by Ruth Heald
When I arrive at the hotel, I ascend the carpeted steps and the doorman holds the door open for me. I walk across the expansive foyer to the check-in desk. The receptionist stares at my slightly-too-small barista uniform and raises her eyebrows, before checking my reservation and handing over the key.
When I get to the room I collapse onto the freshly laundered sheets on the bed and breathe in the clean smell gratefully. I pull my phone from my handbag, take a deep breath and call Mum.
She picks up on the second ring.
‘Katie.’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘You survived the night in your new house, then?’ She laughs and I feel a twinge of irritation, despite everything.
‘Yes, it was fine.’
‘There you go. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.’
I take another deep breath.
‘Mum – Melissa said you’d been in hospital.’
‘Oh.’ She pauses. ‘Just for a check-up.’
‘About your headaches?’
‘Yes. What exactly did Melissa say?’
‘She said you were in hospital, having a scan.’ I can hear the panic in my voice.
‘Yes, that’s right. It was just routine. Nothing to worry about. You need to relax. Stress is bad for the babies. Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll catch up soon, won’t we? I want to hear all about the new house.’
‘Mum—’
‘Bye, darling.’
I stare at my phone. She’s hung up.
* * *
After a week at the hotel I start to get restless. The lie-ins, cooked breakfasts and the short walk to work have helped me recuperate, but I still feel like I’m in limbo, stuck between my new life and my old life. I can feel my babies kicking inside me impatiently and I want to be ready for their arrival. There’s so much to do and so much to buy. A double pram. Cots. Clothes. Blankets. Toys. I can hear the clock ticking whenever I even start to think about it.
Ian gives me regular updates on the house renovations. His team have fitted a top-of-the-range kitchen, repainted the bedroom and living room and replumbed the downstairs toilet. He tells me every tiny detail: the integrated wine fridge in the kitchen, the complexities of Victorian plumbing and the precise shades of paint for the bedroom. But I’m still worried it won’t be finished in time for the babies’ arrival.
One day after work I take the Tube and the bus over to the house.
As I turn into the street I feel a sense of foreboding, the huge houses casting the street in shadow. I remember how much of an outsider this road made me feel, even before I saw the house.
I berate myself. This is a lovely street, a street lots of people would work their whole lives to be able to afford to live on. So why don’t I feel I could be happy here?
I brace myself as I approach the house. Our house. The hedge is still tall and overgrown and I feel a rising sense of panic. I reach the driveway and the disappointment hits me like a punch. It looks exactly the same: the rusty washing machine still sits in the middle of the driveway, the garden is still overgrown and the living room windows are still boarded up. Is it possible that Ian’s just been working on the inside and hasn’t thought to address the outside?
I hear a noise behind me in the undergrowth and I jump. I catch sight of green eyes staring up at me.
Just a cat. It disappears again. But I can’t get rid of the image in my head of the rats running from the house. I shiver.
I take out my key and open the front door, a sense of dread rising up in me.
The hallway is as dark as ever despite the daylight outside and I shine the torch I borrowed from Paula into the house.
Just as I expected. The post has been cleared out of the hallway, but apart from that it looks exactly the same. My heart sinks.
I reach for the light switch, knowing nothing will happen when I press it. But to my surprise, light floods the hallway from the bare bulb on the landing. Ian has at least managed to turn on the electricity.
I hesitate, not sure if I should go in any further.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
I worry that Ian might be inside, that I’ll have to explain I’m checking up on him.
I hear men’s voices in the kitchen, but they don’t sound like Ian. I walk through to see a brand-new kitchen, freshly fitted, just like he said. Two workmen stand in the middle of it, drinking tea. We exchange pleasantries and then I continue my journey round the house. I start to feel guilty as I notice all the work that’s been done in just a week. Behind the boarded-up windows, the living room has been painted. The downstairs bathroom has been replumbed. I should never have doubted Ian.
Outside, a driver is unloading boxes from his van. I expect they’re for the house. I try to walk discreetly by, but the man calls out.
‘Do you live at number fourteen, miss?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I’m off out now.’
‘Can you just sign for these?’
I look down at the packages and see a line drawing of a cot on the cardboard. There are two identical boxes. Ian must have ordered them to surprise me. I feel a ripple of excitement and put my hand to my belly. It’s all starting to feel more real.
‘Could you take them inside?’ I ask, keen to get away in case Ian returns and sees me here. ‘There are men inside who’ll sign for it.’
‘Do you need some help, Katie?’
I look up, surprised. It’s Paula.
‘No, no. I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘I’ll take these inside, then,’ the man says, and sets off down the driveway.
‘I was just at the coffee shop and I saw the van arrive. I thought you might need help with carrying in the packages.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But it’s OK. I was just leaving.’
‘It looks like you’re making quick work of doing up the house.’
‘Yes.’ I smile at her, remembering how helpful she was when I first came to the house a week ago. ‘Thanks for lending me the torch.’
‘No problem.’
I rack my brains to think where I left it. I just had it in the house. ‘I’m not quite sure where it is…’ I say, embarrassed. ‘Do you need it now?’ I don’t want to go back inside and look for it. Ian could be back any time.
‘Just give it back to me when you’re sorted. I’m always at the coffee shop anyway, when I’m between clients.’
I’d assumed she was retired. ‘What do you do?’ I ask, curious.
‘I’m a doula. I look after pregnant women before, during and after the birth. I’ve just finished a longer-term role with a local lady. I spent a few months helping her look after her new baby. Her husband worked in the city and was never there, so she needed my support.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I touch my own belly, feeling my twins kick. I remember her handling my stomach in the house. That must have been why. It’s her job.
‘I just love babies,’ Paula continues. ‘Always have done. But don’t let me hold you up. I only came over to see if you needed any help.’
‘Thanks again,’ I say.
Paula smiles at me. ‘Any time you need help with anything, just give me a call.’ She pulls a card out of her wallet. ‘My details are on here. If you have any questions about birth, or anything at all, I’m happy to help.’
I take the card and make my excuses. I’m not sure I’ll need the services of a doula, and there’s no way I’d be able to afford to pay for it myself. I walk with Paula to the coffee shop across the road and we part with polite smiles. The sky has clouded over for the first time in weeks, and I feel a rush of relief at the thought of a break from the relentless heat.
I’m about to hurry away to get to the station before the rain, but something makes me stop and turn back round towards the coffee shop. Paula gives me a little wave from the table by the window and I lift my hand in return. I’m about to walk off when I stop stock-still, staring back towards the café.
There’s a well-dressed blonde woman in her late fifties w
ith dark glasses standing on the street outside the coffee shop, fanning herself with her wide-brimmed sunhat. She looks like she might be a neighbour, but she doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Instead she’s standing by the blackboard outside the café, completely still. But she’s not looking at the board. Her face is tilted upwards towards our house, her hand up across her forehead, shielding her skin from the hot sun.
Suddenly she turns in my direction. I can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I can feel them boring into me. I meet her gaze. She looks back without moving a muscle and it gets so intense that I have to turn away. As I move off down the street I can still feel her eyes burning into my back, and I have a sudden desire to break into a run.
3
Dad’s home from work. He’s in the kitchen, waiting impatiently for his dinner. I stand in the doorway watching, too afraid to move. I’ve come down to get a book my teacher gave me to read at home. But it’s on the other side of the kitchen, out of reach.
I know he’s angry. He seems taller than usual, a looming shadow over Mum. She’s cooking, stirring some kind of casserole. The wooden spoon bangs into the sides of the pot over and over again as if Mum is angry too.
He’s right up behind her. She knows it. He knows it. And I know it.
I see his arms reach out towards her. I think he’s going to hit her or grab her, but instead they wrap around her waist. She jumps.
He embraces her and for a moment they sway together. Then she lets go of the spoon, turns her head slightly and he kisses her.
I watch, shocked. I’ve never seen any sign of this before between my parents. But it looks like the love we see in films. Kissing. Cuddling. Could it be that they truly love each other?
I don’t know how to feel. A part of me feels like finally things are right, that they are acting the way they’re supposed to. I’m relieved. They must really be in love, not just pretending. But another part of me feels icky. As if I’ve suddenly become aware of some horrible truth. That this is what real love looks like. Not presents and flowers and chocolates. Not frogs kissing princesses and turning into princes. If my parents are truly in love, then the fights and the bruises on Mum’s pale skin are real love. The anger and the pain are real love.
I’m flooded with disappointment. I want to go back to my room, to run away from my confused thoughts. But I don’t. Instead, I just watch.
I watch as he turns her around, I watch as their bodies hug each other tight, see her wince as his arms squeeze against her injuries. Then he starts to rip off her clothes, his hands pushing up her skirt, pulling down her tights. It’s all so fast, and she lets out a squeal of pain as he shoves her up against the wall.
Then he’s pushing against her, her head banging against the wall. She’s out of breath, her face red, his redder. He’s squashing her. He’s killing her.
‘No!’ I scream, running out of the doorway. ‘Don’t hurt her. No!’
‘It’s OK,’ Mum says, her eyes wild, looking from me to him and then back again.
He continues, hurting her, and I reach out and grab the back of his shirt. ‘Get off her!’
‘Go away,’ she screams at me. ‘Just go away!’
Tears slide down my cheeks.
My father lets out a low grunt and then pulls away from her.
He pulls up his trousers, and turns to me.
‘Little brat!’ he screams. ‘You ruin everything.’
I run as fast as I can. As I dart through the door something cold strikes the back of my head and knocks me to the floor.
Seven
When Ian and I return to the house together a week later the driveway has been cleared of rubbish, the skip is overflowing, the garden has been cut back and the front door and garage have been painted cornflower blue. The house is transformed, now indistinguishable from the others on the street. I can’t stop smiling, and my heart’s full with hope for our future together. Suddenly it feels like a happy life with Ian and the twins is within my grasp.
Ian insists on carrying me over the threshold, manoeuvring sideways through the door to accommodate my pregnant belly. Inside, the hallway is freshly painted, with a large pendant light hanging down from the ceiling. In the living room, the boards have been removed from the huge bay windows and light floods through the gaps in the venetian blinds, highlighting the soft new cream-coloured carpet and the restored Victorian fireplace.
‘We still need to do the dining room,’ Ian says, as I peer in. ‘I was waiting to ask you what you wanted to use it for. I thought maybe it could be a children’s playroom.’
I smile at the image, imagining our twins aged four or five, playing with their toys. It’s hard to believe that that will be my life, living in this huge house with Ian and our two girls. The image is picture-postcard perfect. Yet despite everything, I feel uneasy. It’s as if I’ve been picked up and transported into someone else’s life.
I swallow the feelings down. Once I settle in, I’ll be fine. Everything’s just been so rushed, it’s no wonder it seems like a big adjustment.
When I see the old piano, I smile. I’m so glad it’s still here. I have a sudden urge to sit down and play my worries away. But Ian wants to continue the tour, and I exclaim at the new kitchen, not willing to admit that I’ve already seen it. Upstairs the bathroom has been done up and a new shower fitted. Our bedroom is carpeted and painted, with new curtains and the two tiny cribs assembled next to the bed. Ian’s put a bed in the second double, but otherwise the rest of the upstairs is untouched.
‘I thought you’d want to choose the paint colours for the nursery,’ he says. ‘And anyway, the babies will be in with us for the first six months, so we’ll have plenty of time to do up the rest of the bedrooms.’
‘It’s perfect, Ian,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ I feel a rush of emotion and I’m not sure if it’s love or relief. I lean in towards him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him full on the lips.
* * *
Two days later I’m getting ready for my baby shower and I’m filled with nerves. Two weeks ago, I was dreading this day, embarrassed by the derelict house. But now I have the opposite concern: that perhaps the house is too ostentatious, that my friends will think I’ve had a personality transplant and become completely materialistic.
In the kitchen, I take the new champagne flutes Ian has bought out of the packaging. Ian’s stocked up our fridge with alcohol and insisted on buying an expensive pink cake from the local baker’s. I’ll be drinking the sparkling elderflower juice that Amy’s bringing.
I look in the cupboards and realise we don’t have any napkins or kitchen roll.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ian says. ‘There’s a supermarket up the road. I’ll get some. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
When Ian returns, a bag of napkins tucked under his arm, I’ve put my make-up on and I’m pacing back and forth in the hallway.
‘Katie, stop worrying.’ Ian puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me pacing, then drops his arm round me, stroking my hair with his other hand as he looks straight into my eyes. ‘I’ll look after everyone. I’ll serve the food and drink and direct people to the toilet. You just sit in the living room and relax.’
‘OK.’ I smile.
‘And don’t worry about what anyone thinks. This baby shower is about you and the twins. It’s about you carrying two babies around all day, every day for nine months. It’s about celebrating motherhood.’ He tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘Don’t let anyone ruin it for you.’
The doorbell rings and I find Amy standing outside, a look of wonder on her face. She’s come early to help me set up.
‘Wow, this place is even bigger than it looked in the pictures.’
‘I know,’ I reply, almost apologetically.
‘Nice chandelier,’ she says, looking up at the extravagant light fitting on the upstairs landing.
‘Thanks.’
She looks at me and grins. ‘And why exactly did you phone me and say you wanted to come back and live in the
flat? This place is amazing.’
‘It wasn’t like this before. It was completely derelict.’
‘Derelict? Sure. Admit it – you just wanted to come back because you missed me.’ She wraps me in a tight hug.
‘Well, I have missed you,’ I reply.
‘You don’t need to make excuses to come back and see me. You can come over any time.’
I smile, but I don’t think Amy has any inkling how hard it would be to make the trip across London with newborn twins. I’m not sure I do either. It was only when I started looking at double buggies the other day that it dawned on me just how difficult it will be to get around. There’s no way I could carry one down the steps to the Tube on my own.
‘Come inside.’ I give her a quick tour of the house, watching her eyes widen in amazement with each new feature.
‘So Ian turned out to be a catch after all?’ Amy says loudly.
‘Shhh… He’s just downstairs.’
She laughs.
I nod and change the subject. ‘There’re still a few bits we need to do for the baby shower before everyone arrives.’
We go downstairs and Ian presents her with a glass of champagne, which she carries outside to the front of the house and continues to hold as she stands on a chair to pin up a banner. I feel the hot sun on my face as I watch her wobbling, leaning into the hedge as she ties the banner with one hand and spills her drink with the other.
‘Isn’t that a bit much?’ I say, looking doubtfully at the huge letters which announce my baby shower. ‘I mean, it’s not like it’s an open event. The people I’ve invited know the address.’
‘Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s your baby shower. You’re only going to get one, unless you’re planning on having more kids after your twins?’ She looks down at me from the chair, eyebrows raised, champagne glass held askew.