Scenes From the Second Storey

  He stopped, pulled back, eyes troubled.

  "Shit."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I was supposed to carry you over the threshold." He declared, mock-solemn. "It's bad luck."

  "Bad luck?" Vicky chuckled. "No more dodging your parents, all the space we could want...We can do this," she kissed him again, "as often as we like."

  "Just this?"

  "Well maybe other things, too."

  ****

  "That carpet's got to go." She wriggled free, and walked into the living room. "It's like bloody sandpaper."

  "Top of the list," Grant called after her.

  She strolled past the stacks of cardboard boxes — unpacking was the last thing on her mind — and across to the veranda doors. She threw them open and, closing her eyes, absorbed the sunlight. The previous occupants had left a wind chime hanging from the porch, and it tinkled as the breeze from the garden caught it. The freshening gusts raised the hairs on Vicky's bare skin and, despite the warmth, she shivered.

  She could feel Grant behind her even before his fingers started to work on the muscles in her shoulders. She purred, turned her head and kissed his wrist. He lowered his mouth to her ear.

  "When I said 'top of the list', I meant second from top."

  "Hmmm?"

  "Let's have a baby."

  Vicky laughed. "You can't want to go again already."

  "I'm serious."

  "It's too soon."

  "I'm on good money, and I'll be a partner in the firm before you know it. You won't have to work. And this place is too big for just us." He slipped his hands down her arms, turned her to face him. "I know what I want. Let's have a baby."

  The breeze coaxed fresh music from the wind chime, and she looked up at him and smiled.

  "Let's."

  Vicky doesn't spot the security guard until he's right in front of her, blocking the exit.

  "Hold on there, Ma'am," he says seriously. He's tall, so tall her eyes are level with his chest. His proximity heightens her sense of him and she's suddenly, uncomfortably, aware of the dark stains under the arms of his beige uniform shirt. The way they seep into the threads of the fabric; their faint, prickling odour…

  "Let me get that for you," he says, and Vicky looks up into his face for the first time. Far from the scowl she's expecting, she sees that he's smiling. "Pretty hard getting those prams in and out without some help."

  He pulls the heavy glass door open and steps to the side, allowing Vicky to slip out and frigid gusts to sweep in. She murmurs a quick "thank-you", eyes downcast in what she hopes he will think is shyness.

  "Pleasure," he offers. "Have a good afternoon."

  She raises the hood on the pram to protect against the stinging, merciless wind, and strides off, nonetheless aware that her lead will be shrinking by the second. Someone must surely have noticed by now…

  But at that moment, all doubt in her mind evaporates. Whatever is in her head, whatever has shoved reason aside and taken the wheel, why fight it? She's given in to temptation and doors have — literally — opened up for her.

  I know what I want.

  She keeps to the crowds for a minute more, then turns off the main street. The crowd is thinner on the side road, she'll make better time with fewer people to fight through, put more distance between herself and the store. On the other hand, if someone does come looking for her, she'll be easy to spot…

  She stops at a small butcher's shop and looks in the window. Pretending to examine the sausages, she watches the reflection of the street behind her. Her exhaled relief fogs the glass: as far as she can tell she's not being followed.

  A fist raps at the window and her attention snaps back like broken elastic. Inside, an aproned man beckons to her. Seeing her blank expression, he steps from behind the counter and walks to the shop door. He pulls it open, sticks his head out.

  "Don't stand out in the cold like that, love. You fancy a look, come in where it's warm. Better for the little one."

  She hesitates, then bumps the pram up over the front step, taking exaggerated care not to wake her daughter, nor to collide with the butcher, who's holding the door open for her. As she raises the back wheels to the same level as the front, her handbag falls from the handle to the sawdust-sprinkled floor.

  "I've got it," the butcher exclaims, and bends to retrieve the bag. For an instant his eyes come level with the iPod stuffed under the pram. They flick back to her face, catch, and he reaches out a hand to take hold of the MP3 player.

  "One of those new ones this, isn't it?" He turns the box over in his hands, appraising the picture of the sleek black machine on the front. "My grandson's got one. Cost a bomb! Yours?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is it for you, or a present?"

  "It's mine. Replacement. I keep breaking them."

  "Oh, I know! Fragile little things, aren't they?" He hands the box back to her and leans over the pram to pull a face at the baby. "It's a wonder they last a week, if you ask me." He dusts his palms together, moving on. "Now, what can I do you for?"

  The change in direction catches Vicky on the hop and she blurts out the first thing that pops into her head.

  "Lamb. I'd like a leg of lamb please."

  Vicky belted the song out into the void, confident that no one could hear her. One night at the pub Grant had informed his mates that Vicky had the voice of an angel. She'd smiled, embarrassed but pleased at her husband's compliment, only for Grant to swig from his pint and deliver the punchline: "The Angel of Death".

  She'd laughed along with his law-firm pals, shown she could take a joke, but she never sang out loud now, not unless she was alone.

  The emptiness beyond the door swallowed her voice. She groped for the light switch, and the fluorescent tube in the cellar roof strobed into a cold, hard glare. Vicky gripped her iPod tightly — old and clunky, it didn't have a belt clip, and pockets didn't seem to be a priority in maternity wear. Bracing herself on the wall with the other hand, she started down the steps.

  Stairs were her Achilles heel now; she just couldn't seem to compensate for the extra weight she was carrying. There was no banister on the steps down to the basement, and every time she had to go down there she felt like she'd overbalance and take a header onto the concrete below.

  Needless to say Grant would have preferred she stay upstairs in front of the TV, watching Dr Phil from inside a bubble-wrap sleeping bag. They seemed to argue a lot now about what she could and couldn't do. He chose to ignore that someone still had to do the cooking, and the freezer was just too big to keep up in the kitchen.

  The huge appliance had been a wedding gift from her mother: "Feeding two? Cook for four!" was her mantra. Maintaining a freezer well-stocked with left-overs had been the beating heart of her mother's domestic policy for more than 30 years, and the same belief had been instilled in Vicky. She and Grant could ride out the apocalypse in that cellar, subsisting solely on what lurked in the permafrost.

  Vicky chuckled to herself, remembering the trouble Grant and his mates had had lugging the behemoth down the steps. The grunting, the effing and blinding, the bruise Grant been left with on his upper arm for days afterwards…

  She popped the lid. Grant wanted a roast, and there was a leg of lamb in there somewhere…There, near the bottom — she'd have to lean right in to get it. She placed her iPod between her teeth and holding the lid of the chest up with one hand, she leaned in as far as her burgeoning waistline would allow. Delving blindly, she felt her fingers close on the meat and she straightened up with her prize.

  To find Grant standing behind her.

  She couldn't stop the squeal escaping her throat. Released from its hold in her teeth, her iPod plunged earthwards, jerking on the earphone cord like a hanged man. The jack plug popped free and the device cracked to the concrete.

  "What the fuck, Grant! You scared the shit out of me!"

  "You shouldn't be down here on your own," he countered, bending to pick up the music player.
"What if something happened to you?"

  "Something worse than a bloody heart attack? How come you're home so early?"

  "We got the verdict," he grinned. "Nailed it! Thought we'd celebrate!" He waggled a weighty green bottle in front of her face.

  "You know I can't—"

  "Oh come on. One won't hurt." He brushed his lips against her cheek. "Go on. You know you want to."

  Vicky sighed. "One."

  "That's my girl!"

  Her eyes fell to the iPod in his hand. It had landed face down and the screen was spider-webbed with cracks.

  "Oh shit, babe. Sorry." His face broke into a grin. "Never mind. It's obsolete now anyway. How about I just get you a new one, eh?"

  Vicky stows the meat under the pram, next to the iPod box, and assuring the butcher that yes, she will come again soon, steps back out onto the street.

  She angles the pram towards the road, aiming it at the bus stop across the street. As she looks both ways for traffic, she spots a dark man in a leather jacket, pushing his way purposefully through the pedestrians.

  He's coming straight at her.

  Something pulls Vicky from behind. She screams, but the sound is drowned by the protracted blast of a horn as a silver hatchback races past in the road, almost taking off the front of the pram.

  "Jesus! You want to be careful! People round here'll run you down as good as look at you." The man's in a suit and his forties, and what he's lost in hair he's gained in girth. He loosens his grip on her shoulders and assesses her with a critical eye. "You'll be all right. Watch where you're going though, eh?" He checks her over again, and this time Vicky feels his gaze linger around her chest.

  God, he wants me to be grateful.

  He slips his left hand into his trouser pocket, and Vicky senses more than sees that he's wearing a wedding ring. She pulls her coat more tightly around her, giving him an opportunity to clock that she's wearing one too.

  The conflict behind his eyes is obvious, she can almost hear the clash of fidelity and opportunity. He purses his lips, decides. "You'd best be on your way home then."

  Vicky sighs, relieved. Her rescuer straightens up, as if to go, then pauses.

  "Let's just get you across the road first."

  He stands, suicidally, in front of the oncoming traffic, which slows just enough for Vicky to dart across with the pram. The man keeps pace as she heads to the bus stop.

  "Been shopping?"

  "Yes."

  "Get anything good?"

  "New iPod."

  "Nice."

  They stop at the bus shelter: the glass in the back wall is shattered, allowing the wind to slice clean through it. Her rescuer peers inside the pram's warm cocoon. "Aren't you the lucky one, all snug." He exhales loudly. "Well, then I'll be leaving you. You look after…?"

  "Kate."

  "Right, Kate. Too precious to get careless with, am I right?"

  Vicky nods. Over his shoulder she can see the man in the leather coat, arm raised. He's pushed his way to the edge of the pavement and is hailing a taxi. "Right. Thank you."

  "Well, no harm done." The businessman gives the child one last tickle under the chin. "How old is she anyway?"

  "Six months."

  "Never!"

  Vicky smiles, and steps to the edge of the curb — her bus is pulling in.

  "She's got a tall father."

  ****

  Standing on a chair, Grant's extra height was just enough for him to reach the ceiling. He'd seen Vicky teetering on her tiptoes and at once had gripped her under the armpits and lifted her down.

  "Christ, Vix, how many times have I got to tell you?"

  "I'm not sodding disabled," Vicky fired back. He'd been even worse than usual since catching her in the basement.

  "I could bloody handcuff you to the sofa."

  "You could try," Vicky countered. Time was such a remark would have been playful…

  Grant screwed the hook into the ceiling with three deft turns of the wrist. He blinked as motes of plaster drifted into his eyes. "You still shouldn't take any chances with our boy—"

  "Or girl."

  "Just give me that."

  Vicky held up the wind chime from the garden. Grant took hold of the loop of string, fixed it over the hook and hopped down to admire his handiwork. The metal tubes gave a musical jangle from where he'd released them.

  Grant stowed the chair in the corner and pushed the cot under the chimes. "How's that?"

  Vicky smiled, thawing the frost at little. "Perfect."

  "Good. Now sit down. I've got something for you."

  She frowned. Grant wasn't the kind of man who gave surprise presents. He handed her a box, about the width of her palm but thick, like a book. She kept her eyes on him while she tore off the gold wrapping paper.

  "What've you—"

  It was one of the new ultra-thin ones you worked by running your fingers over the glass screen instead of the traditional click-wheel. Vicky stripped the packaging from it and held it gently.

  "Top of the line, babe. They only came out last week."

  "It's wonderful, Grant," she murmured. "Thank you."

  "Check the back," he added with a look of smug pride.

  Vicky turned the player over, examined its polished silver rear. Small letters had been etched into the metal on the top edge. He'd engraved it.

  Touch me, I'm yours.

  ****

  The driver asks her to stow the pram in the luggage section at the front of the bus, so it doesn't clog the aisles. Vicky fights to fold the bulky conveyance while keeping hold of her daughter — a sharp-faced woman tuts at her but doesn't offer to help.

  Slumping at last into a seat at the back of the bus, it occurs to Vicky that she's left the iPod under the pram with the meat. She thinks about going to get it. After all the risk she's exposed herself to in replacing the one Grant bought her, she should probably take better care of it.

  You never know what kind of chancers are out there.

  She almost laughs out loud, and snuggles her baby into her arms. The child's still sleeping, and gazing down at her tiny face, it seems like an age since Vicky last hugged her daughter. She feels an indescribable warmth rising in her chest.

  Nothing comes close to this.

  "Excuse me?"

  Vicky looks up with a start. There's an old lady in the seat opposite, and she's pointing at Vicky, hand shaky with age.

  She can't know, she can't possibly…

  "Excuse me, you're…you're…"

  The finger stabs again, just to the left of Vicky's heart. She glances down and through her open coat she sees a stain slowly spreading across her shirt, turning the white cloth transparent.

  Shit, she thinks. She hadn't put any pads in.

  "Time for his feed is it?" the woman suggests. "He's being very quiet about it. Good little chap."

  "She's a girl, actually."

  "Oh," says the woman, voice rising in surprise. She leans forward, examining the baby myopically. "It's just that—"

  "Girls can wear blue too, you know," Vicky cuts in. An affronted look settles over the old woman's face and guilt presses down hard on Vicky's chest. She hadn't meant to sound so harsh. Now she'll stick in the old woman's mind. If the police question her, she'll surely remember the jittery, rude mother...

  "I'm sorry," she says and is pleased to see the pensioner's expression mollify. Vicky holds the warm bundle out and the old lady clucks her tongue at it, pursing dessicated lips and cooing.

  "Her name's Kate," Vicky says.

  She's a girl.

  ****

  She's a girl.

  It wasn't enough for Grant that their newborn was happy and healthy and everything a parent could hope for in a baby. All that mattered to him was that his child was a girl.

  His mates at the firm had made light of it — "Never mind, mate"; "Maybe next time, eh?" — but they'd only added fuel to the anger Vicky could see smouldering in Grant's eyes. He'd made all the right noises a
fter the birth, posing for photographs, hugging the midwives, passing cigars around outside the labour ward. But since they'd got little Kate home he'd made no effort at all to connect with his daughter. Instead he'd scuttled back to the office as soon as decency permitted, leaving Vicky to cope with everything from feeding and nappy changing to playtime.

  Lying beside him in bed one night, Vicky had suggested that maybe Grant would like to take a couple of days off, spend the weekend with his daughter. Bond with her. Grant had simply rolled over and switched off the light.

  The next day he started to ignore Vicky too.

  The work party was an opportunity to turn it around. The law firm's Christmas bash would be her first night out with Grant since Kate's birth, and Vicky had decided it would be the perfect venue to seduce her husband.

  For weeks she'd been able — and willing, God she'd been willing — but when Grant wasn't out all hours working late he'd always protested that he was too tired for "that".

  Breastfeeding had slimmed Vicky down, stripping away her baby fat, and she'd dug out the backless white number that had driven Grant so mad with lust at his sister's wedding two years ago. One afternoon, when Kate was asleep, Vicky had tried it on again, flushing with pride that she could still get into it. She'd danced around the bedroom, plugged into Grant's hi-tech gift, and admired herself in the mirror. Even after the rigours of childbirth, she'd still 'got it'.

  Once Grant saw the attractive, sexual woman in her again…then after that Vicky could work on his attitude to Kate.

  But Grant had barely noticed her dress, grunting non-committally when she pressed him for an opinion. He'd sat silent in the car, only coming alive when he walked through the door of the venue. Inside, he was a different man, moving like a shark cruising a reef, engaging one person after another, holding court.

  Vicky hovered by the bar, forgotten.

  She wondered, not for the first time that night, if Kate was all right. It was her first night with a sitter…She had trouble settling and the girl Vicky had hired to stay with her couldn't have been more than fourteen.