by Anna Maxted
‘I . . . I . . .’
I’d never seen him lost for words. ‘What?’ I barked.
‘If . . . if you . . . if you did think that you were in a marriage that might not last for ever . . . I, I . . . .’
I blinked. ‘Are you trying to reserve me? What am I? A table at the Ivy?’
‘I should probably have done this after the case,’ he muttered. ‘Trouble is, I’m going to win and then you’ll be in a huff with me.’
‘Barnaby,’ I said, ‘don’t deprive your fans on my account. George and I are trying for a baby.’
Chapter 20
He put me on the defensive, or I wouldn’t have said it. Babies and the Bar go together . . . not very well. My head of chambers, Sophie Hazel Hamilton, is the exception. She’s had four kids, but she’s made sacrifices (code for, she’s seen them once). She fell pregnant for the first time just as she was offered pupilage, and confided in a fellow trainee. He took it upon himself to seek advice on her behalf, from the Equality and Diversity Committee. To summarise his enquiry: ‘Has she messed up?’
I had. Barnaby would spread the news that I was planning to screw my career – sorry, husband – and rumour would become fact, regardless of reality. Everyone would forever be squinting at my stomach, waiting for me to swap my almond croissant and espresso habit for coal, and if I ever chose Badoit over Beaujolais, colleagues would ask impudent questions. (In the first months of her second pregnancy, Sophie worked through severe morning sickness, and after retching in the toilet for fifteen minutes one day, was accosted by a pinstriped colleague.
‘My dear, I have to ask,’ he drawled. ‘Are you carrying?’
‘Carrying what?’ she replied. ‘A gun? My dear, if I were, you’d be the first to know about it.’)
My desire to put Barnaby in his place (under me, naked) had led me to stretch the truth, because my efforts to have a baby with George were not going well. We’d stopped having sex, so the odds of conceiving were reduced.
Barnaby stared. ‘That’s clear enough,’ he said. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’
I was about to query his wording: disturb me? I’d just rejected him. How did he always manage to make it seem as if I was the poor heartbroken soul with a ridiculous crush? I didn’t care that he’d disappeared after our kiss, nor did I care for his excuses nearly ten years later. All I remembered was finding a jaunty note – ‘Call me!’ – next to an indecipherable phone number scribbled on a ripped-off flap of a cigarette packet. Of course I didn’t call him. He should have called me.
‘I – oh, never mind,’ I said.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes. Go away.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘And don’t leave any money,’ I added.
He sighed. ‘Cassie,’ he said. He paused. ‘I always felt you were the one who got away.’
I laughed. ‘What,’ I said, ‘like a prize salmon?’
‘A prize, definitely. See you next week.’
‘Great!’ I said. ‘It won’t be at all awkward!’
He left then, and I gazed after him. Berk. He was so . . . Julio Iglesias. Ah, well. I took a gulp of champagne to take the edge off, but it tasted sour and flat. I paid the bill and went home.
It was only nine forty-five. The house was pitch-dark, which was unusual, as George was meticulous about leaving random lights on if we were out, to trick burglars. (George was convinced of the general population’s intent to commit crime, and once rang me bang in the middle of a business dinner to report that a ‘youth’ was doing wheelies on his BMX up and down our road. This, to George, was delinquency. ‘Hello!’ I said, when I rang him later. ‘I was expecting the phone to be answered by a young teenage boy!’)
I glanced down the road, and noticed George’s car parked badly on the corner – why? My Merc was in the garage, and we had a driveway. There was always a reason with George, but I just couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. I stepped inside, fumbled in the darkness. The lights snapped on before I located the switch.
‘Caught y— oh!’ said George. He was aiming the houseplant water spritzer in a shoot-to-kill position.
I shook my head, and swept past him.
George lowered the spritzer. ‘I’m sorry! That Barnaby bloke. I thought—’
I turned on the top stair. I felt exhausted. ‘George,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter.’
I lay in bed, turning over and over like a cat.
I was a fool. I wanted a baby. I would never get my hands on my real mother. I needed to hold my baby in my arms. The yearning was a physical ache. And yet, in the past month, I hadn’t slept with my husband. The last time we’d tried, he had been enthusiastic, creative, and I’d recoiled. He’d insisted we bath together. Nuzzling had occurred. Grim. I felt sad, because I think to a lot of women, George would have been attractive. I may have misrepresented him. He was tall, only a little gangly, and his eyes were bluish green, a pleasing contrast to his dark hair and pale skin. But I flinched when he kissed me.
We proceeded anyhow, but afterwards he rolled away, and said, ‘Thank you. Now I feel like a rapist.’
We hadn’t touched each other since.
I flipped the pillow, gave it a punch, considered my options. George wasn’t working. He refused to be tested, but I suspected his sperm were inferior. Barnaby, however . . . He claimed to ‘like’ me. In other words, he’d sleep with me if I asked – the irresistible shag that would sour my reputation – the triumph of emotion over reason, what I’d always feared. But now, my need was greater than the risk. It would be the horizontal equivalent of a snatch-and-grab.
George would assume the baby was his. The marriage would totter on. I would keep my parents-in-law in my life. A panic attack threatened every time I considered the reality of losing them. Ivan and Sheila Hershlag treated me like a princess. They did their food shop, bickering their way around the Tesco Superstore, with a visit from me in mind. No mushrooms for the chicken goulash, Cassie won’t eat mushrooms. Cow’s milk mozzarella for the tomato salad, Cassie won’t eat bufala. Mrs Hershlag bought me handcream. And new dishcloths. She wouldn’t sit in my kitchen, she had to ‘do’ and if she wasn’t polishing the door handles, she was scrubbing behind the espresso machine. She and Ivan came to see me in chambers, dressed for synagogue.
No.
I couldn’t trick that family, although when I saw a baby – even if it looked like Les Dawson’s impression of a mother-in-law – I felt a desire so great that I had to turn away. I couldn’t trick the baby. I was aware, more than most, of the importance of knowing where you came from. My baby would know his real parents, be with them. I would not allow my child to enter the world bereft. In my experience, if you aren’t known and loved by your biological parents, serenity eludes you. I denied the missing piece of my soul that was Sarah Paula, because my desire for her was raw and primal and it made me feel like an animal.
But if I stayed with George and was faithful to him, chances were there wouldn’t be a baby. Unless, of course, we could conceive by clapping our hands in unison.
And if we did (fertile hand clapping is an area of research that needs further investigation) would the baby be at all bothered when he realised that Mummy and Daddy were united only in mutual loathing? I pictured George reading a small person a bedtime story. Would he assume different voices for each character, and take the time to explain and discuss? Or would he be like our mother, who always read every tale in a flat bored tone as fast as she could, only quitting the text to mutter sarcastic asides.
Thanks to our mother, Lizbet and I grew up thinking that The Tiger Who Came to Tea was about a housewife on sanity’s edge, who couldn’t face cooking one more meal or cleaning one more plate, and told her husband a ridiculous lie about a zoo animal in a feeding frenzy in their kitchen. The lines about the tiger drinking ‘Daddy’s beer’, and leaving nothing for ‘Daddy’s dinner’ were like red rags to a remarkably bad-tempered bull. ‘Of course,’ muttered Mummy. ‘Because frumpy Mummy exists on bloody wa
ter and fresh air!’
I flipped the pillow, and thumped my head down on it. I was getting warm and woozy, then George clanged a saucepan in the kitchen, and my brain sprang awake. I jumped out of bed, and screeched, ‘Stop banging ABOUT!’
‘’Koff!’ shouted George.
That was more or less the sum of our day’s conversation. We really didn’t like each other.
I would tell him it was over the next morning. But first, there was someone I had to speak to.
‘Oh, Cass,’ said Lizbet, ‘I’m – cak! Sorry, the paracetamol stuck in my throat – I’m so sorry. Hang on. Sphinx has a purr for you.’
I sighed as my sister stuck the receiver in the cat’s face, and the feline impression of a starter motor tickled my eardrum. I had never felt needy in my life, and it was a new sick feeling. I wouldn’t repeat it. Now I could see the sense of having a therapist, an employee paid to hear all your shit and bat it gently back to you, so you didn’t alienate friends and relatives with your endless moaning. Lizbet was a good listener. Not that I ever burdened her with my problems – I didn’t have any – but now . . .
‘Hello!’ I called, into the phone. ‘I’d like to converse with a human being now! Hello, Lizbet?’
‘There!’ said Lizbet. ‘She knows when someone’s upset. She’s so maternal. But, as much as I’m fond of George, if you think he is no longer right for you, you should leave him. It’s only fair, for both of you. But you should do it now, while there are no children involved. Sorry, Cass. I know that probably wasn’t the right thing to say, considering your . . . situation. But I think you have to accept that circumstances aren’t ideal, and make a decision.’
Was this why they called it the human race? Lizbet seeing her chance to get ahead. It was strange. I’d thought I wanted to confide in Lizbet, but the minute she started to talk with authority about my business, I wanted to shut her down.
‘Has he any idea?’ she added.
‘Not yet.’ I paused. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. Not to worry.’
‘Oh, Cass,’ she said in the softest voice, and I realised that Lizbet would make the best mother. ‘Listen. It will be hard, but you are very strong, and I’ll help you through it. You’ll still have me. You’ll always have me.’
I sighed. ‘I know. Thanks.’ I stopped talking. Ok, let’s wrap it up!
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ said Lizbet.
‘No. Not that I can think of.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think there’s another man.’
I didn’t want to lie to her. Not . . . outright. Not when she and I were at such a promising point in our relationship.
‘There may be . . .’
‘It’s old Barnabypants!’
‘God!’ I shouted. How incredibly annoying. ‘No, it isn’t! Please! Give me some credit!’ Well, it was only a small lie.
‘Oh!’ I could hear Lizbet seize the chance to steer this conversation happy. ‘Well. If not him . . . are we at liberty to say who this man might be?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I approve?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘Well. You approve of him. I’m not sure I do.’
‘Aha. A moral issue! How interesting. I—’
As she spoke I felt a lurch of nausea, and I wasn’t surprised. Leaving George’s parents was a scary move. I should have kept it to myself. The sickness rose.
‘I’ve got to go, Lizbet.’
‘Ok, darling. Speak later.’
I ran to the toilet and – ‘Why don’t you FLUSH?’ I screamed at George, and was sick into our Bette bath. He was pernickety about the house, yet did his bit for conservation. (His motto, ‘If it’s brown, flush it down. If it’s yellow, let it mellow.’ My motto: ‘That’s disgusting.’)
‘Leave me ALONE!’ roared George from the bedroom, as I retched. Plainly, he was still suspicious about Barnaby, because he didn’t normally raise his voice. ‘Are you ok?’ he said, from the doorway. He peered at what I’d done to the two-thousand-pound bath, and his mouth shrank. ‘I won’t be eating chunky vegetable soup for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you the Flash wipes.’
‘Tissue,’ I said, trying not to taste the vomit in my mouth.
George passed me a wad of toilet paper. Then he said, ‘Have you done a test?’
‘A test?’
‘A pregnancy test.’
‘G-ahh! No.’
‘Why not? We were shagging like rabbits until you went off it. Have you done a test since then?’ He paused. ‘Or is it not mine?’
‘Tell you what, George,’ I said. ‘If I am pregnant, we’ll take a paternity test, how about that?’
He gazed at me. ‘I’m sorry, Cassie. You’ve been so . . . tetchy. And I saw how that bloke looked at you.’
All men look at me, I wanted to say. Your attention is usually elsewhere. George was ferreting in the bathroom cabinet. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing me a Clearblue. ‘Piss on that!’
I sighed. ‘Please go out while I . . . wee,’ I finished primly.
Afterwards, I balanced the stick on the edge of the limestone basin, washed my hands, glowered into the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, and my stomach ached. PMS, plain as that uncharacteristic spot on my face.
George opened the door. ‘Can I come in?’ he said, halfway to the basin. He snatched up the stick, and I held my breath.
My husband turned to me with the bearing of a king, and said, ‘Wife, we are expecting.’
Lizbet
Chapter 21
George’s parents were doing a Friday Night, and I agreed to go along with Tim to please Cassie. She was the only family member I was interested in seeing. For reasons she hadn’t shared, she was suddenly keen on playing the perfect wife, dutiful daughter. It was strange, but I didn’t question it. I hoped it might take the pressure off me. Our parents were attending, and I felt the weight of their expectation. They’d got the scent of a grandchild and were like a pair of sharks who’d smelled blood.
It was simple for them. Dead baby, never mind, try again, hop back on that horse, then share the good news! They had maintained a presentable sympathetic façade, but now their more selfish needs were rising to the surface like scum in a pond. Failure failure failure. My brain was starting to malfunction. I was also drinking a lot for a girl who didn’t drink, and had made what Vivica would call ‘a spectacle’ of myself with Barnaby, Cassie’s lust object (it was obvious, and George had a face like a halibut the whole way home).
‘What size are you?’ demanded Mr Hershlag, peering with difficulty over the piles of food on the table.
‘Me?’ I said. I’d visited their house before, of course, but I was always taken aback by the sheer quantity of framed family photographs, china ornaments, and silverware. It was like a bric-a-brac store. Everything was old (except the kitchen appliances, all of which had apparently conked out in recent years from overuse and been replaced on the advice of the fire brigade). Nothing matched. There were tins of chocolate wafers in every room. Cassie liked clean lines and I was surprised that she could stand to be there.
‘Leave it!’ said Mrs Hershlag.
‘You got plans for a wedding?’ said Mr Hershlag, as if his wife hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve got a wedding dress for you. It’s pink—’
‘She don’t want your wedding dress!’ cried Mrs Hershlag.
‘Darling,’ said Vivica, whose eye make-up was very blue that day, ‘is there something you want to tell us?’
‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘We don’t have plans for a wedding.’
Everyone fell silent, and I squirmed in my seat. I’d been cool towards him lately, but I didn’t like the compliment returned.
‘You need a cushion?’ demanded Mr Hershlag, making me jump. ‘Take a cushion!’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘This chair is very comfortable.’
‘Nah, take it home! Ta
ke a cushion home! Take it! You’ll be doing me a favour!’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but we have more than enough cushions at home.’
I glanced at Cassie, expecting to see a grin, but she was intent on her chicken goulash (lovely, but crying out for mushrooms). Cassie hadn’t spoken to me all evening. I didn’t get her. I hoped it wasn’t something I’d done. Actually, she was probably thinking about leaving George. She looked drawn. I’d hugged her at the door, and it was like two ironing boards collapsing on each other. I liked feeling thin, but I hated feeling hungry and secretly I knew I should put on weight. Soon.
If I knew my sister, she was also regretting that she’d shared about George. She was so private it killed me. I was happy to talk about anything to anyone. Last month, before Tim’s advance for his poo-ahoy system came through, I confided our money worries to a stranger on the tube. We were stuck in a tunnel between Euston and Camden Town. I told this man that I could be poor, but I refused to be fat and poor. He pretended to be engrossed in an advert for a toe fungus cure. Then it occurred to me that the man possibly thought I was strange, chatting away as if I knew him, so to prove my normality, I said, ‘Hey, don’t you think it’s weird that there are people who’ll see a soap actor in the street and shout, “You bastard!”’
The man looked scared. I sighed. Time to pull out the big guns.
‘Or what about people who have Christmas decorations up all year? They definitely have something missing in their lives.’
The man jumped up, burst through the end door, and changed carriage. Nut.
Cassie has similar problems communicating. If something was bothering her, she wouldn’t talk about it. If you asked, she’d deny it, present you with a decoy problem.
I was beginning to suspect that there was more to it than the husband and the heir, but if she didn’t want me to know, I wouldn’t dig. I had some pride. If someone rejects you because they want to get their rejection in first, in case you’re thinking of rejecting them at some vague future point, you will reject them.
I wanted to be close to Cassie, but there was a point that she was unwilling to let me cross. Sometimes I didn’t even think she needed me, and that hurt. The warmest she’d been was when I decided I’d had enough lousy treatment from life, and withdrawn. The miscarriage had brought out my mean streak. Cassie had been shocked, and I was glad. It was good to have her fuss around me, for a change, worry about my moodiness, my rudeness and inconsistencies. The fact that she’d been prepared to play a subservient role had repaired a lot of the damage. We’d made some progress, but I was eager for more. I didn’t want this love–hate seesaw between us. I wanted consistency, unconditional love.