It’s clear that this woman is one of those who are selfish enough to let her child suffer. I take a good look at her. Her pale face shows signs of exhaustion, but there’s a sparkle of joy in her eyes. It’s strange, she doesn’t look like a bad person at all. Quite the opposite – the way she is holding her daughter’s hand and bending down so that they can walk together shows she really does care. The mothers shown in Heartless are very different from her, much more aggressive, though they still claim to love their children.
I turn away from them, and then I hear the tapping of footsteps and feel a soft little palm on my arm. It’s so gentle I’m not sure if it’s real or just the tickle of the warm breeze. It’s the little girl, smiling widely up at me. Her mother comes running over, her face burning with embarrassment.
‘I’m really sorry about this. She’s too small to understand.’ She gently tries to lead her daughter away from me, in the direction of the non-profit playground.
I ask her how old the girl is; she says she’s five. The girl is still in front of me, trying to pull the leather flower off my handbag. I hold the bag in front of her, and let her play with it.
‘She goes mad if she sees flowers,’ the mother says apologetically. ‘Even if they’re not real.’
The girl’s face is flushed; she is glowing with joy. I have never seen a child with Down syndrome so close up before. I lift the girl up and sit her on my knee. I can sense her mother’s surprise, just for a moment, but then she sits down next to me.
‘Do you…do you have the same? A child like her?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t have any children.’ I turn to her. ‘Alice,’ I say, and hold out my hand.
She says her name is Ruth, her daughter is Felicity. When Felicity hears her name, she stops playing with the leather flower and looks up at her mum, smiling again. It’s an infectious smile, and soon the three of us are laughing, though we have no idea what about. Suddenly I see Ruth’s eyes turn dark. She has noticed some other families approaching across the lawn. They have normal children.
‘Excuse me,’ she mumbles. She quickly picks up Felicity and carries her over to the non-profit playground.
The families are now on the edge of the playground. Their children are running towards the swing, the bigger ones making their way to the basketball pitch. I stand up to look behind the painted fence. Felicity is sitting in the sand pit, Ruth is kneeling next to her. I open the little gate and join them. I kneel on the sand beside Felicity and show her how to build a sand castle. Halfway through she always demolishes it, laughing so hard that I can’t hear properly what Ruth is saying.
‘She is usually asleep by eight. If you don’t mind, come over for a cup of tea.’
We agree that I’ll visit her tonight. It might do me good to get to know people in my new neighbourhood.
We’re sitting at the little table in front of the only window in her flat.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Ruth as she places a cup of tea down on the sunflower-patterned coaster. Her home is the same size and layout as mine, but it feels smaller because of the mountains of toys all over the place.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Ruth says while stroking Felicity’s soft blonde hair. ‘It just keeps on growing every month.’
‘Is it because you have to contribute for Felicity’s Right To Reside?’
She nods.
‘I don’t have time to go shopping,’ she says. ‘All I can buy is cuddly toys, which keep popping up while I’m doing my food shopping online.’
‘Cuddly toys are not that bad. I had a High Spender colleague, Linda, who suffers from the same problem, but she uses SpendItAll and has numerous portraits painted of herself.’
‘How does she have the time then to sit as a model?’
‘She doesn’t. She just gives a photo to the artist. You should see her living room, there’s no space left on the wall.’
She snorts and rolls her eyes.
‘I couldn’t even fit a miniature in here,’ she says.
We burst out laughing and Felicity, hearing us, joins in.
‘She’s so full of life,’ I say to Ruth.
‘She has always been that way, even as a baby. After she was born they tried to convince me to take her to the Junior Dignitorium, for instant euthanasia. I have to admit, I thought about it. I used to watch Heartless, and I wasn’t sure what to think. Please, believe me, the last thing I want is for her to suffer.’
‘I know.’ I reach out to squeeze her hand.
‘So, they didn’t ask me to name her for a few days, not knowing what would happen. I grew more attached to her by the hour. Finally I decided to keep her.’
‘Where did the name come from?’
‘She could have been Rachel, like my sister, or Janet, like my mother. She could have been anyone, but whenever I looked into her eyes, I knew she would be Felicity.’
Felicity, hearing her name again, runs to her mother, buries her face in her skirt and giggles so hard I’m afraid she’ll choke. Then she glances at me and runs over and embraces me too. I bend down and hold her close to my chest. I feel as if my very bones are melting with affection. Ruth chuckles.
‘She loves everyone but it seems she has a special connection with you.’
‘If you feel you need help, looking after her, just let me know,’ I tell her. ‘I have plenty of time. In fact, that’s all I have at the moment.’
She thinks I’m being polite, I can see that. She asks me about myself. I tell her about Philip, about being left alone. I don’t know whether to tell her the truth about myself, my sudden downhill journey. Would I trust my child with a stranger with mental illness?
‘I’ve been made redundant. There weren’t enough students at the school,’ I lie. ‘I moved here to save costs, until I find another job.’
Felicity has fallen asleep on the top of the pile of plush toys. With her rosy cheeks and golden hair she looks like one of her dolls. Ruth is making another cup of tea.
‘There aren’t many children like her, almost none in fact, in the Mid-Spender areas,’ I remark.
‘Almost all parents of these kids are Low Spenders.’ Ruth nods. ‘Even those who start off as Mid or High Spenders downgrade as their priorities change.’
We don’t say anything for a while and I just enjoy the cosiness of the room.
‘Would you really not mind?’ Ruth asks out of the blue.
‘It would be a pleasure.’
Ruth has two jobs, one during the day, one in the evening. The non-profit kids’ nursery is open day and night because the parents – having to earn an extra Right To Reside – all work long night shifts or several jobs. We agree that I’ll come and look after Felicity in the evenings, while Ruth is wiping down gym equipment after each guest in a luxury leisure centre built on a bridge over the Thames. The average High Spender spends more in the spa’s health bar on a given evening than Ruth earns every month just to keep Felicity alive.
The Fight
The wind went mad that morning. I woke to the branches tapping and scraping on the windowpane as if desperate to come in. I sat up in my bed, slowly coming around, my head heavy as lead. The bitter taste of heartache filled my mouth as memories of the previous day came seeping back. It was a low-grade heartache, nothing unbearable for a thirteen-year-old girl. My very first boyfriend, Luke, had broken up with me, with no explanation.
Trying to forget the humiliation, I got out of bed and dragged myself to the window. The familiar softness of the carpet beneath my feet reminded me that I was home, and I was loved. I pressed my nose to the cold windowpane. There was not a soul out in the street, only an advert screen flashing in the distance. The houses opposite looked so quiet they could have been abandoned. It seemed the storm was going to uproot the trees from the earth.
My eyes fell on my apple tree under my window. It was the first thing I
saw every morning, long before I greeted any human being, and the last thing at night before I crawled into bed.
I stood in front of the mirror, holding another, smaller mirror in my hand so that I could see my profile. Yes, I thought, no wonder nobody wants me with this nose. I honestly couldn’t tell which part of my face I hated more: my upturned nose that made me look like a silly child, or the dimples on my cheeks which the school bullies loved to tease me about. ‘The girl with the holes in her face,’ some of them called me. Mum and Dad never mentioned it in my presence; or else they tried to flatter me and said the dimples gave my face character. Other adults said how cute the dimples were; I know they were trying not to hurt my feelings. I didn’t want to be cute, I wanted to be beautiful like Sofia. Turning slightly to have a better view of my profile, I decided to have a nose job once I was eighteen.
The cold foggy weather sent me back to the comfort of my bed, where I pulled the duvet up to my neck and indulged myself in grumpiness. Dad came in later, wearing the dark green bathrobe he always wore on Sundays, when he did nothing but lounge around the house. Mum followed soon, her hair freshly highlighted, her landmark blood-red lipstick already on. They sat on the side of my bed like bodyguards, ready to defend their girl. I felt like an only child. I desperately wanted to believe I was one.
Six months after Sofia’s elopement, we’d stopped speaking about her. I think my parents found it easier to cope with the loss by pretending it never happened. Why build castles of hope every morning, just to see them demolished by the end of the day? She would never come back. Who would return from the glamour and privilege of an Owner’s lifestyle to the Mid-Spender boredom she’d always detested; from being admired by the elite to a family she’d never connected with? Even the police’s initial helpfulness vanished once they learned she had gone to her Owner boyfriend. ‘Owners are untraceable,’ the police officer said with a serious expression.
‘Sofia wasn’t born an Owner.’ Mum protested. ‘She has a tracker in her body.’
The police officer shrugged. ‘She’s sixteen, she left of her own free will,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
The problems with Sofia had started when the intelligent, ambitious child grew into a mysterious teenager. She abandoned her laboratory and went out instead. I found some pictures of her on Yap! showing her hanging out with friends – none of the friends were from school. They seemed a bit older and much wealthier. She looked stunning – dangerously seductive. I recognised the logos of the places and looked them up. One of them was St Paul’s Nightclub; for centuries it had been a cathedral but in the new system it had been converted. Sofia had access to the most exclusive bars where even High Spenders were not allowed, only Owners. But when I asked Sofia about it, she was offhand and wouldn’t be drawn into conversation. ‘Mind your own business’ was all I could get out of her. She came home with diamond earrings and extravagant designer clothes, all of which made Mum worry. Sofia didn’t hide the fact that she had an Owner for a boyfriend, but my parents didn’t believe it until they saw him. His name was Sebastian.
‘Something feels wrong about all this,’ Mum said to Dad during a dinner when Sofia was away again, allegedly with Sebastian.
‘Do you mean she’s lying? Dad asked. ‘That this Sebastian is an imposter?’
‘I suspect worse than that.’ Mum lowered her voice. ‘I think she got these luxury objects and jewellery in an…illegal way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Mum, shooting sideways glances at me.
‘You can’t be serious! You mean she gained them by working as a…’
Dad had difficulty saying what he meant, though I was old enough to know that prostitution existed.
‘I’m afraid so, Ben. And that this Sebastian doesn’t even exist.’
When, a few weeks later, Sebastian was introduced, it came as an enormous relief to Mum. He was real and he was wealthy indeed. When the two of them arrived in his private helicopter, my parents and I were staring out of the window. Sebastian was incredibly shy, clearly an introvert and very plain to look at, so it was clear Sofia was only interested in him for his money. Even the blind could tell they had absolutely nothing in common. Seeing them walking through the gate, Dad didn’t think this could be Sebastian: he just couldn’t imagine that Sofia, who had always been attracted to sporty, confident and charismatic boys, would even look at someone so far from her type. But Mum knew it straight away. ‘It’s him. Look at his clothes! All immaculate! The highest quality,’ she exclaimed. I wasn’t as naïve as Dad. I immediately understood. ‘How clever of Sofia!’ I thought. ‘And how low!’
That evening Dad sat there with disbelief written all over his face, staring at Sofia, trying and failing to find the daughter he knew. As for Mum, the giant bouquet of rare exotic flowers delivered by a private butler swept her off her feet. She treated Sebastian like a long-lost son, the two of them chatted and enjoyed the shepherd’s pie Mum had made especially to show Sebastian something other than the trendy food he was used to eating in the world’s top restaurants. She was deliberately going for this cosy, home-made family style, knowing it would appeal to someone who had seen it all.
Sebastian became a regular visitor. Mum was almost grateful that he appreciated our modest home, picked up objects with curiosity, listened to everyone intently. Seeing his humble personality, Dad and I quickly warmed to him.
Soon Sebastian’s initial shyness melted and a warm-hearted young man with a great sense of humour was revealed. I liked it when he came over. Our home was transformed by his laughter and we entertained him as if it was our duty to keep him laughing. What was painful for me was to see Sofia’s ever-growing sense of superiority. As if she already knew that she’d be the lady of the manor. Besotted, Sebastian would stare at her with his huge, round blue eyes, a benevolent smile on his pudgy face, his white, sausage-like fingers always around her waist like an ever-tightening belt. He always smelt of talcum powder.
My envy rose to new levels, seeing how effortlessly Sofia’s dream was coming true, while nothing was happening for me. Among our friends and family she became almost like a celebrity. The fact that she had taken advantage of a kind, sensitive boy just for his status didn’t bother anyone. She seemed beyond moral responsibility.
Sebastian had a penthouse pad on the banks of the Thames, in a glass-walled apartment block surrounded by a laser fence and guarded by an elite security team. It was one of the few places in the city where Owners had accommodation. If I were an Owner I would prefer the countryside. Like Sebastian’s parents, I would have a Victorian mansion near the Cornwall coast.
The Owners came to London to visit the Primavera Club, to enjoy the high life, and do some shopping, but after a few days they inevitably retreated to their country homes. Sebastian would come to London to see Sofia. Then one day it was Sofia who went to him, leaving us a venom-filled note on the kitchen table, saying she was finished with us and our pitiful Mid-Spender lifestyle for good. Mum and Dad didn’t give up hope that after the initial fascination with luxury she would start missing us and come home. I secretly hoped she wouldn’t return. We were the perfect family now, without her there to make me feel less pretty and less cool.
The first few months my parents constantly worried about her whereabouts and Dad’s hair began to turn grey. ‘She’ll come back, she’s just got into bad company,’ he would say, and I had to bite my lip. I tried to be the good daughter and did everything I could to please my parents, to ease their heartache and soak up their love to the last drop, to bathe in it every day. I was glad I didn’t have to share it with Sofia; she didn’t want it anyway.
Still in bed, with the weather rapidly changing between sunny spells and storms, I felt sorry for myself. Eventually I got bored with flicking through the channels on the Globe and forced myself to get up and eat the sandwich Mum had prepared for me. When Mum asked w
hat was wrong, I blamed it on the weather.
‘You know, it won’t hurt for too long,’ she said. ‘I don’t even remember my first boyfriend’s name.’
‘I don’t care. It hurts now.’
She didn’t say a word but checked on me every half an hour, examining my face until I turned away. In the afternoon, all of a sudden it got really dark, because of the storm. We sat in the conservatory, watching the plants being drenched in the rain. On Yap! messages about the break-up were pouring in from my contacts; I didn’t want to think about it any more, and had to switch Yap! off. I wanted a good boyfriend so badly, one who would pamper and worship me as Sebastian did Sofia. I began to share my dreams with Mum and Dad. Talking about it was almost like making it happen, their encouragement fuelling my desires, repairing my broken wings.
‘I’ll have a boy and a girl.’ I said. ‘The girl will be called May, the boy Peter.’
‘Why Peter?’ Mum interrupted, while adding some more lemonade to her Pimm’s.
‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘It sounds intelligent.’
She nodded.
‘It’s a brave name. I can’t see any harm coming to a Peter.’
‘Regardless of the name, you’ll find the perfect guy,’ Dad said. ‘Someone who deserves you. Now let’s hear the rest.’ He pulled his bathrobe tighter around his body. It was turning chilly. Mum turned up the conservatory temperature on her ID Phone.
‘Carry on; just make it up,’ Dad continued. ‘If you keep believing it, it will happen.’ I knew my parents were just being nice and they didn’t mean a word of what they said. They were lying to me, just as they did about my dimples.
We enjoyed the idle atmosphere, sitting around the table, which was packed with olives and cheese, Pimm’s and lemonade. Outside the sky turned a silky midnight blue. The half-moon transformed the garden into a magical place. For a fraction of a second my dreams seemed only an arm’s reach away.
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