The Anniversary

by Hilary Boyd

  Taken aback, Jack didn’t immediately reply. She turned to him. ‘Would you?’ Her voice was low and pleading suddenly, all hostility gone.

  ‘Where’s this coming from?’ Jack was baffled. ‘Lisa … I’m not sure what’s happening here. We seem to be on different pages.’

  Then she threw herself into his arms, clutching him to her as if her life depended on it. Through the renewed sobbing, Jack just managed to make out, ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry.’

  He had no clue what she was on about.

  62

  Stella lay back on the sky-blue plastic dental chair, feet raised, and took the mirror the hygienist, Heather, handed her.

  ‘You see,’ Heather said, whirring an electric toothbrush on to Stella’s front teeth, ‘you’ve got to get right up under the gum, one tooth at a time. It’s no use swishing it from side to side.’

  The lecture was the same every six months and Stella barely listened, just politely nodded and agreed, as always, to think about getting an electric brush. Which she had no intention of actually doing; she hated the buzzing, frenetic assault on her teeth. But it stopped the lecture until next time.

  She let Heather dig about in her mouth, while her mind wandered back to Peregrine Galbraith. What had started as a light-hearted friendship – which they both agreed was huge fun – was now, after a number of delightful theatre outings, dinners, the odd exhibition and a lot of laughter, beginning to get more complicated. Sex had raised its weary head.

  Stella didn’t not fancy him, as she put it to Annette when questioned on the subject – which, as her friend pointed out, was not exactly a ringing endorsement – but neither did she feel compelled to jump into bed with him. It wasn’t like Jack, in any way.

  But recently, Perry, although way too polite to push her, had been making signs that he hoped she might. Stella was feeling the pressure, however slight, in the way he gazed at her after he’d had a drink or two. Or when she occasionally stayed over in his elegantly restored eighteenth-century house in East London. She always slept in the spare room, but there had been a couple of awkward moments recently when they’d said good night. She’d thought Perry might be about to lunge. And she thought she might not resist.

  But he must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because he never went any further, just smiled and kissed her cheek, promising scrambled eggs and bagels – or some such – for breakfast. Should I just do it? she wondered now. Should I just have sex with the man and find out if it works? Was this the sort of compromise she could expect at her age?

  As Heather finished scraping and began to polish her teeth, Stella gave in to the permanent ache that had settled around her heart when she thought of Jack, blinking away tears behind the yellow plastic safety glasses. It should get easier, I should try and make it get easier, she told herself. But every time she was reminded of the baby Lisa carried, she wanted to cry with vexation.

  63

  Jack stood looking out at the frosty February garden of the Queen’s Park house, glass of water in one hand, his morning pill in the other. But he wasn’t thinking about pills. It was 13 February, Stella’s birthday. He had texted a ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, hope it’s a good one xxx’ message at least a quarter of an hour ago, and he was waiting for her to acknowledge it.

  He jumped, his thoughts scattering as Lisa clattered down the stairs. She had kept very trim and fit during her pregnancy. There were only two months to go, but her bump was neat and she intended to work right up till the last minute. ‘Sitting about is not my thing,’ she’d told him sharply when he worried she was getting too tired. Even his solicitude seemed to be a point of contention with her.

  Jack had prepared her granola and yoghurt and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The chamomile teabag rested in her cup, ready for the boiling water. Hair and make-up applied with her usual care and dressed in a stylish, soft-pink maternity top, black leggings and ankle boots, his wife sat down at the table and began to munch on her cereal without a word – no smile, no good-morning. Sometimes Jack felt like a fifties housewife, his ministrations taken completely for granted by his spouse. But he made her tea and placed it on the table, then went back to retrieve his cup of coffee, leaning against the worktop as he sipped the powerful brew. There was no sound in the kitchen, except the steady crunch, crunch of Lisa getting to grips with the nut clusters.

  ‘Remember we’re going to Mark’s book launch tonight,’ he said.

  Her head shot up, but her eyes were blank, as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘My friend, Mark Bloom? His book about the Middle East? It’s upstairs at Waterstones, I told you.’

  Lisa nodded vaguely. ‘OK.’

  ‘So do you want to come?’

  He’d have been quite happy to go by himself. It wasn’t the book launch, as such, which drew him to the West End on a cold spring night. It was just another of his old journalist mates publishing a political account that three people might read – like his own, which still wasn’t finished. But he was fond of Mark. He’d been there the day Jonny died. Jack remembered the two of them frantically searching all the cars outside in the lane, remembered his words of encouragement. ‘He’ll be here somewhere, mate. Don’t panic, we’ll find him.’

  Jack waited till mid-morning before calling Eve. He made small talk for a while – asking after the children and Eric, having a moan about the weather – before asking the question that was burning in his throat: ‘So, is your mum there?’

  Eve was no doubt aware of his agenda, but her voice didn’t betray her suspicions.

  ‘No, she’s at home. She’ll be down at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, right. So she’s not celebrating today?’

  Eve didn’t reply at once, then she said, ‘She’s going out with Peregrine … Perry … Someone she met on New Year’s Eve.’

  Jack gulped. Stella met someone? What was Eve talking about? Trying to keep his voice calm, he asked, ‘You mean … like a friend?’

  Eve hesitated. When she replied, her voice was careful. ‘Well, I’m not sure he’s just a friend, Dad.’

  Jack felt his stomach lurch. ‘Your mother is going out with a man called Peregrine?’ What sort of a name is that? he asked himself, instantly loathing the name, the man, the very fact of his existence.

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Dad …’

  ‘I know she’s been avoiding me for months,’ he said. ‘And I get why. But …’

  ‘You made a choice, Dad,’ Eve spoke gently.

  I didn’t make a choice, he wanted to scream, but he kept silent.

  ‘Right … So where are they going tonight?’ he asked, forcing a nonchalance that fooled nobody.

  ‘Mum said he was taking her to a West End play.’ Eve paused and gave a small chuckle. ‘Could be, umm … Private Lives?’

  Jack, sick with jealousy, did not immediately get the joke.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said eventually. He hadn’t seen the Noël Coward play for donkey’s years, but he knew it was about a divorced couple with a turbulent past meeting again on the French Riviera, both on their second honeymoons.

  ‘Well, you did ask for it, Dad. You’re sounding a bit like a stalker, you know.’

  Jack found it hard to keep the beat of his heart under control. ‘Is your mum serious about this man, Evie?’

  ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, Dad, but I think she sees him quite a lot,’ was his daughter’s tormenting reply.

  Jack pushed against the heavy glass doors of the bookshop. The party had been fun, Jack enjoying a brief catch-up with Mark and all the old lags. He had barely spoken to Lisa all night, but she was swaying drunkenly now as he guided her outside to the street.

  ‘You shouldn’t be drinking,’ he said to her, as soon as they were on the Piccadilly pavement, the cold air making them both gasp and shrink into their coats and scarves.

  Lisa tossed her blon
de hair. ‘It’s none of your business what I do, Jack.’

  Why are people always telling me this? he wondered, suddenly worried that he was existing on the margins of everyone else’s life, including his own. ‘Yes it is,’ he said, firmly. ‘You’re carrying my child. It’s very much my business.’

  ‘I’m allowed to drink.’

  ‘You’re allowed a couple of small glasses each week, but not to get drunk, Lisa.’ He felt like her father as he put his arm through hers and helped her towards the Tube, her heels not ridiculously high, but still high enough to make her totter in her inebriated state.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ she protested drunkenly as they descended the steep steps into Piccadilly Underground. ‘I only had a couple of small glasses.’

  ‘I don’t want to nag,’ Jack said, his tone placatory, dreading a public row, ‘but it’s dangerous for the baby.’

  Lisa pulled herself free from his arm and stalked ahead of him, whacking her Oyster card on the reader and sailing through to the escalator for the Bakerloo Line. He hurried after her, dodging through the heavy evening crowds.

  ‘Lisa!’ he called, out of breath, but she ignored him.

  He finally caught up with her on the northbound platform. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  She just pursed her lips, her eyes fixed on a colourful poster for cheap train journeys on the far side of the track. ‘Stop bullying me about the baby, Jack. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Shocked, he was just about to reiterate that it most certainly was to do with him, when he saw, strolling along the crowded platform towards him, arm in arm, laughing their heads off about something, Stella and a man he assumed to be the ghastly Peregrine. He turned away quickly, praying the train would arrive, praying they wouldn’t see him. The next one to Queen’s Park said, ‘3 mins’: the longest minutes of his life.

  Why is she taking the Bakerloo? he asked himself as he waited, holding his breath. She lives in Hammersmith; she should be on the Piccadilly Line. Then the horrible thought dawned on him that Stella was going home with Peregrine. That decided him. He took hold of Lisa’s arm and swung her round.

  ‘There’s Stella,’ he said. ‘We should say hello.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he boomed, when he arrived at Stella’s side and tapped her on the shoulder. She looked suitably surprised, but relaxed and not at all embarrassed to be seen with the Perry fellow.

  ‘Jack, Lisa! What a coincidence, bumping into you here.’ She kissed Lisa on both cheeks, patted his arm and turned to Peregrine. ‘Perry, this is Jack and Lisa. Jack and Lisa, this is Perry Galbraith.’ They shook hands just as the train slunk slowly into the station and the doors purred open, letting the waiting passengers board.

  They hung on to the overhead bar, swaying with the train’s motion, only Lisa was offered a seat on the crowded Tube. Jack positioned himself next to Stella and muttered, ‘You’re on the wrong line.’ He hated himself for his ridiculous jealousy, but he didn’t feel in control of himself, confronted, as he was, by the man who had potentially stolen Stella’s heart.

  Perry, standing on her other side, laughed. Grey-haired and elegant, he seemed an annoyingly jolly sort of chap to Jack. ‘She’s coming with me,’ Perry said, narrowing his eyes with faux menace.

  Stella had the grace to shoot Jack an uneasy glance, but she still seemed at ease with the situation. Lisa had got up when the train paused in the tunnel and was engaging Stella in confidential pregnancy talk; all signs that she’d had too much to drink had magically vanished when the need arose.

  ‘We change here,’ said Stella, when the train finally arrived at the next station: Oxford Circus. And with a wave they were gone.

  The passengers thinned out and Lisa and Jack sat down, both of them quiet amongst the noisy pockets of revellers. Jack was dismayed. Stella had looked happy, almost carefree.

  As they pulled into Queen’s Park, he shook himself, glancing round at his wife, who hadn’t said a word since Stella got off the train. To his horror he saw that huge tears were spilling silently down her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Lisa said through her tears as they stepped off the train and made their way out of the station. ‘Just don’t bloody ask me, Jack. Don’t …’ She roughly pushed his hand away and began almost to run in the direction of home, Jack, as before, trying hard to keep up.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he asked when they were inside. Lisa, without taking off her navy hooded parka or the pink pashmina wound round her neck, had gone straight to the sofa and thrown herself down, hands by her side, gaze fixed, as if she’d just received a nasty shock.

  Jack stared in puzzlement at his wife. Then he sat down next to her, but did not touch her in case he set off another bout of crying. ‘Tell me, for God’s sake.’ He seemed to spend his life, these days, trying to fathom what his wife was thinking – mostly to no avail.

  Lisa slowly turned her head, just her head, towards him. ‘OK,’ she said, her voice trembling. Then she seemed to pull herself together and sat up, clutching her hands together in her lap. Her nose and cheeks were pink from the cold and Jack thought, not for the first time, how childlike she could be. But she seemed to hesitate and his impatience to find out what was so dire that Lisa would cry publicly on the Tube, made him clench his fists in frustration.

  She did not look at him as she began to speak, her head bowed. ‘You know Greg, one of the producers on the breakfast show?’

  ‘You’ve mentioned him, yes.’

  ‘I had sex with him.’

  Jack jerked back. ‘You had—’

  ‘I think the baby is his,’ she interrupted.

  Too astonished to speak, he just stared at his wife.

  ‘I don’t think, I pretty much know,’ Lisa said. She met his eye, her gaze almost defiant.

  ‘It’s not my baby?’ Jack asked softly, his head reeling. He couldn’t make sense of the information at all.

  Lisa said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent … but the timing, your condoms … it must be Greg’s.’

  It felt odd, almost as if they were discussing plans for the weekend, neither raising their voice or sounding in the least bit angry or upset at the stunning, life-changing news Lisa had just dropped in his lap. Jack fell back on the sofa.

  ‘Christ, Lisa. Really? What … I mean …’ He didn’t know what question, of the hundreds that sprang to mind, to start with.

  She took a long breath, her hands clutched around her belly, which was still covered by her parka.

  ‘It was only twice, when I was up in Yorkshire in the summer.’ She turned pleading eyes on him. ‘I didn’t mean to, Jack, he’s kind of my boss. We just got very drunk, and … I …’ She tailed off.

  Frowning, Jack said, ‘You didn’t use a condom?’

  She shook her head. ‘We didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘And the second time? You didn’t mean to do it a second time?’ Jack couldn’t help the sarcasm. He shook his head. ‘Perhaps you did mean to, Lisa. You couldn’t get pregnant with me.’

  ‘No!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘So it was just a drunken fuck?’

  She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said it all.

  ‘You like him?’

  Her eyes flashed, guilty, then angry. ‘He’s in a relationship,’ she said sullenly.

  Jack let out a sigh. ‘Does he know about the baby?’ Oddly, he didn’t care about Lisa being unfaithful, but he suddenly found he cared very much that the baby, whose tiny curve of a body he’d gazed at on the scan monitor, whom he’d begun to bond with, to anticipate meeting in person, was now not his. He knew, after all the fuss he’d made and the resentment he’d felt about becoming a father again, that this was perverse. But there it was.

  Lisa shook her head.

  ‘Don’t you think he should know?’

  ‘I planned to tell him at New Year. I lied to yo
u: I came back early from Dad’s because he agreed to meet up. Then he didn’t show, didn’t text …’

  ‘Surely you see him at work?’

  ‘Not any more. He got a job with Amazon last Christmas.’ She paused and he saw her blinking away tears. ‘We aren’t in touch.’

  Jack felt exasperated.

  ‘Fucking hell, Lisa. This Greg guy isn’t around, so you decide to pass the baby off as mine?’ He got up, suddenly furious at the way his wife had played him. Furious at the months of angst he’d suffered, the hostility he’d endured, the guilt he’d felt as she manipulated him into parenthood, into trying so hard to make their marriage work, into walking away from Stella. ‘What changed your mind tonight, then?’ His tone was cutting and he saw her flinch.

  ‘Seeing Stella, I suppose. I don’t know, she reminded me of your family and Eve and the kids and how kind you’ve all been to me. I feel like such a total bitch.’

  ‘And if we hadn’t bumped into Stella, you’d just have gone on pretending, let me think for the rest of our lives that it was my child?’

  She shrugged miserably. ‘No. I don’t know. Maybe.’ She paused. ‘I’m so scared of being on my own with the baby. But I couldn’t bear what I was doing, Jack, you have to believe me.’

  And Jack, against his will, found he did believe her. Though he had no idea what he was going to do about it.

  64

  Stella was walking along Addison Gardens on her way home from Perry’s when her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. Jack. She didn’t answer – her policy these days. But every time she felt she was making headway, putting Jack behind her, he would spring up again, like knotweed. A New Year’s Day call, a relayed message via Eve or last night’s random sighting on a train platform – he always got under her skin. She put her phone back in her pocket, but a second later it began buzzing again.

  Stella hesitated, suddenly worried it might be something to do with Eve.

  ‘Jack?’ she said, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice.