Letters to Iris

by Elizabeth Noble

  Adam only asked her once, when they lay down on the clean, warm sheets. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Very.’ She kissed him, her hand on his face, remembering what he’d said to her that first night, by the car. ‘I’m very sure.’

  And Adam was different. He felt different beneath her hands, more slender and more hairy than her husband, his chest wiry and tickling against her. And he touched her differently. He was less gentle and less sure at the same time. Richard knew her; Adam was learning.

  He watched her carefully. She closed her eyes and let it all happen, momentarily amazed at how relaxed she felt. She thought she’d be terrified, to the point of finding it almost impossible to enjoy it, but it wasn’t like that.

  When she came, she wanted to cry. He held her close and still, stroking her hair, and planting tiny, soft kisses on the side of her neck. He eased her around to lie spooned inside his embrace, and they stayed that way for the longest time, without speaking at all. His breath slowed and calmed and she thought he might have fallen asleep.

  She was wide awake.

  Eventually, he asked her, sleepily, if she wanted him to go, or whether he should stay. Telling him it was okay to stay was the first lie she had told him.

  Tess

  Sleep had become Tess’s favourite second and third trimester hobby. Her maternity leave was only a week or two away now, and when she slept she dreamt of sleeping longer. Getting out of bed to get to work for 9 a.m. had become a Herculean task. A meeting that required her there earlier made her tearful. Never her favourite thing, her alarm had become loathsome to her. And the journey home seemed to take forever. All she wanted to do was to curl up, on the train, on the sofa, on the bed, and sleep … She couldn’t get through an episode of Coronation Street. She could barely even get through the headlines on the news. The weekends loomed large – forty-eight hours of sleep opportunity. Two epic lie-ins. The nesting urge was some way off, she imagined. Nesting sounded far too active.

  So she could hardly blame herself when her first reaction to Oliver’s text, landing in her inbox on Friday morning as she sat on the 8.15 a.m. train, thinking of the bed she had so unwillingly climbed out of, was a ‘Hell no, I’m sleeping.’ Followed immediately by an undeniable frisson of pleasure, which might almost have been excitement. It could be so lovely, to see him. Followed by the slightly sinking realization she already had sleep-busting plans on Saturday, the day he’d mentioned.

  Saturday was Dulcie’s sixteenth birthday. The family-party bit – parents, grandparents, godparents, boyfriend … Drinks and dinner at Holly’s. 6 p.m. God, what was she going to wear? Decades of friendship with Holly hadn’t made her any less scared of Holly’s mother and her old-fashioned, judgemental attitudes, much less her willingness to share them. Holly had heard Tess groan, when she’d called a couple of weeks ago to book her in for the occasion.

  ‘I heard that. I’ll be your human shield. I’ll even have a word with her ahead of time … for all the good that’ll do.’ She laughed gleefully.

  ‘I mean it – one mention of the wrong side of the sheets and I’m out.’

  ‘I swear. I’ll rein her in. You have to come – Dulc would be devastated if you didn’t.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come for Dulc.’

  ‘You know you’re her favourite godparent.’

  ‘Tough competition.’ Dulcie’s other godparents were a chinless colleague of Ben’s and a chinless cousin of Holly’s, both older than them, chosen to placate her husband and her mother. Their mutual chinlessness had first been noticed by Holly and Tess font-side at Dulcie’s christening, causing an almost-collapse in giggles. Afterwards, Holly blamed sleep deprivation for her loss of control at her own, unkind observation. In all the posed photographs from that day, Dulcie, wild-haired and angry in the restrictive family heirloom of a gown, wailed open-mouthed, while Holly and Tess tried, not very successfully, to control their mirth, and Holly’s mum glared on crossly. Tess knew she thought Tess was a bad influence on Holly, oblivious to the glorious reality that the truth was the absolute opposite.

  ‘Nevertheless –’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it. What time shall I waddle by?’

  Holly outlined the plan. ‘No raw eggs, no blue cheese. What soft drink shall I get in for you, since you won’t be drinking?’

  ‘Oh, Christ. I won’t. How profoundly depressing.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Nice. Ginger beer.’

  ‘Isn’t that alcoholic?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it? Ginger ale, then.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Was this Dulcie’s idea? Grown-up party?’

  Holly sighed. ‘Mine. I think … I mean … normally, I suppose she’d want to do something with her friends. Things are a bit better, on that front, but they’re not exactly forming an orderly queue.’

  ‘Oh, love her …’

  ‘She’s okay. She’s got her head in the game. GCSEs. New start at Sixth Form. There’s the boyf –’

  ‘Going strong?’

  ‘Seems to be. He’s a sweet boy.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘That’s a lifesaver.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be there, with bells on. I’ll bring an extravagant present.’

  She reread Olly’s text.

  Hello! It’s meant to be lovely Saturday. Fancy doing something?

  He didn’t specify any time or suggest any particular activity. It was easy-breezy. She wondered, for just a moment, whether he deliberated as much over the words as he wrote them as she did when she read them.

  She called Holly from the office for advice, but got the voicemail. Holly called her back once she was home from school.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I just picked up the message. I had frees this afternoon, but I’m stuck into cooking for tomorrow. You okay? Everything good?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Phew … I’ve got you on speaker phone, propped up against the fruit bowl. I’m up to my arse in meringue, which I’m trying, as I speak, to pipe into kisses on this baking parchment.’

  ‘Get you …’

  ‘Half pink, half white. To be sandwiched with buttercream.’

  ‘Yum.’

  ‘Except the nozzle keeps popping out of this damn piping bag … oh shit … there it goes again.’

  ‘Can’t you buy some?’

  ‘Ssh. I already have some. In the cupboard. If all else fails, I’ll whip them out, make sure I put some of this mix in my eyebrow, to look authentic, pass them off as my own … What’s up? You better not be backing out.’

  Tess explained.

  ‘Go. Go … Go. Why are we even having this conversation? Chew his arm off! When did this message come?’

  ‘This morning. While I was on the train.’

  ‘And you haven’t answered it?’ Holly’s tone was incredulous. ‘It’s, like three thirty …’

  Tess laughed. ‘Calm down. Why so keen?’

  ‘Why not? Bit of fun. You know his mother, for God’s sake … You know his pedigree.’

  ‘He’s not a dog, Hols.’

  ‘No, he’s a nice guy, by the sound of it. A nice guy who likes you. Wants to take you out.’

  ‘I haven’t been on a date in forever.’

  ‘So you think it’s a date?’ Holly’s tone was teasing.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Holly didn’t respond.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I think it might be, Tess. Not that I’m the expert. The last date Ben and I went on was to Homebase. To buy mousetraps.’

  ‘Shit. I’ve never been on a date pregnant …’

  ‘It’s not like he doesn’t know about it.’

  ‘I know, but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘So why would he want –’

  ‘Oh, stop it. You’re pregnant. Not terminally ill. You do know you’re not always going to be pregnant, right?’

  ‘But I am now. With someone else’s baby.’

  ‘Someone else who i
sn’t around.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m nervous.’

  Holly was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Tess wondered whether there was a meringue crisis.

  ‘Bring him.’

  ‘What? Are you mad?’

  ‘Bring him. Dulcie … come here …’ She heard Dulcie shout from another room, then appear close to the phone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You okay if Tess brings a date?’

  ‘Oooh. Yes. Absolutely. Who is it?’

  ‘Get off that meringue. He’s called Oliver. He’s nice.’

  ‘Bring him, Tess.’

  ‘You’re both mad.’

  ‘I’m laying a place. That’s that. If you don’t bring him, you’ll have to explain that to my mother.’

  ‘That’s mean.’

  ‘Gotta go. Meringue massacre. It’s everywhere … Hanging up … See you at six. Love you.’

  Dulcie chimed in: ‘Love you, Tessie.’

  She had never quite been able to walk away from a gauntlet Holly had thrown down. That had been one of the hallmarks of their relationship in the early years – Holly made her braver, ballsier. She borrowed a bit of Holly’s ‘bugger it’ attitude, and typed a reply to Oliver.

  Does the offer still stand?

  The screen, with its impatient three dots, told her he was typing a reply a minute or so later.

  Yes. Thought you might be ignoring me.

  Sorry. Busy day.

  She typed in the emoticon that looked like a Munch screaming man. Deleted it again on the grounds that emoticons were for kids and their middle-aged mothers. Pressed ‘send’.

  No worries. What do you fancy doing?

  Are you brave enough to come with me to my god-daughter’s birthday party?

  A brief pause. Then typing …

  Sounds good. How old?

  Sixteen. Yes, I’m that old. Although my friend Holly was a child bride, of course.

  Sounds fun.

  They exchanged details, and agreed that he’d pick her up at Donna’s. She gave him the address. The texts got a bit ‘See you tomorrow’, ‘Looking forward to it’, ‘Me too’ … the modern equivalent of not being the first one to hang up. Eventually, Tess put her phone on the counter in the kitchen and wandered through to the sitting room, where Donna was curled up with a book.

  ‘That’s a Mona Lisa smile.’

  Tess hadn’t even realized she was smiling.

  ‘Something good?’

  She shrugged, lost for an answer.

  He was as good as she had suspected he would be. Charming to Holly’s mother, pally with Dulcie’s boyfriend, complimentary to Dulcie, helpful with Ben, attentive to her. All of which without being the tiniest bit obsequious or creepy. He had that easy knack with people: you’d have thought, if you were watching from outside, that he knew everyone already.

  Holly dragged her to the kitchen, on the pretext of checking on something in the oven. She pulled her into the utility room, pushed the door closed behind them. She hissed, rather than spoke. ‘How is he still single?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean – he’s handsome, lovely, fit, solvent. What’s wrong with him?’

  Tess laughed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you say he just broke up with someone?’

  ‘His mum said so.’

  ‘Details?’

  ‘No. Just that she didn’t think the girl was right for him. And that she didn’t think he’d been heartbroken …’

  ‘Living together?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘I like him too.’

  Holly hunched her shoulders with glee.

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Go for what?’ Tess put her hands on her bump. ‘Have you forgotten?’

  ‘You seem a lot more hung up on this whole baby issue than anyone else is, Tess, including him.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. This is vicarious titillation.’

  ‘Too bloody right. I’ve been married … oh … forever … Look, I’m not telling you to marry the guy. Just have a bit of fun.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I feel so sexy right now …’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about sex. Although it is possible, you know. For another couple of months or so.’ She thought for a moment. ‘It all got a bit National Geographic after seven months with me and Ben.’ Tess grimaced. ‘But I’m not even talking about that. I just meant fun.’

  ‘You’re assuming he likes me like that.’

  ‘Tess.’ Holly looked at her like she was an idiot, hands on hips. ‘He’s at the Sweet Sixteen of a total stranger. He’s talking to my mother. My mother. Even Ben doesn’t talk to her if he can possibly help it, and he’s under some kind of contractual obligation. He’s helping Ben with a Costco fireworks “display”, and Ben is just dangerous with that stuff. He’ll be lucky to leave with all his fingers and thumbs. He likes you. Hell, even if he’s on the rebound and you’re just a sorbet …’

  ‘Where do you get these expressions?’ Tess rolled her eyes.

  ‘The interweb.’

  Tess watched him from the kitchen window. It was dusk now. Ben had given him a pair of protective goggles and the two of them were at the end of the garden, huddled over, chatting and laughing. He stood up, rubbed his back and looked for her with his eyes. When they alighted on her, he waved, and her stomach flipped.

  Much later, fingers intact, he and Ben lit the fuses, and the rest of them exclaimed at the colourful display. The last one, Ben had proudly announced, was a single ignition barrage, with more than three hundred shots in it, and the two of them came back to the house once it was lit to survey the finale of their handiwork. In the darkness, with the tumbling, whistling stars and bursting fans, Tess felt Oliver’s arm around her, and it was the easiest thing in the world to drop her head on to his shoulder. His thumb stroked the bare skin of her upper arm gently, and it was all she could think about.

  It was after midnight by the time they pulled up outside Donna’s house. Olly turned off the ignition and they sat in the still silence for a moment.

  ‘I had a really good time.’

  ‘So did I. Thank you for coming with me.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me. They’re all lovely.’

  ‘Even Holly’s mum?’

  ‘I’ve cracked tougher nuts than her.’

  Tess laughed. ‘I bet you have …’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘Does everyone fall for you, Oliver Gilbert?’

  He looked down and didn’t answer for a minute. When he did, it was with a question of his own.

  ‘Have you, then?’

  She exhaled deeply. ‘Oh. It’s complicated.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Agreed?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Not agreed. Disagreed.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘It’s simple.’

  He unbuckled his seatbelt, leant forward, across the gear stick, and kissed her, very gently, right on the corner of her mouth, letting his lips linger for a moment.

  Then he pulled back and got out of the car. Coming around to her side, he opened her door and offered her his hand.

  ‘I’m going to leave you with that one thought. That it might just be simple, you know. I’ll see you soon, Tess.’

  Gigi

  There was a terrible, vulgar expression – one she knew but never used. Gigi couldn’t get it out of her head. She didn’t even know where she’d last heard it, and she certainly didn’t know anyone who regularly said it, but it kept saying itself aloud in her brain. Don’t shit where you live.

  She knew exactly what her subconscious meant, though, with its mantra. What it was really trying to say was ‘Don’t have sex where you sleep.’ Or maybe ‘Don’t sleep with your landlord.’ Either of those would apply: they both worked.

  The thing was – he knew where she was. When she left for work. When she got home. Whet
her she’d taken the car or the bus … who visited her … Adam didn’t have to snoop to know it – no stalking required. She was right there. He was right there …

  Like she watched the family across the road without meaning to, he watched her. She hadn’t thought it through. There was no opportunity for things to grow organically – this embryonic relationship was on a faster track than she could probably cope with, simply by dint of topography. He was omnipresent.

  And she knew he was trying so hard not to be – to be cool, and easy-breezy. No pressure. Hadn’t he been that way from the start?

  He just wasn’t as good at it as she had thought he might be, back at the very beginning. It didn’t matter – he couldn’t help being there – it was his house.

  She hadn’t told anyone what had happened between them. Not even impartial, non-judging Kate. So far as her friend knew, nothing beyond flirting had gone on. She could have told Oliver but something stopped her. She wasn’t so much ashamed as completely unable to frame the facts with her own opinion. She didn’t know how she felt. About Adam. About it. About anything. Not even Richard. There were things that she missed … there were lots of things that she missed.

  And she really liked Adam. The sex had been good. It had been great. Thank God for the wine, because, sober, she almost couldn’t remember or comprehend how unselfconscious and relaxed she’d been about it. The getting naked, and the rest … He’d felt wonderful under her hands, against her body. It had been a long, long time, since she’d felt some of the sensations he’d made her feel. Desirable, attractive, appreciated.

  But there was no plan, and she didn’t know the rules of this game because it had been decades since she’d played it. Let’s face it – when she’d last played it the rules were completely different anyway. She knew it wasn’t that she’d used him. She liked him. Cared about him, even. When had that happened? Wine or no wine, she’d gone into it knowing exactly what she was doing, wanted what had happened to happen … It was the feelings that swelled, afterwards, that she didn’t know what to do with.

  He must have sensed her distress. Which, of course, was one of the things she liked about him. The next thing he suggested they do together was brunch, and not at all in a ‘How do you like your eggs in the morning’ kind of way. An unthreatening, easy-going meal on a day when he knew she was most likely working in the afternoon. She went because she couldn’t think of how or why to say no, and she went because she wanted to go. In equal measure. He’d made a full English, and been out to get all the Sunday papers. There was even freshly squeezed orange juice.