The Other Mothers' Club

by Samantha Baker

  “I rest my case,” Eve had said, and she’d returned to her packing with an uneasy sense that the subject had not been closed.

  In the end they’d compromised on two large boxes of china, which Eve had filled to overflowing with as many secondhand cups, saucers, plates and glasses as she’d been able to squeeze in. The Mexican jug hadn’t fit, so she’d stuffed it in a duffel under her sweaters. But that had been before Rug-gate.

  “Eve, the car’s full,” Ian had said, looking pained as she’d rolled up the Afghan that had covered the boards of her living room. “And we don’t need any more rugs. We’ve got rugs coming out of our ears too.”

  “It’s just one,” she’d replied. “I know it’s not antique, like yours, but I like it.”

  “There’s nowhere to put it. And anyway,” Ian had said reasonably, “won’t your tenants need it?”

  “They’re bringing their own,” Eve had lied easily. She’d had no idea what her tenants planned to bring and hadn’t really cared. This was the rug she’d bought when she’d gotten the job at Beau. “We can take up one of the others, can’t we?”

  Ian had opened his mouth to speak and shut it again, seemingly admitting defeat.

  So she’d brought the rug anyway. And now it sat, still rolled up and tied with string, in the attic space, behind a small door in Inge’s room. Eve couldn’t help feeling she was the one who’d been defeated.

  And then there were the rain boots. Not Eve’s. Eve didn’t own rain boots. Hadn’t since she was about ten years old. And since she didn’t possess a pair of her own, it was hard to complain about the others.

  Initially, she hadn’t even noticed them. Not the first week anyway, but in her second week in the house, Alfie had announced he’d wanted to play in the garden, and since it had done nothing but rain for the previous twenty-four hours and the garden had been a sea of mud, Ian had announced rain boots were in order.

  “Where are they?” Eve had asked.

  “By the back door. Can’t miss them.”

  He’s certainly right about that, Eve had thought as she’d stood in the matchbox-sized room that separated the back door from the utility room. Lined up against the wall had been a neat row of rain boots. A row that had started with teeny red ones for Alfie and ended with Ian’s enormous green Hunters, with two pink pairs in rising sizes, followed by a smaller pair of Hunters in between.

  Anxiously, Eve had eyed the anoraks hung on hooks above. It hadn’t been rocket science to guess there would be five in ascending order. It was like something out of Goldilocks and the three bears. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? Well, they all knew the answer to that one.

  “What’s keeping you?” Ian had said. “Don’t tell me you can’t…” His voice had stopped as abruptly as he had in the doorway. “What?” he’d said, seeing her face. “What’s the pr—” His eyes had followed hers and he’d stopped midsentence.

  “Erm, Ian…” Eve hadn’t quite believed what she’d been seeing. “Are these…are these Caroline’s rain boots?”

  “Of course.” He’d tried to laugh it off, but his discomfort had been obvious. “Whose did you think they’d be? The first Mrs. Rochester? My mad wife locked in the attic?”

  But Eve hadn’t been laughing. “Is this really necessary?” she’d whispered.

  “Necessary?”

  Eve’s whisper had turned to a hiss. “Yes, necessary. I mean, I know she’s their mother, but it’s a long time ago now. Do you really need to keep Caroline’s bloody rain boots?”

  In the kitchen, Alfie and Sophie’s chatter had died. Only The Archers carried on talking, oblivious to the tension.

  “Shhh,” he’d whispered. “Don’t swear. The children will hear you.”

  “What do you expect?” she’d snapped.

  His shoulders had slumped, and when his eyes had met hers they’d been beseeching. She’d known what Ian had been going to say, but she’d been determined to make him say it anyway.

  “Just leave it, will you? Please. For the children.”

  Fifteen

  Thick, black coffee bubbled to the top of the cafetiere and threatened to overflow. Eve inhaled deeply and felt a little of her tension slip away. She was tempted to fetch her favorite vintage cup and saucer from the utility room where Ian had stashed her boxes of china, just for now. But she didn’t. It might make her feel more at home, but if Ian and the girls came back, he might take it personally, and she didn’t want that, not today of all days. Instead, she pulled out a chunky off-white mug from an eye-level cupboard above the kettle where she now knew the mugs were kept, and sloshed coffee into that, then filled a glass with orange juice and shouldered open the door to the sitting room.

  “OJ, Alfie,” she said, holding out the glass.

  “Evie!” he cried, not taking his eyes from the screen.

  “Here.” She pushed the glass into his hand. “Drink.” She had learned quickly that where Alfie was concerned, single-syllable instructions were most effective.

  Bottom lip protruding comically, Alfie shook his head. “Had some,” he promised. Eve knew that wasn’t true. Not because his expression gave him away—he was far too skilled a fibber for that—but because the carton of orange juice had been in the fridge door and there were no sticky orange stains on the kitchen table. If Alfie had already drunk juice, there would have been stains. Wherever Alfie had been, whatever he’d just eaten, there was always a trail of evidence.

  “Who’s winning?” she asked, trying a different tack.

  “The goodies,” he said, his eyes still glued to the TV.

  Thirty seconds later he took a guzzle of juice. And thirty seconds after that the glass was empty.

  Attention span of a gnat, Eve thought, tucking her feet under her and trying, for all of ten seconds, to follow the plot, such as it was.

  There were things she could be doing, like tidying up this bomb site for a start. But sitting on the sofa with Alfie at her feet and Ian’s house quiet but for the battle noises bursting from the TV, she felt comfortable for the first time in weeks. Just as long as she didn’t look beyond Alfie and the television. If she did, she’d remember that virtually nothing in this room belonged to her, except for the cushions against which she leaned and some books on the bottom shelf nearest the door. A shelf that Ian had cleared to make way for her. It was a start, she told herself. Take it slowly. Inevitably, and sooner rather than later, she was sure of it, they would buy some things together, things that would be theirs—Eve and Ian’s—not Ian and Caroline’s.

  Ian was right, she knew he was. One thing at a time.

  As the credits rolled, Eve seized her chance. “We need to clear up, Alfie,” she said. “You know what’s happening today?”

  Alfie frowned at her. “Swimming?”

  “No, Alfie! You know! What’s happening today?”

  “Zoo?”

  “Alfie! Eve’s friends are coming,” she reminded him. “Clare and Louisa. Remember?”

  He frowned, as if processing the information. “Why do I have to tidy up?”

  “Because Eve’s friends are coming and it mustn’t be messy.” Eve wasn’t sure why she kept referring to herself in the third person when she talked to Ian’s children. It was as if by doing so, she could pretend she wasn’t really there.

  “My friends,” she corrected. “You’ll like them. Clare—she’s a teacher…”

  Alfie made a face and Eve forced herself not to laugh. “And her daughter, Lou,” she continued. “They’re coming for lunch.”

  “Can we have pizza?”

  “Yes, pizza and pasta. But first we need to clean up.”

  Eve left Alfie in charge of putting his plastic men into their box, without much hope of it actually happening, and returned to the kitchen to remove all evidence of Alfie’s breakfast before she started making lasagna, pretty much the only thing she could cook.

  “Wow!” Lou said as they turned the corner into Ian’s street. “Nice work, Auntie Eve.”

  Wow,
indeed, Clare thought, lightly punching Lou’s arm. “Behave,” she said. And Lou grinned. Clare wasn’t sure whether that meant she would or she wouldn’t. She hoped, for Eve’s sake, Lou would.

  Ian’s house was halfway along a poplar-lined street. An imposing double-fronted Victorian house in a perfect state of repair, right down to the original black-and-white tiled front path. Original features. That was the understatement of the year. This place was Clare’s fantasy house. Her dream home. She’d never wanted Mandy’s roses around the door. A solid period house with a bit of character in a good part of London would do her.

  In another life, she thought, pushing open the wrought-iron gate.

  Even the gate was newly painted, Clare noticed. A tasteful, glossy black, as if Ian had been scrubbing, polishing and painting in preparation for Eve’s arrival. And the leaves that had fallen from the trees had been swept away. Clare wondered if Eve had even noticed the gesture. She suspected not. Eve had been in near hysterics the last time they’d spoken. Something to do with rainboots.

  Before Clare had a chance to ring the bell, the front door swung open, revealing a small blonde boy who just about came up to handle height. He looked suspiciously as if he’d been standing sentry at the mail slot, waiting for them to arrive.

  “How do you do?” he said, politely putting out his hand. “My name’s Alfie.”

  “Hello, Alfie,” said Clare, trying not to grin. She took his hand and returned his firm, cartoonlike shake. “My name is Clare, and this is my daughter, Louisa.”

  “Lou,” said Lou. “I keep telling you, Mom. Nobody calls me Louisa anymore.”

  “You’re a teacher,” Alfie said solemnly. “Eve said so. I have to let you in.”

  Clare smiled encouragingly. “That would be nice,” she said when he didn’t move.

  “Well, let them in, then,” said a voice behind the little boy.

  Clare had seen a picture of Ian in Beau, and several more relaxed shots on Eve’s cell phone, but she had never met him in the flesh. It pissed her off, if she was honest, that her best friend would move in with someone—not just move in, but agree to marry him—without even letting Clare give him the once-over. After all, what were best friends for, if not to vet your boyfriends?

  Not that she’d seen much of Eve since Ian had proposed, anyway. And Clare missed her. Missed the gossipy e-mails, late-night texts, and phone calls that had been a mainstay of their friendship for over ten years. But she pushed that from her mind. Her friend was happy and in love; that was enough for Clare.

  Ian wasn’t really Clare’s type. Mind you, it had been so long that Clare wasn’t sure what her type was anymore. Male, two legs, two arms, one head, minimal emotional baggage, no mental health issues, in gainful employment, would have been a start. But she could see instantly why Eve had fallen for Ian. Tall and lanky, with a strong nose and cheekbones like sideview mirrors. He had Eve stamped all over him. She’d never known anyone to be as consistent as Eve in her tastes. Not that Eve would ever admit that.

  “You must be Clare,” Ian said, shaking her hand and ushering them past Alfie. “And you must be Lou.” He smiled, more at Lou than Clare. To Clare’s untutored eye, he looked exhausted, but the smile reached his clear blue eyes and softened his angular face.

  Tall, slim and good-looking if you liked the type, amazing house, good with other people’s children…small matter of coming with three kids bolted on, but hey, you can’t have everything. Yes, Clare thought, Ian is quite hot. Nice work, Eve.

  When Clare ruffled her daughter’s hair, Lou threw her a curious look and batted her hand away.

  “It’s great to finally meet you both,” Ian was saying. “I’ve heard so much about you from Eve. I’m sorry we didn’t meet before. You must think I’m so rude.”

  “Not at all,” Clare lied as Ian closed the door behind them. “I’m sure you had enough to worry about. It’s nice to meet you now, though. Thank you for inviting us. I’ve never been to this part of Chiswick before. It’s beautiful. Lovely street…”

  Shut up, Clare, she thought. Stop gabbling. You’re thirty-three and you’re behaving like a starstruck thirteen-year-old. In fact, the fourteen-year-old standing next to you is far cooler. But Clare didn’t.

  “Beautiful house,” she continued as Ian led them through the hall. It was beautiful, and enormous, but there was something slightly off about the atmosphere. It felt wrong, tense, almost. Yes, that was it…it was almost as if the house was tensed, waiting for something to go bang.

  Don’t be daft, Clare told herself. You’re transferring. You feel tense, Ian clearly feels tense, no doubt Eve does, wherever she is. Come to that, where was Eve? As she passed the stairs, Clare glanced up and did a double take. Weren’t there an awful lot of photographs of the dead wife?

  “Have you lived here long?”

  She could have kicked herself. She didn’t need to; Lou did it for her.

  “Mom!” Lou hissed.

  Ian smiled, looking wan. “Quite a while. We, er, I bought it a long time ago, when the area was still cheap. It was cheap and quiet and near good schools, the perfect location if you’re starting a—”

  He flapped his arms helplessly, and Clare wanted the ground to swallow her. Great start, she thought.

  “Clare!” Eve yelped. She tossed her oven mitts aside and shot across the room, flinging her arms around her friend. “You made it!”

  “We’ve come from north London, not the North Pole.” Clare grinned, and Eve hugged her again, harder.

  “I’ve missed you,” she muttered at the side of Clare’s face. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Chablis?” Eve said, glancing at the bottle in Clare’s hand. “Don’t be silly, you can’t afford that. Any old cheap plonk would have done.”

  It was a relief to be able to stop pretending she knew what she was doing in the kitchen. Eve let Ian take over, which she knew he was itching to do. She wasn’t much of a cook at the best of times, but cooking in someone else’s kitchen, which was precisely how this felt, was torture. If it hadn’t been for Sophie showing her, she doubted she’d even have been able to work out how to turn the oven on.

  “Cool kitchen,” Lou said. She probably meant the huge oak table. Unless it was the collection of plastic men climbing out of a bowl underneath it.

  Ian smiled. “You like it?”

  “It’s bigger than our apartment,” Lou said, nodding.

  Really, Eve would have liked to invite Lily and Melanie, too. Made a group outing of it. Not Mandy, not yet. She hardly knew her. But she had a feeling Clare would have resented that. Maybe another time, she thought, if we get through this in one piece.

  She gave Clare another hug and whispered in her ear, “What do you think? So far so good?”

  Clare hugged her back. “He seems great,” she said.

  “But what?” Eve pulled back and tried to keep the panic out of her voice. Ian was in the utility room, filling an ice bucket from the freezer; Alfie and Sophie were at the table, introducing Lou to the toys that had made it onto the VITs only guest list.

  “The house, Eve,” Clare said, her eyes crinkled in concern. “It’s, well, I’ve only seen the hall and stairs, but it’s a museum.”

  “Chablis or Merlot?” Ian was back, a bottle in each hand. “Or rosé, we’ve got rosé, if you prefer? Er, somewhere.” He smiled.

  “White, please, if that’s all right,” Clare said. “It’s not really rosé weather.”

  “White, please,” Lou chipped in.

  “Lou, you know…”

  “Just a small one,” Eve interrupted. “It is a celebration after all. Ian, where’s Hannah? I’d like her to meet Lou.”

  Ian shrugged. “Upstairs, probably. I’ll get her in a minute.”

  And there it was, the other reason Eve had wanted to do this. She’d wanted Hannah to meet Lou. To prove to Hannah and Ian, and perhaps herself, that not all teenaged girls hated her. There was at least one teenager on the planet who thought Eve was as
cool as it was possible for anyone over thirty to be. She had even dared to hope that maybe, if Hannah hit it off with Lou, Hannah would begin to get on with Eve by association.

  They were all seated around the table, Sophie regaling Clare with her ballet lesson, Lou lovingly nursing her forbidden glass of wine and playing with Alfie, when Ian returned with Hannah.

  The minute they walked into the kitchen Eve wondered what on earth she’d been thinking. Seeing the two girls eye each other, it was clear they couldn’t have had less in common. Only a year apart, their age was about all they shared. It was not just their looks; Lou’s Angelina Jolie in her phial of blood phase, complete with black jeans and band T-shirt, to Hannah’s Gossip Girl blonde with denim shorts and Topshop’s finest.

  It was everything.

  “Hannah.” Eve forced a smile into her voice. Maybe if she convinced herself this could work, she could convince the others. “This is my friend, Clare, and her daughter—my goddaughter—Lou.”

  “She’s not exactly—,” Clare started.

  “I should have been,” Lou interrupted. “And I would be if you’d known Eve when I was christened.”

  Clare nodded. That was true enough. And Eve had been a better godmother to Lou than either of her real ones. The fact that Eve claimed not to believe in God hadn’t seemed to matter at all.

  “Lou’s fourteen. She’s in the year above you at school.”

  “How do you do,” Hannah said, her tone making it clear that having braces fitted would be more enjoyable than what she was expected to endure here. Still, it was the most she’d said all week.

  It was obvious from Lou’s expression—part hurt, part contempt—that she’d gotten the message. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Yeah,” Hannah said, squishing onto a pew next to Sophie, rather than go around the table to the place that had too obviously been left next to Lou. “That too.”

  Don’t panic, Eve thought.