by Fiona Harper
He doesn’t move. Just stares at me. ‘I thought you didn’t feel up to doing anything this weekend?’
‘I perked up,’ I say. ‘What do you think?’
Jude stops staring at me and stares at the chair instead. ‘It’s a chair.’
‘I know that. I was talking about the paint job.’
‘It’s a white chair.’
I thought he’d show a little more enthusiasm. I mean, I thought he’d be pleased that I haven’t been moping around all weekend, that I’ve found something else to occupy my time. I may not be in the process of creating life at the moment, but I am in the process of creating really cute furniture. Or re-inventing it, to be more exact.
‘Imagine a whole dining set like this, each with a different bold and bright seat pad.’ I know it’s just one chair, but I feel as if I’ve climbed Everest. I’ve done something with my own hands instead of just shopping for it, or telling other people where to install it.
Jude clearly thinks I’ve lost my mind. I can see it in his face.
‘We did talk about this,’ I remind him. ‘I told you I wanted to be more hands-on, more creative …’
‘Where on earth did you get it?’
‘The bathroom on the second floor. I’ll put it back there. There’s a blue and white colour scheme, so I could use some scrap fabric to change the seat pad, rather than this old navy damask. I was just seeing if I could make the paint technique work …’
Jude’s giving me that face again. ‘And you abandoned me this weekend for this?’
I give him a confused smile. ‘I didn’t abandon you …’
‘I didn’t seal the deal, Meg. He’s still thinking about it. And you know it’s important to get a client to sign on the dotted line as soon as possible! If you’d been there you could have done that thing you do to win him over.’
‘What thing?’ I ask. The warm pool of feeling that has been spreading inside is now rapidly shrinking back down its own plughole.
Needed me to seal a deal. Not needed me.
He’s standing at the top of the steps that lead down from the patio outside the orangery and onto the lower level, where I am with the dust sheet, paint cans and chair. He’s towering above me a bit and he waves his hand imperiously. ‘You know … you’re good at smoothing things over.’
I laugh. Not a nice laugh. ‘So, basically, you’re saying you managed to put your foot in it with Thornton and somehow it’s my fault?’
‘In a way,’ he says, staring back at me, completely oblivious to the fact this has not been an easy weekend for me, that he’s being a total and utter plank. ‘I told him the leopard-print wallpaper needed to go before he put it on the market and he had a fit. If you’d been there, you could have given him your designer spiel. So, yes, I needed you and you weren’t there, which makes it partly your fault.’
My spiel? I feel my blood pressure start to rise.
‘Well, I needed you,’ I shoot back. ‘And you weren’t here, either, having put business in front of our need to have a baby!’
Jude doesn’t exactly roll his eyes, but the gesture is pretty close. Oh, that old thing, I can almost hear him say, and I have this horrible feeling that maybe he’s secretly hoping I’ll never get pregnant, that he’s silently relieved each time I go shopping for more Tampax. It’s all I need for the tiny pilot light of anger inside me to burst into furnace mode.
‘All you ever do is think about yourself, Dan!’ I yell at him. ‘You don’t care about what I need!’
Jude’s face becomes like stone. ‘Who?’
There’s something about the way he says it that trips me up. I stop and stare at him. He’s not a happy bunny at all.
‘What did you just call me?’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘I think I called you selfish. Maybe not in so many words, but the gist was there.’
‘What name?’ His voice is getting lower and quieter with each word. A chill runs up my spine.
Oh, lord. I called him ‘Dan’, didn’t I?
I don’t know why. Maybe it was because, I’d just seen Dan last night. Or maybe it was because, in that moment, I felt just the way I had when Dan and I used to argue – misunderstood and talked down to and unappreciated. It’s nothing more than that.
Jude gives me one last scathing look and then strides back inside the house, slamming the orangery door so hard behind him that the panes rattle.
The next morning I apologise for yelling at Jude, for calling him the wrong name. When he asks why I did it, I have no explanation to give him. There’s nothing that makes sense when I try and stick to one life, one reality. I would have mumbled something about Freudian slips, but it’s been a decade since I was with Dan in this life and it’ll only make Jude crosser if he thinks I’m still carrying a torch for him after all this time. Jude is frosty for a day or so but then things go back to normal. Almost.
Month after month I’m disappointed in the baby stakes. I stop mentioning it, although Jude can hardly be ignorant. But I tell myself I mustn’t give up. After all, it took a while before Sophie came along. Maybe Jude and I aren’t as fertile together, maybe it’ll take a few more goes. I can live with that.
To keep myself obsessing about the matter, I forge ahead with my plan for a new creative business. I abandon the idea of furniture, for now, anyway. While messing around with paint in the garden was fun, maybe I was getting a little ahead of myself. I decide I need to start with one thing and do it well, and it’s after I stroll past Cath Kidston’s original shop in Holland Park that I decide what my focus should be – fabrics.
Not cute little vintage-inspired florals like hers, of course, but I team up with a textile designer and we start to work on some ideas. My first project is inspired by Jude’s comments about my doodles, and I draw silhouettes of boys and girls in rough strokes with bold colours. They look great as a large design on cushion covers or as a repeating pattern on bigger swathes of fabric.
My textile-designer has a friend who has a home design boutique and she takes some cushions to sell. They end up taking off in the local area. Mums even contact us asking if they can commission silhouettes that look more like their kids. We do that, but we also add a couple of different hairstyles and poses to our range and they start to sell even better. It’s a blast to be making things people want to buy. I’m loving every second.
Jude, however, hates it. He doesn’t say anything but I know he thinks selling a handful of cushion covers is a waste of time. ‘You need to mass produce to make money,’ he keeps telling me.
‘Maybe it’s not all about the money,’ I reply. ‘Maybe there’s more to life.’
I honestly don’t know why he doesn’t understand my need to do this. After all, I can understand what drives him a little better now, why he works all the hours God sends, because I’m energised by this, thinking about how I can grow it, do it better, all the time.
I come to realise that it’s not the business venture itself that is a source of irritation for Jude, but the fact I haven’t brought it under the umbrella of our company by making it an offshoot of Meg Greene Designs, which continues to run smoothly with a bit of delegation.
I’ve decided to create my own brand: Maggie May. Jude doesn’t like that much either. He prefers Meg because it’s his pet name for me, but I don’t feel much like a Meg any more. I feel like me – Maggie – but the strongest and most dynamic version of her I’ve ever known.
It’s partly my fault he’s struggling with this. Jude’s a take-charge kind of guy, happiest when he’s in control, and for years I was happy to let him be my guiding force. It’s hardly surprising he’s throwing a wobbly now I’ve kicked him out of the driver’s seat and have taken over myself.
I just need to be patient. Give him the time and love he needs to help him adjust. He’ll come around. After all, he’s always had a particular spark for dynamic, independent women. Now he’s got his very own one with his ring on her finger.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The months blur into one another. Time marches on, steadily, slowly. Like it’s meant to, I suppose, but then one Sunday afternoon I fall asleep in front of the TV and when I wake up three years have passed. I’m so shocked that when Jude finds me later that day all I can do is shake my head and cry. I want to believe it’s a bad dream, but the missing months and years are there in a shiny new Palm Pilot.
The house is pretty much the way I remember it. There are new blinds in the bathroom, a fabulous antique lamp in the living room and different bedding and pillows. Oh, and there’s an American-style fridge-freezer standing in the kitchen, but apart from that it’s identical in its clinical stylishness, including the flipping bowl of lemons, which for some reason is really starting to get on my nerves.
The second bedroom is still a guest room. The third Jude’s gym-slash-dumping-ground. The fourth my workroom. There are no cots or changing tables anywhere in the house. No toys in a toy box beside the sofa. No crayon pictures fixed to the front of that ridiculous huge fridge.
That night, after we go to bed, I roll over and stare at Jude. He looks blissfully innocent, his lashes dark against his cheeks, but I know something isn’t right. There’s no baby. Maybe we’ve done all we can. Maybe we’ve tried IVF and are taking a break. I don’t know.
I try asking Jude, but this subject has obviously become a source of conflict for us. He gets that look on his face – the same one Dan used to have when I pushed about the head of department job, funnily enough – and I don’t get any clear answers from him. I think we’ve probably argued about this too many times for us to have a conversation that isn’t full of emotional pitfalls, assumptions and accusations.
I decide to hold off, to do some digging on my own, so I don’t just sound as if I’m nagging on about the same old thing. I need ammunition, and that will come in the form of facts.
But that’s not the worst thing about me and Jude.
More and more I want to know what happens in between these jumps of mine, when I’m conscious about who I am and how I’m living, because the other Maggie, the one who exists in the spaces, hasn’t been doing a very good job of things. There’s no gold band next to the diamond on my left hand. Maybe it’s because the tiny distance I felt between us before I jumped is now a chasm. One of the things I found intoxicating about Jude was that he used to look at me as if I was special, as if he was lucky to have me. Now he barely looks at me at all.
Jude’s spending way more time at the office or schmoozing with clients. I don’t ever seem to be invited to go too. Maybe it’s because we also seem to living separate business lives now. I’ve handed over the day-to-day management of Meg Greene Designs to Holly, who’s been doing a great job as my second-in-command, and now I’m solely working on Maggie May. It seems to have grown beyond all my expectations in a really short space of time. John Lewis and a few other big chains are carrying my fabrics and home furnishings, thanks largely to some hand-drawn monochrome floral designs in rough brush strokes that seem to have become my signature look.
I’m scared. I feel as if everything is accelerating, and not in a good way.
This is not the life I envisioned. This is not the life I was working towards. It has all the outward gloss but none of the intrinsic happiness, and that has to be the most important thing, after all. The rest was supposed to be window dressing. But what do you do when your whole life is window dressing and there isn’t anything else?
It’s so unfair. If I was able to just live my life normally, I might be able to do something about it. I’d have a choice, but I feel powerless as I’m catapulted from one era of my life to another without warning, so fast I feel dizzy sometimes. It reminds me of that carousel my dad let me go on at the fair one year. I thought it would be fun, all those brightly painted horses with their cute names, and it was at first, but after two minutes I stopped being able to see my dad on each rotation, too disoriented by the spinning. The colours on the horses seemed to glare at me, grow louder, and instead of laughing as they circled round and round their teeth were bared and their eyes white with terror.
I want to get off! I screamed. Dad had to make the man stop the machine.
I want to get off, I now find myself whispering over and over. I want to get off.
But I can’t. I’m stuck here. So I dive into the only things I know will keep me sane: work and finding out when and how I can hope to have a baby.
There has to be a paper trail, doesn’t there? There have to be letters from doctors about test dates and results. But my search of the study, of my office, of anywhere in the house I can think of that might contain important papers, yields nothing. There’s nothing. Why the hell not?
After three days of working on projects I think are good, but have no emotional connection to, because I can’t remember creating them, and three nights of drifting round my big old house on my own, waiting to hear my husband’s key in the lock, the drop of his briefcase on the tiled hall floor, I’ve had enough. I need to get out of here. I phone Becca.
It goes to answerphone and I leave a short message, but ten minutes later my mobile goes.
‘Hey, you!’ Becca says brightly. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just phoning for a chat,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it about time we went out for coffee again soon?’ I don’t know what’s been going on in this life, but Becca’s always up for a coffee and a chat, so I presume I’m pretty safe in asking.
‘Absolutely! And sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. I was putting Chloe down.’
I feel cold inside. I want to echo the name, but I know that will sound weird. ‘You were?’
‘Yeah! Someone said the terrible twos were hard, but they didn’t tell me that it could all start a few months early. It’s like waging war with a tiny dictator! Of course, she has her daddy wrapped round her finger, so he’s no help and I end up having to be “bad cop” all the time. So not fair.’ I can hear the smile in her voice as she complains, though, and I suspect she wouldn’t have it any other way.
I can’t think of anything to say. I’m still too busy absorbing the fact Dan and Becca have a baby. Well, a child, really. My palm comes to rest on my flat stomach and I look down to the emptiness there.
‘Listen, do you mind if you come over here for coffee instead of going out? Dan’s worried about his deadline, so I really don’t want to dump Chloe on him. I’ll make a cake as penance, if you like? Coffee and walnut? I know it’s your favourite.’
‘Dan has a deadline?
‘Yeah, his new editor wants him to change a load of things. He’s got months to do it, but you know what he’s like … and when that’s done they’ll start the publishing process! How exciting is that?’
‘Do you have a date? For the book?’
‘Next year, if all things go well …’ she breaks off to sigh quietly. ‘I’m so proud of him. I knew he could do it.’
And so did I, I think quietly to myself, but only because you showed me first. Out of the two of us, Becca really is the one who deserves him.
‘OK,’ she says, snapping me back to the present. ‘How about two o’clock on Saturday afternoon? I might even get Chloe to take a nap at that time, then we can really chat.’
I open my mouth to answer, but find it’s harder than I expected. I didn’t know Dan and Becca had a child when I suggested meeting up. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not when my own childless status is stinging so hard, but I also don’t know how I can back out without sounding mean.
‘Two sounds fine,’ I finally say. What else can I do? I can’t abandon Becca just because she’s got the very thing I want. She’s stuck by me through thick and thin. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I want to go.
It might not be my child, but it’s a child. A little girl. Sophie was so cute at that age. So maybe I can get my ‘baby fix’ and that will keep me going for now? I imagine getting down on the floor and playing Lego or Polly Pocket. It used to drive me crazy trying to get all those rubbery little clothes onto that tiny
figure but suddenly I’m really looking forward to it. In fact, I jump online and start toy shopping.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I arrive at Becca and Dan’s with a large present bag. Becca laughs at it when she opens the door. ‘I see you’re planning on spoiling your goddaughter rotten. If she turns out to be brat, I’m blaming it all on you. I hope you know that!’
I laugh too, but it is more out of joy than from Becca’s quip. Chloe is my goddaughter? Somehow that just makes everything even better. I am tied to her more firmly than I thought.
I hear the squawking of a recalcitrant toddler somewhere in the house and my heart lifts. The same way it used to when I heard Jude’s voice, I realise, but I file that little bit of information away, too interested in meeting the creator of the squawk. The closer I’ve come to this moment since I spoke to Becca on the phone, the more I’ve realised this might be a bittersweet blessing, but a blessing all the same.
This child is Sophie and Billy’s half-sister, in a strange sort of way, so I’m eager to see if I can detect any of them in her.
Becca sighs. ‘These will have to save for later,’ she says, taking the bag off my hands. ‘I’ve just put her down for a nap, but it sounds as if she’s fighting it all the way – as usual.’
I try not to let the disappointment show on my face as Becca leads me through to the kitchen. I see the spot near the counter where I made my goof with Dan. It was only a short while ago for me, but for them it’s been years. I’m glad we obviously moved past that awkward moment.
‘Where’s Dan?’ I ask.
‘Oh, he’s upstairs, slaving over a hot keyboard,’ Becca says. ‘He moans about editors and deadlines constantly, but I know he secretly loves it. Just don’t get him started on the subject if he comes down to grab a cup of coffee, because he can bore for Britain.’
I feel rush of warmth at the thought of seeing Dan again. I know I haven’t quite managed to separate and compartmentalise the feelings from my two lives yet, but I’m on the way. Besides, Dan is an old friend in this life. Even when the process is complete, I should feel a sense of pleasure at seeing him, shouldn’t I?