He’s smiling, looking so happy and sounding so reasonable and agreeable that I don’t want to shatter this blissful moment of unity by protesting further that I never saw myself as a stay-at-home mum. Thrilled as I am to be having a baby, I’m keen to get back to normal just as soon as I can fix up reliable child care. ‘I shall certainly consider it,’ I tactfully agree. ‘I may well decide to stay at home for a while. Either way, I’m sure we can make it work, and you know that I love you very much, Oliver.’
‘And I love you, darling. So you must concentrate on looking after my son and don’t worry about a thing.’ He pats my tummy with a gentle hand and I don’t object to his assumption that it will be a boy because I’m so thrilled he’s referred to the baby with such tenderness. ‘Now I have to go out, darling. The boss wants me to go over some figures with him. Do you need anything before I go?’
I shake my head and pick up my book with a smile. This is all going so much better than I’d hoped.
I’ve been late in to work on a few occasions over recent weeks, needing to take the odd day off occasionally because I felt so unwell. Because it’s so unusual for me to be ill, I feel obliged to come clean and finally I confess to Emma about the pregnancy. Her reaction is oddly low key. ‘Really? How lovely, a baby. Are you pleased? Are you happy about it? Is Oliver?’
‘Yes, yes and yes,’ I cheerfully respond. ‘Well, he was once he’d got over the initial shock.’ Despite her casual response, I suspect that Emma isn’t exactly overjoyed by the news.
‘We must make proper arrangements for you to take maternity leave,’ she says brightly and I instantly reassure her that I intend this baby to make as little difference as possible to our partnership.
‘I may have trouble getting around the S-bend once my bump gets too big, so maybe I could take over more of the office duties in the later months. We could perhaps afford to employ a cleaner, part-time at least, by then. After the baby is born I shall of course make every effort to come back to work as soon as possible, if only part time. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you in the lurch.’
We start to talk practicalities and I think I’ve succeeded in proving to her that I can still cope, baby or not, when she suddenly says, ’Look, you really needn’t concern yourself about me. I can easily find someone to replace you, Carly.’
I blink at her, startled by this remark. ‘Oh, could you?’
‘Of course. In fact I already have someone in mind who’d jump at the chance. Why don’t we agree that you take as much time off as you need. Put your feet up, eat chocolate, do whatever pregnant women do, and then enjoy a long sabbatical being a full-time mum. I’ll get some temporary relief to stand in for you. Then if, and when, you decide to sell out, I have someone in the wings, ready and waiting.’
I’m shocked and dismayed by this idea. It’s almost as if she’s eager to take advantage of my pregnancy, keen to be rid of me. I quickly demur. ‘I’d rather not sell out, thanks all the same. I want to hold on to my stake in the business, and keep on working for as long as I can. I’m sure I can keep going till I’m at least six months gone, maybe seven.’
‘That’s up to you, of course, so long as you feel well enough. Then you stay home with Junior for as long as you like, and we’ll review the situation say, twelve months after that?’
‘Oh!’ I’m rather stunned by this suggestion. ‘Well, I rather thought I would be coming back rather sooner than that . . .’
Emma smiles at me. ‘Why should you? I can manage perfectly well without you. There’s really no need for you to worry. As I say, I’ve already got someone lined up.’
This conversation is not going at all as I’d hoped, and I’ve got this slightly sick feeling inside, which has nothing at all to do with my pregnancy. ‘Well, that all sounds very . . . very organised and efficient.’
‘I just want to make things as easy for you as possible, and for myself too of course,’ Emma says with a stiff little smile. ‘At least I’d know where I was, wouldn’t I? I’d have the regular, full-time support I need.’
‘Yes, I suppose you would.’
‘And of course you can draw maternity pay, if you need it. I’m sure the business can find the money somehow.’
‘There’s really no need to worry about that,’ I foolishly say. ‘It’s a relatively new business. You can’t afford to pay a replacement and maternity pay as well. I’m sure I can cope. Anyway, we can sort the money out later, when we make some long-term decisions, as you suggest. I don’t want to put you under any unnecessary strain.’
‘Fine, that’s settled then.’
Even as I agree that her plans sound sensible, I’m hurt that she seems so eager to be rid of me, and by her cool dismissal of our friendship and business partnership. Yet privately I acknowledge that relations between us have been rather less warm since her caustic remarks about Oliver. And my actually using that key she gave me, hasn’t helped. She seems to expect me to reveal all, and I simply can’t. There are some secrets too shameful to be shared. I cannot allow anyone to pry too closely into my affairs. That would be far too dangerous and degrading, particularly now with a baby on the way.
As if reading my thoughts Emma looks at me keenly as she quietly enquires. ‘You are happy with all of this, Carly, aren’t you? Things are okay now between you and Oliver?’
‘Why wouldn’t they be?’ I brightly respond. ‘Admittedly, it was all a bit unplanned, but Oliver is being so sweet about it, making every effort to regard the baby as a new beginning for us both.’
‘That’s good. Excellent! We certainly don’t want things to go wrong for you, do we? Although you’ve still got that key I gave you, don’t forget, should you ever need to use it again.’
‘I’m sure I won’t. You can have it back if you wish.’
‘No, it’s always useful for a friend to hold a key, not least if I ever lock myself out.’ Emma smiles at her own joke, hugs me warmly then the telephone rings and it’s business as usual. For now, at least. But I can’t help worrying about how I seem to be losing everything: my independence, my friends, and now my job, which is a bitter blow and leaves me feeling more isolated than ever.
Chapter Thirteen
I see even less of Oliver while I’m pregnant, and never think to question this too closely. To be honest I’m finding the evenings he’s out something of a relief, a time when I’m free to relax, to read and do my own thing without being constantly in fear of saying the wrong thing and upsetting him.
Mum’s trying to teach me to knit, although I’ll never be as good as she is. She can produce a jumper in a week, sitting behind the counter knitting like mad between customers. One Saturday afternoon on a lovely sunny spring day, with Oliver off playing golf, we’re sitting together in the back garden as she demonstrates the intricacies of knit and pearl, increase and decrease. She’s very patient with me even though she spends most of her time picking up dropped stitches and taking back what I’ve already knitted. I’m not too concerned as I’m sure she’ll keep this baby well supplied with matinee jackets and bootees.
As a keen gardener passionate about her rose trees, Mum is also urging me to do something about my garden, although perhaps garden is too grand a word as this space behind the house is little more than a stretch of lawn which Oliver keeps forgetting to cut. A wilderness, no less.
Perhaps to get her off the subject of my horticultural failings, as well as resolve the issue which daily torments me, I pretend I’ve read something in the Daily Mail and make a few carefully worded, and very general remarks on the question of violence in marriage.
I can’t quite find the courage to come right out into the open and tell her the truth. For one thing she’d never believe me as she absolutely adores Oliver, and sees no wrong in him. I’d have my work cut out to convince her. Nevertheless, a part of me feels I should try.
We get on well enough, I suppose, despite her grumbles and lectures. I’ve always been more of a daddy’s girl, although that brings its own problems. D
ad is so proud of me I can’t bear to let him down. I’m convinced Mum won’t understand, that she’ll blame me. She would be sure to ask a whole lot of difficult questions such as why I didn’t ever mention this before? Why didn’t I leave right away? How can I possibly claim to still love him? She would never be able to comprehend the fear I have that I couldn’t cope without him, that my strength and belief in myself has gradually seeped away, leaving me drained and exhausted. I now doubt my own ability to deal with anything properly, feeling sometimes as if I’ve lost my identity.
I’m also afraid of upsetting her, of course. Most of all, I dread having to admit that my dream of a happy marriage is dead. The whole sorry mess would then be on public view and Oliver would be furious, so angry I dread to think what he might do.
So I carefully circumvent the personal by remaining in the general. I idly comment that living with a violent man must make a woman feel trapped, as well as destroying her self-esteem. ‘What would be the right way for her to deal with such a situation?’ I ask, as casually as I am able.
With absolutely no experience of such things, and not picking up on the hidden meaning beneath my words, nor even noticing my tension, she comes out with the usual comment that she really cannot understand why a woman would put up with such treatment. I listen horrified to my own mother making such outrageous remarks as, ‘It takes two, you know. Some women must ask for it or provoke him in some way,’ and ‘the silly woman must have known what she was letting herself in for when she married him’. I shudder.
How easy it is to pass judgement when you’re not emotionally involved.
I concentrate on my stitches, trying not to let her see that my hands are trembling. Push in the needle, wrap the wool round, slip it over and off. Nope, lost that one too. She reaches over and patiently puts it right. Picking up dropped stitches is easy by comparison with mending a marriage.
‘And what if she didn’t?’ I ask, as I watch her sort out the muddle. ‘What if his behaviour came as a complete shock to her, and she still wants to save her marriage, still loves him?’
Knitting furiously, my mother snorts her derision but doesn’t trouble to answer my question. ‘I put it all down to sex. It turns them on, women like that. I wouldn’t put up with it. I’d walk out.’
I feel slightly sick hearing my own mother take this clichéd attitude. It’s so easy to make such pronouncements when you’re not the one facing the possibility of physical abuse. I try again. ‘But what if she can’t walk out? What if she tried that once and her brutal husband brought her back, threatened to hurt her badly if she ever tried again?’
My pint-sized mother laughs as if I’ve made a joke. ‘I’d give him what for, that’s what I’d do. A taste of his own medicine. What happened to the woman in the article you read? Did she divorce him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, floundering, yet determined to plough on now that I’ve got this far. ‘Do you think violent behaviour is some kind of mental sickness? Could a doctor help?’
She considers me with a frown. ‘How would I know? Anyway, why get yourself worked up over some woman in the paper? You mustn’t dwell on morbid subjects, not while you’re pregnant, love. Thank your lucky stars Oliver is such a lovely man. He’d never lay a finger on you, or that child.’
I go back to discussing the possibility of creating a rose bed.
The sickness has finally passed and I’m having a fairly easy pregnancy. I feel marvellous now, absolutely bursting with energy. Blooming, as they say. Oliver’s parents pop over to see me occasionally, laying down fussy little rules about what I should and shouldn’t do, how I mustn’t stand too long, stretch up too high, or lift anything heavy. I listen to all their advice, smile and settle for following my own common sense. They are not happy that I’m still going in to work every day, neither is Oliver, who grumbles and groans the whole time about it.
‘Why shouldn’t I work? I feel fine,’ I tell him. ‘Stop fussing. It’s only for a few more weeks then I’ll be house-bound, stuck indoors like a beached whale.’ I smile at my own silly joke but the prospect alarms me. I’ve tried on several occasions to resurrect the subject with Emma but she absolutely refuses to discuss the matter.
‘We can talk it all through later, once Junior has arrived and made his presence felt. In the meantime we mustn’t upset you, or the baby. You’re not to worry about a thing, Carly. We’re coping fine.’
There’s a middle aged woman called Wanda already coming in three days a week to learn the ropes, and I’m beginning to feel side-lined in my own agency.
My condition has ceased to be a novelty to Oliver. He’s thoroughly bored with attempting to take an interest in our constant chatter about babies. When Jo-Jo pops round with Molly he swiftly retreats to his office. Not that I mind. I’m happy to sit and indulge in baby-talk with my sister, and watch in adoration as her latest offspring lies on the rug and kicks her bare legs with great exuberance and much happy gurgling. It’s good that we have something in common at last.
‘Is he attending the father’s ante-natal classes?’ she asks, and I laugh and shake my head.
‘Never mind, I’m sure he’ll fall in love with baby the minute she’s born.’
‘It’s a boy, apparently,’ I say.
‘Did they tell you that? You never mentioned it.’
‘No, I didn’t want them to tell me what sex it is, but Oliver is quite certain.’
‘Ah, well, let’s hope he’s not disappointed.’
I sincerely hope so too as his good humour and patience is rapidly evaporating. I’m not unduly surprised, far too used to his volatile nature by now to do anything other than philosophically accept this change of mood, with as much good grace as I can muster. Even when I was being sick in a morning he still expected me to cook his breakfast, which I did without complaint, and then went and threw up in the bathroom sink afterwards.
At least that dreadful nausea is over with now but he still expects his routine to continue unchanged, despite my increasing bulk and the difficulties I find in keeping on top of everything. He seems to be getting increasingly fussy, back to running his finger over window ledges and lecturing me about making savings by always cooking from fresh. I listen and agree with him, then pop something in the microwave as I have neither the time nor the energy to slave away over a hot stove these days. I make very sure though that I wrap the packaging in newspaper and dispose of it carefully where he won’t find it.
He constantly asks how much things cost and I lie about that too. Far easier than face another row or listen to him pontificating about how kitchen towels might be cheaper at a different supermarket, if I took the trouble to look. I don’t argue, or tell him that I’ve no time for such things, or he’ll make me give up work right away, and I’m anxious to keep going for as long as I can.
He has long periods when he sulks and moans endlessly about the responsibility that a family imposes, and the cost of it all as we check out the price of prams and cots and baby buggies. He frequently goes on about how a baby will tie us down and spoil our freedom. Since he’s the only one who seems to have any freedom, the point seems largely academic. I don’t argue with him on that subject either. It’s far wiser to say nothing.
The reality is, he’s quite his old self again, back to criticising and bullying and making me feel small and stupid. Worse, the boundaries of how far he’s prepared to go to keep me in line by using physical violence are changing. Perhaps it has dawned on him that he can’t punch and kick me quite as he used to, because of the baby. Instead, he moves on to a more calculated pain.
It all begins one afternoon when Emma sends me home early because I’m feeling pretty sick again. Strange how I still get these episodes of nausea from time to time. The doctor tells me it’s anxiety and I should learn to relax. I’m bored so I wander into Oliver’s office, power up his computer and do a bit of surfing, carefully keeping off the women’s refuge sites I visited previously. I do some idle browsing, look up sites listing ba
by names and try them out to see which I might like. Belinda Sheldon. Rosie. David. I read blogs about babies and pregnancy, visit sites offering help and advice on parenting, and feel a huge ache inside that some of the joy which should be present at this momentous time in my life is missing.
I finish off with a game of solitaire and then shut down, and think no more about it as I go to make our evening meal.
Oliver comes to me as I’m sitting that evening with my feet up, still struggling with my piece of knitting. I’m thinking that I might manage to actually finish this matinee jacket by the time my child is starting school.
He leans over my chair, smiles at me as he presses one finger to my lips, making it plain that I mustn’t make a sound. Then he takes the wool and needles out of my hands, grasps my arm, and twists the skin in opposite directions, a Chinese burn he calls it.
A scream starts somewhere in the back of my throat but again he presses one finger against my mouth, effectively silencing me. ‘Ssh,’ he says. ‘Not a sound. We don’t want the neighbours to hear, do we?’
I stare at him wild-eyed, almost pass out with the pain, and I’m biting so hard on my lower lip I can taste blood.
‘You’ve been in my office again, haven’t you? I obviously didn’t make it clear enough the last time. You don’t touch anything of mine, right? Understand? You don’t ever go into my office.’ He stops what he is doing so that I can answer.
‘I – I understand, Oliver. I’m sorry!’ My voice cracks in a throat raw with pain.
‘Just do as you’re fucking told.’ Then he walks away, quietly closing the door after him.
This is a trick he repeats frequently over the coming weeks whenever he’s in one of his black moods, or wishing to reinforce his control over me for some reason. Keeping me in line, he calls it.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I’ll cry, begging him to stop. ‘Why are you so cold and so calm?’
‘But you say you don’t like me to get angry,’ he taunts me.
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