‘What was that, love?’ he asks, turning his head towards Olivia on the other pillow. Olivia has mumbled something he didn’t catch.
‘I said that you called me Antonia.’
‘Did I? I had a bizarre dream. Sorry, I’m only just waking up.’
Olivia turns in the bed and gives Mike a playful thump. ‘Rule number one, Mike, never call your wife by the wrong name, especially when she feels like a beached whale.’ She strokes her large bump and looks thoughtful. ‘Have you seen her lately? Do you pop round any more?’
‘No,’ Mike replies. ‘Never. Too busy at work to get away. Then when I take Rachel, she insists I drop her at the gates so she can saunter down the driveway like a proper grown-up. I think she’s representing the family’s concern pretty well, don’t you?’
Olivia laughs easily. She seems so content now and Mike’s grateful for that. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m almost starting to get the hump. As well as the bump. My eldest child appears to have a higher regard for Antonia than me. But then when it comes to looks and fashion, I really can’t blame her. But I must get round to visiting Antonia. She’s nice.’
She leans over and kisses Mike on his stubbly cheek. ‘I feel so much better now that I’m not puking twenty-four seven. I know I’ve been grumpy. Thanks for hanging in there, Mike. What on earth would I do without you?’
As Antonia was nearly seventeen and had a job, Barry and Norma had managed to negotiate a stay out of care until a council flat became available for her. In the meantime she’d continued to live at her home in Northern Moor. The two adults promised to keep an eye on her, but in practice it was Sophie who held everything together, from feeding the dog to fending off journalists.
‘Doesn’t it give you the creeps, still living there? Where it happened?’
It was the question people asked all the time, particularly at the hairdressers. Both the customers and staff. Everyone knew what had happened, everyone talked, not bothering to hold back their blatant curiosity. It was as though Antonia was public property, like a soap or a porn star who had no right to privacy or tact.
‘I don’t have much choice,’ was her stock reply as she washed and brushed and straightened. Not the ‘It’s none of your bloody business’ she wanted to scream.
She stayed with Sophie and her family in Northenden mostly, but she was at home on the day of the trial. When her mum was first arrested a couple of journalists had tracked her down at Barry and Norma’s and hovered for hours outside their house. So as the trial approached she felt it wasn’t fair to stay longer. They’d been very kind and the boys were still young. But Sophie was with her. She skipped a day off sixth-form college and arrived early at Antonia’s house with a Subway sandwich meal deal and cider, so she wouldn’t be alone.
The raps at the door were so frequent that she and Sophie became used to the dog’s constant barking and hardly heard it. But eventually, when the knocking didn’t abate but developed into hammering, Sophie gave in with, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it and tell them to piss off.’
Sophie came back into the sitting room and shrugged. ‘It must be one of your relatives,’ she said, then Auntie Thandi appeared behind her, looking dishevelled and anxious. Her mother’s twin, but not identical. Her skin was much darker.
‘Chinue! You’re not answering the telephone. I’ve come in a taxi from court. Why are you still here?’
Antonia stayed hunched on the floor, the dog close beside her. ‘Mum asked me not to go.’
‘Well, of course you have to come. You’ll have to give evidence.’
‘I’m not giving evidence. Mum doesn’t want me to. She doesn’t want anyone to.’
‘Forget what your mum says. It’s for her own benefit. You have to come and tell them what he was like. The judge and the jury, whoever. Explain why she finally snapped. For God’s sake, Chinue, please come. The taxi’s waiting outside. Come on, love. Just put on your coat and let’s go.’
Thandi stepped towards her and held out her hand but Antonia shook her head, her arms tight around her knees. ‘No. It’s her penance. That’s what she said. She made me promise.’
The rant started then, the anger and desperation etched on her aunt’s face. Question after question, accusations and insults. Didn’t Chinue care? What the hell was she thinking? Candy would get life for murder. Didn’t she get that? Was she completely stupid? What kind of daughter was she? She’d live with the guilt for the rest of her life. She was as bad as her father, a stupid, stupid, selfish bitch.
Antonia covered her ears, pummelled the floor with her bare feet and screamed. ‘Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off.’
‘I think you should go now,’ Sophie eventually said.
CHAPTER FORTY
‘Hello, Olivia! You look chirpy!’
The voice comes from the mum of a boy in Hannah’s class and it makes Olivia jump.
‘Sorry, Liz. I was miles away,’ she replies, her cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, thanks. Chirpy but getting huger by the hour! Still, I guess it’s better than being miserable and fat.’
Olivia laughs, feeling slightly abashed at how chirpy she feels. It’s so very middle-class mother-hen-from-Chorlton of her. To make it worse she’s clutching an armful of organic veg covered in soil. ‘I think you’ll find they sprinkle on the soil in the shop, the way one does with icing sugar on cakes that have burned,’ she mocked to her sister not so long ago. Yet here she is in Unicorn, store to the virtuous vegans, buying pulses and veg and actually humming. God knows what she’ll make with it, but she promised Mike something nice for dinner because he’s been mega busy at work, stuck at his desk again today with deadlines to meet.
‘I’m in the third trimester, can you believe. I had a scan yesterday and all is well,’ she adds, by way of explanation for the chirpiness, if not the humming.
‘Wow, that went quickly. Do you know what you’re having?’
‘A baby!’ Mike would undoubtedly reply, quoting from Only Fools and Horses. But Mike doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby, he wants a surprise. Her heart lurched just a little when he said it, the ‘forgiven but not forgotten’ accusations about the miscarriage still hanging around her like an aura. Along, of course, with the ghost of Sami. It’s still there, but nebulous and vague, as a phantom should be. It feels a little silly now, but she whipped herself up into such a state of panic at one time she wondered if one could tell colour or ethnicity from a scan. She pictured the sonographer looking accusingly at Mike and saying, ‘What the hell are you doing here, you’re not the father!’ But Mike is the father. Thank God. She finds herself thanking God a lot, which is pretty ironic coming from her doubting lips.
Olivia scrapes off the newly formed layer of ice on the windscreen of her car with a credit card. Climbing into the car, she puts her hand on the mound of her stomach and smiles as she feels the baby squirm. She was so tightly bound with anxiety about Sami and Mike that she forgot to worry about a miscarriage.
Sable cloud’s silver lining, she thinks, as she turns on the ignition.
She’s now nearly seven months gone, the baby moves regularly and everything looked good on the scan, nose, fingers and toes and a firmly beating heart. Besides, somehow she knows this one is a fighter. She doesn’t want to tempt fate with her happiness, but she can’t help it. Despite her initial negativity, she feels quite light-headed and giddy with optimism. Then yesterday at the scan, as she gazed at her baby on the screen, she saw what looked like a little willy. She glanced up at the sonographer and knew from her small smile and the slight nod of her head that the baby is a boy. It was all she could do not to point it out to Mike there and then. She knows he’ll be so pleased with her, so thrilled when a son is born.
Other than sheer relief, Olivia can’t explain the transformation from the woman who didn’t want another baby to this, but she feels intensely grateful as she drives. To the hospital for the scan, to Mike for hanging in there and to Hannah for not kicking off about the baby. To her sister for not saying
‘I told you so’ after the fifth time. To Rachel for putting up with such a crap mum.
Peering through the windscreen, she smiles, thinking of her in-laws and their need to pray aloud. ‘If you are up there, Mr Almighty, thank you too. I’ll even let you off for the stretch marks.’
Not quite yet eleven, Antonia is early. It’s drizzling, of course. David said it always rained in Withington. But he called it ‘happy rain’. She should’ve asked him, ‘Why happy?’ but she didn’t. Seeing the sparkle in his eyes was enough.
Today’s another journey to the past, the more immediate past this time. She’d always assumed the gleam was nostalgic, from David’s days as a student, and if not that, humorous thoughts of his Friday night banter with Sami and Mike at the pub. But she’d been wrong; her discovery about Misty at the funeral was deeply hurtful and shocking. But now time has passed, she finds it puzzling too; David had loved her, really loved her. Hadn’t he?
Pushing the door open, the yeasty dank smell of beer hits her. It’s mixed with cleaning products too, but she knows it’s a smell that doesn’t disappear. Once it’s spilled, it stays, greedily absorbed by the floorboards like a drunk.
She heads to the bar, surprised to see two men at separate tables already clutching pints. One of them catches her eye and nods soulfully. Dark beer, almost black, she knows that it’s Guinness.
The lady at the counter turns. ‘What can I get you?’ Middle-aged and not unfriendly, she chats for a few moments as she pours the orange juice, but she doesn’t have red hair, she isn’t Misty.
Heading for the empty space beyond the bar, Antonia sits, wondering if this is where David sat on a Friday. He invited her, of course. ‘Come to the pub. I want to show you off.’ Just like he invited her everywhere. ‘Come and watch me play football on Sunday. You need to see my left foot in action. You’ll be so impressed.’
She sips her drink slowly, her eyes catching the morose man staring back. He has a fresh pint. What time did he start drinking? Why does he need to so early? What’s he escaping? There’s always a reason. She tries to reach for understanding or empathy, but the split of emotions is still there.
‘It’s Antonia, isn’t it?’
The sound of the voice makes her start and look up. Misty, it’s Misty. It’s what she’s here for, isn’t it? And yet she wants to bolt, to deny who she is and escape.
But Misty is already pulling out a stool. ‘Is it OK if I sit down?’ she asks.
Antonia nods and Misty sits, smiling hesitantly. She places her wrinkled hands on the table. Huge glistening rings adorn her fingers and they’re shaking badly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she says with a catch to her voice. ‘I tried to speak to you at the funeral but of course you were busy. I wanted to speak to you in person, maybe visit or something, but I didn’t know if you’d want me to.’
Antonia breathes. She thought she might shout when this moment came. Scream and shake the evil bitch. But the woman’s a wreck. Her grey roots are showing through the red, her eye make-up is haphazard and smudged, she looks desperately sad. ‘Because I might know about the affair?’ she asks quietly instead.
Misty frowns. ‘What affair?’
‘Between you and David.’
Misty leans forward, her cleavage exposed and creased. ‘Oh, love, no! I mean who wouldn’t want to with such a lovely handsome man, but no.’ She reaches out her hand to take Antonia’s and it’s surprisingly steady and firm. ‘No, Antonia. We had a … relationship, a friendship, but it was nothing like that.’
Antonia pulls back her hand. ‘But at the wake, people were talking. I heard them. About you and David.’ She thinks back to her conversation with Mike after the funeral. That kiss, that intimacy. It feels like years ago. ‘People assumed—’
Shaking her head, Misty sighs. ‘Yes, assumptions. That’s running a pub for you. People make up all sorts of stories. They see what they want to see. Rumours get around. It caused problems for me and Seamus from time to time. He’d start to believe them too, get jealous and, well …’ She takes a deep breath and smiles a wry smile. ‘No affair, love. Very flattering, but stupid. Look at you. Why would he have any interest in me? He loved you, he adored you. You must know that.’
It isn’t what Antonia expected. She lifts her hands, confused. ‘Then why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he introduce you like he did with his other friends? Why were you a … a secret, I suppose?’
The smile from Misty’s face falls, tears fill her eyes. ‘He had a great big hole here,’ she says, putting a hand to her breast. ‘His mum. He still desperately missed her. I’m no psychologist, love, but I think he needed someone to talk to—’
‘And it should have been me,’ Antonia blurts, her words choked. ‘But I wouldn’t talk to him. I let him down—’
Grasping Antonia’s hand again, Misty shakes her head. ‘No, love, don’t go there. I run a pub. There are things men tell me they wouldn’t tell another soul and especially not a wife.’ She gazes for a moment, her eyes luminous, as though seeing Antonia’s insides. ‘We’re all human; there’s always something we’re not proud of, or a side of us we want to hide. He loved you faithfully, Antonia. He wanted nothing but the best for you, your happiness came first.’
Wiping her face with a tissue, Antonia finds herself whispering, the words emerging unexpectedly, honest and raw. ‘His adoration was difficult at times. He put me on a pedestal. Thought I was someone I wasn’t.’
Sitting back, Misty smiles. ‘I know you won’t believe it, but I was like you once. I was beautiful too.’ She turns towards the bar and lifts a hand to wave to Seamus. ‘It’s not always easy being perfect. Which, of course, we’re not. But imagine how difficult it is for them.’
Mike returns to the office from lunch to find Judith looking comfortable in his chair. He’s been to Sam’s Chop House for a pint with Sami even though he didn’t really have the time. He only had the one pint, but lunchtime drinking isn’t a good idea, it does the opposite of what alcohol is supposed to do. He feels drowsy and introspective. Still, Sami was on great form, the best he’s seen him for weeks.
‘Sophie’s home,’ Sami said in the pub. ‘Thank God. My chances of gastroenteritis have tripled, the house looks as though it’s been dusted for prints and I have to put up with Ronan Keating again, but I feel like a newly-wed. Bloody ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘So, the baby thing …’
‘A close shave, Mike. Thank God she’s gone off the idea for now. Hopefully it’ll be permanent. If I’m honest I’d prefer just to stay as we are. I can’t see me with a kid.’
Mike laughed with surprise. He thought he knew Sami so well. ‘As long as you’re happy, mate, cheers to that!’
Judith is picking up papers from his desk, scrutinising them quickly and putting them in piles. She’s reorganising his disorder and he knows better than to stop her. He watches for a while, pleased to see her, relieved she’ll be coming back after her maternity leave to organise his working life and to brighten his day. He misses their shared humour; he misses their chats.
‘Mislaid your baby already, Jude?’ he says with a grin as he removes a stripy scarf knitted by Rachel. ‘In Marks and Spencer food hall? Or maybe try Debenhams’ changing rooms.’
‘Ha, ha. I see from the state of your desk that you’ve been missing me. A lot.’ She lifts her head, looks at Mike and smiles. ‘So, fill me in with all the gossip.’
‘You’re asking the wrong man. No one tells me anything.’
‘That’s because you don’t tell anyone anything.’ She gazes at him thoughtfully, her pencil tapping on the desk. ‘You seem quiet. How’s the merry widow?’
Mike laughs, hoping the laugh will reach his eyes. ‘Fine, I believe. Rachel’s still going round.’ Bloody Gypsy Rose, he thinks with a pang. Antonia was all he thought of at lunch with Sami, desperately wanting the conversation to move on to her. How she really was coping. Whether she had a new man.
Their heads both turn to the door as they hear the shri
ll squeal of a distressed baby approaching. Judith raises her eyebrows. ‘That’s what happens when you play “Who’s the Daddy?” I wonder who they’ve come up with this time.’
She takes the baby from an apologetic-looking secretary and rocks her gently until the crying stops. ‘It’ll be your turn again soon,’ she says with a small frown. ‘She’s hungry. I’d better go.’ She steps to the door but turns before leaving. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Mike? Rose-tinted glasses; the grass is greener; absence makes the heart grow fonder. I could add more if my brain hadn’t shrunk.’ She picks up the woolly scarf from the back of a chair and hangs it on a hook. ‘You have a great life, Mike. A lovely family. Remember what you’ve got.’ She watches his face for a moment. ‘Just saying …’ she adds before closing his office door.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Olivia stands in her hallway and looks at her watch. Rachel has netball after school and Hannah’s going to a friend’s house for tea, so she has time to either attend an aqua-natal class at Chorlton swimming baths or to assuage her conscience by visiting Antonia. She prefers the idea of the former. It’s a life saver to make friends with other pregnant mums, not only for the pre-birth gripes and fears, but particularly for after the birth. The support and camaraderie of someone else with stinging stitches and leaky nipples is invaluable. But she most definitely feels guilty about her failure to visit Antonia properly since the funeral. She’s been so sweet to Rachel too, taking her bowling or to the cinema and then to Nando’s. It’s the sort of thing Olivia would do had there not been such a large age gap between Rachel and Hannah. ‘Though, would I?’ she asks herself, as she studies the clutter of trainers and fairy wings, music stands and jigsaws under the stairs. It’s difficult to really know the answers to all the ‘if’ questions. She’s told herself firmly to stop beating herself up, to concentrate on ‘scot-free’, whatever that actually means, but sometimes it’s much easier said than done.
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