The Making of Us

by Lisa Jewell

  It had struck her at the party, watching the baby being bundled around the room, from person to person, each person touching that baby, holding that baby, as though it were an amulet, possessed of some divine power. Their faces were greedy and soft, as though they were drawing something out of the baby. And the baby itself was like a saggy lump of meat, submissive and strangely noiseless. It was not a pretty baby. Not that that should matter. But it wasn’t. It had a blue-tinged complexion with red patches and eyes that never seemed fully open, and its hair was thin and full of powdery flakes of dry skin. It had been dressed in a white cotton dress with a pink rose printed on the front, white tights and a pair of small white leather shoes, and was supposed, Lydia assumed, to look appealing. The trick seemed to be working on everyone else, but not on her. She had avoided the infant all day long and stifled the urge to grab her coat and leave.

  She stayed for hours beyond her comfort zone, hoping that the other guests would peel away and that she would be left alone with Dixie and Clem, or more specifically with Dixie. She pictured the two of them, tired and a little drunk, collapsed together in the debris of the party, finally having the open and honest conversation that they had not had for so long. But their other guests did not leave and at six o’clock bottles of vodka were being opened and music was being selected on the iPod and Lydia remembered that this was what Dixie and Clem were like; they were social and spontaneous and there was no reason why having a baby should have short-circuited that. So she collected her coat and she kissed the few people she knew by sight and Dixie saw her to the door, the baby clasped to her chest and fast asleep so that there was not even the opportunity for them to hug, and they had said words about meeting up—Yes, we must, we really must—and then suddenly Lydia was on the pavement in Camden Town and she was alone.

  She had glanced up at the window of the flat and seen the flicker of movement, of people, of life. The world went on without her. She was her own worst enemy. And then she had spent a Saturday night alone, in her empty house, and had not spoken to Dixie again since. It did occur to her that maybe her friend was cross with her, for not holding her baby at the party, for leaving early, for being a drag and for not being in touch for so long, but the longer their disconnection continued, the less able Lydia felt to do anything to bridge it. And now this, an invitation to supper. Lydia felt her spirits lighten at the prospect. She had been living inside herself for too long. Her life had grown very dense and difficult to negotiate and for weeks now the only spots of sunshine in it had been provided by Bendiks and the slightly peculiar friendship stroke flirtation that had developed between them since their moment of bonding a few weeks back.

  Lydia texted back almost immediately. Love to. What time and what shall I bring?

  8 p.m. After the bairn’s gone down. And bring something fizzy. :)

  So she arrived the following evening, wrapped against a chill wind in a down-filled coat and clutching a bag with two bottles of Bollinger to her chest. She knew that Dixie had meant Prosecco or Cava or a bottle of Tesco’s own brand plonk, but Lydia also knew how much stupid money she had sitting in her bank account, bringing joy to nobody’s lives, least of all her own, and had experienced a flutter of pleasure as the two bottles were rung through the till and the assistant had said: “That’ll be ninety-eight pounds, please.”

  She was quietly pleased to learn that the affable Clem was out; as fond as she was of him, this was an important night for Dixie and Lydia. And the baby was nowhere to be seen. “Ooh, Bolly,” said Dixie, taking the bag from Lydia’s outstretched hands, “you nutter!”

  “Well, I feel like we haven’t really celebrated the baby coming yet . . .”

  “You mean apart from the actual baby party that we had here three weeks ago? With champagne and balloons and stuff?”

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “Yes. I know. Not your thing. It’s okay. Come in, come in, and excuse the mess. Seriously, I can’t believe I ever had the time to put things away and stuff. It was fine when she was tiny because she just slept all day, but now she’s awake all the time and the moment she sees me going anywhere near a broom or a pair of rubber gloves she starts on at me. It’s like she wants to live in squalor.”

  “I could send Juliette over?” The words were out before Lydia had a chance to censor them. Dixie looked at her curiously, trying to gauge whether or not she was joking. Lydia smiled, unconvincingly, and shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if she’s got much to do half the time, it’s—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Dixie cut in. “Honestly. I’m happier just mucking along, you know?”

  Lydia did know. She knew Dixie better than she knew anyone else. It was stupid of her to have suggested it. She watched her friend push one bottle of champagne into the overpacked fridge and then set about opening the other. “No champagne glasses,” she said, “the last one got broken at Viola’s party. And, in fact”—she gazed into the depths of the glass cupboard—“no wineglasses either. Tumbler or shot glass?” She held up the options.

  “Oh, God, tumbler, definitely.”

  Dixie brought the tumblers and the bottle into the living room and laid them on the coffee table. Also on the table was a packet of Huggies wipes, something called Infacol in a teat pipette bottle, a plate of old toast, a two-day-old newspaper and a packet of Fruit Pastilles.

  “Yes, welcome to my life,” said Dixie, watching Lydia examine the rubble. “This is the central operations area, right here. This is where the breast-feeding occurs, where I take my meals, where I sleep during the day and where Clem quite often sleeps at night. This is where I attempt to read newspapers and watch more than twenty minutes of a TV show at a time. This is where I live.”

  Lydia looked at her aghast.

  “But,” she continued, “let me tell you this, before you get the wrong idea and think that I have ruined my life . . . it is worth every single minute. Honest. It really, really is. Cheers!” She brought her glass toward Lydia’s and smiled.

  “Cheers,” agreed Lydia, “and sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For being such a crappy friend.”

  Dixie’s face screwed up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. I’ve been useless. I haven’t phoned or texted or come over with food for you or anything. I’ve only seen Viola twice since she was born. I’ve been shit.”

  “Oh, honestly, Lids. For God’s sake, I promise you, it’s not a big deal. I know you. I know babies aren’t your scene and you were so sweet having us all over when we were all yucky and newborn and you bought Viola that lovely outfit. It’s me who’s been useless. Seriously. I just cannot get my act together. You know, I knew Clem was going to be out tonight a week ago and it took me until last night finally to get round to inviting you over. It’s just, everything’s . . .”

  “Different?” suggested Lydia.

  “Yes,” said Dixie, “everything’s different. But I can feel myself climbing out of it now. I mean, look, I can put her down at night now. That’s new. Up until two weeks ago she was up with me until I went to bed, asleep on me, I’d be pinned to this sofa for hours. And now, well, it’ll only be a few hours, she’ll be awake again at midnight, but at least I know I get this bit of the day to myself.” She smiled and rubbed her elbows. “So, look, I did not invite you over here to yabber on about baby shit. What’s new with you? You look different . . .”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah, have you lost weight?”

  Lydia put her hand to her face and considered the question. “Yes,” she said eventually, “yes. I probably have.”

  Dixie laughed. “Only you, Lydia Pike, could lose weight and not even think about it. I’m still carrying half of Viola’s afterbirth around with me, I’m sure I am.” She grabbed her spare tire and sighed. “So how’s it going with the personal fitness trainer?”

  Lydia flushed a little at the thought of him. The very notion of Bendiks left her feeling like she’d just had se
x. She could not possibly tell Dixie how she was really feeling about her personal fitness trainer. Dixie would think she’d lost her mind. She cleared her throat. “Good,” she said, “fine. Starting to get used to it now, doesn’t feel quite so alien anymore. And much better now I don’t have to go to that pretentious gym anymore.”

  “So he comes to you, does he?”

  “Yeah. Or we train in the park.”

  “Wow,” said Dixie, her face wistful for a life she’d never actually lived. “And how’s work?”

  “Oh, it’s, well . . . ticking along.”

  Dixie and Lydia never talked about her work. Dixie was the one with the interesting job, she always had been. It was a silent given that any conversations about work would be about Dixie’s job. Not Lydia’s. “How about you?” she countered. “Any chance of getting back to work?”

  “Oh, God, no. No no no. I think I’m going to take a full year. I’m so far away from even imagining being back on a job, let alone actually doing it, it seems like another world. Hard to believe that all those people still exist, that they’re all getting up every morning and doing that stuff while I’m here, with Vee and all these screwed-up tissues.”

  “Have you taken her home yet? Have you taken her to the village?”

  Dixie nodded. “Yes, a few weeks back.”

  Lydia blinked the thought of “home” from her consciousness and forced a smile. “And how was it?”

  “Yes. It was grand. Never has a baby been more tickled, sniffed or adored in the whole history of creation. And it was just lovely to get out of town, you know, to breathe in that scrumptious air and hear those jangly nighttime sounds and just, well, just be at home. With my family.”

  “Did Clem go with you?”

  “Yes, he certainly did. No way was I doing that drive with a baby all by myself! Yeah,” said Dixie, smiling wryly, “we’ll probably end up back there, you know. In fact”—she paused, and Lydia waited—“we’re planning another trip next month. Maybe look at a few places.”

  “Ah.” Lydia returned her wry smile.

  It didn’t need discussing. Dixie knew how Lydia felt about their homeland, and Lydia knew how attached Dixie still was to the place. They had always agreed to disagree on the merits of Welsh life.

  “Don’t you ever,” began Dixie, “get the urge? You know. Don’t you ever miss the place? The feel of it? The people?”

  Lydia laughed and shook her head.

  “Now that we’re getting older,” Dixie told her, “I don’t know . . . I thought I was a proper Londoner. Thought I’d found my place, my pace, that this was where I belonged, but now I’m nearly thirty, it all seems a bit . . . unnecessarily big. Do you know what I mean? Unnecessary amount of shops and restaurants and roads and people and noises and smells and . . . I don’t know, I just don’t need so much of it anymore. It’s all wasted on me. And I just kind of think, if I’m going to cloister myself away in my little London village, just see the same few people, buy the same food from the same few shops, walk the same walk across the same expanse of green, wave at the same people as I cross the road, why not go and live that village life somewhere where I can afford a really nice house, and a garden, and where my mum can help me look after my baby?”

  “But what about work? Your career? Not much call for film directors in Walterston.”

  “We’ve thought of that. We’ll take it in turns, me and Clem. I can work out of Cardiff. Do some telly. He’s got mates here who’ll have him on their sofas if necessary. It would work out. Well, it could work out. But it’s all still a notion rather than a plan. We haven’t made up our minds, not yet.”

  Lydia nodded knowingly. It was just a matter of time, a matter of when, not if. Her friends would go. They would empty this flat of themselves, buy a charmingly ramshackle cottage, take their scrawny baby with them and be Welsh again. And then she would never be able to see them. Because Lydia would never go to Wales again. She’d known that from the very moment she’d boarded the train to London Euston seven years ago with all her stuff in a trunk at her feet. Wales was where she drank too much. Wales was where her mother had died and her father had died and where her childhood had died when something strange and unpalatable had happened on a balcony in a tiny flat in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. London was where she’d left all that behind and moved forward, onward, up and beyond. Lydia was grateful to London in a way that she’d never been grateful to a human being. It had given her more than any human being and been more loyal and inspiring and kind to her. She may be lonely and apart from the world here, but she’d rather be lonely and apart in a city that understood her than in a village that didn’t.

  “Will you come and stay, if we do move?”

  Lydia flinched. “Yeah,” she said, “sure.”

  Dixie threw her a look that said that she knew, and Lydia knew, that she would not come to stay, but at this point in both their lives they would have to pretend that she would.

  “And I’d be back all the time.”

  “You could stay at mine.”

  “Well, yes, I was going to say that. Might be a bit cramped, though?”

  “Well, yes, I’d have to open up the west wing for you, obviously . . .”

  “But of course.”

  “And then this flat, wow, it’d be gone.”

  “Forever. Some other youngsters would live here.”

  “Free and footloose and without a care in the world.”

  “Partying, carousing, bed-hopping, pill-popping.”

  They laughed out loud in unison and then fell silent, still smiling.

  “It was good being young, wasn’t it?” said Dixie.

  “It certainly was.”

  “But I’m looking forward to the next bit now. The big, grown-up bit. I think it’ll be fun. I think I’m going to like being middle-aged. I think it’ll suit me.”

  Lydia agreed. Dixie had always had something of the cottage-dweller about her: she followed The Archers, baked cakes, dusted. Now Lydia thought about it, it was inevitable that her friend would have a baby before she was thirty and relocate herself to the sticks. In the same way that some people had a brief lesbian fling in their youth and then settled with a man, Dixie’s time in London being a Camden hipster had been just a phase, something to get out of her system.

  And where did that leave Lydia? Alone. With her Philippine housekeeper and her Latvian trainer and nobody in her life whom she didn’t actually pay to be there. And it struck her as she looked at her fresh-faced friend in her trendy teenage outfit of skinny jeans and oversized T-shirt with a spray-painted sketch of Debbie Harry on the front of it, that even though Lydia herself was the one in the elegant Whistles T-shirt and Autograph jeans, with the big tasteful house and household staff and bank account in seven figures, inside she was still an awkward teenager who would never be able to take on the responsibilities that Dixie had.

  Lydia left the flat two hours later. She had not mentioned the letter from her uncle Rod or the Donor Sibling Registry or her growing crush on her (probably gay) personal trainer. She had barely talked about herself at all, in fact. She had not felt that it would help her situation. Dixie had already removed herself from Lydia’s life by becoming a mother. Now she was removing herself physically as well by moving back to Wales. To ask her to get involved with the dark, swirling machinations of Lydia’s inner existence would be pointless and disappointing.

  So instead she went home and she poured herself a gin and tonic and she sat at her computer and prayed to it: “Please, please, please, today, let there be someone there today. Please.” And she opened up her e-mail account and there was an e-mail from the Registry. She stopped. There had been e-mails from the Registry before, letting her know about changes to the way the website worked and monthly newsletters. But this looked different. She gulped another neckful of gin and tonic and then, with lightly shaking fingers, she clicked the e-mail open. “Wigmore Fertility Centre: Donor 32 has a new listing on the Donor Sibling Regist
ry.”

  Lydia gasped. She pushed herself backward on her wheeled chair, physically away from the computer, from this miraculous development. She clasped her hands to her cheeks and then she laughed. Not because it was funny, but because she was so overwhelmed with shock and nerves that she could find no other response, like the time she’d crashed into the back of a woman’s station wagon crammed with small children on a divided highway in Finchley and laughed so hard she’d been unable to give the woman her details.

  She pulled her hands from her face and then she breathed in deeply, quelling the rising hysteria that threatened to engulf her. And then she clicked on the link and waited to see who she was going to find on the other side.

  ROBYN

  A week after Robyn had seen herself staring back from Jack’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, they celebrated the six-week anniversary of their first meeting. It was Jack’s idea. He, of course, had absolutely no idea what was crashing around inside Robyn’s head. Jack thought it was business as usual. Robyn was trying very hard to pretend that it was indeed business as usual. She’d almost managed to convince herself that the whole thing was ludicrous, that she was mad even to have thought such a thing. After all, look at Paul and Linda McCartney, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie; they’d all instinctively and naturally found themselves attracted to people who resembled them. It was normal. It was inevitable. It was probably a very good thing. It did not mean that Jack was her brother. It did not mean anything. But still, it was there. The doubt. And behind that doubt lay an unpalatable possibility. And as a result of that tiny, infinitesimal possibility, Robyn could not touch Jack.