‘Don’t be rude, Dillon,’ Esther says to him in a creaky voice. It isn’t the same one she spoke to me in just a moment ago and my stomach starts to jump up into my throat. I glance around to see if Beverley is still behind me but she isn’t here any more.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie, she’s just gone to move the car.’
I wonder how Esther knows what I am thinking. I haven’t even spoken out loud! I start to edge backwards, my blood fizzing like Coca-Cola. What if Esther is only pretending to be nice? What if she’s really the Wicked Witch of the West? She wears a green cardigan and a black skirt hangs from her bony hips. My eyes dart over towards the washing machine, which growls loudly in the corner of the kitchen. What if her cape is in the wash?
‘Ahhh, here’s Barny.’
A scraggly brown dog runs past my feet, causing me to jump high in the air. It begins to bark loudly, until the boy with the big belly throws it a piece of toast. Esther is shouting again, her voice as high as a steam train. I look out of the window to where snow clings to the branches of the trees. Wasn’t that what happened in The Wizard of Oz? Didn’t Glinda send snow to wake up Dorothy? The window is shut which means Glinda can’t help me. I am trapped!
‘Would you like an egg, dear? They’re almost done.’ Esther is tipping a timer upside down, the pink sand spilling from top to bottom as quick as tap water. Heat travels up my chest and neck and I begin to choke. I ignore Esther, instead checking the sky for monkeys, their screeching laughter hurting my head.
‘Louisa, darling, are you all right?’
Esther walks towards me, her arms stretched out in front of her. Her face has turned a deep shade of green, her nose even pointier and her eyes as black as wet pebbles. The pan on the stove bangs really loudly, as loud as a drum, the hot water spitting out at me.
I feel a warm sensation trickle down my legs. ‘I’m melting,’ I whisper, while looking around for the Good Witch of the East to save me.
‘She’s a fucking fruit loop.’ The boy with the big tummy starts to screech like a monkey, his toast flying out of his mouth, his spit landing on my face. I see the cup of tea on the table, the unfinished toast on the plate.
Wizard of Oz, Tea, Toast, Bedroom, Mummy!
Running over towards the stove, I grab hold of the pan, desperate to escape from the witches’ lair. It is really heavy, and it spits at me as I throw the boiling water at the Wicked Witch of the West.
I watch with wide eyes as she begins to melt. Closing my eyes, I tap my shoes together and pray to go home.
CHAPTER NINE
Louisa
Now
The pram vibrates over the city’s cobbles as an icy wind hits me head-on. Tucking my chin into my chest I plough on, knowing only that I have to keep walking.
When the phone rang earlier today, my heart jumped up into my throat. I was still holding the card in my hands and I threw it across the hallway, convinced it must be him ringing me. It wasn’t him, nor was it James. It was Magda, my best friend, ringing to see if I fancied lunch in the city centre. I didn’t particularly, but when Magda sets her mind to something it’s nigh on impossible to dissuade her.
As I pull open Caffè Nero’s heavy, glass-faced door, a warm blast of infused cinnamon and freshly roasted coffee beans invades my senses. I struggle through the entrance, Cory’s bulky pram wheels catching on the partially raised step. I allow the door to swing shut behind me, temporarily locking out my fears.
Once inside, I take a moment to drink in my surroundings, enjoying the promise of Christmas which sugarcoats the air. City workers, shoppers and students blend into one, their chatter the vocal accompaniment to a backing track of milk being frothed and metal spoons clinking against the side of porcelain cups.
The café is warm and dimly lit, the pot lighting peeking out from the ceiling like the whites of excited eyes. The warm flicker of golden fairy lights, which are draped across the windows, gives the impression of an open fire.
I remove my hood and shake out my hair, my fingers stiff with cold. My reflection, in the chrome underbelly of the glass serving counter, catches my eye. I look tired, my skin almost translucent, my clothes baggy and hanging off me in all the wrong places. A yawn fills my chest, my eyes stinging. It doesn’t matter, I think to myself. You’re a new mother, this is how you’re meant to look. Averting my gaze, I search out Magda, knowing she’ll compliment me regardless of how I look.
‘Louisa! Over here.’ Following the sound of her familiar high-pitched voice, I see her standing in the far corner of the café, her rainbow-coloured hair reminding me of a unicorn’s mane. A smile breaks out on my face as our eyes connect.
Magda, a successful counsellor with her own practice, is what you might refer to as ‘one of a kind’. What she lacks in height she certainly makes up for in personality, her flamboyance and crazy dress sense a breath of fresh air against the dullness of everyday life.
I make a conscious decision to place my fears surrounding the card to the back of my mind, determined to enjoy this time with my friend. After all, this is the first time she’ll be meeting Cory, another ‘first’ I always dreamed would one day actually happen.
As I weave the pram in and out of the thin gaps between the tables and chairs, I find myself having to mutter ‘excuse me’ a dozen times, the café absolutely heaving. ‘Oh no, no, please no.’ My heart sinks into my stomach as Magda’s friend Annette crosses my path, twiddling what looks like a cinnamon stick in her Frappuccino while trying in vain to peel a frown from her face. She sits down beside Magda and glares over at me, obviously aware of my arrival.
‘Hi, Mags. Annette.’ I smile at both of them in turn as I reach their table, my stomach somersaulting, even though I’m not sure why.
‘Oh my goodness, look at you!’ Magda jumps up, sending her chair flying back into the table behind, and kisses me on both cheeks. She smells of eucalyptus oil and hair dye. ‘You’re absolutely glowing… beautiful.’
‘Oh don’t, I look like shit. Nice hair colour by the way,’ I say through a laugh. ‘Or should I say colours. How many are actually in there?’
‘Oh, who knows.’ She beams, while sliding her fingers through it, revealing a turquoise and orange undertone. ‘I’ve had every colour of the rainbow over the last few years so I thought I’d have ‘em all in one bloody go. Not sure I like it though… might be time for a change.’ She pulls out a free chair. ‘Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? We haven’t ordered food yet.’
‘No, don’t be silly, I’ll get my own. And a change in hair colour already?’ I laugh, raising my eyebrows in mock surprise even though I feel anything but. ‘Six weeks ago you were electric blue. You must spend a fortune at the hairdresser’s.’
‘Well, I’m worth it.’ She beams, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
I narrow my eyes at her. Something about her demeanour is definitely different, almost as if she’s excited about something. ‘You got a fella on the go or something, Mags?’
Her cheeks pinken ever so slightly. ‘God no, you know I don’t do men. Waste of bloody space the lot of ‘em.’
‘If you say so.’ I wink at her, letting her know I’m only teasing. ‘Hi, Annette,’ I try again, fully aware she hasn’t yet met my eye.
Annette, who owns the village pharmacy with her husband, Ron, sits in stark contrast to Magda, her frizzy grey hair standing on end like a wire brush. Despite her self-proclaimed wealth, and her obviously expensive clothes, she always manages to look like a farmhand. It’s fair to say we wouldn’t speak at all if it wasn’t for Magda. Annette is somewhat pompous and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have any friends at all if Magda hadn’t taken her under her wing.
She looks up at me for the briefest of seconds, her top lip curled into a sneer. ‘Hi, Louisa.’
‘Well, let me peek at him then.’ Magda claps her hands together, seemingly oblivious to the tension between her two friends. ‘I’ve been dying to meet him!’ She squeezes herself out from behind the small table and s
ticks her head in the pram, her hair falling dangerously close to Cory’s eyes.
‘Well… I’ll just grab that coffee then,’ I say through a tight smile, already starting to feel on edge.
I order a gingerbread latte, complete with whipped cream and nutmeg. As I make my way back over towards the table, I notice Magda sitting down with Cory’s head nestled into her neck. She is gazing down at him, her mouth making the correct shape but her eyes holding a pain which is only noticeable if you’re familiar with the signs. Guilt sits heavy in my stomach as I place the cup of coffee down onto the table.
‘I hope it was all right that I picked him up,’ says Magda coyly, looking up at me through ridiculously long eyelashes which I am certain are false. ‘He was awake and, well, he’s just far too scrumptious not to.’
‘No, of course not,’ I say, taking a seat to the side of her. I sip at my coffee, the tang of spiced gingerbread clinging to the roof of my mouth. The taste transports me back to the beginning of my pregnancy, when I ate gingerbread biscuits by the packet in an attempt to ward off the daily morning sickness. ‘I can’t quite believe he’s two weeks old today,’ I say, unable to stop the pride from creeping into my voice. ‘He’s changed so much already.’
‘I can’t really put my finger on who he looks like. Definitely not James, that’s for sure.’ Annette glances over at Cory as if he’s something to be pitied, her words flatter than the half-drunk Frappuccino in her hand.
‘He looks like himself obviously,’ Magda replies tersely, her cheeks pinking ever so slightly. ‘He’s perfect and now we just need to get him a couple of playmates, don’t we, Net?’ She raises her eyebrows at Annette, who begrudgingly grunts out her agreement.
‘I was a little worried about coming if I’m honest,’ I offer, aware I’m fiddling around with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘I’d totally understand if you no longer…’
‘Ridiculous!’ Magda’s loud protest causes the elderly lady on the table behind to turn round. ‘One of us had to go first, love. Little Cory is our hope for the future, aren’t you, my darling?’ She plants a kiss on his forehead. ‘It was always going to be tough when one of us had a baby. But we’ll stick together throughout. Isn’t that what we agreed?’ She elbows Annette in the ribs, who rolls her eyes before nodding in my general direction.
‘How’s Ron doing?’ I ask Annette, not because I’m particularly interested in the welfare of Annette’s sleazy drunk of a husband, who dresses in suits several sizes too large and still carries around a Filofax, but simply as a way to break the ice.
She shrugs. ‘Very well. Always plenty of money in the pharmaceutical industry thanks to the hypochondriacs of the world.’ Her snipe is expertly placed.
‘How’s your sister doing, Mags?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject.
‘Not great really. It’s still cutting her up badly, which is no surprise.’
Helen, Magda’s older sister, lost her eight-year-old son, Luke, to a hit-and-run accident eighteen months ago. Although I’ve yet to meet her, my heart aches when I think about what she’s been through, and how utterly heartbreaking it must be to lose a child.
‘Her husband left her as well last month for his secretary,’ continues Magda. ‘How clichéd can you get?’
‘That’s terrible, really awful,’ I garble, not really knowing what else to say. ‘Is she back at work yet?’
Magda shakes her head. ‘You can hardly function as a mental health nurse when you’re going slightly mental yourself, can you?’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘I’ve told her to attend the clinic for counselling, of course. Obviously I wouldn’t do it myself; I’d get one of the others to. But she’s adamant she doesn’t need it.’
‘Are you both still coming round on Christmas Day?’
A few months ago, high on pregnancy hormones, I thought it would be a great idea to invite Magda and Helen round for Christmas dinner. Christmas has always been a horrible time for me since Mum died, especially given the fact that she took her own life on Christmas Day, which also happens to be my birthday. But being pregnant with Cory changed my perspective on the festivities. Now I want to enjoy it for him. Although I’m still looking forward to the prospect of catering for Mags and Helen, I am beginning to panic that making a full dinner with all the trimmings, while caring for a newborn, is going to be a recipe for disaster.
‘Well, yes, but…’ She glances over at Annette. ‘Net and Ron are at a loose end and, well, we wondered if they would be welcome too?’
My stomach sinks. Catering for Magda and Helen is one thing, but Annette and Ron? ‘Of course,’ I hear myself saying. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘Thanks, Louisa.’ Annette graces me with a tight smile.
‘So, what’s been happening on the baby front?’ I feel it best to broach the subject in order to get it out of the way.
‘I went to see the psychic again yesterday,’ replies Magda, her eyes filling with tears.
‘And?’
Annette stiffens beside her. ‘I’ve told her not to believe a word he says.’ Annette, a regular churchgoer, strongly disagrees with Magda’s involvement with psychics. It’s possibly the only thing we have in common.
‘What did he say?’ I take a gulp of my coffee.
‘He said he can’t see me giving birth to a child of my own, not ever! Although I suppose he was wrong when he predicted the Green Party would be elected so he’s not always right.’ She tries out a laugh but it’s paper-thin. ‘I have one frozen embryo left with the sperm donor but Claudio reckons his spirit guide, Fernando, or whatever his face is, has labelled it a dud. And while supporting Helen I really have no other money to try again.’ She looks down at Cory. ‘I’m never going to be a mother, am I?’
I reach over the table and take her hand in mine, her skin cold to the touch. ‘Yes, you are. The psychic is wrong. Do as Annette says and ignore him.’ A quick glance over at Annette earns me another rare smile. ‘And I’d never believe a dead person called Fernando.’
Magda and Annette give each other a small glance, neither of them bothering to laugh. I wonder if I’m really being fair, parading Cory in front of them like this.
I first met Magda in SureLife’s cafeteria, a private fertility clinic a few miles out of Chester. James and I were attending due to multiple fertility problems. The clinic, owned and run by leading embryologist Doctor Hughes, is cutting edge and offers all the latest procedures. It also has a fertility support group attached to it which the clinic encourages patients to join. That’s where we first met Annette and Ron. Of course, Magda and Annette are still waiting for their child, and I can’t help thinking that, by having a baby, I’ve somehow broken the bond we once shared.
‘Are you going to tell her what else he said?’ Annette smirks, the psychic’s revelations clearly amusing her.
‘Why, what else did he say?’ I pick up my latte and take another sip, the bitter liquid turning cold as it slides down my throat.
Magda shoots Annette a look. ‘Erm… just that you need to be careful, Louisa.’
‘What do you mean, be careful?’ The card from earlier swims into my mind’s eye, the image of the stork stiffening my stomach muscles. Earlier, after putting the phone down on Magda, I dumped it into the outside bin, its presence in the house feeling almost demonic.
‘It’s probably nothing. You don’t believe in psychics after all,’ she says, clearing her throat.
‘Well, you do,’ I reply a little too firmly, my insides now turning themselves outwards. ‘Tell me what he said.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘He mentioned you, by name. Your friend Louisa is…’ She hesitates, her eyes flicking up into her head as if remembering.
‘What did he say, Magda?’
‘Louisa is in grave danger… Somebody is coming to take what they feel is rightly theirs.’
‘Look, I really have to go. I’ll see you both soon, all right?’ I take one last swig of cold coffee before reaching out for C
ory, pins and needles working their way down my arms and into my fingertips.
‘But we haven’t even eaten.’ Magda looks genuinely upset as she passes Cory over to me. ‘You’re not worried, are you? Claudio is often wrong. I wouldn’t think too much of it.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ I place Cory into his pram, the coffee shop suddenly too stuffy, the air close enough to choke on. What was I thinking? The place is probably littered with germs, no place at all for a newborn. ‘I, erm, I just remembered that James wanted us to go somewhere. Look, I’m sorry – enjoy your lunch, dinner, whatever it is you’re having.’ I look down at my watch. How is it even four o’clock already?
‘Okay, sweetie, I’ll call you later.’
I gulp for air as I exit the coffee shop, the high street now littered with shoppers, all racing around like an army of ants who have lost their leader. I fight my way through them, keeping my head bowed, adrenaline snaking its way through my veins and making me dizzy. Dusk is already beginning to creep around the edges of Chester, the thatched roofs of the city’s original Tudor buildings blurring against an iron sky. Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I struggle to push the Silver Cross pram back down the cobbled street, my stomach dipping in sync with the pram’s suspension.
I try to tell myself I am being ridiculous. That no person in their right mind would believe the ramblings of a woman with multicoloured hair and a Spanish spirit guide. But as much as I tell myself to stop being ridiculous, I can’t seem to loosen the feeling of impending doom which coils around my insides. After all, somebody is trying to frighten me, whether him or a sick bastard who knows what happened nine months ago. Realistically I know it can’t be who I think it is. He doesn’t even know where we live, doesn’t know very much about me at all. And yet, what other explanation is there? Who else would want to hurt me in this way?
I know I need to confess everything to James. Even though I promised myself I never would.
I reach Town Hall Square, which is heaving with people, the annual Christmas markets pulling them in in droves. Surrounding the masses, wooden sheds, dressed from head to toe in festive attire, offer up European feasts. The sweet aroma of hot sugary waffles collides in the air with spicy Bratwurst, the fruity tang of mulled wine rekindling memories of Christmases I’d rather forget. Claustrophobia claws at my insides as I fight my way through the crowd. I keep my eyes buried into the floor, the ground a stampede of shoes and boots, some flat and bulky, others pointy with scuffed toes. Cory starts to cry and thrash around under his quilted pram cover. Quickly checking my watch, I realise it is now four-thirty and I haven’t brought his five o’clock feed with me. I zigzag the pram from left to right, trapped in a mass of bobble hats and fur-lined anoraks, the bulky pram wheels clipping the back of worn-down Ugg boots and flattening plastic cups that litter the floor.
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