Letters to Iris

by Elizabeth Noble

  Before they’d parted that night, back at the hostel, they’d agreed that Tess would abandon Malice and travel on with Holly. They’d spread the map out on Tess’s bed and made a plan which – finally – included Vienna and the Lipizzaner horses.

  Holly was hilarious and warm and brave and cool. Being with her could still bestow the exact same feeling of borrowing those qualities, and being safe from the rest of the world, as it had that wonderful Dutch night. Even now, it still could. And they’d never looked back.

  Now, here in the wine bar, Holly ordered her an orange juice and soda, and sat holding her hand until she stopped crying and could form words again.

  ‘What did he say? Tell me exactly.’

  ‘He said the timing was off.’

  ‘Charming. What the fuck did he mean by that?’

  ‘I think it just came out. I mucked it all up …’

  ‘What do you mean, you mucked it up?’

  Tess took a deep breath.

  ‘He told me about New York. I already knew about the baby then but for some reason I just couldn’t tell him. He wanted an answer about New York right away … I stalled him … He was busy with work, I was busy with Iris … I think he was giving me space. Anyway … we got to Christmas without really having talked about it properly. Then we went to his mum and dad’s and told them about New York, and everyone just assumed, like he had, that I’d be going. And when we got home, he proposed …’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘And that’s when I told him.’

  ‘Before or after you answered him?’

  ‘Instead of answering him.’

  ‘Right.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from Holly.

  ‘I told you it was a mess.’

  Holly leant in close. ‘Hang on a minute. Just a minute.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to have a baby, Tess. You’re going to be a mum. Don’t let you and me, at least, lose sight of that … I mean, I know things are a bit screwed up. I can’t promise you anything or that everything will work out where Sean’s concerned. But you’ve got to remember what’s important. What’s most important. And what’s most important is also being happy. So happy. So incredibly wonderfully happy. You are going to have a baby! That is fanbloodytastic.’

  Tess felt her heart race. She put her hands down to her stomach, still relatively flat under her sweater. ‘Yes, I am!’

  Holly put one of her hands on top of Tess’s two. Tess pulled one out and placed it on top of that, so Holly put her other hand on that one, and the two friends looked at each other, eyes bright and shiny, smiles conspiratorial. Tess lay her head on Holly’s shoulder.

  ‘Hols?’

  ‘Tess?’

  ‘Don’t go back to Australia.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Dear baby mine,

  I am going to have to wait until you are much, much older before I explain to you about your dad. I will need to make you understand that I didn’t mean to get all of this – get you – started in this messy sort of a way. I didn’t ever expect to be doing this on my own. Well, I’m not entirely on my own now. I have people. You’ll have people. Not many, maybe, but they are very, very good ones. We’ll be all right. I hope you will understand that I didn’t want to stay with your dad just because of the biology part, or because that’s what I’m supposed to do. That just wasn’t possible. I’m not going to cut him out of your life: that would not be fair. I’ll make something work so that it doesn’t hurt him and doesn’t hurt me too much. So that it is best for you. I don’t want there to be fighting. Not too many lawyers. No wrangling about money or visitation, or where you’ll spend Christmas. I’d hate that for you. You’re the only victim. We’re both volunteers, me and him. And I promise to remember that. I promise.

  Mum

  Gigi

  Caitlin was every bit as glossy and glamorous at lunch as she had been at Christmas. More so, actually, in her smart navy work clothes and power heels, with a good handbag. Everything about her was neat and buttoned-up. Gigi felt a bit plump and country-bumpkinish by comparison. And then a bit cross with herself for letting this kid make her feel that way. Caitlin was just as quiet and equally as disinterested in food, ordering a salad of goat’s cheese and beetroot and really eating only the beetroot. And, if anything, slightly more brittle than she had been before.

  Richard had counselled against this. It was too soon, he said. It was confrontational, he said. She should meet up with her a few more times with Oliver, before she tried to do it on her own. Which was easier said than done. She’d issued a couple of invitations, but there’d been reasons why they couldn’t. Reasons that sounded legitimate, but left her feeling they weren’t, quite. She’d told Richard she only wanted to get to know her a bit more – to share some time when she wasn’t overwhelmed by Christmas catering, and Caitlin wasn’t overwhelmed by people. Richard harrumphed, raised an eyebrow, and repeated that he didn’t think it was a good idea.

  Within five minutes she had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that about this one thing, at least, he’d actually been right.

  Olly had been surprisingly positive (or pragmatic) about it, by contrast, when she’d rung him to ask for his approval and Caitlin’s email address. He was his usual easy self. ‘I’d like it if you three were friends. As long as you don’t go OTT, and quiz the poor girl to death, then why not?’ She’d promised they wouldn’t.

  She’d sent her an email, to avoid a telephone kneejerk reaction. Deliberately casual. Fabricated a reason why she and Emily would be in the vicinity of where Caitlin worked, asked if she might have time to meet them. Suggested a little lunch place she knew – not too posh, but quieter than a lot of the eateries in the West End, so they’d be able to have a proper conversation. She’d half expected her to say no, and wondered whether Olly had had a hand in her saying yes, although he’d said he’d stay out of it.

  Caitlin had responded promptly, and said that would be lovely, thank you, emphasizing, though, that she had afternoon meetings that day, and would need to be back at the office by 2 p.m. at the latest. So the parameters had been set, and her escape route mapped out.

  On the morning in question, Ava had woken early with a fever – nothing too dramatic, but enough to make Emily feel she needed to stay at home with her (or at least to make Christopher think that Emily should stay at home with her instead of him, as she explained ruefully to Gigi on the phone). So she had to go alone.

  She had the distinct feeling Caitlin didn’t believe Emily’s excuse, as she explained it straight off.

  They busied themselves with reading the menus and making food small talk. Gigi looked at her while she ordered. She was a pretty thing. Her eyes were anxious, but lovely – wide and dark and long lashed. Her skin was clear and fresh-looking – completely unlined – and her hair, up today in a neat chignon, was thick and shiny. She was lovely to look at. But Oliver wasn’t a shallow man. That would not be enough. She knew it.

  Gigi had begun by ordering sparkling mineral water like Caitlin. By halfway through she’d beckoned the waiter over and ordered a glass of white wine.

  She’d promised Olly she wouldn’t ask too many questions, but it was difficult to keep the conversation on the right side of an interview. Mostly because Caitlin’s answers were clipped and not expansive. And because she didn’t have many questions to ask in return. There were clearly things she didn’t want to talk about – the wedding, for one – and where they might live. Gigi tried to steer her to talking about how she and Olly had met, hopeful that the opportunity to gush about someone they both loved would warm her up, but she hadn’t taken that bait either, confirming the facts Olly had already given her and not spicing them up with a dash of girlish excitement.

  They talked more than you should about the food in front of them. Gigi found herself feeling uncomfortable. They were almost finished eating, and Caitlin hadn’t directed one really interesting question at her.

  Once the wai
ter had cleared their plates, Caitlin’s still a third full, and they’d ordered mint tea, she decided to brush away the small talk and try to be real.

  ‘I invited you to lunch today so I could get to know you a bit better. It was so sudden …’

  ‘I know. It must have seemed that way to you.’

  ‘Well, even to you, it’s been quite a quick thing.’

  Caitlin nodded, which wasn’t exactly agreement.

  ‘But I suppose when you know, you know?’

  A tight smile.

  ‘And I do so hope we can be … well, friends.’ She daren’t push it any further than that. For a second, before she replied, Gigi swore that Caitlin blanched.

  It made no sense. Caitlin was acting as though she’d already pushed too hard – like she’d shown up with wedding magazines and a lie-detector test – like she had given her a reason to be suspicious. Someone or something had done a right number on this girl – she was going to be a much tougher nut to crack than Gigi had imagined. If you’d ever be able to crack her.

  She tried again, less careful now – careful wasn’t getting her anywhere. She needed to leave lunch with something that made her feel she’d moved the dial, even if it was only a fraction. ‘Listen, it’s him you’re marrying. Not the rest of us. Not me. Olly. All I need to know is that you love my boy.’ It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t get an answer. The bill had come by then, and it was easy enough for Gigi’s remark to hang in the air while the credit card was processed and the waiter asked if they’d enjoyed their meal.

  It was a lie – it wasn’t all she needed to know from her. She needed to know that Caitlin was going to make him happy, that she wasn’t going to take him too far away from her. That her motives were pure – not motives, even. Feelings. That she had a softer, gentler side, even if she only ever showed it to him.

  ‘I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t love him.’

  ‘Of course not … I didn’t mean …’

  And then it was ten to two, and Caitlin could legitimately give her thanks, and run away to her possibly fictitious meeting, after an air kiss and no eye contact.

  Gigi left lunch with more questions than answers. And more unsettled by the thought of this woman becoming a part of her family than she’d been before.

  Emily, knowing where she’d been, texted her when she was on the train home, playful. ‘So? Did you thaw Elsa?’

  ‘Nope. Still frozen.’

  She typed ‘Let it go …’ She put musical note emoticons next to it. And a yellow face crying blue tears of laughter.

  But Gigi wasn’t really laughing.

  Tess

  In the end, Tess had to email Donna to ask about the house. Holly had persisted in her offer to have Tess at hers. It was tempting, but she knew she couldn’t. An old phrase of Iris’s kept rolling around her head – something about visitors being like fish … she couldn’t remember it properly. She’d been hiding out at Sean’s, but now he had emailed her, a strange, formal email, to let her know he’d be back in a week. He didn’t say anything about the baby. He didn’t ask her to be gone, but he didn’t ask her to stay.

  She knew she couldn’t face him, whatever he might be feeling. It was frightening, being homeless and uncertain of everything. Exhausting too, this dismantling of her life, facing rebuilding. Alone in the flat – surrounded by things they’d bought together, remembering conversations and moments, she wondered if what she was feeling was regret. She played out scenarios in her head. Sean, contrite and grey with the fear of losing her, on bended knee with a Tiffany blue box and an impassioned plea. Or a tiny white velour Babygro. Was that what she wanted? A Hallmark happy ending? Maybe she wanted him to want it more than she wanted it herself. It was just fantasy. She knew it wouldn’t happen, anyway. None of that – the grand gesture, the intense self-reflection – was Sean’s style.

  She’d heard little from Donna while she’d been gone. She’d replied briefly to Tess’s long note about Clearview. Not unfriendly or unkind, but detached somehow. She had been due back sooner, but she’d extended her trip, and wrote that she might even stay a few more weeks. She was living in a beach hut, paying peanuts for it, she said, somewhere way off the tourist track (this made Tess smile. Was her mother not a tourist, then?) and feeling really connected. Those were her words. Really connected.

  So she took a deep breath, wrote and asked.

  Dear Mum,

  Sean and I have broken up. I’m also pregnant. I intend to find somewhere else before the baby comes, but I was wondering if I could stay at your place for a few weeks while I do that. I’m still at his flat, and he’s been away for a while, but he’s due back soon and I’d rather not be there when he gets home. I clearly have to figure some stuff out. I have the key. Would it be okay?

  Tess

  PS Iris is doing well.

  She read and reread the message before she pushed ‘send’. It was stark, and, she supposed, shocking, but what else could she do? Donna wasn’t here. Holly’s life was busy enough. She’d looked half-heartedly at some rentals, but in truth she was overwhelmed by it all. She had to figure out what her maternity deal would be, what she could afford, where she wanted to be. She’d need room for the baby. She’d need childcare for the baby. She’d need stuff for the baby. There was so much to think about, and she’d buried her foolish head in the sand for so long that now it almost engulfed her. How could Donna mind? She was her mother. The house was empty. It hurt her pride to ask, but she told herself she’d sorted Iris out – the papers had been signed and the deposit paid to Clearview, a date set for transferring Iris there from the hospital – so she was free to work on herself. Just a few weeks. She’d be up and standing on her own feet in just a few weeks.

  Donna didn’t reply for two days. She’d said internet was sketchy where she was. When she did, her mother surprised Tess more than she had done in a long time, more even than Cold Comfort Farm had done.

  Oh my love. Of course. Go at once, and stay as long as you like. I so want to come home and see you, but I don’t want to crowd you. Please say if you’d like me to.

  Mum

  Tess’s eyes filled with tears when she read the message, and a lump rose in her throat.

  Thank you for the house. I appreciate it. Please don’t cut your trip short for me. I’m fine. Or I will be. I’ll see you when you get home.

  Tess wasn’t surprised at the sound of the tiny little girl’s voice inside her that wanted to say Yes, please, Mum, please come home. I need you. I need someone … She’d heard it a lot lately.

  She moved herself and her stuff in that weekend. It didn’t amount to all that much, packed up in Sean’s hallway. Three suitcases, a couple of holdalls, and a few boxes, none so heavy she couldn’t take it down in the lift to the car park herself. It all fitted in her car. She’d left everything she’d bought while she lived there where it was. It didn’t seem much of a pile for a woman her age. It spoke eloquently and didactically to a life subjugated by stealth.

  She’d brought one case into Donna’s. The rest could stay in the car for now. It took a moment to figure out the keys – Donna had given her a set years ago, but she’d never used them. Eventually, the door opened, and she kicked a small pile of post out of her way as she walked in. She’d spent very little time in this house. She’d certainly never slept there. Her mother had bought it a few years ago, when she’d sold the house she’d lived in with Martin, when Tess was a girl. She’d downsized then, saying she’d rather have the money for travel than for a mortgage that tied her to one place. Her work was freelance, but lucrative enough to fund the lifestyle she chose. Her habit was to act like a perpetual gap-year student – work, save, travel, repeat. She was a portrait photographer. A good one. She hadn’t always been. Tess had a clear memory of Donna finding a camera of her father’s at Iris’s house, when Tess was just primary-school age. She’d picked it up and fiddled with it – started snapping when she’d realized there was a new film in there, ready for pictur
es Wilf would never now take. Iris had kept those first pictures – a series of Tess and Iris cooking and laughing in the kitchen in Salisbury – on the wall in her home all these years. Donna had taken a course at college, encouraged by Martin – desperate still, in those days, to help her find what might make her happy – and then slowly she started to build up a portfolio, offering to shoot the new-born siblings of Tess’s classmates, and the odd wedding. She took the most beautiful photographs – even Tess could see that they were special – and people loved them. They looked at what Donna had shot and felt understood – properly seen – their loveliest, happiest selves. Most of her work now came from referrals and word of mouth, and people always seemed happy to wait for her to get back from Goa.

  The house was a pretty Edwardian end-of-terrace on a slightly scruffy street where some of the houses were starting to be done up with extensions and loft conversions. The encroaching tide of gentrification had yet to reach Donna’s end of the road, but it was only a matter of time: they were near a park and a nice-looking primary school and quite close to the station. Downstairs there was a double reception room with its original fixtures more or less intact, and at the back was a kitchen with French doors onto a pocket-handkerchief lawn dominated by a large tree hung with fairy lights and lanterns. A small study was full of the paraphernalia of photography – lenses and flashes and tripods and those big shiny silver circles the purpose of which Tess had never really understood. The walls were lined with examples of her work – brides and babies and nuclear families, none of whom Tess recognized. Elsewhere the hallmarks of Donna’s DIY were everywhere: in the eclectic paint-colour choices and wonkily hung curtain rails. Tess remembered a bedroom ceiling with constellations painted on the dark-indigo background in silver hobby paint. She hadn’t thought of it for years, and now she could see herself, small and wide awake, staring up at stars, knowing their names – Orion’s Belt, the Plough, Ursa Major – she could almost trace them with her finger. Who had taught her their names?