“I’m here,” he says, but in sharp contrast to the anger I heard in his voice earlier, his tone is now resigned, pitiful even. “Where are you? I’ll go in … See you in a bit … Skye was desperate to go to school. Probably for the best … bit of normality for her. OK … No, of course I haven’t told anyone what’s happened. The taxi is coming in twenty.”
He hangs up, pushing open the door of the cafe. I wait for a minute or two before wandering past, hoping that he isn’t looking out of the window as I do so. Inside, the cafe is almost empty. He’s taken a seat in one corner, shrugged off his heavy winter coat and is gazing down at the menu.
There aren’t enough people in the cafe for me to get away with going in there. If he sees me, he’ll remember me from earlier. It’s not beyond the realm of coincidence that I might be going into the same cafe as him, but I don’t want to risk him getting suspicious.
Instead, I perch my bottom on the ledge at the corner of the cafe window, watching for whoever he’s waiting for to arrive. It doesn’t take long before a woman hurries past me. She’s dressed head to toe in black: black high-heeled court shoes, black tights, a black woollen skirt and an oversized black coat. The only thing that isn’t black is the huge grey scarf wrapped around her neck. I can’t see her face clearly, but her hair is cropped at her shoulders. Even from the back, she looks nothing like Violet. Violet is cool, edgy, the type to look good in dungarees. This woman is sophisticated, expensive looking, someone who’d never have chipped nail polish or greasy roots.
She walks into the cafe with a confidence you don’t see very often. I hold my breath as I stare through the window—all shame gone now—and watch as Henry stands to greet her, inexplicably wiping away tears with the back of his hand as he pulls her towards him in a hug.
YVONNE
Simon’s gym doesn’t smell like your average gym. Probably because it’s women-only, and women actually wash their workout gear more than once a month.
He’s standing next to some over-coiffured, overweight woman on a treadmill. She’s barely doing anything—not even a light jog, but he’s all smiles, full of encouragement, and she grins back at him in between her gasps for air. She must be in her sixties, clearly never done much exercise before in her life: what’s the point? If I was her, I’d sit at home eating chocolates and drinking champagne and make the most of it.
I know the session is nearly over so I leave them and make my way into the changing rooms. Today is an up day, and I’m feeling good, determined to push aside thoughts of Violet and focus on my own life. No news is good news, after all. If something really bad had happened, we’d all know about it by now.
I still feel a small thrill every time I punch the code into the huge anonymous door outside the gym. The best bit of Simon’s job: free membership for me. This place charges nearly £300 a month. It’s a long way from Isleworth, but I’m often nearby for work and I get to exercise and see my husband at the same time.
The changing rooms are one of my favorite things. More dressing rooms really, with a shower and toilet in each. The lighting is flattering, there’s tasteful music piped over integrated speakers, and the towels are thick and plentiful. I take my time getting changed, folding up my skirt and jumper carefully, making sure my make-up is perfect, and then I head out to the main workout area.
“Babe!” Simon says, when he sees me. “Did you text me? My phone’s in the staff room charging.”
I kiss him, making sure the ridiculously young girl at the juice bar in the corner gets a good eyeful.
“Don’t,” Simon says. “I’m at work…”
I kiss him again.
“You’re outrageous, Mrs. Hawley. My next client is watching.”
I pull away. Don’t want to lose him his job.
“Sorry, I’m just happy to see you. I’ll leave you in peace.”
“We can go for lunch in a bit if you want?” Simon says. “I’ve got a break at one?”
“It’s a date, come and find me.”
Physical fitness is obviously key to fertility, but now I’ve officially started the Two Week Wait, I’m careful not to overdo things. I read an article last night that said at this point in my cycle, any burgeoning embryo is microscopic in size, so unlikely to be too affected by my pounding the treadmill, but still, I don’t want to take any risks.
After I’ve done my forty-minute workout, a mixture of high intensity interval training and weights, I head back to the changing rooms for a shower. I’d usually finish things off with a sauna, but I know they’re not recommended for pregnant women, and I have to treat my body as though I’m already pregnant.
I sip a bright green smoothie in the juice bar area and wait for Simon to come and find me, watching the women wandering around. Most of them are in pairs, gossiping as they move from each area of the gym, barely breaking a sweat. They’re all too thin, too made up, and most of them look the opposite of physically healthy. When I was younger, I envied these stick insect women, but as I’ve aged, I’ve grown to appreciate my curves, the way my face hasn’t sunk into my skull like it does if you’re slim.
As I watch them, I think of Violet. The way she’s climbed the social ladder so effortlessly and so successfully. Brought up in Bristol to unremarkable if well-off parents—her mother worked in a school, her father ran an accountancy firm. How well she’s done to escape this prosaic upbringing. Now she’s part of the new ruling class: the social celebrity, adored by thousands of blank-faced lurkers, too busy watching Violet and her children to pay any attention to their own.
What a success she’s made of things, when she could so easily have faded into obscurity, thickened around the waist with gingerish hair dyed from a box. But no, despite the three children, she’s now as polished and preened as a television star.
The straw of my smoothie twists under my fingertips.
I always think of her when I come here. Not surprising, really. She’s a member of the Highgate Peter Daunt gym, of course. She filmed a vlog there three years ago—sponsored of course, and dull as ditchwater. Although when I watched it back later, I did see a glimpse of Simon in the background. I’ll always have her to thank for that.
* * *
“I’ve just got a feeling this month. It’s going to work out,” I say, as I tuck into my quinoa salad. All the women walking past are looking at us, wondering who I am. I reach over and ruffle Simon’s hair. He hates me doing it, but never mind.
“Babe,” Simon says, putting down his fork. “Let’s not get our hopes up.”
I feel my temper stirring.
“But we’ve baby danced every day for the last fourteen days, there must be millions lying in wait to do their job,” I say. It’s all quite predatory, when you break it down like that. “You’ve been taking your vitamins for three months, I’ve been doing everything right…”
“Baby danced?”
“That’s what … that’s just what they call it online in the pregnancy forums. Seriously, what if this time it’s actually worked? We might not need the appointment after all. Should I postpone it?”
“Von,” Simon says, sighing, but then he sits up, blinking slowly. “Look, can we try to have one meal, just one meal, where we don’t talk about this?”
I push the remains of my salad away, fold my arms sulkily.
“Fine,” I say. “Sorry to bore you.”
“You’re not boring me! I just … I mean, it’s not how I imagined our…” his voice drops to a whisper, “sex life to end up. You jumping on me every night when I come home, telling a bunch of strangers online about my sperm count. I’m trying, you know? I haven’t forgotten what the NHS consultant said about me. It goes round and round my head like a stupid jingle I can’t switch off. I know it’s my fault it’s difficult for us to conceive. I don’t need to be constantly reminded.”
He looks away, and I can see his eyes are shining. I take a deep breath, and pull myself together.
“Difficult, yes, but not impossible, remember?” I say
, reaching across the table and taking his hand. I remember my mother’s words to me just before she passed away, telling me that a successful relationship was all about managing your partner, using all the tactics you have to get him to think what you want is what he wants too. It didn’t work before, but I was young and stupid then, went about it all the wrong way. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject, you’re right.”
I pause a little, and am also surprised to find tears lying in wait. To want something this badly, to be so utterly obsessed and consumed by it, is such a horrible feeling. A feeling I’ve only felt once before, and it nearly killed me then.
I blink.
“How’s your day been?” I ask. “Busy? Any more progress on the postpartum classes you were hoping to launch?”
“Not yet,” Simon says. He smiles at me, and I can tell he’s relieved to be on positive ground again. It’s not his fault he doesn’t have the coping reserves that I’ve built up over the years. Thus far, he’s lived a pretty charmed life. “Peter’s being difficult about it. I think he’s worried it’ll be too successful, that it’ll annoy the yoga teachers. But you know his wife has all the power anyway and Jamal said she seemed keen. I’m having a meeting with the marketing woman next week, and if I can get her on side, she might be able to convince him. So there’s still hope.”
“Well, that sounds promising. I’m really proud of you,” I say, beaming at him. His eyes meet mine and he looks at me differently—with love, not exasperation. I push the last pieces of apricot around my plate, and think about the life I’m going to have, that’s waiting for me just a few months away. Me, my husband, and a beautiful new baby. Not long now. I just have to keep the faith.
LILY
I decided not to share with the people on the GoMamas forum that I followed Henry and Skye to school. There’s something about having a secret that makes me feel closer to Violet. Sometimes I feel I’m the only one who really knows her, or really cares.
When I came in this morning, I nicked a notebook from the stationery cupboard, and I’m sitting at my desk now, making notes on all the possibilities. Like a detective. I would have been a good detective … I pause for a minute. All those careers I could have had but didn’t.
Just before I met James I was about to go abroad for a year, to volunteer on a jungle conservation program in Peru. I’d scrimped and saved for two years to afford it. But then James came up to me as I queued for my coat in a nightclub, and it was love at first sight. I couldn’t leave him behind in London, and then I got pregnant, and nothing worked out how I imagined it would. Somewhere in my mind I believed—no, I still do—that I’d be able to go one day. I still had the money, and so long as I didn’t touch it, it’d be there as an escape route. For four years I didn’t use a penny of it. It was my security, my safety blanket.
I closed the account last week, the last of the money spent on Archie’s childminding fees.
In my notebook, I neatly write down all the facts. Where and when Violet was last seen, and the details of her last vlog, as best I can remember them. Any suspicious behavior or worrying signs.
I am engrossed in my note-making when I hear a short cough. I look up. Ben is staring down at me.
“Good to see we’re keeping you busy!” he says. It’s a joke, but a thinly veiled one.
“Oh, I…” I mutter, closing the notebook.
“Pictures,” he says.
“Pictures?”
“I’ve decided the boardroom needs them. Something black and white, a bit arty, maybe something abstract … nothing clichéd. Can you have a look online for me and send me a shortlist to review by the end of the day? Thanks.”
He walks off, heading towards the developer team who, as usual, are looking stressed.
I pick up my mug and walk to the kitchen. Susie’s in there, chatting on her phone, and she raises her eyebrows and grins as she sees me. She looks thinner than normal; another diet. Intermittent fasting, I think she called it.
“OK, babes, later then!” She shoves her phone in the back of her jeans pocket.
“Lily Peters!” she says, staring at me. “Are you wearing a dungaree dress?”
I look down at it, smiling awkwardly.
“Oh, it was on sale on ASOS…”
“You look great!” Susie says. “Your own age for once! Nice to see you wearing something other than those godawful trousers.”
I sniff. My work trousers seemed a good purchase at the time—black, straight leg, stretchy waistband. I thought if I wore blouses over the top of them that no one would be able to see the elastic, but Susie spotted it, and was horrified when I told her they were from M&S.
“How are things?” I say, changing the subject. I feel my fingers twisting into the fabric of my dress. £12.99 in the sale. It felt good value—not too dissimilar to the dress Violet has—but it was an extravagance.
“Good, thanks!” she says. “Well, goodish. Seeing Graham for a second date tonight. I’m still undecided whether or not I can cope with dating a man called Graham, but thought he deserved another shot. I mean, Graham, what were his parents thinking? It’s not even like you can shorten it. It’s terrible!”
I smile. It doesn’t seem too bad to me but Susie’s always been a touch melodramatic.
“So,” Susie says, sipping her tea. She’s got that look in her eyes—a twinkle, you might call it. She’s about to take the mickey out of me. I’m her pet project, I know that, but I don’t mind. “How’s your missing heroine? Any news?”
“No, but…” I pause, looking at her. “I … someone went to her daughter’s school, to see if she would turn up. The daughter did, with the dad, Violet’s husband, but no sign of Violet herself.”
“Bloody hell!” Susie cackles. In many ways, she reminds me of Violet—all that energy for life, the ability to find humor in everything. Perhaps it’s just a mask for the troubled waters underneath. “So someone properly stalked her kid? How did they even know what school she goes to?”
“Oh, it’s easy to find these things out, if you try hard enough. Her husband had posted a photo of her daughter on her first day, and um, one of the women on the forum worked out what school it was from the uniform.”
“Blimey,” Susie says. “Hang on, isn’t he some hotshot magazine editor?”
“Yes!” I say, enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. “He was a total cad, if you can even use that word these days—slept around with everyone: models, actresses, the lot. He was a massive party animal. But then he met Violet, and he settled down. She changed him.”
“Yeah. I remember you showing me a picture of him,” Susie says.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to the album where I saved all my favorite photos of Violet and her family, and show it to her again.
“Yeah, I would,” Susie says, frowning slightly.
“He’s not my type,” I say, sternly, but as the words come out and I look back down at Henry’s face, I realise I’m not sure they’re true.
* * *
Are Andy Warhol prints hackneyed? I have no idea anymore.
Two hours of trawling Pinterest for quirky, edgy artwork that isn’t clichéd, and I’m bored stiff. And there’s still half an hour until lunchtime. My phone buzzes with a message from Anna—probably a photo of Archie covered in paint or sand or something similar. But I can’t download it as I’m out of data for the month. I connect to the office Wi-Fi, even though it’s strictly forbidden for personal use, and after a few seconds a picture of my tiny boy fills my cracked screen. He’s holding a guinea pig, beaming from ear to ear.
After the initial joy that comes from seeing him so happy, the usual worry sets in. He’s already asked for a dog for Christmas, it’ll be a small rodent next. We don’t even have a balcony, and I don’t fancy sharing a living room with a miniature rat-like creature.
I stare out of the window at the rain. It’s been a pretty mild December so far—I’ve only needed to put the heating on first thing in the morning, and for an hour when Arch
ie gets home from Anna’s. But this weekend we’ll have to put up the tree, and I’m worried the fairy lights broke last year when I yanked them off the tree in a drunken strop.
I turn back to my computer. There’s a new email in my personal account.
GoMamas>Inbox>Sadandalone
7 December 2017
Private Message from Coldteafordays
Hi Lily,
How are you doing? I know you’re a big fan of Violet’s, and so I thought I’d PM you to ask if you fancied meeting up for lunch? I’m getting really worried about her—I just have this feeling that something’s happened to her. I remember you saying you work in Soho too? Thought we could have a chat and see if two heads are better than one. Text me on 07700 900363 if you fancy it, anyway. Been meaning to suggest we meet IRL for ages!
Cheers,
Ellie
I don’t even hesitate. Before I know it, I’ve arranged to meet her in twenty-five minutes, at a cafe just by Henry’s office.
YVONNE
Pineapple can help implantation. But only if you eat the core. That’s where the bromelain is. There’s also red raspberry leaf tea, oat flowers, and black haw. But pineapple is the easiest to get hold of, especially when you live in a rubbish town like Isleworth.
Thankfully the Tesco on the corner had plentiful pineapples yesterday and so I’m sitting at the kitchen table, munching away at the core of one. It’s tough and fibrous, and nowhere near as pleasant as the outside of the pineapple, but needs must. It’s only 8am but I’m alone. Simon left early for work today—he’s covering a colleague’s spinning class.
“Every penny helps!” he said, as I groaned when his alarm woke us at 5.30am. “Or is it every penny counts?” He’s determined to raise enough so that we can afford the three-cycle IVF package, but we’re still thousands of pounds off. It’s hopeless.
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