“GM?”
“On the mummy forum, GoMamas, the one where someone said they saw an ambulance being called … they’re big fans of acronyms.” I roll my eyes, as though I think it’s all ridiculous, despite the fact I spend nearly a third of my life on the site.
He nods, writes something in his notebook.
“A few of the women on there thought that Henry was violent. Violet quite often had bruises on her arms and legs—really visible ones—and she never bothered to hide them.” I swallow. “Other people thought it was just life with toddlers; they can be amazingly boisterous, and Archie’s certainly left his fair share of bruises on me.”
“He didn’t strike me as a violent kind of person, no,” he says. “More manipulative. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when you’ve only met someone a handful of times, and never been alone with them. In company he was always very charming, like I said, but there was definitely a feeling of superiority. Nothing unusual about that, of course. Especially not given the job he does, and his family background.”
“His family background?”
“Oh yeah, they’re loaded, the Blakes,” he says, closing the notebook. I swallow the feeling of disappointment. He’s going to make his excuses and leave. How do I get him to stay? “Old-school family money. He went to Harrow, you know?”
“Did he?” I say, genuinely surprised that there’s something I didn’t know about him. I thought I knew it all. “He kept that quiet.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all part of the façade, I guess. But his dad’s loaded. He comes from a large farming family and they own half of the land in Somerset. Did you think they got that huge house off the back of his editor’s salary?”
I nod.
“Not a chance. And although Violet’s pretty successful—I’ve seen her accounts—it’s only in the last year or so that the sums have got big. Like with all influencers.”
“Influencers,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It’s such an unpleasant term.”
“Yeah.”
“What will you do next?” I ask. Archie’s bedraggled form is making its way towards me and I know that this civilised chat about one of my favorite subjects is about to come to an end.
Luke opens his notebook again, pushes the end of his pen to his lips. My eyes linger on them a little longer than they should.
“I’ve got plenty to follow up on thanks to you,” he says, and I smile. “But first of all, I need to work out who this Amy is—she might be a babysitter for all we know. I’ll speak to Violet’s manager—they’ll have to put some sort of statement out after that piece today anyway—and then I’ll see if there’s a publicist at the magazine company who wants to talk to me about things from Henry’s point of view. There are lots of leads.”
“Star Wars fan?” I say, nodding at his pen.
“What?” He looks at it. “Oh! Yeah, my nephew got it for me. He’s just getting old enough to enjoy them.”
“Awesome. My friend was an extra on the The Last Jedi actually … she said it was an incredible experience. Did you know they filmed most of it at Pinewood? Crazy, isn’t it? That something so huge is filmed in Slough. I mean, you’d expect it to be somewhere far more glamorous…” I trail off, my brain scrambling for detail to add to this anecdote, anything to make him stay.
“Ha, yeah,” he says, but his eyes scan towards the large clock on the wall, and I know I’ve lost him.
“Will you keep me posted?” I ask. My hand shoots out reflexively and rests on his forearm. There’s a lump in my throat. “It’s just … I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling. I’ve got a feeling and I can’t shake it. I’m scared. I’m scared he’s done something to her.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it.” He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes I’ve seen before, so many times. I let my hand fall away from his arm and rest back at my side. It was nice of Ellie to try, but he’s not interested in me. Of course he’s not. I’m not glamorous or rich or beautiful or engaging.
“Mummy!” I look down, startled. Archie’s little hands are on my legs as he tries to climb on to my lap. I pull him up and he regards Luke with indifference.
“I wonder what she saw in him,” I say, staring past Luke’s head and absentmindedly smoothing Archie’s hair into place.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Luke replies, and I look back at him. His eyes are so very blue. “He’s incredibly wealthy.”
“She’s not a gold digger,” I say, instinctively. Still trying to defend her, despite everything. “She’s not like that.”
“Isn’t she?” Luke says, giving me a kind of sideways smirk. He stands up, leaning down to shake Archie’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, little chap,” he says, and then he looks back to me. “I’ll be in touch, Lily. And thanks again.”
YVONNE
When they got engaged, Henry and Violet started to write a column together in his magazine. A kind of “his and hers” perspective on the whole engagement-wedding-marriage subject. I suppose Henry’s editor thought it might be quite a cute idea, something to lure in new advertisers.
I knew about her by then, of course. I’d been “following” her online ever since they first got together. But there was something about the fact they were getting married—that final frontier he mockingly told me he’d never cross—that stuck a knife into me. That made me determined to meet her, and gave me an obvious way of doing so. It was a bit of an effort, with a lot of asking around, but eventually through a friend-of-a-friend I met their uber-photographer Lucio, and after quite a bit of persuading, he agreed to let me second-shoot the wedding. I had to do it for free, of course, but it wasn’t much of a price to pay.
I kept all those columns—I tore them out of the magazine and filed them away carefully. They lie in plastic sheaths inside a ring binder covered in stars—one I used when Henry and I worked together. It was just an admin file then, something I kept holiday forms and freelancers’ details in. When I left my job, it was the only thing I took with me. I left everything else: the arty postcards pinned to the board behind my computer, the special pen I used to mark up Cromalins, the small heart-shaped cushion that fitted perfectly into the hollow of my back.
I know why I kept the ring binder. Because it was something he gave me. A pathetic “gift” from the stationery cupboard that I imbued with more significance than it deserved.
It now lives at the back of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom, along with Nathan’s box. I don’t know why I kept all the columns, really. I was angry—but more than that, I was outraged. What did this woman have that I didn’t? What made her so special?
I devoured them all, but they didn’t tell me enough, and that’s when I knew I’d have to meet her for myself. Closure, I told myself. That’s all it would be.
Violet heavily promoted the columns, of course, calling it exclusive content, a collaboration she was really proud of, as though writing 400 words of drivel about your future husband was something groundbreaking. But it had the right effect. She gained a few thousand new subscribers. Probably women who read their boyfriend’s copy of the mag on the loo, when they’d finished Grazia for the week.
The columns had run for nearly a year, and then stopped, somewhat abruptly, a month before the wedding. There was no explanation as to why. They were just pulled. Perhaps Violet got bored of writing them, perhaps the publishers decided that Henry was oversharing. Perhaps lots of readers wrote in to complain that they didn’t buy men’s magazines to read about the latest trends in wedding favors. Perhaps I was one of them.
I can’t remember now. Sounds like the sort of thing I might have done, I guess.
* * *
Simon is working tonight. Another meeting with his boss about his postpartum classes, another night home alone for me. Preparing. Imagining. Tomorrow is probably going to be implantation day, when our miraculous bundle of cells burrows its way into my uterus wall and begins to grow into a baby.
As I have found myself so often lately, I am back u
pstairs, in the spare bedroom. Rummaging through my wardrobe for things. Mementos. The last time I got pregnant there weren’t apps. No technical way of tracking symptoms. I had a diary though, of course. I have kept a diary my entire life. The sad thing is that when things are going well, I forget to write in it, which means all I’m left with are notebooks full of angst and misery. Not the sort of thing I’ve ever felt like re-reading, but somehow I can’t bear to part with them.
But thankfully, when I was pregnant last time, I kept detailed notes.
I remember the notebook. I bought a new one especially, the day I discovered I was pregnant. It was a Tuesday. I remember because we had our cover meeting that morning, and I couldn’t concentrate on any of it. I took my lunch break early—at 12pm—and took the lift down from the seventeenth floor and marched across the bridge to Ludgate Circus. It was September, one of those boiling hot days in London when pushing your way through the mass of tourists felt like walking through soup. It was only as I paused for a few seconds on the bridge, watching the Thames sparkle beneath me, that I finally felt able to breathe.
It was too soon, of course, too soon to be pregnant, but somehow I knew it was going to be all right. I was twenty-three years old. I had Henry, and everything was going to be fine.
In Waterstones, I sat for a minute in the children’s book department, taking in the view. A mass of brightly colored books, all different shapes and sizes. Soon it would be me, I thought, sifting through them all with my eyes, trying to pick one that would suit my son. Because I was sure, even back then, that it would be a boy. He was such a man’s man. It seemed obvious that Henry could only be the father of sons.
I was wrong about that, of course.
The selection of notebooks was disappointing, and in the end I chose a pale blue Moleskine. Slim and light enough to fit in my handbag, something I could carry with me at all times. Over the next twenty weeks I filled that notebook almost to the last page. Perhaps that’s where I went wrong. I should have bought a thicker one.
I want to read it now. There’s a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe with all my diaries in it. I assume it’s going to be easy to find, but my initial rummage brings me no joy. In the end, I go downstairs, make a cup of chamomile tea and bring it back up with me, setting it down on the small mirrored bedside table. Pushka follows me upstairs, curling up against the pillow on the spare bed, eyeing me curiously as she meticulously combs her tail with her tongue.
I work my way through the drawer methodically, pulling each notebook out and setting it down by the radiator. It takes a while to empty—I keep getting distracted, flicking open each book to see what year it’s from, and reading a few pages from each. Remembering the past, all the men who used and betrayed me. Reliving those bleak patches when I ran home to my father, broken and disconnected from life, until the situation with him became unbearable and I escaped again. Up and down, round and round, like a woman being spun in the giant washing machine of life. Picking friends up and dropping them again with exhausting frequency. And then when it all came to a head, the lazy, box-ticking diagnosis of an over-worked, under-interested doctor and his suggested treatment: a life on antidepressants.
I refused that, of course. There was only one cure for the way I was feeling.
It’s all here. My whole life, thus far, laid out for anyone to discover. And in a more extreme way, Violet is doing the same. She once made a video defending her choice to exploit her children for financial gain, claiming that vlogging was her way of recording her family’s story. That her children would thank her for the memories when they were older. That they were lucky—they’d always have a record of their childhood to look back on.
The fact that they might not want it didn’t seem to have occurred to her.
I sit back against the bed, sipping my tea, my diaries lined up in uneven towers in front of me. The slim blue one is nowhere to be found. I must have thrown it away. Or burnt it. Who knows.
The memories after that time are still too painful, a canyon in my mind that I don’t look into.
It’s been seventeen years since I was last pregnant.
A surge of frustration ripples through me and I kick the tower of notebooks that’s closest to me, watching it tumble into a rubble of leather-bound pages. Where could it be?
I stand up and reach into the wardrobe again, looking for Nathan’s box. I only opened it a few days ago, and I’m sure the diary isn’t in there, but just in case I missed it somehow, I decide to check.
I push the diaries aside with my arm, and place the box in front of me on the carpet. I wonder what Simon would think if he ever saw it. Sometimes I worry that I underestimate him, that there’s more to him than his laid-back demeanor suggests. The way he brushes off our fights. It isn’t just because he doesn’t want to deal with them. There’s something deeper there: an understanding. An understanding of me, my temper, my insecurity. I like to think I’m the smart one, but he’s more emotionally mature than I give him credit for.
He married me, after all. Saved me from myself.
If he saw this box he’d be sad for me. He’d want me to let go. It’s his mantra: to focus on the present, to leave the past behind. He doesn’t believe in grudges. Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die, that’s what he always says. It makes sense, but it’s just an expression and it doesn’t make letting go any easier.
I take out Nathan’s clothes delicately, making sure to keep them folded neatly as I lay them down on the floor. It’s a strange experience, seeing them all lined up again. The white babygrow and hat I ordered just last week are already part of the group, as though they have been there all along.
Once I have laid all the outfits out on the carpet, I turn back to the box. No sign of the diary. The box is empty, except for a small white envelope. I had forgotten about this envelope. I pick it up, lifting the flap, knowing what I’ll find.
Inside is a photograph of me in the hospital, Nathan in my arms. I am staring down at him, my expression hidden from view. But even though I can’t see it, I know my face is a mess from crying, and as I stare at us together, the tears begin to fall anew.
That’s why, I think to myself, fiercely. That’s why I deserve it this time.
LILY
I’m in the office, applying for jobs, but I can’t concentrate. I fired off some emails to recruitment agents first thing, and am now trawling the job sites for anything suitable. I’m trying to feel positive about the thought of a new job. 2018: a new year, a new career. But there’s that little voice at the back of my head that keeps telling me how disappointed my nineteen-year-old self would be, asking what happened to my dreams of working in South America, saving the rainforest. How can I go into an interview and fake enthusiasm for a role I’d only be doing to make ends meet?
There’s only one thing I have enthusiasm for today, and that’s Violet. No, two things. Luke as well. I feel my cheeks grow hot as I think of my dream last night. It must be hormones or something. But I keep checking my phone, like a teenager, waiting to see if he’s texted me. This morning when I woke up, I grabbed it, unsurprised to see that I’d sent him a message last night, after drinking the dregs from a bottle of Port that had been sitting in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards for years.
The message, thankfully, was innocent enough. No spelling mistakes, aggression or declarations of love. It read simply: Any progress? X
But still, there was something obsessively keen about it. People don’t like keen; it scares them off. And the kiss. The kiss was entirely out of place.
He hasn’t replied.
Later this week, Violet is meant to be holding another of her panel talks, this time about flexible working. I’d decided to go before she disappeared and I feel even more involved now. After all, I’ve finally been to her house. I’ve met Amy, whoever Amy is. I realised last night that she might be Violet’s new assistant. Violet has been criticised in the past for having a personal assistan
t: someone to book her flights and sort through her post and check her content for errors. People said she secretly had all kinds of help: a cleaner, a nanny, a PA, that she wasn’t representing the truth of motherhood. That her life wasn’t reflective of most parents’ lives. But I don’t want to watch someone online who’s struggling as much as me.
My phone vibrates, and I close my eyes for a second before looking at it, hoping it’s him. But it’s a text message from my bank, reminding me that I have fifty pounds left of my overdraft. I delete it.
As my phone is in my hand, I might as well check again. I open Twitter, my saved searches, click on Henry’s name. He hasn’t tweeted since last week, when he was being paid to eat a bowl of oats. I expect to see the same words I’ve seen the thousand or so times I’ve checked it since then, but there’s something new there. A link to a new Instagram picture, a simple caption: Thoughts. My stomach turns over as I click on the link. Then I remember the news article yesterday. Of course he’ll have to comment. It’s out there now: truly public. I imagine what his Sunday must have been like: a non-stop flow of communication, people desperate for him to confirm or deny, to put rumors to rest.
What must it be like to have so many people caring about you?
The picture takes its time to load, and my heart pounds in anticipation. Just as it appears on my screen, I become aware of something else. I look up. Ben is standing over me, frowning.
“Busy as ever,” he says, but his usual mocking tone is missing, replaced by something more subdued.
I lock my phone screen.
“Sorry, it was just … can I help you?” I say. My heart thuds even harder at being caught.
“A word, if you have time,” he says. He’s never liked me. Perhaps he can see through me, knows that I don’t really want to be here. Perhaps he resented the offer, all those years ago. Just a way of helping out a widow, a nice little bit of charity, making him smile on the inside as he drifted off to sleep that night. He didn’t expect me to hang around for two years, to cling on to my dead-end job for dear life.
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