‘So, what was the sorry for?’ Antonia teased with a grin. ‘Shall we start at the beginning? Year Seven, maybe, and work up from there?’
‘Don’t push your luck.’
‘Come on, it’s like a life achievement award, I have to milk it for all it’s worth.’
They settled on the sofa, just like old times, Antonia eating one chocolate button to Sophie’s handful. Sophie glanced at Antonia’s contented face and took a deep breath of resolve. She knew Antonia didn’t expect a reply or an explanation, but Sophie didn’t want to cheat. As the therapist said, ‘You only end up cheating yourself.’
‘I’m sorry that I didn’t come to David’s funeral. I should’ve been there for you, like before. I should’ve stayed with you and comforted you.’
Antonia nodded. It wasn’t the usual shut-down cloud, Sophie noticed, but there was a strange reflective look on her face, almost a smile. But that was the easy apology. That part wasn’t personal, that part didn’t jangle in her chest with anxiety and fear. She took a deep breath. ‘Also, I’m sorry I was so horrible. The things I said. I imagined some stupid things about you and Sami.’
‘Paranoia, loss of self,’ Sophie recalled as she waited for Antonia’s response. But sometimes it was hard to know what was real and what wasn’t. ‘A step at a time, Sophie. A step at a time.’
‘Bloody right they were stupid,’ Antonia replied. ‘You know I love Sami, but never like that. Besides, I’m not a married man type. You’re my friend, Sophie, my best friend. I wouldn’t do that to you. People shouldn’t do that to their friends.’
She studied Antonia’s face as she spoke. Now there is a shadow, she thought. But then again, she knew that Antonia didn’t tell her everything. The night of her father’s death, for example. Antonia had never talked about it, not once to that day. Sophie knew not to ask. She never asked and never probed, as much as Norma and Barry had wanted her to.
There are some things one is entitled to keep private, Sophie mused as she sat snug with Antonia and ate another handful of buttons. Like the counselling sessions she’d had for the past two weeks. She couldn’t hide the anti-depressants or keeping off the booze, but she could hide those, close to her chest. Sessions which were comforting and painful, brutal and honest. She didn’t know why, but having them wasn’t something she wanted to share with Antonia. At least not yet.
They were both silent for a while. ‘And you knew too many of my secrets,’ Sophie said eventually, needing to say it, needing to know. ‘About the chlamydia, the PID, the lies to Sami.’
Antonia looked at her face and reached for her hand, held it firm. ‘No need to worry about that, Soph. Those secrets are safe with me. I promise.’
Sophie continues to sit in the car, still not ready to move. Her breathing has deepened and her heartbeat has slowed but the anxiety is still there like a knife in her chest. Rejection, rejection, that fear of rejection. She tries to focus on her therapist’s advice: ‘Reality check, Sophie. What’s the worst that can happen?’
She had loathed the therapist, naturally. She sat in stubborn silence for most of the first session.
‘The only remotely good thing I can say about her is that she hasn’t got a beard,’ she said to Norma on returning home. ‘I’m not going again.’
But a combination of self-will she didn’t know she possessed, and Norma’s face, drove her back. Then once she started to speak, to explain it all from the beginning, she found that she couldn’t stop.
‘You say that you love him, you say you miss him. Why haven’t you gone back to Sami?’
‘I’m afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
She thought about the answer for a long time. Where to begin? I’m afraid of losing him. I’m not as young or as slim or as pretty as the other girls. He’ll hate me when he knows that I can’t give him a baby, she thought. She settled on rejection, she supposed that was the crux.
‘I’m afraid of rejection. Really afraid.’
‘How do you know he’ll reject you?’ the therapist asked.
It was a fair point. Sophie didn’t know, she didn’t know anything. She assumed all sorts. Her mind had been inundated with assumptions for a long time now. Assumptions and paranoia and anxiety which she’d gratefully drowned in chilled Chablis.
‘Would it be fair to say that it was only ever temporary drowning?’
Sophie started. She must have said the words out loud. Or perhaps the therapist was very good after all.
‘What would be a more permanent death, Sophie? For all those assumptions?’
She shuffled in her chair, feeling like a school kid, afraid of getting the answer wrong. ‘To know?’ she ventured. ‘To actually know?’
The beep of a text message rouses Sophie from thought. She lifts her head and looks out of the car windscreen. A passer-by turns her head and stares. She looks confident, Sophie thinks. A young woman in a short suit with long legs, wavy hair, slim and young, without a care.
Sophie sighs, wondering what happened to the forthright girl she once was, the one who would head into battle, fearless, brave and strong.
‘Perhaps it’s because you care too much. Or perhaps you need good on your side to go into battle,’ her mum had said yesterday.
Norma is probably right on both counts, but Sophie hasn’t acknowledged it. During her long stay, she’s discovered her mother is right most of the time and it doesn’t make for good fellowship. But on the quiet, despite Antonia’s assurance, if things work out, she’s decided to confess everything to Sami. To say sorry and come clean about the miscarried baby, the infection, the infertility and the lies. In a strange way, she’ll then have good on her side.
Sami is upstairs making the bed with worrying precision when the doorbell rings.
‘Jemima, the champagne. Of course,’ he panics. He should’ve left it outside. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
He walks slowly down the stairs, his heart thumping. Fucking hell, he’ll have to have a word with Charlie about a restraining order at this rate. It’s a bloody nightmare.
He opens the door and she’s there.
‘Avon calling!’ she says with a smile. ‘Got your apology.’
For a moment he’s frozen, dumbstruck. ‘That was quick. I only sent it five minutes ago.’
She puts her feet together and bends her knees, air hostess style. ‘I think you’ll find we run an exceptional service.’
He stares at her face, her beautiful face. She’s smiling. The hugest of smiles. Thank you, God, thank you. He grins and he grins, standing there on his doorstep, like a laughing idiot.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in, dear husband?’
He scoops her up and carries her into the house, then puts her down in the lounge, holding on to her tightly.
‘I was a lot thinner the last time you did that,’ Sophie says into his chest.
Sami pulls her away and holds her by the shoulders. He looks at her face, imperfect but beautiful. ‘I love you just the way you are, Sophie.’
‘Are you pleased to see me, Sami?’ she asks, her voice a husky croak.
He holds her again. ‘You can’t begin to know how much. Don’t you ever go away again, Sophie Richards. Do you hear me?’
Sophie’s eyes are closed. She’s cupped by Sami’s body, sweaty and warm in their bed. His arms are around her waist and every so often he lifts a hand to play with strands of her hair.
She practised her lines in the car. ‘There’s something I have to confess.’ It’s going to be difficult, she knows. He’ll be very, very angry. ‘I wasn’t ever pregnant.’ He’ll shout and pace. She’ll need an excuse. ‘You should have asked me to marry you sooner. Then I wouldn’t have lied, Sami.’
But of course it started earlier than that, when she met his family, his sisters, all those bloody children. Not a lie as such, but an omission.
‘Your sisters have so many kids, Sami.’
‘Yeah, bet we will too, one day. Won’t that be great?’
; ‘One of each?’
‘No, a houseful! You’ll be a fantastic mum.’
But did she know then, really know and understand? ‘The infection is severe, Sophie. It might well affect your fertility in later life.’ The consultant’s words might have been said long ago, but which eighteen- or nineteen-year-old listens, let alone cares?
The confirmation, the one she actually listened to and took in, was a shock, like a hard, unexpected blow to her chest. ‘The sperm count is fine, Sophie. But the pelvic examination. I’ve re-read the forms. You’ve answered “no” to the questions about previous fertility issues, STDs. But it seems fairly clear that the problem is with you.’
Perhaps she could have told Sami then and dressed it up not to sound so base, but she’d already told the pregnancy-before-marriage-and-miscarriage-after lie. Sami wasn’t there at the appointment, he was away on business, and so she had time to think.
‘What should I do? What the fuck should I do?’ she had asked Antonia, there at the clinic, waiting to drive her home.
Antonia’s face was serious, her eyes huge. ‘Sometimes you have to lie,’ she’d replied.
‘You’re quiet, everything OK?’ Sami asks, interrupting Sophie’s rumination. He kisses the top of her head and pulls the duvet back over them.
Sophie turns towards him, her breasts touching his chest, heart to heart. ‘Actually, Sami, I have something to confess.’
Sami moves away, props his head on his arm with an enquiring look on his face. ‘Go on, fire away.’
She stares at him, the man she will always love, whether she wants to or not. ‘Good on your side. You only end up cheating yourself,’ she repeats in her mind.
Taking a breath, she opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again. The expensive lip gloss had been placed carefully beneath the mirror in the downstairs loo, like a malicious wink. She couldn’t have missed seeing it if she’d tried. She binned it immediately, but still it nags. The champagne she’s kept, perhaps he’s bought it for her, it’s possible. But he hasn’t shaved. Sami always shaves.
‘I’ve been to the doctor. He’s prescribed happy pills.’
He looks at her, clearly shocked. ‘What? You mean anti-depressants? That can’t be—’
‘I haven’t been well, Sami. Not for a long time. Things have got me down and I’ve tried to hide it.’
Sophie gazes at Sami’s face, his beautiful face.
You’re struck dumb and I’ve told you virtually nothing, she thinks, as she watches him search for the words.
‘Oh. I didn’t realise.’
She sees his eyes flicker. Embarrassment? Self-reproach? It’s difficult to tell.
‘You can be poorly mentally as well as physically, you know. I need to get better. So now isn’t the time for trying for a baby.’
‘Yeah, of course. Absolutely. Poor you.’
He still looks stunned, but there’s something else in his face that she can’t quite decipher. Guilt? Relief, even? She leans into him. Perhaps she is ‘cheating herself’ but she doesn’t much care. What Sami doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
She thinks of the lip gloss one more time before deciding to hide it in her mental box with all the other hurt and pain. She’ll never let him go. And she’s home now. Back for good. Things will be fine. There’s no more to confess …
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Antonia presses The Ridings front door intercom. ‘Sunday, it’s Sunday,’ she wants to point out to a passing nurse. Not that she’ll visit any other day again, but the implied criticism still rankles.
Signing in as usual, she feels a tap on her shoulder. ‘They’re putting up the decorations in the lounge. Candy’s in her bedroom today, love,’ the carer with the long grey plait says. ‘Shall I let you through?’
Antonia hesitates for a moment, her eyes taking in a Christmas raffle prize covered in cellophane with a huge purple bow. It’s displayed on a table next to a plate of mince pies with a note saying, ‘Please help yourself’. A few weeks to Christmas, she thinks. The first without David.
She turns back to the carer. ‘Is Mrs Jones in her office for a quick word first?’
‘Oh, I haven’t seen her. I’m not sure if she’s in today. Maybe try later?’
Antonia nods, feeling a flip of disappointment. She’s grown to like Mrs Jones. ‘Laura, please call me Laura.’ She wants to show Laura what she’s unearthed from her day-long investigation at the Manchester central library. She could have cut corners and saved time by telephoning Zara Singh, she supposes, but that would’ve been cheating, she feels. Besides, the thought of talking about her dad to a journalist, of all people, still makes her heart flash and her neck prickle. Looking back it seems silly to have been so fearful of the woman’s calls, of her interest. She was researching local young heroes of boxing. That’s all. The postcard still remains on the kitchen island untouched. Antonia hasn’t yet thrown it away, but she will. She has what she wants. From her own efforts too.
She looks towards the empty office door. She wants to say thank you to Laura. Thanks for caring, thanks for sharing, for pointing her in the right direction. But there’s another question she’d like to ask about her mum and religion. She’s been dwelling on it, more of the ‘detail’ which nags her before sleep at night.
Towards the end, when Antonia had left school at sixteen and spent more time at Sophie’s than at her own home, Candy went from faith to fervour, spending an inordinate amount of time at their local Catholic church. In fairness Antonia has never asked, but neither has the information been offered by Laura or any of the staff at The Ridings. Has Candy ever gone to church either from The Ridings or, in the early days, from prison? Has she asked to? Is religion ever mentioned at all?
Shifting her focus back to the carer, she follows her to a locked door. Her heart racing, she watches the woman punch numbers into a keypad, then follows again down a white-washed corridor until they reach Candy’s room.
The door is ajar, but still Antonia knocks, before pushing it back. Entering the bedroom, she smiles. ‘Hello Mum! You’re in here today,’ she says in a bright voice.
Candy is sitting in an armchair, staring fixedly at a small television in the corner. It’s a cold early December day outside, but the sun is insistent, shining brightly through the large window. With the heat of the radiator, it feels like summer.
Antonia perches on the bed, ready to wait patiently. ‘They like their routine,’ she remembers. It’s Sunday today, so that’s fine, but it’s different because she and Candy aren’t in the lounge, so she wants to tread carefully.
Letting out her breath, Antonia looks around. She hasn’t been in Candy’s bedroom since her mum first moved into The Ridings and she was so blinded with apprehension that day she took nothing in. She’s always assumed she’s guided each Sunday to the lounge because the carers and the nurses are hiding something beyond the locked doors. Restraining straps, a dirty bedroom, no toilet seat or bars on the windows. Perhaps even worse if she allows her imagination to dwell. But the room is lovely. It’s an en-suite bedroom, the walls are clean and white, the floral bedding matches the curtains.
There are several greetings cards on the window ledge, all slightly curved from the heat of the radiator. She stands and bends down to peep without touching. There are the cards she’s written that year. Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, birthday. And Easter, bloody Easter. ‘All my love, Chinue xxx.’ But there are other cards too. Birthday and Easter greetings from ‘The Staff at The Ridings’ and others from individual members of staff, Rose, Emma and Joe. Then she sees a card with a photograph of two chubby black babies attached with a paper clip.
‘Is it all right if I look?’ Antonia asks her mum.
‘They’re your second cousins. Twins,’ Candy replies, her eyes still on the television screen.
Antonia picks up the card and reads. ‘Dearest Candy. I thought you would like to see your brand new great-nephews. Twins, as you can see. I wonder if they will be as mischievous as w
e were! Love always from Thandi. PS We often think of Chinue and hope she is well.’
Antonia sits down again, still holding the photograph, feeling winded. Thandi, her mother’s twin. She married a Nigerian. The last time Antonia saw Thandi, she told her to fuck off.
Mike thumps awake. The complexity of the dream always escapes the moment he opens his eyes, but he knows that he’s bleeding, bleeding to death from stab wounds to his chest. He looks over to Olivia and touches her shoulder gently, as though to forgive the Olivia he knows was in the dream.
‘Bad dreams, guilty conscience,’ his grandmother’s always said with a sour face, her arms folded over a huge bosom.
‘Then I must be having a grand old time. Shame I’m too ancient to remember,’ his grandpa would reply, his eyes twinkling.
‘It’s only a dream, Mikey. Don’t worry, I’m here.’ They were his mother’s words. Soft and loving words. Mikey was always secure in her warm arms, knowing that she’d never hurt him or his sister, though protect them she would, to the ends of the earth.
Mike tries not to think of Antonia, but he does. Especially in those moments after waking from the dream, his heart hammering with relief. She was a young teenager, not so very much older than Rachel. A teenager who was awoken in the small hours to find her father bleeding to death, her crazed mother holding a blade and the dog howling. It sounded like a dream or a nightmare, a film even, but it wasn’t. She called an ambulance and her mother was arrested. The mother pleaded guilty at the trial and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Then later she was sectioned and remanded to a secure hospital. Such a horrendous trauma for someone so young and so vulnerable. Then being left all alone to fend for herself. Like now, just like now.
Mike releases his breath and turns, remembering her troubled expression that night as she told him. Her face was so close to his that they almost touched and she whispered the words, her eyes far away, her hands trembling in his.
He hasn’t seen her for weeks, simply dropping Rachel at the end of the White Gables driveway and collecting her from the same spot at the allotted time. ‘How’s Antonia?’ he asks Rachel lightly in the car on the way home, hoping to glean just a little something of how she’s faring. He knows she’ll meet a man soon enough. The thought is almost unbearable.
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