The Other Us

by Fiona Harper

  Ten minutes later, I hear feet on the stairs. Unmistakable, heavy feet. The warmth I feel at the sound is more than the glow of seeing an old friend, I realise too late. It spreads upwards, leaving blotches on my chest and colour in my cheeks.

  Dan arrives at the kitchen door carrying a blonde-headed child. ‘I don’t think she’s going to give in this afternoon,’ he says to Becca. ‘She knows someone’s here.’ And he shoots a smile of greeting my way that makes my cheeks burn even brighter.

  I focus instead on the child in his arms. She’s angling towards him, hiding her face in his shoulder. The curve at the base of her neck, the way the little cherubic ringlets collect there, reminds me completely of Sophie. I know in an instant this child will be the recipient of the fierce love I’ve been hoarding in readiness for so many years, that the floodgates have already opened and nothing that spills out can be called back. I know that I will spoil her rotten and maybe I will turn her into a brat, but I will adore her anyway.

  ‘Hi, there!’ I say, and smile in her direction. Surely she won’t be shy for too long? She must have met me countless times before.

  And then she turns, still keeping her head in contact with Dan’s shoulder, burrowing into his safety, and gives me a hesitant smile.

  My heart is preparing to explode with adoration, but then a weird thing happens. A flickering. It’s like when you have two almost-identical images pulled up on a computer screen and you flip between then rapidly, so the some bits stay the same, but other parts alter. I feel a pulling and a pushing inside, like I’m flickering between my two lives – the original one and this one – where I see Dan holding Sophie then Dan carrying Chloe. It happens so fast I feel quivery, and then it settles onto the one image again: Dan with his daughter.

  Becca’s daughter.

  My daughter.

  Because Chloe is the spitting image of Sophie.

  I don’t know how that’s possible, given the genetics, but that’s what I see. The same brown eyes, the same determined chin. I’m filled with joy and pain in equal measures.

  ‘Look what Aunty Maggie has brought you!’ Becca says, nodding towards the present bag. ‘Why don’t you go and say thank you?’

  Dan puts Chloe down and she runs towards me, her shyness forgotten as her gaze is completely, one hundred per cent, focused on the toy. She pulls a Dora the Explorer doll, still in its box, out of the bag and grins at me. ‘Dora!’ she says, beaming, and then she remembers herself. ‘Tat yoo,’ she adds seriously.

  I don’t say anything back. How can I when the daughter I haven’t seen for fifteen years is standing in front of me? And I don’t just mean that because Dan is her father she looks strikingly like Sophie. I mean this is Sophie. Every look, every mannerism, even the sound of her voice, is exactly the same. More than that, I recognise the intangible ‘Sophie-ness’ of her. I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is my daughter.

  ‘Good girl for saying thank you so nicely,’ Becca says, and Sophie – Chloe – runs off with Dora in her hands, shoves it at her mum and demands to have the packaging broken apart so she can get to the doll.

  ‘Do, Mummy!’ she commands and Becca picks her up and laughs.

  ‘What do you say? How do you ask Mummy nicely?’

  ‘Pease, Mummy!’ Chloe smiles into Becca’s face and adds, ‘You so pitty! Pease pitty mummy!’

  ‘That’s better!’ Becca says, beaming back at her daughter. She sits her on the kitchen counter and reaches for a pair of scissors to do away with the packaging. ‘Pretty Mummy is right,’ she adds. ‘Clever girl!’

  Pretty Mummy …

  Mummy.

  My heart winces at the word.

  This can’t be real, can it? I’m just imagining this. Superimposing.

  Becca hands the package to Dan. It seems to be welded together and so fiendishly tied with wire ties it would take a PhD in engineering to unravel it. Chloe, who is obviously tired, leans against Becca’s shoulder, sticks her thumb in her mouth and reaches for a strand of Becca’s hair, which she strokes between thumb and middle finger as she keeps her beady eyes on her father’s progress.

  That’s exactly what Sophie used to do with me.

  The adrenalin kicks in. The fight or flight response. I’ve never been much of a one for confrontation, so there’s really only one option. ‘I need to … I need to …’ I mumble and then I run for the bathroom, bypassing the downstairs toilet and haring up onto the first floor. I lean against the door once I’ve closed it behind me and I discover I’m shaking.

  I close my eyes.

  This is too cruel. Some sick joke.

  My hands press against my belly, as if I should find evidence that a child has been ripped from inside me and presented to someone else, but everything is as it should be. Everything is perfect and intact. Untouched. Uninhabited. Suddenly, I understand why they used to call it being ‘barren’.

  I can’t stay up here all afternoon, though. I use the toilet, wash my hands and splash cold water on my face, before patting it gently dry with a towel so no one will guess that’s what I’ve just done.

  When I pull the latch across and emerge onto the landing, Becca is waiting for me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks, frowning. ‘You rushed off pretty quick there!’ And then her expression changes, lights up. ‘Don’t tell me! It’s not … you’re not feeling sick, are you?’

  I am, but not for the reason she thinks. I shake my head and it feels ten times its normal weight.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ Becca says and pulls me into a hug. ‘I’m so sorry. I just thought … It’ll happen, though. I’m sure it will.’

  I nod, but I’m not very convincing.

  ‘I know this is double-edged for you, coming here…’ she adds. ‘Do you, you know, need a moment before you come back down?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m fine now. Just a blip.’

  Becca smiles and leads the way back down the stairs. That was a massive lie I just told, I realise, because as I order my right foot to tread on the next step down, I have no idea how I am going to survive the rest of the afternoon.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  I call Jude’s name when I get back home. It reverberates round my lovely three-storey house and boomerangs back to me. I thought I would burst into tears once I got home, let out the sadness I’ve been keeping at bay all afternoon, but instead I discover I’m really angry.

  Even though, logically, I know I’m probably just using him as my scapegoat, I can’t help feeling resentful. I want a baby and I don’t have one, and that has to be at least partly Jude’s fault. After all, I managed to have one with Dan, even if it did take a bit of trying. It’s not me. Or it can’t be all me.

  I’ve had enough. I have to know. I have to find something to give me a clue as to why Sophie is sitting in Dan and Becca’s kitchen, mushing her mashed potato into their tablecloth instead of mine.

  I start my search in the filing cabinet in Jude’s office. The bottom drawer is locked, but he always keeps that one for the ultra-important clients who are very particular about privacy, so I don’t think anything of it. There’s nothing in the other drawers but files on houses and clients, all business stuff. Next, I search the drawers of his desk, and when I’ve finished that I go and turn over my study-slash-workroom, leafing through all the paperwork until I’ve inspected the front and back of every last sheet of A4.

  Nothing. I find nothing.

  I think about Dan, about the easy way he carried Chloe about this afternoon, how he got down on the carpet and played with her for an hour, even though I could tell he was itching to get back upstairs to his book, how he didn’t even moan when his daughter spilled Ribena all over his best jeans. In my mind, I try to Photoshop him out of the scene, and put Jude in his place, but Jude’s face won’t stick. It keeps turning back into Dan.

  I make myself stand up and then I go back downstairs, start checking the kitchen drawers for bits of paperwork. Jude arrives home when I’m on drawer number three. Ther
e are batteries and old keys, rubber bands and freezer bag clips all over one end of the counter. He looks at them then looks at me. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Hi honey,’ I say sarcastically over my shoulder. ‘Lovely to see you too. Yes, I did have a nice day.’

  He just gives me ‘we’re playing this game, are we?’ look.

  ‘I’m searching for letters from the doctor,’ I explain. ‘Or the hospital. About the tests we had done.’ We had to have tests done, didn’t we? Jude always said we would.

  He runs his hand through his hair. ‘You know what they said.’

  ‘Maybe I want to see it again in black and white,’ I say. ‘Maybe I’ve seen something on the Internet that’ll help, and if I can just – ’

  ‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ he tells me. I know he’s right, but I can’t seem to stop. The fact he’s being so reasonable just makes me even angrier. ‘There’s nothing wrong – with you or me! We just have to wait and – ’

  ‘But I don’t want to wait anymore! I’m tired of waiting!’ I turn and look at him. ‘You’re sure you’ve had all the tests? Every last one?’

  ‘We’ve been through this a million times.’

  Maybe the other Maggie has, but I haven’t. I need this moment.

  Jude walks over to the table. It’s then I notice the nice bottle of red wine and the big bunch of flowers that’s laying there. I didn’t even hear him come in until he was right behind me, let alone the rustle of the cellophane as he put them down.

  ‘What are those for?’

  He looks at me. ‘Don’t be like that!’

  I realise he thinks I’m suspicious, that maybe I think he’s buttering me up because he’s done something wrong. ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to – ’

  But Jude isn’t listening. My unreasonable mood is infectious. ‘I bought them because I know I’ve been spending a lot of time at the office lately, trying to sell the Eaton Square house, with a total diva at the other end of the deal, and I thought that maybe I’d bring these home and we could have a nice evening in together, but clearly I was wrong!’

  I’m shocked, not just about the flowers but because he wants to spend quality time with me. I haven’t had much of that vibe off him since I jumped back. Have I been misjudging him? Maybe he just was really busy, maybe even hiding how stressed he was, and I was misinterpreting? I start to say I’m sorry, but Jude isn’t in the mood to hear. He storms off out the room moments later I hear his study door slam.

  That gives me a sense of déjà vu and it brings me up short.

  Two men. Two studies. Two slamming doors. One rather shrewish wife, lashing out at them because she’s unhappy and it really isn’t their fault. Not completely, anyway.

  I’m doing the same thing all over again. Even though I hate this merry-go-round, I have a feeling I’m the one with my hand on the crank keeping it going. Disappointment, blame, resentment. Disappointment, blame, resentment. Over and over until we all want to vomit. Do I really want to go down that road again?

  This time I might actually succeed in pushing my man into the arms of another woman, and I don’t want that, especially as Jasmine has re-entered our lives. Things went quiet from her for a while when she was doing a big project, travelling a lot, but she’s decided to sell her house – it’s too big! – and snap up a massive loft in Shoreditch, one with lots of light and space for a studio.

  I know she and Jude email. I know he tells her things he doesn’t tell me. Not really personal things, I don’t think, but there’s been a couple of times when we’ve met up and she’s known more about some of Jude’s current deals than I have. When I asked him about it, he said it was because she was neutral, not invested in the company either financially or emotionally, and just that she’s got a lot of life experience and is very wise.

  I pick the flowers up and begin trimming them, putting them in a vase. As I work, using my instinct to guide where the big showy flowers go and where the smaller, more delicate ones fit, I think about how I should deal with this.

  The old me would have felt helpless, and all the more angry for it, but the ‘now’ me has hope. I turned one relationship around, and it was in a far worse state than this one. It was hard work, but not because what I did was complicated.

  When it came to Dan and me, the solution was simple: all I needed to do was to be honest, kind, respectful. To see my partner as just that – my team mate – instead of my opponent. It’s what we all think marriage is about, that we will do effortlessly when we find the right person, but actually is much, much harder than we imagine. It’s so much easier to slip into bad habits, to start festering on the little things until they become big, open sores. I needed to choose to love, not let my fickle emotions guide me.

  So, as I put the vase full of flowers in the middle of the kitchen table and clear away the tissue paper, cellophane and stalks, I choose to love Jude.

  And I don’t mean I drum up warm and fuzzy feelings inside. I mean I’m going to give him the time he needs to calm down, then I’m going to go and apologise for my part, and I’m going to thank him for bringing me flowers and for trying to make me happy.

  And here’s the big bit …

  I haul in a breath while I think about this.

  What if I never have a child with Jude? It makes me queasy just thinking about it, but I make myself do it anyway.

  It’s hard to believe that Jude’s sperm are lazy and unmotivated, but maybe they are. Maybe that bit of his personality was all used up by his brain and business sense and there was nothing left for biology. Maybe we’re just not a good match in this department, even if we are in every other.

  Does that mean I have to take it out on him for the rest of his life? Or should I just try to find the joy in what I’ve got? I look around my lovely kitchen, think about my lovely life. I’ve got a lot.

  And fate didn’t deal me this hand, this life. I chose it.

  So I decide to love Jude no matter what. One hundred per cent. No holds barred. Becca is right. That’s what you’re supposed to do.

  That decided, I find two wine glasses and pour us a little of the Pinot Noir each, and then I walk along the hall to Jude’s study and knock softly on the door.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The anniversary of my last jump comes and goes. There’s been nothing since. Not even a five-minute skip when I’ve nodded off on the sofa after a long day at the office. I think I’ve finally stopped.

  I make the trip to Swanham to see Chloe – and Becca and Dan, of course – at least two or three times a month. I have fallen in love again. Hard. That little girl has me completely wrapped around her finger. Becca and Dan tease me about it, and I laugh along, but inside I know I’ve got to be careful. She’s not mine, even though she was once upon a time in a different life.

  He’s so good with her.

  Dan with Chloe, I mean. And Becca, I suppose. I watch them when I visit. Dan isn’t one for big, romantic gestures, like surprise trips to Paris or diamond rings, but what he lacks in expense and flair he makes up for in consistency. He brings Becca the cup of tea he always used to bring me. He always kisses her on the cheek when he comes in for the day. It’s those things, and a hundred other little things they do for each other, that cement their love in place, that fill the cracks when they start to show. I soak all this information up and then I take it home to Jude. I replicate it in the hope we can gain that easy togetherness they make look so effortless.

  They’re coming over for lunch today. Of course they’re bringing Chloe with them. It was my idea to invite them, to say thank you for all the times they’ve had me over to their place. Jude gave me a stony look when I suggested it, but he didn’t veto. Whatever you want …

  He’s hidden himself away in his study, even though its Sunday, but he’s under strict instructions to be a charming host when our guests arrive. It’s the least he can do, given that I don’t drag him down to Swanham with me on a regular basis. Today is the first time he’
s going to meet Chloe and this makes it feel as if it’s an important moment.

  At noon sharp there’s ring on the doorbell. As soon as the door is halfway open a small figure rushes through and attaches herself to my legs, arms clamped firmly round my knees. I laugh and reach down to pick her up.

  She releases me only long enough for me to lift her up so she can attach herself just as firmly to my neck, and we walk through the house like that to the back garden, where we’ve set up an al fresco eating area. It’s overcast and a little breezy today, but it should still be pleasant to sit outside. I’ve made a lot of salads, bought some really nice bread from the Italian deli down the road, and some fillet steaks are marinating in a dish on the kitchen counter. I bought a gas barbecue especially for today. Jude shook his head when he saw it, but I’ve assured him we’ll use it again before the summer is over. A couple of burgers and sausages sit ready just for Chloe. I don’t know many two-year-olds who like their meat rare. My other two certainly didn’t.

  Not my other two. My two. I must remember that.

  When Chloe spots the other item I splashed out on, sitting on the lawn, a few short steps down from the deck, I’m no longer flavour of the month. She wriggles to get out of my arms and runs joyfully down the steps, Becca calling out after her to be careful, and launches herself onto the mini trampoline waiting there. Delighted squeals echo round the garden and off the high walls of the surrounding houses.

  Jude comes out and greets Dan and Becca. I know he doesn’t feel comfortable with them, but he does make an effort to be nice. He shakes Dan’s hand, asks him how the book writing is going. Before Dan can answer, Becca jumps in, too proud of her husband to let the moment pass uncelebrated. She knows that Dan might have just mumbled something about it going OK.

  ‘We’re so excited! The book is coming out in October! The publishers want to wait to catch the Christmas market, and we’re having a book launch and everything!’