‘We’re about to begin the rest of our lives together,’ he says softly. ‘God knows we’ve waited long enough.’
Like a woman drowning, scenes from the last twenty years flash before my eyes: Paul at school, so handsome and cool, walking across the playground with the sun behind him; the day I permed my hair and endured the ridicule of everyone except him, and the gratitude and pure love that flooded my teenage body when he stuck up for me; coming back to Milton Keynes and finding him again, glowering in the corner of a bar, all grown up and serious; his arms around me the day I realised John Dean had gone for good and I was all alone with a baby.
And the day he proposed: Christmas Day. Down on one knee at Willen Lake while I jumped around and blew on my hands to keep warm.
We have history, Paul and I. But in many ways we are still right at the beginning of our story.
‘Paul,’ I say now, ‘are you telling me you definitely, one hundred per cent, do not want to have children with me? Ever?’
His face takes on a pained but kindly expression. ‘Are you telling me you want to go through it all again? Really?’
I nod. He shakes his head.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Stella. Our ages, the responsibility … And what about my new job? You’re not thinking about it sensibly, is all. What about all the plans we’ve made?’
‘Are they so important to you?’
What I mean is: Are they more important to you than having a family of our own?
‘Are you kidding me?’ Paul jumps up and stands with his back to the window. Lit from behind, I can’t see his eyes, but there’s something in his tone of voice that chills me. ‘This move means everything to us, Stella. I’m walking away from the business I started from scratch, you’ve handed in your notice. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been, seeing Smart Homes go under? But I’m letting go, I’m moving on. We both are. This is our adventure. Our chance to be together with no complications. Just the two of us.’
He stresses the last sentence and I wince. My hand slips automatically to my stomach, but Paul doesn’t notice. I hear Phoenix stirring in his bassinet. The last thing I need right now is for Paul to experience my grandson’s epic wails.
I pull Paul back down onto the sofa and hold his hands lightly, tentatively. ‘But can’t we make a new start and have a baby?’
‘No.’ This he almost shouts, back on his feet again. Phoenix stirs and mews softly. Now I can hear the low-level snorts and snuffles that precede a good cry. That’s the baby, by the way. Not Paul. Or me.
‘I just don’t think we can, Stella,’ Paul says, pacing. ‘And, to be honest, I don’t see why we would want to. Why would we want to ruin everything that way? What is this obsession with babies, anyway?’
I shush him with my eyes and a strained smile, pointing to the bassinet where Phoenix’s hands are starting to emerge above the blanket, reaching and grasping at fresh air.
‘Well, you see,’ Paul says, triumphant. ‘You can’t even have a proper conversation when there’s a baby around. How do you think you could do up a new house? How could I focus on my new job? Come on, Stella.’ He’s kneeling now, and reaching for my hand – a scene reminiscent of the one I just replayed in my head. ‘Tell me that this is just a silly joke. That part of our lives is over, isn’t it? And I, for one, am glad of it. I love Hannah, and I love Lipsy too. But I wouldn’t want to go backwards. Life is for moving on.’
‘But Paul,’ I say, desperately, keeping my voice low, ‘you didn’t even know Hannah as a baby. Don’t you feel you missed out? Wouldn’t you love to do it again, properly?’
This has always been a sore point between us, and I’m not surprised when Paul pulls away and hardens his face.
‘I’m a good dad to Hannah,’ he says stiffly. ‘And I would have been more if I’d had the chance. But there’s no point trying to rewrite the past, Stella. You more than anyone should know that.’
‘But, wouldn’t you …’ I trail off as, right on cue, Phoenix wakes up fully, realises his tummy is empty and begins to wail. I’m used to it – to my ears it’s just, ‘Hey, Grandma, where’s my bottle?’ But to Paul it’s like a thousand drills going off in his head while someone scrapes their nails down a chalkboard and plays a piano off key. I can tell by the look on his face – he really doesn’t like babies.
‘Come on, Phee,’ I whisper, picking the baby up and throwing Paul a sheepish smile. ‘He’s just hungry,’ I tell him. ‘He hardly ever cries apart from when he’s hungry.’
But there’s no point arguing with him now. The shutters have come down, and for Paul, the topic is closed. It’s not that he’s intractable. My lovely, kind, thoughtful Paul is simply scared.
Well, aren’t we all?
Besides, the more pressing question is this: How can I marry the man without telling him I’m pregnant? And how on earth can I tell him now?
*
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: 20 February 2012 21:38
Hi Stella,
Just wanted to say I’m sorry I rushed off earlier. I know we hadn’t finished talking properly but you had your hands full (!) and I figured it was best to leave you to it. I hope your last day at work went OK, did they all knit you a bed jacket like you thought? What even is a bed jacket, anyway?
I also wanted to say that I’m the luckiest man in the world, and I can’t wait to see you at the altar on Saturday. OK, so it’s not an altar, but you know what I mean. (We’re still on for lunch Thursday, right?)
This is our time, Stella. In a couple of weeks you’ll look back and laugh at all this baby nonsense. Phoenix looks like a right little bruiser – he’s certainly got a good pair of lungs on him! I’m sure he and Lipsy and Robert will be more than fine without you.
All my love, Paul x
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: 20 February 2012 21:52
Dear Paul,
They did knit me a bed jacket and I plan to wear it every night so watch out! I’m clearly very old and past it now, in your eyes anyway, so I’m also going shopping for some incontinence pads and booking in at the dentist’s to get a set of false teeth.
This isn’t easy to say, but I know you’ll be great about it because you care about me and only want what’s best for us. I’m having second thoughts about leaving Lipsy and the baby so soon. I know we’ve been through it a hundred times, but you never really listened when I told you how anxious I was. I don’t think it will make much difference if I stay behind for a month or two while you get things going in Derby. We can visit at weekends. You wouldn’t mind this too much, would you? (Please say it’s OK.) I just want to be here for Lipsy. It’s a mum thing.
I can’t wait to be Mrs Smart, Paul. You know I’ve waited so long for this. I’ve got my dress hanging up right here (wait till you see it), and I can’t believe that at 38 I’m finally going to be an ‘honest woman’.
Love Stella xxxxxxx
PS: Let’s talk about all this on Thursday – now’s not the time to make any rash decisions.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: 20 February 2012 21:58
Stella, I’m afraid I have to say no way. I just tried to call but you must have your phone on silent – I guess you don’t want to wake the baby. (See what I mean?) It’s not OK for you to stay behind, this is our fresh start and I don’t want to do it without you. I know you are anxious about Lipsy and the baby, I have listened to you go on and on about it for months, but really don’t you think you’re making too much of it? You do have a tendency to think that no one can manage without you – look at what you were like with your mum last year, paying all her bills and the rest of it. Can’t you just look to the future?
I love you. I’m sorry that I don’t want to have any more babies, but I don’t believe you want that either, Stella. Not really. It�
��s time to know yourself, my love. Stop hiding from the truth and really look at yourself.
Anyway, I’ll see you on Thursday. All this is just nerves, isn’t it? In a couple of days you’ll feel completely different, I promise.
Paul x
Chapter 7
In a couple of days you’ll feel completely different, he said. Well, now it’s three days on, and I’m afraid I don’t.
I sat up late on Monday night and read his last email three times, allowing the words to sink in. Seems my dad isn’t the only person who thinks I’ve got an omnipotence complex.
Know yourself. Stop hiding from the truth. Well, that’s all well and good, but if no one’s going to listen to you then knowing yourself seems a bit pointless. I’ve always known what I wanted: Paul, definitely, but here, with my family around us and that sense of continuity that comes from seeing the same landscape day after day, and being surrounded by memories. Maybe losing everything in the fire damaged my ability to start afresh. Or maybe I really am a coward. Whatever the reason, Paul’s instruction to be honest with myself has made me face one uncomfortable truth: I do not want to relocate to Derby.
That doesn’t mean I won’t go. It just means I need him to appreciate that I’m giving up a lot for him. And that maybe he should meet me halfway.
I arrive at Wagamama’s ten minutes early, but Paul’s already there, craning his neck to look out for me. We’re sharing a long table with five other couples: not the ideal setting for an intimate tête-à-tête. I slide my bum along the bench and smile ruefully at my beloved. He grins and stands up to kiss me, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks anxious. As well he might.
‘Hi, guys! What can I getcha?’
Our waitress seems to have American pretentions, but I bet she’s as English as I am. I order yakisoba and Paul goes for the chicken ramen. I also ask for a fork – I’m really not a chopsticks kind of gal.
‘So,’ Paul says, doodling on the placemat with an abandoned crayon.
‘So,’ I repeat.
He looks up at me. Our eyes meet. For a second or two, our surroundings seem to melt away. There is only Paul and me, joined by a bond that is cemented in our shared history, stronger than perhaps either of us fully appreciate. As he looks into my eyes his expression relaxes, softens. A warmth creeps up through my belly; I have this weird sensation that he would say yes to anything right now. In this single, special moment.
‘Kitchen’s just told me your food’ll be ten minutes, guys. Is that all right for ya?’
The strident voice of the waitress severs our connection, and I slump back, disappointed. Paul mumbles, ‘Fine, thanks,’ and she gives us a double thumbs up before moving on to the next unfortunate couple.
‘Have you had a good week?’ Paul says. This banal question is such a comedown after that perfect moment of connectedness I feel as though I’ve been slapped. All I can do is nod.
‘And the packing? Are you all finished? I bet Lipsy can’t wait to get Phoenix’s nursery sorted out.’
In fact, she’s had Robert erecting furniture every evening this week. My bed is the only thing of mine left in the room, and that’s set to go into storage in my parents’ garage on Sunday.
I say nothing, just listen to him jabber on. Then our food arrives, stalling conversation for a further ten minutes. But my yakisoba goes down in lumps, I’m so anxious, so before Paul has even finished eating I decide to jump right in.
‘Look, Paul. I know I said not to make any hasty decisions, but you should know that I’ve been thinking long and hard about what you said in your email.’
His face lights up. ‘Why, Stella, that’s great. I knew you’d see sense.’
‘Not the kind of sense you were hoping for, I’m afraid. The truth is, I don’t really want to move away. That’s not to say I won’t come with you,’ I add as all the colour drains from his face. ‘I’m just saying that it isn’t what I would have chosen to do. If not for your new job and everything, if not for ... Well. I’m just saying, is all.’
He places his chopsticks on the table and looks at them. ‘You’ve picked a great time to come to this realisation.’
‘It’s not a realisation, Paul. I never wanted to move away. I merely agreed to come with you because it was what you wanted. Can’t you see they are two different things?’
‘I can see that one of them makes me feel guilty. As if I twisted your arm, or something.’
Oh, great. Sulky Paul. That’s all I need right now.
I reach across the wooden table top and grab both his hands. His knuckles are white.
‘I want to be with you. I want to marry you. That means compromise, right? It doesn’t hurt to acknowledge it, does it? To be honest with each other.’
Of course, if I was being really honest there is whole other conversation we should be having right now. But until I’ve got Paul onside with the idea of having a baby, I can’t dump the reality of it in his lap. Sometimes you have to go about things bit by bit. Sideways. This is one of those times.
‘I’ve been nothing but honest,’ he tells me. ‘I want to get away from here. I’ve failed, can’t you see that? My business has failed, I feel like a failure. This is more than a new start for me. It’s a lifeline.’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody melodramatic. You’re not a failure, and you know it. Loads of businesses struggle in a recession. Now who’s laying on the guilt?’
The couple nearest to us – both blonde and willowy like elfin twins – shift in their seats uncomfortably. I lower my voice, but only a little.
‘You were the one who said “know yourself”. How about you do a bit of soul-searching too? We’re both going off to Derby because of Paul’s private affirmation plan, propping up your ego and giving you the opportunity to prove yourself. To yourself, I might add. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. You never have.’
Now, where exactly is all this coming from, I’d like to know? But it seems I can’t stop myself now I’ve started.
‘There’s no reason why you couldn’t have just carried on with Smart Homes, just kept plugging away with it until things got better. The lease on the office has another year to run – you’re the one who’s giving up on it. OK, so you’re not making the money you were three years ago – who is? – and I know things were getting really tight. But admit it, Paul, when this offer came from what’s his name, Tom, you jumped at it because you saw it as a way out. For you. I’m just coming along for the ride.’
Paul is looking off to the side, refusing to meet my eyes. The waitress comes over to clear, and her cheerful greeting dies on her lips when she sees our faces. The elves slip past us, holding up their arms as if afraid to risk touching any part of our bodies.
‘Can we have the bill, please?’ I ask quietly.
‘Sure thing,’ says the waitress. I watch her swing away. She has one of those impossibly pert behinds and a tiny waist. I don’t know why the sight of her makes me so sad.
‘Well, thanks for the lunch,’ Paul says. ‘And the heads up. I guess I know where I stand now, don’t I?’
‘And where is that, exactly?’ His sulky expression is wearing my patience thin. When you deal with a stroppy teenager on a daily basis there is no room in your life for placating men. Paul should know this. He’s pushing his luck.
‘Are you coming to Derby with me or not, is all I want to know?’
As if I haven’t told him over and over that I am.
‘Don’t you care at all about the things that are important to me?’ I ask.
‘I thought the same things were important to both of us. I thought we were on the same page.’
‘We are,’ I say softly. ‘Except when it comes to having babies.’
A silence stretches out between us. The restaurant is bustling – rising voices and bursts of laughter, shouts from the kitchen and the hum of the heaters – but Paul and I seem to be encased in cotton wool.
‘Ah,’ he says.
Ah, indeed.
I watch a different waitress walking towards me, holding a tray full of drinks in one hand. On a collision course with her is a child of about five or six, running while looking back over his shoulder, all flailing arms and legs. The waitress sidesteps him neatly and skirts around our table, switching the tray to her other hand. Two tables up, the boy’s parents start to scold him.
‘Aw, Mum,’ he says, drawing out the word into a whine.
I sigh and pull out my purse.
In the end there is no resolution. In real life there rarely is. We have to vacate our seats once the bill’s paid; more couples and a party of five are crowding in at the door. The busy shopping centre is no place to carry on a conversation, and before long we are at the car park. I’m parked on the first floor, Paul’s car is on the second. He walks me to mine, and then we hug. He laughs, nervously.
‘Well, that was intense.’
I nod. It’s nothing but the truth.
‘See you on Saturday, then.’
More nodding. I cannot think of a single word to say.
‘We’ll work it out, Stella,’ he tells me, whispering the words into my ear as if the closer he gets to my brain the more likely I’ll be to believe him. ‘You’ll see. It will all be fine.’
Like he said, maybe in a few days I’ll feel completely different.
Or maybe I won’t.
Chapter 8
I smooth my hands down the silky fabric of my dress then pull on my white gloves. Then I take them off again. Feet go into new white shoes – not too much of a heel, we don’t want to tower over husband-to-be, do we? Hair is swept into a loose bun and secured with one of my mum’s silver barrettes.
Something borrowed.
I’m getting ready in what we might as well just go ahead and call the nursery, peering into the tiny oval mirror which has been hung above the changing table to check my make-up, rocking in Lipsy’s brand new nursing chair as I pull on my tights. My family are waiting downstairs. Are they nervous? I know I am. My dad looks dashing in a navy suit with faint pinstripes, a white rose pulled through his left lapel. My mother, beside herself with excitement, is wearing a cream and blue trouser suit that shows off her trim figure and was, she confided in hushed tones, on offer at House of Fraser.
The Family Trap Page 6