Anyway, despite my fright, I’m actually glad Jack is up and about. I feel less vulnerable with him here. I’ve always felt that way. There is something solid and immoveable about my brother-in-law, the man who first came into our lives when we were destroyed by grief. His is a reassuring presence.
‘Well, that all sounds very healthy,’ I say, walking across to the kettle. ‘Now, would you like a coffee or are you off that too?’
‘Oh God, no, I need my caffeine,’ he says.
I fill the kettle then go to the fridge to get the milk. There’s only a drop left.
‘Is black okay for you, Jack?’ I say. ‘We’re out of milk.’
‘Ah, damn, I forgot to pick it up yesterday,’ he says, rubbing his eyes. ‘I better go and get some. Your sister gets tetchy if she doesn’t have her cup of builder’s tea and I’m guessing she’ll have quite the headache this morning.’
I watch as he grabs his wallet and keys from the kitchen table and heads out of the door.
Suddenly alone, I feel vulnerable. I look out of the window at the tangle of garden with its hidden corners and twisty pathways. Anyone could be hiding out there. I go to the French windows, make sure Jack locked them properly. He did. Of course he did. Stop worrying. But then I hear something outside. Rustling. Is someone there or is it just the breeze whistling through the trees? I can’t be sure, but what I do know is that I feel unsafe here, exposed.
I decide to go upstairs and get dressed, distract myself. After my shower I carefully apply some make-up and take my favourite blue sundress out of the wardrobe. I always feel happy when I wear it.
I open the curtains and look out at the common. There’s a golden haze hanging above it, another beautiful summer’s day. I see old Mr Allen walking his dog, a mother and child sitting on a yellow picnic blanket patterned with bright-red stars, and a man in a suit, striding across the overgrown path, head bowed over his phone. Beyond them, I see joggers and commuters, nannies with their charges. The day is breaking open.
But as I stand here looking out at all those people going about their business I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness. I had been like them once, happy, busy, focused, planning my future with the man I loved. And then it was all ripped away from me, in a heartbeat.
Hearing Jack’s key in the lock, I step away from the window, but as I do so my phone bleeps. I pick it up. It’s a text message from a number I don’t recognize. I hear Jack’s footsteps on the stone floor downstairs as I open the message and read the words.
You looked beautiful just now. Blue has always been the perfect colour for you.
My body goes cold despite the heat of the day.
Without thinking, I click on the number and wait for it to ring but it’s a dead line.
If this is Connor, has he set up another new number? And if so, why is the line dead?
My brain fizzes with fear and confusion.
One thing is certain: whoever sent this can see up to my window and they’re out there right now.
Watching.
20. Then
July 2018
It is six weeks since the night of the burlesque club and I still haven’t had a period. There must be some explanation for it, I think to myself as I sit at my desk trying to focus on the presentation I’m preparing. I press save on the document, pick up my phone and search ‘missed period not pregnant’. There is a list of possible reasons, from stress to sudden weight loss to polycystic ovary syndrome. I search the latter. It can’t be that because I don’t have any symptoms. I haven’t lost weight either. Stress? Well, the last few weeks have been a bit fraught, though I wouldn’t say I’ve been so stressed as to cause my periods to stop. The only plausible reason would be pregnancy but that is impossible because Connor told me he’d stopped when he realized I was so drunk.
I miss Lottie more than ever now. She’s the only person I could be completely open with. Though I know Georgie would want to know, I still feel a bit like she’s my mum – like she’d be disappointed in me somehow. I try to imagine what Lottie would say. She’d probably suggest I get a pregnancy test to rule it out. That would be the sensible thing.
I close down my computer, grab my bag and jacket and head out to the King’s Road. When I get to Boots, I take a quick look round to check that there’s no one from the office milling about. I know some of the younger staff still buy their cosmetics from here despite their 10 per cent discount on Luna London products. Thankfully, the shop is quiet. I quickly grab a testing kit, take it to the counter and pay. When I get out into the fresh air I feel light-headed. I take deep breaths as I slowly make my way back to the office.
The test stays in my bag for the rest of the morning. I’m aware of its presence as one would be of an unexploded bomb. Finally, as most of the staff troop out for lunch, I grab my bag and head for the disabled toilet at the far end of the first floor.
With shaking hands I rip off the foil wrapper and follow the instructions. As I wait, a heavy feeling descends on my shoulders. My periods have been as regular as clockwork since the age of thirteen. A no-show like this can mean only one thing. But still, when the two minutes are up and the word ‘pregnant’ appears on the digital screen my heart feels like it has been ripped from my chest.
I’m terrified, not just because I’m pregnant but because now I know for certain that Connor lied to me.
When I was a little girl I used to imagine what it would be like when I had children of my own. Losing Mum at the age of ten had made me determined to recreate the magical time we had spent together in those early years. In my imagination, the moment of conception would have been planned for and it would feel momentous and fated. Finding out the news would be a shared experience – the father and I would sit together, excitedly, as we waited for the result to appear. Then we would embrace, perhaps jump up and down with glee, before starting to make plans. Doctor’s appointments would be made, names chosen, nurseries decorated.
This reality bears no resemblance to what I’d imagined. Sitting in a disabled loo, holding a stick and trying to remember the actual act that led to this had not been part of the plan. I feel removed from it all, a ghost floating through a story I have not written.
But I know one thing for certain. I can’t tell Connor. I have to deal with this myself and I know, under the circumstances, that there can be only one outcome.
The appointment was relatively straightforward to make. When you already feel disconnected from yourself, answering a few personal, probing questions to a disembodied voice on the phone doesn’t matter like it would have in the past. A date and time was confirmed, and now I find myself, five days after taking the test, sitting in a clinic, listening to a nurse called Helena describe what will happen to me over the next forty-eight hours.
It all sounds so simple. I will take one tablet – named mifepristone – at the clinic and this will stop the pregnancy by blocking the progesterone hormone. I will then be given the second medicine – misoprostol – which I will take twenty-four hours later at home and that will make my womb contract and expel the baby.
Moments ago I had lain on the examining table while Helena rubbed a clear jelly-like substance on my tummy then rubbed over it with a probe. It was a moment I had imagined for years. The moment I finally saw my baby. Never in a million years had I thought it would be like this.
‘Do you want to see the screen?’ Helena had asked. ‘It’s okay not to. Most women don’t.’
I had shaken my head and Helena had turned the screen away from me. Whatever was on it, whatever existed in my womb at that point, had no right to be there.
I blink away the memory as Helena outlines possible side effects – nausea, cramping, dizziness – and gives me the instructions for taking the second pill. Then she hands me the first pill and a glass of water. I stare at them, suddenly unable to move. Helena had already asked me if I was completely certain a few minutes earlier as she gave me the consent form, and I had nodded my head in a kind of daze and signed it. H
owever, the sight of the pill, the finality and enormity of what I am about to do, makes me suddenly question myself. This is a baby, a life I have created. Two days ago I had stupidly looked up the dates on a pregnancy app and saw that at seven weeks, as the baby now was, it was forming its brain and hands and limbs. As I sit here looking at the small white pill, itself no bigger than the baby in my womb, I feel wretched, like a woman about to jump off a cliff. Then Helena asks me if I’m okay, if I want to proceed, and I’m hauled back into the moment. This is not a baby, I tell myself, this is the result of something I cannot remember. And it’s my body, my choice. I put the pill in my mouth and swallow it down.
I can’t go back to the flat until this is all over. I can’t go to Lottie’s as she’s no longer there and I don’t want to tell Georgie and Jack, so I end up booking myself into a cheap hotel on Putney Bridge. It isn’t luxurious, but it is clean and private, somewhere I can lock myself away, undisturbed, for a couple of days. I told Connor that I was going to Edinburgh for a series of meetings with retailers. On the way to the hotel I go into the Waitrose Local in Putney and buy a couple of tubs of pasta salad, some fruit and two large bottles of water. I also buy a hot-water bottle, which Helena had recommended for the pain, and settle myself in to my new home for the next two days, telling myself that this square, neutral room is a little haven, a place to clear my head and rest.
The next day, at 3 p.m., I administer the second pill and wait. At first, nothing happens. I turn on the TV and, as the opening credits of Bargain Hunt begin, start to feel a dull ache in my stomach. I take the painkillers that Helena gave me and get into bed. The pain gradually increases but it’s bearable. What isn’t bearable is the voice inside my head, telling me that I am a bad person, that I am killing my own flesh and blood, that I don’t deserve to ever be happy again, that by doing this I have brought bad luck down on myself for ever. I put my hands over my ears to try and block the voice out, but it gets louder and more insistent. When, finally, the pain reaches a crescendo and I run to the loo just in time to feel the baby leave me, the voice is screaming.
It’s still screaming as I slump back to bed and sleep a dead, dreamless sleep and it’s still there when I wake up at 7 a.m., dress and make my way back to the flat.
I reach into my bag to retrieve my keys and as I do I bring out the leaflets Helena gave me at the clinic. ‘How to cope after an abortion.’ ‘Contraception advice.’ ‘Having sex again after an abortion.’ I feel sick as I read the words. I don’t want any reminders of what I’ve just done. Scrunching the leaflets into a ball, I throw them, and my appointment card, into the wheelie bin outside the flat then make my way inside.
Thankfully, Connor is not there and I dump my coat and bag in the hallway and head into the living room where I curl up on the sofa with a blanket pulled over me, still bleeding but no longer in pain.
I wake to someone vigorously shaking my arms. At first I think I’m dreaming but as I come to I see Connor standing by the sofa. His face is red and his mouth puckered. He looks furious. I blink my eyes and panic floods through my body. He is holding the appointment card from the clinic and the follow-on leaflets Helena gave me. How has he got them? I know I threw them away.
He puts his face to mine and hisses in my ear.
‘What the hell have you done, Vanessa?’
21. Now
‘Fancy a bit of brunch in the village?’
I look up from my phone and see Georgie standing in the kitchen doorway. She looks much better this morning. Her face is clear and bright, and she has washed and blow-dried her hair.
‘No worries if you’re busy, though,’ she says, gesturing to the phone.
I’d deleted the message, after trying to call the number and making a note of it, then blocked the sender. That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? I ask myself, watching as Georgie tries the handle of the French doors. I feel wary of leaving the house. What if Connor is still out there? Waiting for me. Still, better to be with Georgie than stay in the house. He can’t do anything to me if I’m with others, outside.
‘No, I’d like to come,’ I say, popping my phone into my jeans pocket.
I’d changed out of the blue dress after getting the message. I’d almost ripped it off in my haste. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’
‘Did you see Jack this morning?’ says Georgie, scooping up her door keys from the kitchen counter.
‘Yes,’ I reply, checking, despite Georgie already doing so, that the French windows are locked. ‘He was up and about early, said he’s on a fitness kick.’
‘Hmm,’ says Georgie, a frown darkening her face.
‘He came back then went to get some milk,’ I say, getting my sandals from the rack in the hallway. ‘I think he’s in his study.’
‘Nessa and I are off for brunch and shopping,’ Georgie calls down the hallway. ‘We’ll be back around three.’
‘Righty-ho,’ calls Jack, his voice muffled. ‘Have fun.’
‘Come on then,’ says Georgie, taking my arm. ‘I’m starving.’
She opens the front door and we step out into bright sunshine.
‘Gosh, it’s only 10.30 and it’s scorching,’ says Georgie as she locks the door. ‘I’m glad I remembered to put my sunblock on.’
She strides down the path while I check that the door is locked. Despite watching Georgie do it just moments earlier I feel I have to double-check, just to be certain. I think back to that message and shiver in spite of the heat.
As Georgie and I cross the common I turn my head from left to right, scrutinizing everyone we see, scanning the crowds for his face.
Chloe’s Deli is situated on the edge of the common on a little side road that leads into the village. Georgie points to one of the outside tables, which looks very inviting, but I can’t risk sitting in such a prominent spot. Anyone could see me there, photograph me … I shudder at the thought.
‘Can we sit inside?’ I ask. ‘That sun’s rather fierce and I don’t want to burn.’
Georgie is understanding and we take a table by the counter where she spends the first five minutes chatting to the owner, Chloe, about sourdough recipes, before the woman is pulled away to serve another customer.
When the food arrives we sit in silence. Georgie dips hunks of bread into her shakshuka, while I nibble at my toast and strawberry jam. Then Georgie leans back in her chair, sips her coffee and tries to initiate small talk, asking me about my job applications and whether I’ve contacted that friend of hers who works in recruitment.
I answer her questions as best I can, but it’s hard to focus on what she is saying as every time the door opens I flinch.
Once we’ve finished our coffee and cleared our plates I catch Chloe’s eye and ask for the bill. I need to get out of here now. It’s filling up and the rush of bodies is making me nervous.
‘Are you sure you don’t want another coffee, darling?’ says Georgie softly. ‘We’re not in any rush and it’s nice to spend a bit of time with you.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, trying to suppress the dread that is rising through me. ‘It’s so hot in here. We should go and have a walk, get some fresh air.’
‘But you said it was too hot to sit outside,’ says Georgie, laughing. ‘Honestly, you’re just like Jack sometimes. Never able to make your mind up. I’ll get this.’
She grabs the bill from the silver dish that Chloe has just placed on the table before I have the chance to look at it.
‘Do let me pay, Georgie,’ I say, the familiar guilt emerging. ‘You’re always paying for things. I feel bad.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, taking her bank card out of her pocket and placing it on the tray. ‘It was my suggestion to come for brunch and, besides, you made that delicious supper last night.’
She winks at me and smiles so warmly I feel overcome with emotion. Perhaps now is the right time to tell her everything, to finally get it off my chest. And I mean everything – Lottie, Connor, the parcels, Geoffrey … But before
I can speak, Chloe arrives at the table with the card machine and the moment is lost.
We spend the rest of the morning looking round the shops in the village. A new cosmetics store called Village Visage has opened up in the spot where the florist had been. I take a look at it then go to walk on, not able to face another reminder of my old life, but Georgie grabs my arm and drags me in.
The old me would have been intrigued by this shop. She would have been checking out the stock, asking questions, making notes on anything unusual or interesting that she could take back to Luna London. But the new Vanessa, the scared, broken person standing by the lipstick shelves as myriad colours blur into one, grotesque shapes in front of her eyes, just wants to get out of here as fast as she can.
‘Hi there,’ says the assistant, a bright-eyed young woman with shiny red hair and perfectly contoured make-up. ‘Would you be interested in a Colour Match Makeover? We’re offering ten per cent off every session this week to celebrate the store launch.’
‘No thank you,’ I say, smiling politely as I head to the door. ‘I was just browsing.’
‘Oh, go on, Nessa,’ says Georgie, taking my arm and leading me back into the store. ‘It will do you good to have a little pamper.’
I look around me. The store is quiet and, to be honest, I would love to have a bit of a spruce. I’ve been feeling so grubby lately. So I relent and the assistant, who introduces herself as Verity, guides me to a tall stool upholstered in green velvet. While she gathers her products I sit there looking at myself in the spotlit mirror. What I see makes me inwardly gasp.
The Perfect Life Page 15