They say that the urge to nest is a primal instinct that goes back to the days of cavemen. I can believe that, given the urge I suddenly have to clean and tidy the house. And with it comes a burst of energy the likes of which I haven’t felt since before I was pregnant. With Jake away, I find myself shifting the sofa, mopping and vacuuming under furniture and rugs, disinfecting everything, buying bleach sprays and anti-bacterial wipes. I’m desperate to weed out any dust, crumbs, cobwebs, filth that might be lurking. And, better still, being so busy seems to keep a cap on my paranoia. Tidy house, tidy mind, I guess.
But it’s more than that. It’s as if my body knows that for the next few months if not years I won’t have much time for sorting things out. I have a desperate urge to get the house completely and utterly shipshape: every cupboard has to be arranged nicely, every shelf stacked neatly; everything in boxes, cleaned, labelled and marked. I also throw out a lot. I make a huge pile of things that no longer belong in my life, from damaged saucepans and chipped plates to shoes, clothes, vases and old electronics. The old DVD player that came with me from the States and has never worked here. The printer that’ll photocopy but no longer prints. An electric juicer. Piles of novels. Half-used notebooks.
It’s while I’m shoving it all into black plastic bags that the doorbell rings. I edge to the window to look who it is and see the familiar shape of Simon dressed in his green jacket and red cap, and my heart bangs with sudden panic as Anna’s warning burns in my ears. Without thinking, I drop to my hands and knees and cower below the level of the window, while I think about what to do: do I let him in or not? He rings again, twice, a rude, intrusive sound: ding-dong, ding-dong, then the letterbox opens and I hear him shout.
‘Taylor! Are you there? Only me! I’ve got something for you.’
I stand up, pressing my hands to my chest to try and calm the thumping of my heart, then I take a deep breath and open the door. Damn Anna for making me feel so scared.
‘Simon. Sorry. I was just…’ I wave my hand.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I thought you must be in the bathroom: when you gotta go, you gotta go! Anyway, look…’ He steps towards the front door but I use my not insignificant frame to fill the doorway.
‘Sorry, I’m just about to, umm… I’ve got to go out in a sec,’ I say.
Simon recoils. ‘Sorry. Look.’ He holds out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. ‘This is for you. I just wanted to drop it off.’
I unwrap the tissue and pull out a tiny babygrow for 0–3 months.
‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’
‘It was for my baby,’ Simon says. ‘I kept one. When everything happened.’
‘Oh. Oh my word. I can’t take this. You keep it.’ I hold it out to him. ‘I don’t want you to regret it. Please. You keep it.’
But Simon backs away, his hands up. ‘No. It’s over. I need to move on. Please take it. I want you to have it.’ He turns to open the gate, gives a cheery wave and is gone.
Thirty-five
It was quite a bit later, when I’d sustained myself with tea and chocolate biscuits, that Anna called. I remember being pleased to see her name come up on my screen; I remember thinking that she must be psychic because I was about to call her to ask if she could help me take my black bags to the recycling centre – but Anna’s voice was panicky.
‘Can you come over?’ she says without preamble. ‘Please? The police have just left and I need to you to come.’ Her voice breaks. ‘As quick as you can.’
A chill undulates through me, making my shoulders shiver. ‘Oh my god, what’s happened? Is it…’ I swallow. I can’t even say the word ‘Simon’.
‘Please, can you just come? Now?’
‘Yes. Of course. I’m on my way.’
‘Call me when you’re outside. I’m not answering the door.’
I grab my keys, bag and coat, and hurry to Anna’s, arriving breathless and sweaty at her door. When she opens the door her face is pale and drawn, and her eyes red. Despite the pregnancy she looks thin and frail. She ushers me inside and the first thing I notice is that all the curtains are drawn. I give her a hug.
‘Okay, tell me,’ I say, as she paces the room, biting the skin around her fingernails, nervous energy spiking off her.
‘Someone’s been watching me.’
‘What?’
‘I went out to the shed. I needed to see if I had some shears to… you know.’ She waves towards the garden. ‘Someone’s been sleeping there.’
‘What? In the shed?’
Anna squeezes her hands to her face, but I see tears seeping through her fingers. When she takes her hands away to speak again, her face is a mess of snot and tears. She gulps.
‘He was watching me. I was right! I told you I felt followed!’
‘Are you sure it’s a man? You called the police? What did they say?’
‘Not a lot.’ She presses her hand against her mouth as if to stop herself crying again and then she clutches her belly. ‘Oh my god, this stress. It’s not good for the baby. He’s all over the place.’ She gives a huge sob and I go over to her and lead her back to the sofa.
‘Come on, sit down. Try to relax.’ I rub her shoulders. ‘Let me make you some tea. What would you like? Chamomile?’
I make her the tea and hand it to her. ‘Can I look at the shed? Do you mind?’
She shrugs. ‘Help yourself. But I’m not coming. I can’t bear it.’
‘Okay. Back in a tick.’
The key’s in the door of the shed. I turn it and wrench open the door expecting to see… what? Your usual shed interior, I guess: a lawnmower, a rake, a broom and a few shelves home to nothing but dead spiders, wasps and flies, but immediately I see that, aside from a pile of empty plastic water bottles scattered in one corner, the inside of the shed is cleaner than I’d have imagined. The most obvious thing, however, is that there’s a bed on the floor. Not a proper bed: just a thin, stained mattress, a dark-red sleeping bag, a rough blanket and a pillow which, together, give a good impression of being a bed. Next to these is a large plastic box.
Feeling as if I’m snooping on someone else’s possessions, I open the box. Inside there’s a drinking glass, a few small bottles of water, a dog-eared copy of a porn magazine, an opened packet of biscuits, a large bag of Cheetos, and a pair of binoculars.
I stand there with my hands on my hips and survey the scene. I have to agree with Anna: it does look as if someone’s been sleeping in her shed. But why? I take out one of the biscuits and apply pressure till it snaps soggily: they’ve been there a while, then. Maybe this all dates back to before Anna moved in. Maybe it’s something as simple as the last tenant’s gardener slacking off. Or their teenage son’s bolthole. Who knows?
I chew the inside of my lip while I look through the window at the back of the house: you can see into the kitchen window and, if you look closely, through to the lounge-diner. Upstairs you’ve got the nursery window with its curtains just visible, and the small frosted window of the bathroom. Next-door’s house is identical – the whole street has the identical back view, except one, which has a small conservatory patched on, like some sort of glass blister bulging on the brickwork of the house.
Yet suddenly I’m aware of all the unseen people who could be watching from the back windows of their houses and it gives me the creeps. I stumble back up the path and into the house, locking the back door behind me and taking out the key.
‘Do you think it’s Simon?’ Anna says as I drop the key on the dining table.
‘It can’t be,’ I say, blowing out through my lips. ‘He can’t leave his dad alone without a carer.’
‘How do you know?’ Anna snaps. ‘You’re so bloody trusting! All you know is what he’s told you, and you’re such a sucker! You’ve never met the dad, have you? You don’t even know where he lives. There might not even be a dad! It’s a great alibi at surface value: it can’t be him because he never gets out! Come on, Taylor, wise up!’
‘But…’ I want to
tell her about the babygrow – what a sweet thing that was to do, but I know she’ll shoot me down.
‘How did he know where you lived?’ she demands. ‘That day when he came round to give you the presents?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe he asked the walking group. We filled out those forms, remember?’ I realize as I say it that it sounds a little stalkerish itself.
‘God, if you’d been through what I have…’ Anna’s shoulders heave. ‘It’s not something I can ever forget.’ She exhales, trying to get a grip on her emotions. ‘I’m sorry but Simon’s a weirdo. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turns out to be a paedophile. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s what I feel. He’s got that creepy look about him.’ She shudders. ‘I don’t know what his game is. Maybe he likes little boys. Maybe he’s befriending us so he can be close to our babies as they grow up. Maybe there’s more to why his wife left before she had the baby – maybe she knew something about him?’ She pauses. ‘And what about that anyway? Having your pregnant wife leave you? It’s got to leave you damaged, especially if you’re slightly off your rocker anyway, stuck at home being a full-time carer. You’d go crazy.’ She pauses again. ‘Mind you, we don’t even know for sure that he is his dad’s full-time carer.’
‘He’s got a job.’
‘I thought he never went out.’
‘He works from home.’
‘Doing what? Running a paedophile ring?’
‘He’s a forensic hacker.’
Anna jerks back. ‘What in god’s name is that?’
‘Oh, you know, he helps companies tighten their online security by trying to hack into their sites or something. I think.’
Anna folds her arms. ‘And you’re telling me you think this guy is normal? I think you’ve just answered the question about how he got your address.’
That gives me pause for thought, to be honest. I stare back at Anna and she holds my gaze.
‘Do you see now?’ she asks. ‘Do you see why I’m so worried?’
‘So what now? How did you leave it with the police?’
She gives a bitter little laugh. ‘They’re “making enquiries”. I gave them Simon’s details, FYI. Oh, don’t look at me like that: it’s innocent till proven guilty, remember? They’re not going to say, “Well, thank you very much for that, Mrs Jones, we’ll pick him up now and throw him in jail.” They’ll just investigate. Go and have a chat. See if there’s anything to link him to the shed. But I’ll sleep easier for knowing they’ve checked him out.’ She pauses. ‘And they also said that, just for my peace of mind, I should move out for a bit rather than be here on my own… I’ve been looking at hotels. There’s the Holiday Inn Express…’
‘Stay with me,’ I blurt.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Obviously the baby’s due in two weeks, but while Jake’s away you’re very welcome. It’s the least I can do.’
Anna smiles. ‘On one condition: I’m the one on the sofa.’ I open my mouth to protest but she holds up her hand. ‘No arguments.’
*
And so Anna moved in with me. I didn’t tell Jake about what was found in her shed. Looking back, I don’t know why. It just didn’t seem that relevant. I guess, deep down, I thought she was being melodramatic and, honestly, I was embarrassed for her.
I suggest we share my bed, and we try it but, with both of us with our bellies and our maternity pillows, we’re squeezed in like sardines.
‘Hmm,’ Anna says, trying not to fall off the edge. ‘Not ideal, is it?’
‘We can top and tail if you like,’ I say, so she shifts so her head’s level with my feet.
‘Any better?’ I ask, raising my head to look at her.
She looks back at me and says, ‘It’s fine if you’re used to sleeping with elephants,’ and it’s as if it’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever said. I get the giggles and then I can’t stop laughing, clutching my stomach and gasping for breath because there really isn’t much room for air in my lungs – at least that’s how it feels.
‘Elephant keepers would probably find it quite comfortable,’ Anna says.
‘Ow, ow, stop it!’ I laugh till tears run down my face. Then Anna gets up and, each time I get a grip on myself, she does an impression of an elephant, waving her arm around like a trunk and trying to trumpet, ‘Hello, I’m Taylor the elephant,’ which sets me off again.
Finally I manage to haul myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘So, how about I sleep downstairs?’
But Anna won’t have it. ‘No. You’re more pregnant than I am. Not to mention taller. Absolutely no way you’re sleeping on the sofa.’
Maybe it’s all the laughing, maybe it’s the stress of the day, or maybe it’s just that the baby’s ready, but it’s later that night that I go into labour – two weeks early.
Thirty-six
Most little girls imagine their wedding day, don’t they, when they’re growing up? They put on white dresses, frilly veils and plastic slip-on high heels, and walk about singing ‘here comes the bride’. Not so many imagine what it’ll be like the day they give birth to their first child. And I was no different: I hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to give birth until I was actually pregnant and, even then, I didn’t have a concrete birth plan. Ultimately, I was willing to follow the baby and do whatever had to be done to get him out safe and well.
And I’d be lying if I said that, as the due date grew closer, various scenarios – forceps, vacuum-assisted births or even emergency C-sections – hadn’t played out in my head, but there was one constant in all of them: Jake. For all his faults, in every scenario he was there, holding my hand as I screamed and writhed. In my mind, he’d be mopping my brow; crying as the baby’s head appeared between my legs like a crinkled walnut, or rubbing my forehead while the doctor cut into my abdomen. I never imagined, not even in the middle of the night, at that low, low point around 3 a.m., that he wouldn’t be there. But, when it comes to my hours of need – while I walk and breathe my way through the pain – it’s Anna, not Jake, who’s there for me.
And she’s amazing. She calls Jake and leaves a message when he doesn’t pick up; more messages as I become increasingly distressed. Then she helps me down the stairs so I can pace the living room when the contractions hit.
‘I need Jake!’ I wail. ‘He’s supposed to be here!’
‘He’ll get here,’ Anna says, ‘and, if he doesn’t, I’m here. We’ll get through this. Don’t worry.’
Between contractions, she searches for a contraction-timing app and downloads it. ‘Right. Perfect,’ she says. ‘Now we can tell your midwife exactly what’s going on.’
And as it becomes apparent that Jake hasn’t even seen his messages, it’s Anna who’s on the phone with the midwife. It’s Anna who tells me when it’s time to go to the birthing centre, and drives me there. Inevitably, it’s Anna who’s there when my son’s born just three hours after I’m admitted, as the sun’s changing the sky from black to grey to pink; it’s Anna whose hand I’m squeezing when I give those final pushes and feel the head crowning, then his shoulders and body gushing out of me; when we hear that first precious cry.
When the midwife places my son gently on my chest, both Anna and I are crying. I’m overflowing with love: both for the baby who’s suddenly here in the room with us, and for my friend who’s got me through the most difficult and emotional experience of my life. I stare down at my baby’s face, his eyes still squeezed shut, and the responsibility hits home: it’s my job now, to look after this tiny thing – to make sure he’s well fed, and happy and healthy and cared for, from now until – I can’t even imagine a day when I might be able to let go.
‘You need to tell Jake,’ Anna says, breaking into my thoughts, so she takes a picture, and I send it to him before I put it on Instagram: ‘Joseph says “Hello daddy.” #Insta-love.’
Thirty-seven
When everything’s calmed down, Anna goes home to shower and get some rest.
‘Thank you,’ I say before
she leaves, and my voice breaks as the emotion of the night hits me. ‘Thank you for everything.’
She brushes back my hair with her hand. ‘Look at you so shattered. I did what anyone would do. You’d have done the same for me.’
‘I would. I will,’ I say, meaning it with every fibre of my being. ‘If yours comes early and Rob’s not here, I’ll do the exact same for you.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
The nurse tells me to sleep when I can, but I’m too wired so I lie there staring at the tiny bundle in the bassinet and trying to sleep but failing. My head keeps replaying the labour and the birth: the hours of pacing in the living room, bending over the dining chair to get through the contractions; the pain – oh, the pain! The frantic drive to the centre; the pushing; and then the unbelievable fact that I’m finally a mum. Over and over in my head, it plays: ‘I’m a mum. I’m a mum. Oh my god, I’m a mother. I have a baby. My son. My son.’ It’s as if I’ve left one species and joined another, so monumental is the change.
I pick up my phone to see if Jake’s messaged – he should have got here by now – and see I have forty-eight new Likes on Instagram, as well as some messages – most from my friends in the States. But there’s one from Caroline – ‘congratulations’ – and I stiffen as I see one from the random bunch of numbers I now know to be Simon.
‘Can’t wait to come and see you both,’ he’s put, with a kiss. I’m staring at this, wondering what to do about it when the door opens a little. I look up, expecting Jake, but it’s Caroline.
‘Knock knock,’ she says, poking her head around the door, then easing her way into the room carrying a stunning bouquet of flowers, all in blues, mauves and whites, and already arranged in a square glass vase.
‘From Sarah and me,’ she says. ‘She’s at work. Sends her love. I hope I didn’t wake you?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I say, taken aback to see her here; to see her being so nice. She places the flowers on the table then comes over to me and smiles.
‘You look great. Well done. Is this him?’ She tiptoes towards the bassinet where Joseph – healthy, perfect little Joe! – is sleeping. He’s swaddled and has a hat on – all you can see is his tiny, crumpled face – a few centimetres of brand-new pink skin. Caroline stares at him then looks up at me. ‘He’s beautiful. Congratulations.’
I Know You Page 19