by Ruth Heald
‘No,’ he says, with a smile. ‘I’ve always been married to my work. I wanted to build the business to have the security before I started a family.’
‘It’s a bit late for you to start a family,’ Mum says, and I blush.
I feel the weight of my secret, like a stone in my stomach. It’s not too late at all.
‘I think the casserole’s ready,’ I say, praying it actually is ready this time. I dread to think what question she might ask next.
‘People start families later and later these days, Mum,’ Melissa says. Melissa’s forty and her husband Graham’s forty-five, eight years younger than Ian.
‘I didn’t mean you, love.’ Mum reaches her hand out and touches her shoulder, but Melissa shrugs it off.
‘I keep myself fit and well,’ Ian says. ‘Anything’s possible.’ I can’t bear to meet his eye.
‘It can take a long time to get pregnant,’ my sister says, and my heart aches for her.
Not always, I think, as I reach my hands into the oven to take out the dish. How the hell am I ever going to tell them all?
‘Ow!’ I’ve been so distracted I forgot to put the oven gloves on. The casserole pot is already halfway out of the oven and it falls to the floor before I can stop it, bits of chicken and broken china flying across the kitchen.
I burst into tears.
Ian rushes over and puts his arm round me. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
I glance up and meet my sister’s eyes through my tears. Her gaze is so intense that for a moment I think she knows my secret. She can see right through me, like she could when we were children and we were so close I thought she could read my mind.
I can’t keep it inside me anymore. It’s too huge to contain. And sooner or later everyone in this room will know anyway.
‘I'm pregnant,’ I blurt out. I only mean to whisper, but the words shoot out louder than I intend, filling the kitchen.
As soon as I’ve spoken I regret it. Even my mother is silent. The clock in the kitchen ticks so loudly I wonder why I never noticed it before.
I hear my sister’s chair scrape back suddenly on the kitchen tiles, and she bolts from the room.
When I finally dare to look up Ian is staring at me, speechless, his eyes full of questions.
Two
Six Months Later
I force the zip closed on my last suitcase. I’m all packed. After five years, I’m moving out of my flatshare. I’ll miss the hustle and bustle of communal living, and my late-night chats with Amy. But there’s no way I can stay. Not now. I smile as I touch my belly and feel one of my twins kick against my hand.
In just a couple of months my life will be completely different. I’ll be a mother to two girls, in a big house in suburbia, living with my property developer partner. It sounds good on paper, but inside I’m terrified.
I was stunned when Ian turned out to be delighted about my pregnancy, and excited I was carrying twins. It was then I finally realised I was in love with him. Since we found out he keeps buying little gifts for the babies; tiny booties and delicate blankets, soft toys and rattles.
As soon as the sonographer showed us the twins wriggling about on the scan, we both instantly fell in love with them. They touched each other in the womb, hands reaching out and brushing each other, as if they already felt a connection. Ian’s hand squeezed mine as we watched.
Even Mum’s happy after the initial shock. She’s been telling her friends about my big house, rich boyfriend and future children. I’ve switched from a cautionary tale to a success story overnight.
I survey the empty bedroom, ready and waiting for the next tenant to arrive this afternoon. Without my stuff cluttering every surface and my pictures on the walls, my old room looks soulless and bare.
I swallow my sadness and turn to leave, shutting the door behind me.
In the living room Amy gets up to say goodbye. I wrap her in a hug. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ she replies. Amy’s lived here nearly as long as I have. While other housemates have passed through, the two of us have remained, closer than sisters.
‘What am I going to do without you?’
‘You’ll have Ian.’
I half smile and she grins back at me.
‘I’m glad he turned out to be alright after all,’ she says.
When Ian and I first got together, he’d revealed so little about himself that Amy and I would entertain ourselves by making up stories about a secret double life he might lead. Middle-class drug dealer. Russian spy. Male escort.
‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’ I ask, doubts rising to the surface once more.
Amy raises her eyebrows. ‘The right thing? Of course you are! I would die for an opportunity like this. It’s like you’ve won the lottery. You’re moving into a multimillion-pound house in a really nice area.’
I smile at her. Ian’s commandeered one of the houses his company owns for us to live in. They bought it a couple of months ago, and luckily no one’s moved in yet. As soon as I told Amy that Ian and I were moving in together she found the old listing for the house on Rightmove and showed me the pictures. The house is beautiful: three storeys and five bedrooms, a modern kitchen diner opening out on to huge gardens and a bathroom with a cast iron bath by a window overlooking a park. Amy was desperate for us to go together and check it out before I moved in, but then her friend had a crisis. He’d split up with his boyfriend and needed somewhere to stay. I’m moving out of the flat a bit earlier than planned so he can take my room. I’ll be in the new house for a few days on my own before Ian joins me. His elderly mother is moving out of his place into sheltered accommodation in a few days’ time, and he’ll join me when she’s settled.
‘I’ll miss this,’ I say, indicating the tatty sofas and piles of newspapers in the corner.
‘Seriously? You’ll miss the mud on the carpet, Mike never cleaning the kitchen, Cliff playing the PlayStation until 2 a.m., and no one ever cleaning the toilet?’
‘Well, when you put it like that.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK moving in on your own?’ she asks. Ian wanted to take the day off to help me move, but he has too much work on.
I smile at Amy. ‘Of course.’
‘Are you certain you don’t want me to come with you?’
‘You’ve already done enough. I’ll only have a suitcase to carry now you’ve organised that van.’ Amy’s mate’s going to drive the rest of my things to my new house tomorrow afternoon after work.
Her expression turns serious. ‘You’re doing the right thing, honestly. But if you need me, I’m only a phone call away.’
‘Yeah.’ I think of all the nights we’ve sat opposite each other on the faded sofas, having heart to hearts about boyfriends and jobs and life. A phone call won’t be the same.
‘Don’t cry,’ Amy says, reaching out and gently wiping a tear from my cheek. ‘You’ll get me started.’
‘Well, then,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Amy smiles through her tears. ‘Yes, at your baby shower. I can’t wait. You can show me round the new place then.’
I give her one final hug. Neither of us want to let go, but I make myself pull away. I take my suitcase and then turn and leave the living room for the last time, tears running down my face. I remind myself I have to be strong. I have the twins to think about now. My future is with Ian and the babies.
* * *
Two hours, two hot Tubes and a taxi ride later, I turn into the street: Adelaide Road. I’m glad I decided to just bring one suitcase of essentials on the sweaty journey.
The street looks exactly as it did on Google Street View. Huge plane trees line the pavements and shield the three-storey houses from prying eyes. The domineering, detached, double-fronted houses cast me in shadow and I feel tiny. I imagine families playing together in the front rooms, haloed by the light from the wide bay windows. I look up in awe. Delicate balconies look out over the road from
the top floors.
A young child whizzes past me on a scooter, in a sky-blue school blazer and matching hat. A woman follows behind him, young with long acrylic nails, chatting on her mobile in another language.
She pauses her conversation to shout after him.
‘Frederick – wait at the crossing! Remember what your mother said.’
She must be his nanny. I wonder what world I’m moving into; who could live in these impossibly huge houses. Lawyers and bankers and high-flyers, I guess. And now me.
I swallow, feeling out of place in the summer dress I bought in the supermarket. The people round here must be swimming in wealth. I’m never going to fit in. I’ve always rejected the idea that money leads to happiness. My own seemingly idyllic, middle-class childhood, spent in a sizeable house in the suburbs, taught me that.
I go past the identical red-brick mansions, the bright green manicured gardens. The only slight expression of individuality comes from the cars on the driveways and the colours of the garages and front doors, which are varying shades of grey, blue and green. I’m looking for my house, the one Amy showed me on Rightmove, but I realise I don’t remember the colour of the garage. I doubt I’ll be able to distinguish it from all the others.
I glance at the address again. Number fourteen.
The road changes as it nears the high street. The trees shelter the occasional parked car and there’s a coffee shop on the other side of the road. I must be nearly there now. I feel my first buzz of excitement. This will be the start of a new life for us.
I pass number twelve. In front of the racing-green garage, its gravel drive showcases a Porsche and an SUV, next to a perfectly maintained, characterless flower bed.
The next one must be number fourteen.
I stop and stare.
A huge overgrown hedge obscures the house from view. Bins overflow onto the concrete driveway, and a rusty washing machine sits among McDonald’s wrappers and broken beer bottles. In one corner of the driveway there are ashes from a recent fire.
My heart sinks.
This can’t be it.
I fight my way to the front door, past the boarded-up, graffiti-covered bay window, brambles scraping my bare knees under my summer dress and drawing blood. I can just make out the tiled path beneath the vegetation.
The paint has peeled off the front door, exposing the dark wood below. The ivy that covers the front of the house has stretched its fingers over the entrance, and I pull it away with my hands revealing the number.
Fourteen.
1
My sister lies next to me, the fear in her blue eyes reflecting mine as we listen to our parents fight from the safety of our bedroom. My pyjamas are drenched in sweat, clinging to my body.
It’s so hot it feels like I’m drowning.
Drowning is one of the things that could kill us. My dad likes to list them sometimes. Drowning. Being run over by a car. Being stabbed by the kitchen knives. Sometimes when he lists them it sounds like he’s trying to protect us, to make sure we’re careful. But we know they’re really a threat. Things that might happen if we’re naughty. If we don’t do as he says.
I want to get up and open the window, but I’d never be brave enough to tiptoe across the bedroom. I don’t think I could without being heard.
A door slams.
I feel pressure in my head. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s like the drum I like to play in the music class at school. Except the drum is inside me, beating louder and louder.
Another door slams. The shouting gets angrier. I wonder if one day Mum will snap and kill him. I’d like that, I think. Just me, Mum and my sister. I wouldn’t be scared then. What would there be left to be scared of?
The shouting is closer now, and I cover my ears so I can’t make out the words. I don’t want to hear how much they hate each other. Outside the world is muffled. I can just make out the low roar of my father, like the dinosaur in the storybook Mum used to read me. Mum’s response is a squeak, like the tiny field mouse.
My sister moves closer to me and puts her arm round my hot skin. She cocoons me with her body and pulls the sheets over us both. Under the covers, my eyes adjust until they meet hers.
‘Everything will be alright,’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘We’ll always have each other.’
I snuggle into her. She’s right. As long as we’re together, we’ll always be safe.
Three
This is it. Number fourteen. The house I’m supposed to be moving into. Today.
Beads of sweat run down my forehead and I scratch angrily at the old scar on my upper arm.
Maybe it’s the wrong house.
I take my key out of my handbag and turn it over in my hand.
I pull the ivy off the door, take a deep breath and insert the key into the rusty lock. It fits. With a bit of force, it turns and I hear the bolt shift reluctantly. The door has expanded in the heat, and I have to shoulder-barge it before it opens. Then it catches the breeze and swings wildly, banging into the wall beyond and bouncing back towards me.
Pushing the door open, I peer into the wide hallway. A musty, rotten smell fills my senses and I can just make out a dusty pile of old post in the dark.
I stop and glance over my shoulder. Despite the glare of the sun, the house is in shadow. I realise I can’t see the street beyond the tall hedges. No one could even see I’m here.
There must be some kind of a mistake. I feel sick. Ian can’t expect me to stay here on my own.
I look at my suitcase on the doorstep beside me and blink back tears. So much for a fresh start. I dial Ian’s number, my anger building.
No answer. As usual. He’s always working. I try again. Still no answer. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I’ll have to go back to the flatshare. But the thought of explaining why to Amy makes me flush with shame.
I take deep breaths and try to calm myself. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the house isn’t as bad on the inside as it looks on the outside.
I take a single step onto the stained offcut of green-brown carpet which serves as a doormat and feel around for a light switch. The wall feels bumpy, as if the wallpaper is textured. Eventually I feel the dirty plastic of a switch. I flick it hopefully on and off, but of course, it doesn’t work. The electricity has been cut off. In desperation I turn my phone torch on.
I tiptoe inside, sensing the need to be quiet, as if I don’t want to disturb the house. I can feel the stagnant air moving with me as I make my way inside. This house is supposed to be our home, but I feel like an intruder. I can’t imagine ever feeling like it belongs to us.
I glance up the dark staircase and see the rectangular patches of darker wallpaper, which must have been shielded at one time by pictures. I can just about make out the flowered pattern on the paper and I imagine family photos filling the walls. Who lived here? Who let it get into this state?
The thought of someone living in this place makes me shiver, even though it’s hotter than hell. I remember the ashes on the driveway from a fire, the rubbish overflowing the bins, the graffiti. The cavernous house would be perfect for a squat. What if I’m not alone? What if there are already people living here?
I must pull myself together. If there was someone living here I would have heard them by now. My curiosity spurs me on across the bare floorboards, which creak and groan beneath my weight as I venture through the hallway. The walls are speckled with unrecognisable dark stains and a patch of black mould descends from the ceiling. I pass a bookcase overflowing with books and paperwork, a reminder that this was once someone’s home.
I hesitantly push open the first door I come to, afraid of what I’ll find. Empty. Except for the flies circling round an unidentifiable black shadow. Is there something dead there? A mouse? Or a rat? I swallow.
In the tiny galley kitchen, I’m relieved to see there’s no sign of cooking on the ancient stove. Brambles block the back door entirely, so I can only see out of the top half of the window and vines have crept t
hrough a yellowing cat-flap and spread over the floor. The garden could be tiny or huge. I can’t tell. I try the door handle and it gives a little, the screws loose. I push a bit harder and the door lurches outwards, detaching from the rotten wooden frame. It opens about half an inch, hemmed in by the vegetation. It hadn’t been locked.
I think of Ian with rising anger. What was he thinking? There’s no way I could sleep in an unlocked, derelict house on my own.
I try to return the door to the frame, but one of the hinges is loose and it hangs unevenly. I abandon my efforts. I’ve seen enough. It’s time to leave.
When I step back out of the front door and into the daylight, I breathe in the fresh air desperately. I look at my lonely suitcase, still sitting on the step.
* * *
The coffee shop across the road is the only building that comes close to looking as run-down as the house. The sign outside offers a full English breakfast with coffee for £4.99, as it creaks in the wind. Inside, the smell of coffee competes with the smell of bacon, but loses the battle. I order and take a seat on a chipped wooden chair at a checked Formica table. The decor wouldn’t look out of place in a hipster bar, but I think the tables here date from when they were fashionable the first time round. I’ve worked in places like this, serving workmen breakfasts early in the morning and stressed mums with screaming babies coffee later in the day.
The builders at the counter hand over fivers from paint-splattered hands and then leave, most likely to work on one of the loft conversions that seem to be taking place at every other house along the road. The café is quiet now, with just one other customer left. A woman on her own, reading the papers. The table I’ve chosen is next to hers, beside a rusty electric fan, which does little more than move the hot, sticky air around the room.
The reality of my situation is starting to sink in. The house isn’t fit to live in. I’ve no idea what Ian was thinking, but he’s let me down. The perfect life I’d imagined with him and our twins was just a fantasy. I feel sick. I must calm down. I take a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue, as I try to quell my anger.