before marching purposely home. Oh, she’s pretty all right. She’s barely aged at all, with that cheeky little face and smattering of freckles that he finds so sweet and endearing. Yet spending sixteen years with the same woman, no matter how lovely, is hardly sexy and dynamic, is it?
Spike doesn’t know any couple, apart from his own mum and dad (who are old and therefore don’t count) who’ve been together that long. Surely it’s not natural to meet one person and stick with them forever, all through your young years when you’re meant to be wild and crazy and shagging like mad. And he’s not old. Forties are the new thirties these days, and he still feels young, which is what matters. Spike can proudly say he’s never set foot in a Homebase. So here he is, a youngish virile man, and if Lou can’t appreciate him and insists on wearing that marshmallow dressing gown instead of a chemise, then who can blame him for having a little dalliance now and again?
It’s not as if he’s ever brought Astrid home while Lou’s been at work. That would be out of order, Spike decides as he strides down their shabbier street and climbs the stairs to their first-floor flat. As he lets himself in and grabs a beer from the fridge, Spike contents himself with the fact that no one can say he doesn’t have morals.
ELEVEN
Daisy is cleaning her teeth before bed. Normally, Hannah avoids going into the bathroom if she hears one of the kids in there, even if the door is wide open as it is now. Occasionally, she’s made a mistake, and leapt out at the sight of Josh clad in his boxers, dabbing at a chin-spot with a little piece of loo roll. But now, hearing the sound of bristles vigorously scrubbing enamel, she figures that teeth cleaning isn’t too personal and that it might be okay to tiptoe in.
‘Hi,’ she says casually. Daisy turns to her from the washbasin with a mouth oozing pink froth. ‘Er, I was thinking,’ she starts, ‘that maybe me and you could go shopping in the West End on Saturday, just the two of us?’ Daisy blinks slowly as if anticipating a cruel punchline: Because I’d like to buy you an embarrassing coat. ‘I know your dad suggested all of us going,’ Hannah ploughs on, ‘but Josh is going to Eddie’s and I thought, well … wouldn’t it be nice, just me and you? Would you like that?’
Daisy wipes some toothpaste from her chin, then turns back to the washbasin where she spits noisily. ‘I dunno,’ she says.
Hannah wonders if this means she’s unsure of her availability, or whether or not it would in fact be ‘nice’. ‘Well, I thought maybe we could choose you a dress,’ Hannah offers, starting to sweat a little now. ‘I mean, you are our bridesmaid, Daisy.’
She spits again – more for effect than out of necessity, Hannah suspects – then fills her cupped palms with water from the cold tap and slurps it noisily.
‘Or, if that’s too girlie for you,’ Hannah soldiers on, ‘maybe you’d like a skirt and a nice top, and a little cardi in case it’s cold. It doesn’t matter really. We don’t even have to look at clothes. We could, er …’ She tails off, stuck for words, as if faced with a particularly hostile interviewer. Why is she doing this anyway? Hannah doesn’t care what anyone wears to the wedding. Yet it’s not about shopping, not really. Hannah and Daisy have never done anything on their own together, because Hannah has always assumed Daisy would either come up with an excuse, like she was planning to stay home and count the woolly tufts on her bedroom rug, or reply with a curt ‘No, thank you.’ But now, with the wedding thundering towards them, she’s decided to stop assuming anything.
Daisy sucks on a tendril of hair and looks at Hannah as if she’s just suggested a trip to the chiropodist.
‘Just me and you, d’you mean?’ she asks cautiously.
‘Yes. Wouldn’t that be fun?’
Daisy pulls her lips into a thin line and nods.
‘Great, then,’ Hannah says, turning to leave the bathroom.
‘Hannah?’ Daisy has followed her out to the landing.
‘Yes?’ Hannah says eagerly.
‘Wanna see something in my room?’
‘Er, sure.’
She follows Daisy into her pale turquoise bedroom, carefully treading between the books, clothes and sweet wrappers that litter the floor. Hovering uncertainly, Hannah watches as Daisy crouches down to rummage at the bottom of her wardrobe. Finally, she pulls out a small, black, leather-bound book.
‘What’s that?’ Hannah asks.
‘Mum and Dad’s wedding album.’ She clutches it in front of her, as if about to present it to Hannah as a prize.
‘Oh! That’s nice. Did they, um … give it to you?’
Daisy perches on the edge of her bed. Hell, Hannah thinks, she’s going to make me look through it. She’s going to make me examine her mother in that billion-sparkles dress. Hannah feels vaguely queasy, and can feel beads of sweat on her upper lip.
‘She made me and Josh one each,’ Daisy explains, tossing back her long dark hair. ‘I don’t think he looks at his though.’
‘Oh. Well, I guess boys aren’t really into that kind of thing.’
‘What, weddings?’
‘No, um … looking at wedding photos. You know.’ Hannah’s entire body is now prickling with unease as she tries to conjure up a fictitious emergency downstairs – the smell of burning or gas – that will give her an excuse to charge out of Daisy’s room. She doesn’t want to scare the child by making her think her home is about to explode, but nor does she wish to peruse the album, which Daisy has now opened on her lap to reveal a full-page close-up of Petra’s radiant smiling face.
Petra doesn’t look like a fat nurse. There’s nothing medical about her whatsoever. She’s so lovely and elegant with her jet-black hair piled up that Hannah’s breath catches in her throat. For an instant, she thinks Da
isy must have found a copy of Brides magazine, snipped out a picture and stuck it in the album to trick her. But no, it’s her mother all right – those are Petra’s steely grey eyes, sharp cheekbones and perfectly painted red lips. ‘This is Mummy arriving at church,’ Daisy murmurs, stroking the side of Petra’s face.
‘That’s nice.’ Hannah swallows hard.
‘And that’s Grandma Esther standing next to Mum,’ Daisy adds, turning the page.
Hannah feels ridiculous, perching gingerly on Daisy’s bed, and sneakily checks out roughly how many pages the album might have. A dozen or so and she’ll probably be able to hold it together, but this is a chunky album that could conceivably go on forever. ‘Maybe you’d better get your PJs on now,’ she says gently. ‘It’s gone half-eight …’
‘Yeah, in a minute. Anyway, look – that’s Daddy in his wedding suit. Is he gonna wear the same one at your wedding?’
‘No, he’s having a new one altered, remember?’ Hannah says, willing Ryan to come upstairs, witness the cosy tableau and chivvy Daisy into bed.
‘Oh yeah. Look! That’s the dress I was telling you about.’
Hannah tries to focus on the stunning woman before her. But her head is swimming and she can no longer make proper words come out of her mouth. How can Ryan not still be in love with this woman? Hannah has met Petra numerous times, when she’s picked up or dropped off the children, and has always thought, yes, she’s striking, but somehow her chilliness cancels out her beauty. But she’s never seen Petra look like this – like a woman in love, who’d go on to bear Ryan two children whom they’d raise together until her shock announcement three years ago that she must ‘put myself first’. Heartbroken and stunned, Ryan simply hadn’t seen it coming. As far as he was concerned, Petra’s career as a concert cellist had come before everything else.
Maybe that’s it, Hannah thinks, a sense of dread washing over her. Ryan asked her to marry him simply in an attempt to get over Petra. He is trying to force himself not to love her anymore.
Daisy is still going on about her mother’s billowing veil. Hannah tries to show appreciation, but her tongue feels like a dry thing flapping around in her mouth. They’re only wedding photos, she tells herself sternly. She’s just showing them off because she likes to look at them. It’s nothing more sinister than that.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Daisy swivels round to face her.
‘Oh, yes,’ Hannah croaks. ‘It’s beautiful. A really amazing veil.’ Turn the page, she thinks desperately, so we can look at pictures of the bridesmaids or cake. Daisy turns the page. There’s a group picture with everyone neatly arranged in two rows in front of the church, squinting in the sunshine. So many people. Hannah wonders who they all are. There’s also a close-up of Ryan standing next to his new bride, two beautiful people setting out on a life together. ‘So you’re up for this shopping trip at the weekend?’ she says faintly as Daisy flicks through the final pages.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Daisy mutters.
They sit side by side for a moment, with Daisy now resting the closed album on her knees as if reluctant to put it away. Hannah isn’t sure if she’s imagined it, but Daisy might possibly have shuffled a millimetre closer to her on the bed. ‘Thanks for showing me the album,’ Hannah says gently. ‘It obviously means a lot to you.’
Daisy nods mutely and bites her lip.
‘I’m looking forward to our day out, are you?’
She nods again.
‘I, er … I hope you’re looking forward to our wedding too,’ Hannah ventures, wondering if it would be okay to put an arm around Daisy’s shoulders, or if she’d flinch, or leap up and run out of the room. No, better not.
‘Yeah,’ Daisy replies, her gaze fixed firmly on the album. ‘But I still can’t understand why it’s not in a church.’
‘I can’t believe she did that,’ Ryan whispers in bed that night. After half a year of living here, Hannah still finds the nocturnal whispering bizarre. It’s not even as if they’re up to anything. Ryan is wearing pyjamas, for God’s sake. With Josh’s bedroom next door, and Daisy’s the one after that, the only time it feels remotely okay to have sex is if the kids aren’t home, or if she or Ryan happen to wake up at some ungodly hour, like 4.30 am, when they’ll grab the opportunity. It gives their sex life during the week an urgent quality, and makes the three out of four weekends when Daisy and Josh are at their mother’s feel like a bit of a treat.
Lately, Hannah has started to hanker for a baby of her own; yet, as she’s never had the faintest yearning before, she worries that this might be some desperate attempt to redress the balance. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she tells Ryan, snuggling closer. ‘Daisy wasn’t doing it to be mean or anything. And I bet every girl’s entranced by her mum on her wedding day.’
There’s a beat’s silence and she breathes in the scent of Ryan’s skin. There’s something almost edibly warm about him: sweet and moreish, like a croissant. Hannah’s paranoia about Petra has ebbed away, and she plants a soft kiss on his chest.
‘I know they don’t make it easy for you,’ he says.
‘Well …’ She hesitates. ‘It’s not easy but, you know, I’m an adult. We’ll get there. It’ll just take some time.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he says, kissing her. I am, she reflects. I just need to keep believing that. Anyway, what kind of person of Ryan’s age doesn’t come with a little baggage? In fact, she likes the fact that he knows what days gym kits are needed and never forgets to pay the deposit for a school trip. So much information to store, and he manages it so admirably. She doesn’t even think of Ryan’s children as baggage; after all, they belong here, while she feels like an awkward guest at a fancy boutique hotel, under the watchful eye of two stern concierges. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘I’ve got some good news. I’ve been thinking me and Daisy should spend some time together, so I asked her if she’d like to come shopping and she said yes.’
‘But you hate shopping,’ he exclaims. ‘You can’t stand it. You don’t see the point …’
‘I know, but I thought she’d enjoy it.’ Because I don’t know her, you see. I don’t really know anything about your daughter.
‘Well, I think it’s a great idea.’
‘And hopefully,’ Hannah adds, ‘it’ll get her in the wedding mood.’
Ryan pauses, then asks, ‘Are you in the wedding mood, Han?’
Hannah frowns in the darkness. ‘What d’you mean?’
He hesitates, and the hand which has been stroking her back and shoulders comes to a halt. ‘I … just think you seem a bit tense, that’s all.’
‘Um, just wedding nerves, I guess.’
‘Not getting cold feet, are you?’ he asks.
‘No, of course not. It’s just … I don’t know. Right now, it doesn’t seem quite real. I’d never imagined getting married, being a wife.’
‘But you’re glad I put the idea in your head?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Actually, no one’s ever asked me before.’
‘But they all wanted to, I bet,’ he says affectionately.
‘Hey, less of the all…’
They lie in silence for a few moments, and Hannah hears Josh padding to the bathroom.
‘Maybe you should plan a hen night,’ Ryan adds.
‘It’s funny, but Sadie was saying the same thing.’
‘Well, I’m having one.’
‘What, a hen night? I didn’t think you were the type, darling, for the L-plates and the bunny ears.’
‘No, a stag party. Not a stag stag party,’ Ryan adds quickly. ‘Not your gigantic piss-up and being stripped naked and tied to a lamppost …’
‘Come on, I know you’d love that …’
‘No,’ he insists, ‘I just mean something to mark the occasion. You should do something too.’
‘Ryan,’ she says firmly, ‘if I was having a hen night, I’d want Sadie and Lou to be there.’
‘But that’s not impossible, is it?’
‘Well, there’s the l
ittle matter of Sadie having the twins and Lou being in York, plus they’re coming to the wedding so I can’t really expect them to schlep down to London twice in six weeks …’
‘How about rounding up some of your other friends?’
Hannah shakes her head. ‘I’d only keep wishing those two were there. Anyway,’ she adds, realising they’re forgetting to whisper, ‘I’m really pleased about Saturday. I thought me and Daisy could choose her bridesmaid’s outfit, if you don’t mind not being there …’
‘No,’ he chuckles. ‘You go ahead. I’m happy to leave that to you two.’
You two, thinks Hannah as sleep starts to close in on her, as if they might possibly become a little gang. And somewhere down the line, perhaps there’ll be another person in the gang. A baby – a little brother or sister for Daisy and Josh.
Hannah wants to mention it – to say, ‘I think I’m ready, Ryan. I can now almost imagine myself being a mother.’ But as she turns to him, Josh makes a rather noisy exit from the bathroom, shutting the door unnecessarily firmly behind him.
It’s as if he’s reminding them that he’s there, awake and prowling around on the landing, ensuring that no future babies are made. And by the time she hears Josh’s bedroom light click off, Ryan has already fallen asleep.
TWELVE
Sadie isn’t used to attending birthday parties at 11 am on a Saturday. In fact she isn’t used to attending babies’ birthday parties at any time of day, and hopes that her present, tucked into the little wire compartment beneath the buggy, will be deemed acceptable. The whole business of toys seems terribly complex these days. Sadie grew up in Liverpool, playing with the ordinary things little girls played with back then – Barbie, Sindy, a severed doll’s head on which you could practise make-up techniques. None of the children she’s encountered on the Little Hissingham coffee-morning circuit seem to own such things. The babies have scrunchy bead-filled bags to encourage fine-motor skills, while their older siblings play with tasteful wooden construction kits and Brio train sets. It’s good to be invited, though, Sadie reminds herself, as this suggests that she’s starting to belong.