The Other Mothers' Club

by Samantha Baker

  So Clare plugged the machine back in and sat on her sofa, watching it, waiting.

  Twenty minutes later she was still sitting there and the machine was still silent. Coffee, she decided. Although she might as well take it intravenously, she’d drunk so much lately. The kettle was boiling when she heard the first ring, a click, and her machine burst into life.

  Clare and Lou Adams aren’t available to take your call right now. Leave your name and number and we might call you back. Then again, maybe not.

  The voice and words were Lou’s. Clare had meant to make her change them, but she had never gotten around to it. Now she couldn’t help feeling the message was meant for today.

  “Clare…?”

  That voice. One word, one syllable, and she knew it was him. The boy on the bench staring at his knees instead of looking her in the eye. The boy on the bench saying he didn’t want a baby with her. Not now, meaning not ever. As ducks circled the sunken Tesco shopping cart and Clare felt—and would swear this on her own life—a kick inside.

  She stood in the doorway hovering between kitchen and living room, staring as the green light flashed, bringing his voice back into her life.

  “Um, I’m guessing I’ve got the right Clare? I’m looking for Clare Adams who grew up in Hendon and went to King Henry in the early nineties. This is Will, er, William Drew. If it’s you, Clare, you know why I’m calling and obviously I won’t go into it here…”

  Almost fourteen and a half years of suppressed fury propelled her across the living room and her hand was lifting the receiver before she could stop herself.

  “How fucking dare you?” she exploded. “How dare you call my home and threaten me?”

  “Clare? Clare, is that you?” Same voice, but now that it was in her ear she could hear it was older, had matured. As, of course, had its owner.

  It was a voice that said doctor. Now Mrs. Adams, what seems to be the problem?

  You! You’re the problem!

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said, feeling the fight drain from her body as quickly as it had flooded in. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Louisa sounds…she sounds feisty,” he said. “On the answer phone, I mean. Like her mother.”

  It wasn’t true and Clare knew it. Maybe she had been like that once, back then. But not for years. Fourteen years of single-motherhood had ground the feistiness out of her. The most you could say for Clare Adams now was that she was dogged.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want—I mean, I would like—to see my daughter.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Please, at least consider it.”

  “Why? Why should I?”

  “Why not? No, don’t answer that. It was a long time ago, Clare, things change. I’ve changed.”

  What did that mean? Clare wondered. What was he trying to say? Had he changed toward her? Did he have…regrets?

  “I think we should meet,” Will was saying. “At least talk about it. Please?”

  Clare didn’t trust herself to speak. Now that her fury had lessened, she could feel herself softening toward him, and she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let Will back in. She felt the silence of her indecision lengthen between them.

  “Clare,” he repeated. “Like it or not, Louisa is my daughter. And I want to see her, get to know her…provide for her.”

  “A bit late for that.”

  “You know that’s not entirely fair…”

  Yes it is, Clare wanted to scream. Go back where you came from.

  But she could hear a key in the lock at street level, a door slam and oversized teenaged feet stamping up the lower flight of stairs.

  Clare wanted to hang up, but she knew Will would only call back. Now, or later. And when he did, she might not be the one to answer the phone.

  Lou might.

  “OK,” she said. “I’ll meet you. But not here. You’re not coming here.”

  The footsteps were louder now, dragging on the final flight of stairs, complaint implicit in each worn-to-death Dr. Martens–clad footstep. Clare wondered what she’d done—or not done—for Louisa this time.

  “Tell me where,” she said, her voice low. “Somewhere away from here, somewhere in the center…”

  Somewhere there was no chance of Lou seeing them. Putting two and two together and coming up with fourteen.

  “Erin! Erin! Over here!”

  The statuesque model turned, all raven hair and crimson lips, and smiled, setting off an explosion of flashlights.

  The red carpet outside the Victoria and Albert Museum was thick with models, designers and fashion industry celebrities. For the first time since arriving in London as Simeon’s accessory of the season (aka his latest wife), Melanie slipped past the paparazzi unpapped. Only one of them even so much as threw her a glance. Something about her expensive hair, designer gown and almond eyes obviously rang a bell. Then he noticed Vince beside her. No, said the photographer’s expression, just another fashion nobody.

  Not an unwelcome experience for Melanie, but new all the same. In the weeks after Simeon had left her, Melanie had been unable to step outside without having one of the paparazzi who’d camped there take her picture. But they hadn’t been looking for glitz and glamour then. They’d been after something different. Melanie as heartbroken stick with which to beat Simeon Jones, billionaire shagger about town. Although to be fair to Poppy, which Melanie was disinclined to be, it was she who had taken most of the flak. Poppy King had been the other woman, the home wrecker, Melanie the victim; Simeon had just been a bit player in the media’s girl-on-girl blame game.

  “You OK?” asked Vince, squeezing her hand.

  “Uh-huh.” Melanie forced a smile to her lips. Try as she might, she couldn’t make it reach her eyes. C’mon Melanie, she thought, pushing through the revolving doors into the entrance hall. You can do this. It’s not like you haven’t done it a thousand times before.

  She hadn’t wanted to come to the Fashion Awards at all. In the three years she’d been with Simeon, Melanie had been to the opening of more envelopes than most people manage in a lifetime. Simeon had insisted on it. His job depended on his profile, and, as far as he was concerned, his profile—their profile—was her job. Private views at galleries in Mayfair, designer store openings on Sloane Street, black-tie charity fund-raisers, and luncheons for ladies who lunched.

  But being nominated for a British Fashion Award was a huge deal for personalshopper. The column inches and resulting hits on her website, an astonishing seventy per cent of which led directly to sales (according to Vince), could be bigger still.

  “It’s recognition enough to be nominated,” she’d told Grace when the invitation had arrived. “We won’t win, so there’s no need for me to go. It’s a waste of my time and personalshopper’s money…both valuable resources,” she’d added pointedly, pushing from her mind the much-needed publicity; the opportunity to network; the fact that not bothering to show was just plain rude, not to mention selfish.

  And Melanie Cheung had been brought up to be neither rude nor selfish. The fact was, life was beginning to feel good away from the limelight. Slowly but surely, thanks to personalshopper and Vince and even the new club, Melanie was beginning to feel like herself again. Melanie Cheung, straight-A student, fast-track lawyer, a success on her own terms and no one else’s. She’d always been a backroom girl at heart. She minded her own business and let other people mind theirs. Vince was the same, which was one of the things they had in common.

  Grace had just rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Have it your way,” she’d said, turning on her heel and heading out of the office, muttering, not quite under her breath, “chicken.”

  That was all it had taken.

  And so here Melanie was, wearing a liquid jersey vintage Halston gown in metallic gray borrowed for the night, Vince by her side—looking, if she did say so herself, pretty hot in an Armani tux, omnipresent stubble shaved off in honor of the occasion. Tending toward the cra
ggy, his looks had slid into place as he’d progressed through his thirties. He had probably always looked forty—and always would. And every second woman—those who didn’t stop her to tell her how much they loved personalshopper, how, in fact, personalshopper had changed their lives—glanced her way anyway, Melanie was pretty sure, to eye Vince.

  “Who knew,” Vince whispered, “that internet shopping could change the world? If only someone had told Angelina Jolie, she could have saved herself the inconvenience of adopting all those orphans.”

  Melanie snorted champagne bubbles up her nose.

  Even Vince had begun to relax. In the Mercedes on the way from Kings Cross, Melanie had wondered if she was doing the right thing bringing him as her plus one. After his ninth attempt to knot his bow tie, the tension in the back had been so obvious she’d been tempted to lean over him, open his door and push him out.

  In the end she’d settled for scolding him.

  “For crying out loud, Vince,” she’d said. “You’re meant to be here as my moral support, not the other way around. If you didn’t want to come, all you had to do was say.”

  He’d looked at her, sheepish. His brown eyes sad, his bow tie still undone, the unruly salt-and-pepper hair he’d spent the best part of ten minutes trying to comb down before they’d left, springing back up. “Sorry, Melanie,” he’d said. “I just…well, I’m out of my league here.”

  “Don’t be crazy, you look gorgeous. I would!” She’d winked.

  “I don’t, but thanks,” he’d said as he’d squeezed her knee through the fabric of her dress. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Melanie had waited.

  “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to these…fashion people. They’re going to ask what I do, I’ll tell them systems and that’ll be that. B-o-ring!”

  “Personalshopper would be nothing without your software. They’ll all be trying to poach you.”

  Vince had rolled his eyes, a faux yawn turning into a real one.

  “Anyway. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just stick to Hello and What do you do? In fact, scratch that, or you’ll be asking Alexander McQueen what he does, and that would not be good. Anyway, you’re not coming to talk to them, you’re coming to talk to me.”

  Then she’d set about knotting his tie once and for all.

  “Is it my imagination,” Vince asked, after Melanie had spent five minutes making small talk to an up-and-coming designer, “or am I the only straight man here?”

  “Not quite,” Melanie said. “Why? Like your chances?”

  “As if.” Vince leaned in and kissed her neck. “I’m just thinking, with all these women around, I should have brought my mates!”

  “That’s it! That’s my next business idea,” Melanie said, laughing. “An online dating agency putting women in fashion together with men in systems. Seriously, though, they’re not all gay. Most men in retail aren’t…”

  Only Vince wasn’t listening, not really.

  “Melanie,” he said. “I was thinking…” Putting out his hand, he dumped his empty champagne flute on a passing tray and took up a new one.

  “How about Saturday to meet Ellie?”

  Melanie took a gulp from her own glass to hide her shock. She shouldn’t have been taken aback, not really. She’d been expecting this for weeks. Secretly thankful with each weekend that had passed without it. “Well,” she said, playing for time, “you certainly pick your moments.”

  “Not really,” said Vince. “Look, forget I mentioned it.”

  “I just wasn’t expecting it right now,” Melanie said hurriedly. “Of course, yes. I’d love to meet Ellie.”

  “Really? You will?” Vince slid an arm around her waist and squeezed her. “Thanks. I’ve told her so much about you. You’ll love each other. I know you will.”

  Melanie wasn’t so sure. Eve’s unhappy experiences with Hannah and Lily’s admittedly funny retelling of her elder sister’s behavior when she’d met their father’s new wife at thirteen were enough to give anyone the jitters. She was almost glad when the call for dinner echoed around the foyer, ending their conversation.

  Since their skinny, blonde minder was nowhere to be seen, Melanie and Vince joined the crowd shuffling up the marble steps and along a maze of corridors that led to the gallery where the dinner tables were laid.

  “Wow,” Vince muttered, more than once. Melanie wasn’t sure whether at the Victorian nudes or the dress Kate Moss was just about wearing.

  Their minder, Charlotte, caught up with them just as they descended the grand stone staircase into the gallery. “Ms. Cheung, Ms. Cheung,” she called, pointing to a table near the center of the long thin room, just in front of the stage. “Your seats are right over here.”

  It was a good table, one of the best.

  Wondering if that was significant, Melanie decided it wasn’t and reached back to clutch Vince’s hand. Only to discover he wasn’t there. As the staircase had split in two halfway down, he’d become separated in the crush and had taken the other direction. Casting around, Melanie saw him standing forlornly at the foot of the other staircase. He looked about twelve.

  “You sit down,” Charlotte said. “I’ll get him.” She muttered darkly into her headset and disappeared between tables.

  Conscious of the fact that the hem of her borrowed gown was dangerously close to everyone else’s five-inch heels, Melanie hitched up her skirts and began weaving through the crowd toward her table, nodding to those who nodded to her as she pushed past. Whether they knew her as Mel Jones or Melanie Cheung, she had no idea.

  There was now only one table between Melanie and her seat, but every inch of the space surrounding it seemed full of photographers, even though an unmissably huge sign at the top of the staircase announced No Photography.

  The only way forward was through them, so she put her head down and plowed on.

  She was nearly there, home dry, when one of the photographers called, “Poppy! Over here, Poppy!”

  Melanie froze. She could have misheard. And there might be a dozen Poppies who warranted a paparazzi frenzy…but somehow Melanie knew she hadn’t, and there weren’t. This was the British fashion industry event of the year. If Poppy King-Jones was in the country, of course she’d be here. Why the hell hadn’t anyone thought to warn Melanie? If only to give her time to prepare herself.

  Melanie knew why.

  Because if they had warned her, she’d have pulled out.

  Frantically, Melanie looked for a way to avoid the inevitable. The thing she’d successfully avoided for two years. Until now.

  The crowd behind was pushing her, sweeping Melanie inexorably forward. To her left stood an almost full, white-clothed table laden with silver and glass, arranged around the most implausible floral centerpiece she’d ever seen. To her right was the table around which the photographers swarmed. Her own was beyond that.

  “Poppy! How did you lose the baby weight so quickly?”

  “Let’s have a shot with Simeon!”

  At what point the scrum put two and two together and got a scoop, Melanie didn’t know. But one of them did, and it was probably the man with the beard and glasses who had noticed her an hour earlier. Melanie only knew she’d been recognized because his camera was suddenly in her face.

  “Mel, Mel Jones, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Cheung. Melanie Cheung.”

  “Mel, give us a smile.”

  “Simeon Jones’s ex?” The whisper went around. “What’s she doing here? Where?”

  Melanie saw the exact moment Simeon turned in her direction, his eyes scanning the crowd for her, his expression pitched between annoyance and horror. Bespoke Savile Row dinner jacket, silk shirt, immaculately knotted bow tie. Simeon couldn’t see her; that much was obvious. But she could see him.

  Them.

  This was clearly not part of his plan. And Melanie had found out the hard way that Simeon hated things not going to plan. In Simeon’s world, there w
as zero tolerance for surprises.

  At least, she thought bleakly, he’d been as much in the dark about her attendance as she’d been about his. A small mercy, but better than nothing.

  Somewhere an organizer was experiencing the excitement that came with knowing they had—unwittingly, or not—unleashed a PR maelstrom to dominate the next morning’s papers and guarantee the Fashion Awards blanket coverage. The poor winners would barely get a look-in.

  “Mel. Over here.”

  “It’s Melanie, actually,” Melanie said, her voice quiet but firm, scarcely audible above the shots. “Melanie Cheung. And I mean it, no pictures, thank you.”

  But no one was listening. Or if they were, they chose not to hear—and a phalanx of photographers turned their cameras on her. Melanie forced a smile. Knowing the drill, knowing she had no choice. She gave the photographers three pictures, then turned her back, hoping tears hadn’t reached her eyes before the final shutter clicked.

  “What was that about?” Vince demanded when she reached their table.

  Melanie couldn’t look at him.

  “I said,” he whispered, a shade louder than strictly necessary, “what was that about?” He didn’t bother to fix the smile to his face that she had glued to her own for the benefit of the rest of the table.

  “Simeon,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

  “What about him?”

  “Simeon,” she repeated. “Simeon and Poppy.”

  “What about it?” Vince said. “What’s he got to do with you now?”

  Before she could stop herself, Melanie turned on him. “For Christ’s sake, just leave it alone, will you?”

  What followed were the longest three hours of Melanie’s life. Three grueling courses of food she didn’t want or taste, peppered with small talk and blatant staring, during which Vince spoke only to ask if she needed water, and downed glass after glass of his own. Something cold, dry and white, and definitely not mineral water. When personalshopper didn’t even get a special mention for Highly Commended, it was a relief.

  “What the fuck was that?”