The Other Mothers' Club

by Samantha Baker

  “She’s too young,” Eve said. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Caroline was older.”

  Miriam raised an amused eyebrow. “So,” she said, her voice a study in casual. “I was thinking…”

  Eve’s heart, which was already in her boots, sank through the floor. She knew what was coming.

  “Write something,” Miriam said. “If we move fast, we can get it in the April issue. Then you can write a follow-up when the movie’s released. Two thousand words, first person. We’ll need family snapshots, that kind of thing. Old family, new family. After all, you have a unique perspective. And we have you…”

  Miriam smiled. “Exclusively.”

  The last word was an instruction.

  “Work from home today if you want.” Miriam’s voice followed Eve as she headed back to her desk, happiness crushed. “Might inspire you writing it there. In the heart of the home, so to speak.”

  “’S all right,” Eve muttered. “I’ll stay here.” Right now, home was the last place she wanted to be.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Really? What kind of problem?” Eve concentrated on hanging her coat on the peg.

  “A Hannah-shaped problem,” Ian said.

  Glancing up, Eve raised her eyebrows. When were their problems ever any other shape?

  “What’s up this time?” Eve knew it was mean, but she was going to make Ian say it. All day she’d been wondering how he was going to broach the subject of the film. Whether it was as big a deal for him as it was for her.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Ian asked.

  Eve shook her head. He must be distracted, have been distracted for days, come to think of it, because Eve had cut right back on her drinking and Ian, usually observant, hadn’t noticed.

  “Where are the kids?” she asked, heading into the kitchen and picking up the kettle.

  “Inge’s bathing Alfie, and Sophie’s in Hannah’s room, annoying Hannah by touching her stuff. The usual. They were all fine last time I looked.”

  “Tea?” Eve waved the kettle at Ian.

  He shook his head. Behind him, Eve could see a half-empty glass of red on the table. She glanced at the clock—7:00 p.m. Not early, but he didn’t usually start drinking without her. It was a bad sign, but not a surprise.

  “There’s something I never told you,” Ian said, taking a deep breath. “Well, not so much never told you, as forgot to mention.”

  “Forgot?” Eve said.

  “Ages ago, before we met, I had an offer for the film rights to Caro’s book. You know how I felt about the columns, about doing a book at all…how we all felt. The last thing any of us wanted was for someone to make a film. But the offer was…sizeable.”

  “How sizeable?” Eve asked. “Just out of curiosity,” she added, when she saw Ian’s discomfort.

  “Too sizeable to turn down without a second thought. I discussed it with Caroline’s parents and we decided to accept it. We put the money in trust for the children. I thought it was what Caro would have wanted. Her”—Ian paused—“legacy, I suppose. I thought…well, to be honest, I thought it would never get made.”

  Eve looked up, trying to keep her face impassive.

  “You know, don’t you?” Ian said.

  Eve nodded. “It’s all over the papers.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything? You could have e-mailed or called.”

  Eve shrugged. “I’ve been absorbing it,” she said. She hardly trusted herself to say more; she’d been a mess of emotions and hormones all day. Ian wasn’t to know that wasn’t all his fault. Well, it was, but not in that way.

  “And?”

  She forced a smile. There were so many things she wanted to say. One of them—I’m pregnant—more important than all the rest. But they’d have to remain unsaid, at least for now. Today was not a day for more boat rocking.

  “You look nothing like Jude Law,” she said at last.

  His body visibly sagging with relief, Ian grinned. “You’re right,” he said. “He has more hair.”

  “And more money. And more girlfriends. At least I hope so.”

  “Unfortunately, Jude Law is the least of our problems. The real problem is, the Times wants Hannah to go on set so they can hang a story around her and the actress playing her.”

  “No!” Eve said before she could think better of it. “No way!”

  “I know,” Ian said. “That’s exactly what I said. In triplicate and with expletives. No set visit, no interview, no photos, no way. Hannah, of course, sees it differently.”

  “How does Hannah even know what they want?”

  “She answered the phone when the publicist called. They’re desperate for Hannah to do it.”

  “Of course they are,” Eve said. “It’s a great story, and brilliant publicity. But she’s a minor; she can’t do it without your approval. No parental approval, no story. It’s that simple.”

  “I know. That’s what I said. But they’ve asked me to sleep on it. Offered me copy approval, picture approval, the works. I don’t see how I can refuse. They were so good to Caro.”

  “You can refuse,” Eve said firmly. “You’re Hannah’s father. I’m a journalist and, take it from me, you can’t trust journalists. Hannah’s thirteen, for Christ’s sake. She could say anything! And they’ll use it. It’s their job to find the best angle and print it. Have they given you headline approval? Coverline approval? In case they flag it up on the front page. Of course not, and I don’t blame them, I wouldn’t either.”

  “Eve…”

  “What about Alfie and Sophie? How will this affect them? And what about Hannah herself? It might sound glamorous and exciting, but how will she cope with seeing someone playing her when she was little? When she was going through…what she was going through. Hannah might think it will make her a celebrity, like Gossip Girl or something—maybe it will—but what else will it do?”

  Ian sighed and reached for his glass.

  “You’re probably right. My mother and father aren’t keen on it either. I just needed you to confirm it for me. I should stick to my guns, for her sake, for all our sakes. I’ll go and tell Hannah now. Give her time to get over it.”

  Eve heard Hannah before she saw her. A shriek of indignation from upstairs. The quiet monotone of Ian’s voice rising to a shout. The pounding on the stairs. The kitchen door slamming back against its frame. All in a matter of seconds. And then Hannah was there, standing in the kitchen, her face a mask of fury. Eve couldn’t tell whether the tears were despair or anger.

  “You’re a journalist, you know what they’re like…,” Hannah screamed. “Why can’t you just keep your big nose out of my life? It’s none of your business what I do!”

  “Hannah, I…,” Eve started, as Ian entered the kitchen behind his daughter. His eyes were wide in warning.

  “Who do you think you are telling me what to do? I don’t have to do anything you tell me. You’re not my mom!”

  “Hannah!” Ian said. “That’s enough. This has nothing to do with Eve.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. So why are you taking her side?”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side…”

  “It was all right before she got back. You said you’d think about it. You were going to let me, I could tell. And now, I can’t, just like that, because she says so.”

  “It’s not because Eve says anything.” Ian was forcing his voice to stay calm. “It’s because I don’t think it’s the right thing to do. Nor do Granny and Grandpa Newsome. None of us do.”

  “Don’t lie!” Hannah rounded on him. “Don’t try to blame Granny and Grandpa. You’re doing what she says, just like always.”

  Eve was stung. This was not the way she saw it at all. From where she stood, she was the odd one out in this house. Ian put his children before her, and that, she’d decided, was how it should be. Or if not the way it should be, the way it was.

  “H-Hannah,” she ventured, “that’s not fair. Your dad—
”

  “Shut up!” Hannah screeched, cutting her off. “Just shut up! You’ve ruined everything. Everything was OK before you moved in. Now it’s shit! And it’s all your fault. I wish we’d never met you.”

  The kitchen was silent. The silence swallowed the whole house.

  An image of Alfie and Sophie sitting upstairs in their pajamas, listening to every word, Inge trying to coax them away from the car crash downstairs, forced its way into Eve’s head. She hadn’t even seen Alfie and Sophie yet, hadn’t said hello, let alone goodnight. The urge to run upstairs and cuddle them, reassure them everything was going to be all right, was overwhelming, but she knew she couldn’t.

  It would only make things worse.

  “That’s enough!” Ian said. His voice was so cold with fury that Eve shivered. “I don’t want to hear another word. You’re not going, and that’s final. You’re grounded. Until Easter. Now go to your room and stay there. I will come and speak to you later.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Hannah said, the iciness in her voice matching her father’s. “When you’re allowed.” Throwing him a look of contempt, she marched toward the door. When she reached it, she turned and stared at Eve through bloodshot eyes. “I hate you,” she said simply. “I hope you die.”

  The lack of passion in her voice chilled Eve.

  Then Hannah walked out and shut the door behind her.

  I hate her, Eve typed.

  There had been many times in the months since she’d moved in that she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, any more difficult, any more painful. But the last three hours had been the most painful in her life. Even her second year at university hadn’t compared to this. And she’d thought that had been the worst life could throw at her.

  Things had been so good. How had it all turned to shit so quickly? If only they hadn’t both stuck their heads in the sand. If only they had talked about the film before, they could have planned for this.

  If only. If only. If only.

  There was no sound from upstairs. Sophie and Alfie had taken hours to coax to sleep, and since then, Ian had been shut in Hannah’s room. Inge had long since taken refuge in her attic.

  I know I’m not allowed to, Eve typed. But there, I’ve said it. I Hate Her. She wishes she’d never met me. Well, we’re quits. I wish I’d never met her. I would like to go to sleep and wake up in a parallel universe where she’d never been born.

  Clicking Send, she leaned back and waited for a response. She hadn’t written that on her blog. It was too much, too personal. And, increasingly, she worried, too identifiable. This time, she was writing on a live link to Bella.

  A minute later, a reply from Bella popped up. Of course you do, it read. But you don’t need me to tell you that you can’t have her out of your life if you want her father in it, do you? It’s the great unspoken. I hated my stepchildren too. I wanted them out of my life. I achieved that, as you know. At the cost of my relationship with their father. But in my case they hadn’t done anything to deserve it, other than exist and give me a bit of a hard time. A dose of playground bullying. Nothing more. And then, only one of them. The other one was too young to do more than play with her food.

  Eve smiled. So Bella’s stepchildren had been girls. She sympathized. Maybe it was Alfie’s age, maybe it was because he was a boy, but she certainly found him much easier to handle, much easier to love, than Hannah or Sophie.

  What would she do without Bella? Thanks to the distance between them, their mutual anonymity meant she could accept unpalatable truths from Bella she wouldn’t dream of taking from anyone else. If Clare had said half the things Bella had, Eve would have resented it. Not that that usually stopped Clare trying. Eve was peculiarly grateful Clare hadn’t answered when she had called her half an hour earlier. Anyway, Clare had problems of her own. The last she’d heard, Lou had had such a great time at Will’s on Boxing Day that she was demanding to stay overnight with her new family.

  Kids, they sure knew how to hit you where it hurt.

  Tell me about them, Eve typed. What happened? You’ve referred to it before but never elaborated. It can’t be that bad, surely?

  I’m ashamed even to think about it, Bella typed in return. Self-disgust about sums it up. If I tell you, you’ll lose all respect for me.

  Eve paused. It couldn’t be that bad. No, I won’t. I promise. And I’ll delete it as soon as I’ve read it.

  The laptop hummed for a few seconds, and then a new message popped up.

  All right, here goes. But don’t think too badly of me for it. I was young and selfish and had no experience of children. My ex’s daughter baited me and I forgot I was meant to be the grown-up. I lived down to all her expectations. I have no excuses….

  The kitchen clock ticked and the fan on Eve’s laptop hummed. Go on…she typed eventually when Bella didn’t.

  It was over a pizza.

  Smiling, Eve typed, What is it about stepchildren and pizza?

  What do you mean?

  Nothing, sorry to interrupt. It seems everyone has a pizza story. Go on.

  My husband was desperate for me to meet his children. It was an odd setup, actually. The marriage had been bad for a while before he met me. I was the catalyst, I suppose. And take that look off your face, I know what you’re thinking!

  There’s no look on my face! Eve typed.

  There was a big gap between his two girls. The eldest was in her early teens, the youngest just a toddler. My ex said she was an accident on his part. The implication being, not on his ex-wife’s part. But he loved them both, and it killed him to leave, or so he said….

  Silence.

  That’s not fair. Of course he loved them. But, as I’ve said before, he was weak. If he wasn’t, he would have made me behave.

  Would you? Eve typed. Have behaved, I mean?

  This was fascinating. How many women’s stories were in fact the same story with slightly different players? Stepmothers, some selfish, some not, pizzas, weak fathers, confused children crying out for their parents’ affection…she would have to tell Clare and Lily at the next meeting.

  Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say? Anyway, we took the girls to a trattoria. The eldest made it clear she hated me right from the start. Everything I said, she rejected. She had quite a repertoire in dirty looks, that girl. I had some funny ideas then, about how things should be. I wanted us to be a family, but on my terms. And my ex wanted us to be a family so badly, he let me play it any way I wanted. And the way I was brought up was children were seen and not heard. We were big on table manners in my family, and these girls…Well, let’s just say they hadn’t been taught any manners, table or otherwise.

  Eve realized she was holding her breath.

  What was wrong with their table manners? she typed. If that’s not an odd question.

  They didn’t have any. It was that simple. The little one had mauled her garlic bread until it was unrecognizable. The elder one just scowled, ignored her food, and kicked the table leg over and over again. Everything I offered her she refused.

  Sounds familiar!

  Quite. It was like Chinese water torture. I should have ignored it, but I didn’t. Lunch rapidly went from bad to worse. I’d made a big effort. Dressed up to the nines. Stupid, of course. Like a couple of kids cared what I wore. But I was wearing a white trouser suit. Foolish, looking back. I’d have been better off in old jeans and a sweater. Of all the things I’d change if I could, that’s the main thing. Because when the eldest one tipped her Coke over me—she pretended it was an accident, but it wasn’t—if I hadn’t been wearing that trouser suit…Well, it’s easy to be wise after the event.

  Eve stared at her screen. Surely not?

  Annabel? she typed before she could stop herself.

  They had typed at the same time, and Bella’s message popped up before she received Eve’s own. The drink went all over me. And the triumph on that girl’s face. I just lost it. I told my ex it was them or me. The girl was a monster, true enough. But she w
as thirteen and traumatized by her parents’ divorce; it was up to me to win her over….

  Then suddenly another one: Did I tell you my name was Annabel?

  Shit, Eve thought. What should she do now?

  Another message popped up. Do I know you?

  No, Eve typed.

  But you know me?

  Not exactly.

  A pause. You must do.

  Eve waited. Shit shit shit. Why had she done that?

  If you don’t know me, you must know about me.

  Yes, Eve typed. Honesty was the only way to salvage this.

  My ex’s daughters?

  Yes, it sounds like it. My name is Eve and Clare Adams is my best friend, but I didn’t know you were connected to her. Not until just now. Eve pressed Send and crossed her fingers. There were so many questions Eve wanted answered for Clare she almost had to sit on her hands to keep from typing them. How long ago did you split up with Clare’s father? And how come he hasn’t bothered to get in touch with them since? Does he even know he has a granddaughter? Eve’s mind reeled. If she got even half of the answers, how would she explain them to Clare?

  It was nice to meet you, Eve.

  Eve eyed the message warily. What the hell did that mean?

  Bella? she typed.

  Nothing.

  Bella, are you still there?

  Nothing.

  Bella, please don’t go. It’s not a setup. I didn’t know. I swear.

  But there was nothing. Bella had gone. What the hell should Eve do now?

  Then, just as Eve was about to give up, another message popped onto her screen. Do yourself a favor, Eve. Learn to live with your stepdaughter or learn to live without the man you love. In my experience, you can’t have both. Good luck.

  Bella, don’t go…

  Bella, are you there…?

  Bella. I’m sorry. I won’t tell Clare.

  Bella?

  But this time, Bella really had gone.

  Thirty

  It had taken all of Clare’s willpower not to look out the window when Will arrived to collect Lou that afternoon, but Lou had made her promise. “No sneaky peeking,” she’d said. “It freaks me out and it freaks Dad out.”