But I Said Forever

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  I almost laugh. “He hates those things. You’re certain he’s okay?”

  “I’m positive.”

  I’m stuffing my phone back into my bag when Kristine appears. “I was getting concerned at the number of times you’d disappeared upstairs this morning,” she says. “Important call?”

  I stand there, feeling guilty and frightened. You hear so much about bosses not supporting working mothers. What should I say?

  “My little boy has chicken pox,” I say, trying to sound both polite and assertive. “I’ve never been away from him when he’s ill before and I need to check that he’s okay. I’m a mother as well as an employee and that’s important too.”

  My heart thumps in my chest.

  “Of course,” Kristine says. “Quite understandable. Are you reassured?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. Back to work then.” She pauses, hand on the door frame. “While he’s ill, you may keep your mobile in your apron pocket, provided it’s on silent and you don’t check it in view of customers. Then you won’t have to worry about missing a call.”

  “Thank you,” I say, shoulders sagging in relief. “I really appreciate that.” I smile at her. “I don’t think I’ve asked if you have children?”

  “I had a son once,” Kristine says, with no change of expression. “But I lost him when he was very young.”

  You know when you wish you’d had your tongue cut out? That.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugs slightly. “It was a long time ago.”

  As I follow her downstairs, I can’t help but wonder if there’s enough time in the world to get over something like that. If I lost James…

  A wave of motherly instinct hits me as I reach the counter and I have to grip it hard enough that my knuckles turn white to stop myself running straight home and gathering James up in my arms. I force myself to breathe through it.

  “Is he okay?” Abby asks.

  “Itchy and miserable, but not getting any worse.”

  “Poor little thing.” She twirls her bracelets around her wrist. “Can I get him a little present? Maybe a Thomas the Tank Engine toy?”

  “I think all he wants right now is unrestricted access to a cheese grater.”

  “Oh, well, I can get one of those instead. Any special type?”

  I suppress a smile. “No, it’s fine. We’ve already got one.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Toby shuffles out of the kitchen. “I’m popping into town,” he says, eyes fixed on Abby. “Can I get anyone anything?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a cheese grater?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Could you possibly get me a smoothie?” Abby asks, dimples coming out as she smiles at Toby. “I like banana and strawberry ones.”

  “Of course I can,” he says, looking down at his feet.

  Abby comes out from behind the counter. “I’ll pop up and get my purse.”

  “Don’t worry,” Toby says, reaching out but stopping short of touching her arm. “It’s on me.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “No, but I’d like to.”

  They stand there for a minute, gazing at each other. It’s like watching a teen romance movie.

  “Oh, but it’s raining so you’ll need your coat,” Abby says. “I’ll run up and get it. Won’t be two ticks!”

  “You don’t have...” Toby gives up, since Abby has vanished.

  Then he looks sheepishly at me. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He looks around awkwardly while we wait for Abby.

  “I did wonder,” I say, pretending to straighten things behind the counter, “... are you and Abby...?”

  He flushes. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Really? Because you seem to like each other a lot.”

  He shuffles his feet. “She’s always so nice to everyone, but she’d never actually go out with me. She’s far too beautiful.”

  “Here you go!” Abby reappears, brandishing Toby’s coat. The rain, meanwhile, has stopped.

  “Thanks,” he says, smiling shyly at her. “One smoothie coming right up.”

  I watch Abby watch him leave.

  If I were my sister, I’d start creating a plan to get them together right now. But I’m not, so I don’t.

  Despite my exhaustion, caring for James doesn’t feel nearly so draining that night. I can’t stop thinking about what Kristine told me and my imagination keeps conjuring up nightmare scenarios involving drips and life support machines. I’m sure she must feel more than she let on.

  “Things like that make me glad I’m not a mother,” Carly says, as we smooth yet more calamine lotion over itchy bumps. “You do come to love the children you look after - usually - but not on that level. There’s a psychological barrier when you know you might have to give them back at any time. I’ve grieved, but it must be a whole new level with a child.”

  “I hope I never find out.” A shiver runs through me and I give myself a shake. “Though it’s reassuring to feel the force of my love for him. It helps suppress the bad mother thoughts.”

  Carly frowns. “Why would you think you’re a bad mother?”

  “I don’t know.” I look away. “Sometimes I think that I should want to devote all my time to him, and do all the millions of activities to help him develop, but I don’t. I need variety, adult company, another identity. I feel like a fool playing clapping games and singing nursery rhymes and I can’t cope with any kind of messy play. I start twitching with the need to clean it up and that makes James anxious and…”

  “... and now you have me to do those things with him,” Carly says. “Look, childcare is an occupation like any other. Only a tiny minority of people are perfectly suited to it, and even they need time off to recharge. As for not being comfortable with messy play… think of yourself as self-employed. You identified a service that would benefit your client, but you didn’t feel qualified to provide, so you outsourced it to allow you to concentrate on being brilliant at the things you were already good at. Makes perfect sense.”

  I feed James’s limbs into a clean babygro, give him a cuddle and wonder if there is any part of motherhood that I’m really good at. None of my old school friends had babies when I did, but everyone I met at baby group seemed to have prepared for motherhood with a degree in early childhood studies. They all played Mozart to their babies from conception, thrust flashcards in front of their little faces every time they opened their eyes and weaned them on organic vegetables grown on almost uninhabited islands only reachable by pedalo. Even Carly can carry on a one-sided conversation for hours without the slightest loss of enthusiasm and make James giggle at will. I can’t do that.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, kissing James’s head to hide my anxious expression. “What parts am I good at?”

  “Attachment,” Carly says immediately. “James is very secure for his age, and he’s such an affectionate, sociable baby. He expects to be loved and that means he’s used to it and feels worthy of it. Where do you think he learned that?”

  Spontaneously, I hug her. “Thank you,” I say, feeling choked up. “Please, never, ever leave. I need you here to tell me things like that.”

  Carly laughs. “I shouldn’t have to go anywhere,” she says. “Touch wood.”

  Although I’m not usually superstitious, I find myself doing the same.

  Chapter 4

  After a few miserable days, James picks up nicely and, soon after, I come down from the loo at work to find Carly chatting with Abby and bouncing him on her lap.

  “Hello!” she says. “I thought James would like to see where Mummy works. I hope that’s all right?”

  “Of course it is,” I say, picking James up and cuddling him so I can smell his sweet scent and nuzzle his soft skin. “It’s quiet right now. Hello, little one, are you having fun with Carly Warly?”

  He sticks his fingers up my nose,
which I take as a yes.

  “He’s so adorable!” Abby coos. “Look at those chubby little cheeks. Does he have any teeth yet?”

  “No.”

  “I think there’s one coming through,” Carly says. “I’m sure I can feel something under the gum. At the front, on the bottom.”

  I have a quick feel. “I think you’re right,” I say, conscious of a sinking feeling that I wasn’t the one to discover it. “Who’s getting a tooth? Soon you’ll have a mouthful and you’ll be able to bite things. Munch, munch, munch!”

  He gives me a gummy grin and I give him a kiss.

  “Can I get served, please?”

  “Oops, sorry!” Abby says and dashes back behind the counter.

  “Whose is the baby?” Zack asks, door chimes jangling as he strides into the bakery.

  “Mine.”

  He pauses halfway through reaching for James’s hand. “Oh… didn’t realize you had kids.”

  “Only one. This is James.”

  “Hello, James,” he says, pulling a series of ridiculous faces that make James giggle madly. “Aren’t you a handsome boy? Yes, you are.”

  I watch, amazed, as the man I’d pegged as rude and antisocial suddenly morphs into my Aunty Beatrice.

  “Can I hold him?”

  “Er… certainly,” I say, handing him over and trying to conceal my shock. I’ve never known a man outside the family ask to hold him. Phillip rarely does.

  James has a whale of a time being flown overhead and having raspberries blown on his tummy. I just stare.

  “Brittany,” Carly asks quietly, “do you know if Abby’s seeing anyone?”

  I turn to her. “I don’t. I do know she has a big crush on our swing cook, who’s a man.”

  “Ah, well.”

  “She might like both. I could ask.”

  “No, don’t bother. All my spare time goes to Mum, anyway.”

  “Well, I’d better get back to cooking,” Zack says, looking regretful as he hands James to me. “Great boy you have there.”

  “You seem very comfortable with him,” I say, dropping a kiss on James’s forehead. “Do you have children?”

  A shadow passes over his face. “No. No, I don’t. But I’m an uncle three times over and my sister’s on her own, so...”

  “Their dad isn’t involved?”

  “No. He’s… well, I suppose he’s not that bad. He supports them willingly, which is more than can be said for some. But he’s not interested in spending time with them.”

  “Some men aren’t,” I say, avoiding Carly’s gaze.

  “Can’t understand it, personally,” Zack says, pushing his hair back. “You’ve got to work and everything, but, outside of that, if I had kids you couldn’t keep me away from them. Bye, bye, James.”

  He strides back to the kitchen.

  “He seems nice,” Carly says. “Good-looking too.”

  “I suppose so,” I say, deliberately vaguely. “If you like that type.”

  The taster session in cake decorating is that Thursday and, after days of debating with myself, I go along to the local college, apron in bag and heart in mouth. I felt very brave when I signed up, but just the sight of a school building brings back memories of maths-related struggles and unflattering comparisons – spoken or otherwise – to my much brainier sister. I did better in the playground, but Mel always outclassed me in the classroom. Admittedly that was no issue in our home, since I was “just going to get married, anyway”.

  Mind you, Mel can’t cook to save her life. She once made a sponge cake that actually bounced. She might have hair like Nigella Lawson, but the similarities end there.

  I slide into the classroom as unobtrusively as possible and settle down at the nearest bench, fighting the urge to run home again. A quick glance around confirms that - as expected - the class is a variety of middle-aged women and me. We exchange smiles.

  The door opens again and I look up, expecting the instructor. Instead, I see Zack. My heart skips a beat.

  What is wrong with me? It’s not as if I’ve never seen a good-looking man before. My husband is one. Not quite in Zack’s league, but few are.

  The only space available is next to me. I greet him calmly, but inwardly screaming, “What are you doing here?”

  “I do a course every year and I thought I would try this before I commit.”

  I didn’t say that out loud, did I?

  “Have you done cake decoration before?” I ask, trying to sound politely disinterested.

  “Not since college. That’s why I thought it might be useful. I’m better with taste than presentation.”

  “Oh. Well, your taste is wonderful. That is, your cakes taste wonderful.”

  I cannot believe I just said that.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I’ve had actual lessons in the art of social conversation and I still can’t think of anything to say.

  “Sorry, I’m late.” The instructor bustles in, heaving several bags onto the teacher’s bench. She’s a cuddly 50-something with short greying hair. “I need a volunteer to help me get things out of the car.” She scans the room and her eyes stop beside me.

  “Ah… Zack?”

  “Hello, Penny.”

  “Well… you’ll do nicely. Come and shift for me.”

  He obediently gets up and goes. As soon as the door closes behind them, there are whispers around the room.

  “Is that her toy boy?” the woman on my other side asks.

  Kristine said he was getting divorced, didn’t she? And I suppose some men do like older women.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “If he’s not, I’ll have him,” another woman says. She reminds me strongly of my Aunt Freda, who frequently comes out with things that make my father twitch and my mother blush.

  Zack and Penny return a few minutes later, laden down with tubs and bags.

  “Right,” Penny says, sounding rather breathless. “I’m Penny. Welcome to the cake decorating taster session. The course proper starts up in a fortnight, so today is for you to see if you’d like it. I thought we might have a shot at making some flowers tonight and decorate a cake together. But try not to eat too much icing while you’re shaping it, or we’ll have to combine with Slimming World across the corridor.”

  “Spoilsport,” says the woman next to me, with a smile on her face.

  “They look good,” Zack says offhandedly, after another lengthy silence. “I think you’ve got a talent for this.”

  “Thanks,” I say, eyes widening at the compliment. I’m quite pleased with the way my flowers have come out myself.

  Yet another silence.

  “Did you always know you wanted to be a baker?” I ask.

  “My mum was one. It’s catching.”

  “Oh.”

  He indicates my wedding ring. “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a surgeon. Although he’s moved into a more administrative role now.”

  “My wife was a nurse. Well, she still is a nurse, but she’s not my wife anymore. Or she won’t be soon.”

  I carefully shape a leaf. “I believe the divorce rate is quite high in the medical profession. The hours, you know.”

  “It was more about the sex in the on-call room in our case.”

  “Oh. Well… yes, that would also be a problem.”

  “You ever worry about that with your husband?”

  I turn away. This is most definitely not a suitable topic for polite conversation. “Not at all. Phillip is a devoted husband and father.”

  Every time I say something like that, it sounds a little less convincing.

  I feel his eyes on my face, but I deliberately avoid his gaze.

  “Well, lucky you,” he says. “Lucky you.”

  We craft on in silence for a few minutes.

  “Listen, I owe you an apology,” Zack says, eyes on his work. “I was a right bastard to you when you first started and I’m sorry.”

&nbs
p; “Oh,” I say, nearly squashing a petal. “Well… apology accepted.”

  “You’ll have gathered that I’ve been going through a rough patch.”

  “Yes.”

  Although I still don’t think that excuses his behaviour.

  “Well… since we’re supposed to talk about these things and ‘end the stigma’ and all that.” Zack frowns at his genetically-engineered daisy. “I’ve been suffering from depression.”

  … but I suppose that does.

  “I finally dragged myself to the doctor and she prescribed me some tablets to help, but I had a really bad reaction to them.” Zack finally looks at me. “I went from irritable to furious with everything practically overnight. I screamed at post boxes, trees, pennies - even swore at an ant.” He puffs out a breath. “Apparently that’s really rare - most people just get nausea and a dry mouth - so lucky me. Anyway, that’s what you walked into the middle of. You’ll be glad to know I’ve got something else now - something that hasn’t made me crazy and, with a bit of luck, might actually help.”

  “That’s good.” I shift my position, trying to feel comfortable. “I don’t think I’ve ever been depressed, but I’ve been quite low for a while. That’s why I finally decided to get a job - to try and make myself feel better.”

  “Is it working?”

  I think back over the past couple of weeks. There’s been stress, guilt and exhaustion, but along with that…

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  For the first time, I feel certain that this was the right thing to do. No matter how hard it is sometimes, it’s worth it.

  Penny finishes her latest round and returns to us. She has a close look at my flowers. “Those are very good, Brittany. Have you done this before?”

  “A bit.”

  “Are you planning to sign up for the main course?”

  “I think I might.”

  I’d forgotten how nice it is doing something creative. I could make a first birthday cake for James. If I get really good, Phillip might even let it be the official one.

  “Well, don’t forget to take photos of your handiwork. I always advise my students to keep a record of their progress. Start a scrapbook, or a board on Pinterest. And I can recommend a few good YouTubers who post videos of techniques if you’d like.”