The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  Everyone knows Ingrid. Phil. Carol and Steve. Everyone at the Hub. Even Agnieska is going to know her soon. Everyone except me.

  Chapter Seven

  It was late morning when Buttercup parked in the underground garage below the house in Westminster. She’d decided it was easier to stay in the flat after all, and had emailed Rose to let her know. The answer had pinged back almost instantaneously.

  No problem, Mrs R. All will be ready for you when you arrive. Do you need me to book anything else? I can have Rich standing by if you want.

  Buttercup sent her thanks and said that there was no need for Rich to drive her around London this time. When Buttercup stepped out of the lift by the apartment, Rose, young and chic in a sharp navy trouser suit and dark-framed spectacles, was there to greet her.

  ‘The flat’s all ready,’ she said. ‘And Charles says he’ll be online to talk to you later this afternoon if you’re in. What are your plans?’

  ‘I’m going out to lunch with a friend, I’m not sure what after that. I’ll probably be in this evening. Goodness, Rose – is that an engagement ring?’ Buttercup looked down at the sparkler on Rose’s finger. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you! Jacob finally popped the question in Paris.’ Rose smiled happily. She held the ring up so it glittered on her finger under the electric light. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? I love it.’

  ‘It’s stunning. When’s the wedding?’

  ‘Next summer.’ Rose opened the door to the penthouse flat and led her into the luxurious hall. ‘Here you are. Let me know if you’re in tonight and I’ll order in the steamed sea bass from Riccardo’s. I know how much you like it.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re so thoughtful. I’d like that.’

  Rose had grown to know her well in the last two years. She would even email with reminders when dental appointments were due, offer to book the hairdresser or sort out tickets for shows she thought Buttercup would enjoy, or suggest a dinner reservation at the latest fashionable restaurant.

  ‘You’re welcome! Enjoy your lunch. Going anywhere nice?’

  ‘Nothing special, I’m just meeting Polly in her lunch hour.’

  ‘Great. See you later.’

  When Rose had left, Buttercup looked around at the flat. Familiar as it was, she was usually with Charles and it was different being here alone. Rose had prepared carefully: her favourite champagne was in an ice bucket on the counter, a bouquet of white ranunculi – her favourite flower – in a vase on the table. No doubt her favourite bath oil would be next to the bath too.

  I’m so lucky. It’s all lovely. No wonder my old friends think I’m being outrageously spoiled.

  People went to so much trouble to make sure she was happy and looked after. She remembered bounding in here almost two years ago, making Charles laugh with her gasps of excitement at everything on offer: the steam room, the fitness suite, the marble bathrooms, the deep-pile carpets and things that moved with a flick of a switch or a voice command.

  ‘Play Chopin’s nocturnes!’ she had ordered and an instant later, piano music floated out of the speakers. ‘Oh wow!’

  ‘The marvels of modern technology,’ Charles had said drily, but she could tell that he was enjoying her wide-eyed wonder.

  The novelty of it all had worn off now, and she wished the flat could feel a little more like home. She ought to ask Rose to stop doing so much for her, perhaps even keep out of the flat altogether, but it seemed so churlish when all people wanted to do was help her.

  Buttercup put her case in the bedroom, and headed out to meet Polly.

  Polly was waiting for her in a busy sandwich bar near her office in Holborn.

  ‘Can’t be long,’ Polly said apologetically as they settled down with their lunch in a booth. ‘Big case on.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, however long,’ Buttercup said, shamefaced about her own inactivity when Polly was so busy. She had nowhere to go and nothing she had to do.

  ‘How are things? Tell me everything.’

  Buttercup explained how depressed she’d been feeling about the miscarriage and lack of a pregnancy. ‘I know I’m young and there’s plenty of time, but that’s what worries me. Why isn’t it happening? I got pregnant practically on honeymoon last time and now nothing. It’s turning into an obsession for me, Polls.’

  Polly put a sympathetic hand on hers. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not good. What does Charles say?’

  ‘He says wait. I don’t think he necessarily minds if we don’t have a baby for a little while longer, and he doesn’t seem to realise how much I want to know if there’s a problem.’

  Polly frowned. ‘He doesn’t want to find out for your sake?’

  ‘It’s not that he doesn’t understand how upset I’ve been,’ Buttercup said quickly. ‘It’s just that he’s more relaxed than me, I suppose. He’s not in a hurry.’

  Polly fixed her with a long look, and then said, ‘If you want to find out, you should find out. It’s obviously making you unhappy. My friend has just seen a brilliant consultant about her fertility problems and now she’s expecting IVF twins. She’s over the moon. I’ll get the name for you.’

  Buttercup felt hopeful. ‘Really? That would be great. Please send it to me and I’ll see if I can persuade Charles to go.’

  ‘Why not go on your own, if he’s too busy?’ Polly asked. ‘Would he mind?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that.’ Buttercup shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t want to go behind his back.’

  ‘So tell him all about it. Tell him you’re going to see someone, just to set the ball rolling. Why would it be a problem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Buttercup said slowly. ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good. I’ll send the name when I get back to the office.’

  After lunch, Buttercup wandered back towards Westminster, wondering what to do with herself. She had supper booked with Hazel tomorrow night and apart from that, she’d had vague ideas of seeing an exhibition at the National Gallery, perhaps getting her hair done, but when the message from Polly popped into her phone with the consultant’s number, she realised what had been in her mind all along.

  By the river, she stopped and rang the clinic.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ said the receptionist. ‘I had a cancellation for tomorrow just five minutes ago. Can you come in at ten a.m.?’

  ‘Yes,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘I can.’

  She had just finished supper that evening and was thinking of taking a shower when a series of chimes alerted her to the fact that Charles was trying to contact her. She clicked a controller at the large flat screen in the sitting room, and Charles sprung to life in front of her. He was sitting at a desk in a neutral hotel room somewhere and staring out at her. As soon as he saw they were connected, he smiled broadly and gave her a jaunty wave.

  ‘Hello, darling. Rose told me you were coming up to town. Did you have a good journey?’

  His features were somewhat distorted by the camera but it cheered her up to see his familiar face and the boyish smile. She curled up on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. ‘Yes, fine. How are you?’

  ‘Bored witless. But it’s all necessary. The new project in Montenegro has run into some problems. We’ll sort it out, I’m sure, after another day or two of talking.’ He smiled at her. ‘What are you doing in London?’

  ‘I saw Polly today, which was nice. I’m going to see Hazel tomorrow night. I’ll do some shopping.’

  ‘Shopping? What for? Anything special?’

  ‘I saw something in Vogue the other day that I thought would be perfect for the company Christmas party. And my hair needs doing.’ Her hand went to her blond hair, cut into a shoulder-length choppy bob.

  ‘You just had it done, didn’t you? It looks fine to me.’

  ‘It only needs a trim so I’ll pop in for a quick snip. And I want to try a new facialist.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘Um.’ Buttercup felt a hot pink flush creeping up her cheeks. Charles liked t
o know details and she usually chattered away, telling everything without any kind of filter. She’d always loved the way he enjoyed all the silly details of her days, from what kind of sandwich she ate to the TV programmes she watched. She had never kept anything back from him before and it was more difficult than she’d imagined. The knowledge of her appointment the following day filled her with an unpleasant sensation of guilt and although she hadn’t meant to lie to him, she was already finding herself concealing and telling half-truths. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the consultant but somehow she couldn’t say it. ‘I can’t remember her name! It’s on my phone. I’ll check it later.’

  ‘Rose will have put it in the calendar. She’s good that way.’

  ‘I didn’t book through Rose. I didn’t want to bother her. You know . . . she’s so busy.’

  Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s her job, darling. That’s why I pay her a good salary. She’s there to make your life easy. Is she not keen to help you?’

  Buttercup thought she detected a faint edge of steel creep into Charles’s voice. He was a good and kind employer up until the moment that he felt someone had not pulled their weight or was taking advantage of him. Then he could be ruthless.

  Buttercup said quickly, ‘Rose couldn’t be more helpful. But she’s busy, and honestly, it’s nothing.’ She took a breath and then said lamely, ‘I don’t need her to put everything in the calendar. You don’t want to be bothered with all the trivia. Even my hair appointments? A trip to the dentist? It will just clutter up your diary. I mean, it would stop you seeing what’s important, like your meetings and your travel . . .’

  Charles smiled at her. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. You’re important. You know that. There’s nothing more important than you.’

  ‘You’re sweet.’ She smiled back at him. ‘I hope it’s not too dull tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll fill you in when it’s over. And you can tell me all about this new facialist and what she’s going to do to make you even more exquisite. Good night, darling.’

  ‘Good night.’ She blew him kisses. ‘Good night, good night!’

  His face vanished and the screen went blank.

  The next morning Buttercup went down the stairs past the open door of the office where Rose and Elaine sat at large glass desks with over-sized screens in front of them.

  ‘Hello, Mrs R, are you off?’ called Elaine. She was a trim middle-aged woman with short hair dyed solid black, brown eyes rimmed in kohl, and a taste for colourful tunic tops over black trousers.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Buttercup pulled her cross-body bag more tightly to her, clutching it hard. ‘I’m out for the day.’

  Rich came into view from where he’d been standing in the office, talking to the women. He had a black taxi and was kept on a permanent retainer by Charles to get him around London as efficiently as possible using all the taxi lanes and back-street knowledge at his disposal. ‘Can I drive you somewhere?’

  ‘No thanks, Rich.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s kind of you to offer.’

  ‘Just let me know if you need me, and I’ll pop right along,’ he said, cheerfully.

  ‘Thank you. I’m having supper with a friend so I probably won’t be back before you’ve gone.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Understood. Have a lovely day.’

  ‘I will. You too. Bye!’

  A moment later she came out on Queen Anne’s Close and headed towards Parliament Square, soon losing herself among tourists and people hurrying to work.

  From there she walked up through Trafalgar Square, up past Chinatown, thinking of the high jinks she used to get up to with her friends around there. Things were different now: most were settled and starting families, and nights out were few and far between.

  Just west of Covent Garden she popped into her old hair salon and got her fringe trimmed. Once she got to Marylebone, she went into a chic café for a coffee, making it last as she watched the world go by until her appointment. She felt disconnected from London these days: the traffic, the crowds, the noise and the smells. She wondered how she could have put up with it for so long when there was the open countryside to ride across, beautiful, full of wildlife and brimming with fresh, clean air.

  Perfect for a child. A wonderful place to grow up.

  That thought quelled the doubts over whether she was doing the right thing. Just before ten, she left and walked briskly in the direction of Harley Street, nervous but determined.

  The tests lasted quite a while: the clinic staff took lots of blood samples, scanned her externally and internally with ultrasounds, X-rayed her and then did a full MRI.

  ‘We’ll see what the results tell us when they come in in a few days,’ the consultant said when Buttercup was sitting opposite as they went through her notes. She peered at Buttercup through small, wire-framed spectacles; her pulled-back hair made her look like a strict school teacher. ‘First things first. I’d like to see you tracking your ovulation and making sure you have sex frequently at the optimum time.’

  ‘I do that,’ Buttercup said quickly. ‘I have an app, and a thermometer. Charles isn’t always around at the right time, but he often is.’

  ‘Okay. Make sure you record everything so we can be certain.’ The consultant frowned and clicked some buttons on her keyboard. ‘And you’ve been pregnant before.’

  ‘Not long after we got married, I got pregnant. We were over the moon.’

  The consultant looked sympathetic. ‘And it didn’t work out. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. It was absolutely . . . awful.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many first pregnancies do end in miscarriage – sometimes even before the woman knows she’s pregnant. But the important thing is that you did conceive. And it was a spontaneous loss of the foetus?’

  Buttercup tried to fight the sudden rush of nausea that broke over her. The consultant’s language reminded her of the horrible hour in the hospital, when they probed her and spoke coolly of the products of conception. Her little baby; the tiny, flickering life snuffed out and turned into no more than a biological by-product, a bit of waste matter.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to keep her voice firm. ‘I was over thirteen weeks pregnant and suddenly . . . well, I got cramping and then . . . bleeding . . . and then . . .’ She trailed off, remembering the awful strangeness of the little curled creature, more like a fossil than a human, no bigger than the size of her thumbnail, sitting on her fingertips: a large head, tiny dots in it, and minuscule protrusions that would have become limbs. In the hospital she had told them she knew the baby was gone because she had seen it, but they hadn’t believed her. She was still haunted by that small curl of humanity. Numb, she had put it carefully in a wrap of lavatory paper and left it on the cistern. Then she had dealt with the bleeding, and driven herself to hospital, not wanting to tell anyone else what was happening. Much later, when she’d returned home, pale and sad, she’d gone to the little wrap and opened it. The pink blob had dried out, leaving only the brittle curve of tiny spinal bones, all that showed what it had been. It had cracked and broken as she moved it, becoming unrecognisable. So she had thrown it into the bowl and flushed it away.

  That was what weighed her down so heavily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the consultant said again, more gently. ‘But in a way, it’s positive because it means that things have functioned before so we can have a strong confidence that they will again. I’ll be in touch when the results come in. And in the meantime, try to relax. Look after yourself, eat well, sleep, and see what happens.’

  ‘I will,’ Buttercup promised, relieved, at last, that soon she would know something. Anything.

  Charles called her again that evening before she headed out to supper with Hazel.

  Buttercup sat on the sofa, half aware of the lights of London sparkling out from beyond the roof terrace outside. Charles, thousands of miles away, was in the same dull hotel room. He asked how she had enjoyed herself and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell everything but
something held her back.

  I’ll tell him when we get the results. No need to worry him before then.

  Instead, she talked cheerfully of her afternoon shopping in Marylebone, her impulse visit to the Wallace Collection as she’d walked past on her way to Selfridges, and showed off a few of her purchases.

  ‘Lovely, darling,’ Charles said, approving. ‘And are you going home tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. But I’ll drive up and see Mum first.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea. Give her my love.’

  ‘I will.’ She appreciated that he always did this, even though they both knew how pointless it was.

  ‘Have a safe journey. I’ll let the girls know you’re leaving. They’ll make sure the car is full before you set off, and they’ll alert Carol you’re on your way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at the screen. ‘You think of everything.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Hello, Mum, it’s me. How are you?’

  Buttercup sat down on the chair near the daybed where her mother lay prone, one leg twitching and rubbing against the other in a ceaseless, repeating pattern. She was dressed in clean neat clothes and her grey hair was brushed, held back by a headband. Her eyes were wide but didn’t appear to see anything, and her mouth was open in the toothless way that Buttercup still found it hard to accept. They’d said a couple of years ago that the best thing to do was take out her mother’s teeth, now that she was eating only purees and couldn’t care for them herself.

  Buttercup reached for the cool smoothness of her mother’s hand. ‘Stacy said you’ve been doing well. I’m so glad.’

  Sometimes it seemed ridiculous to talk to someone who had no awareness of whether Buttercup was there or not, but she didn’t know what else to do. What was the alternative? Ignore her? Forget her? She could never do that.

  ‘She knows you’re here,’ Stacy had said. She was one of the nurses, kindly and reassuring. ‘I’m sure she can hear me, and understands.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Buttercup felt like a novice nun who was desperate to believe but full of doubt. ‘She seems so far away.’