“Are you sad, Mummy?” Archie says, and I look down at him.
“No,” I say, beaming at him. “How can I be sad with you here?”
Archie nods, his eyebrows shooting up, and then he wanders off to the box of decorations on the coffee table, rummaging through them and finding the pound shop reindeer that plays a tinny tune when you press his nose.
* * *
When Archie is in bed, I sit on the sofa, admiring our handiwork. Admittedly most of the decorations are on the lower branches, and all rather bunched up in one area, but still, it looks festive and homely. Today was a good day. I almost felt normal.
I pick up my phone, pressing the button to light up the screen. I have two missed messages from Luke. I haven’t checked my phone in more than three hours—a personal record, surely—and then this happens. Typical.
Hi Lily, hope you’re having a good week. Thought you may be interested to know that Violet has released a statement. Here’s the link to read it. I’m still on the case with Amy, Luke
I click on the link, blinking in frustration as my phone loads the page. It’s on Violet’s website, the one thing she didn’t delete when she disappeared nine days ago, but which she rarely updates. Once a month if that, and only ever with lucrative sponsored posts, paid collaborations with huge brands that net her more than my annual salary in just 500 words.
The headline reads:
Taking some time out
Dear friends,
I’m aware that there has been some speculation online about why I have taken down my social media accounts. I’m taking some time out to deal with a private matter. It’s not my intention to be deliberately secretive, but this is something I need time and space to deal with alone, and something I cannot share with you. When I am ready, I will come back.
As always, I appreciate your kind comments and concern, and would like to assure you that I am taking the best care of myself during a very challenging personal time.
Thank you for respecting my decision.
Love and light,
Violet XXX
I frown at the message. It tells us nothing. It’s a polite way of asking everyone to stop speculating, to leave her alone. But there’s something else that’s bothering me, niggling at the back of my mind.
I click to read Luke’s second message.
Stinks of PR stunt to me. I wonder if Violet has any new products launching soon. Seems to me she wants to return with a big bang, and all this mystery is the perfect way to do it. Her Christmas baby line went on sale a while ago, so it can’t be that. Anyway, we’ll get to the bottom of it!
“It’s not her,” I whisper to myself, staring at Luke’s message. I look at the time. 9.05pm. Not too late to call him. I start to dial his number and then think again. It’s too weird, isn’t it? Or is it?
I decide I have nothing to lose—he already thinks I’m weird, after all. I press the phone to my ear nervously, but it takes only two rings before Luke answers.
“Hi,” he says, and I remember his voice, with its lovely melodic tone.
I wonder if I am blushing, sitting here on the sofa alone, in my cramped living room.
“Hi,” I reply. “Sorry, I only just saw your message. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever read. Her statement, I mean, not your text.”
“It’s a bit short-sighted,” Luke agrees. “She’s underestimating her fan base, just a little, if she thinks that kind of thing isn’t just going to pour fuel on the fire.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding into the phone. “But there’s more to it than that. I’ve read it twice. And I know it probably makes me sound nuts, but I can just tell. She didn’t write it. I’ve read all her blogs, every single one. I know how she writes, the phrases she uses, the tone of voice. It’s all wrong.”
“Maybe her management wrote it,” Luke replies.
“No,” I say, my voice steady. “It’s obvious, everything about it … the whole way it’s been phrased … everything.” A shiver goes down my spine and I pull the sofa blanket over my legs. “I know who wrote it. I’m sure of it. It’s just like that picture on his Instagram … It was written by Henry.”
HENRY
I wish I could make people understand that I’m one of the victims here too. It was meant to be a bit of fun. She made me believe she was fine with it, that it was fun for her too. She was only twenty-two or twenty-three. The sort of age where life was about experimentation, about throwing the feelers out, seeing what stuck. And I wasn’t the only one she slept with. There were stories about her all the time; how she’d been to a house party with the ad team, and slept with two of the exec guys, one after another. By all accounts she was so drunk she could barely hold her head up by the time she emerged from her encounter with the second one, but we laughed it off. All good clean fun between consenting adults in their prime.
Her behavior at work was impeccable. Always on time, eager to help. Got the job done, no matter how menial. It was once we were in the pub that she transformed into this good-time girl, all fluttering eyelashes and barely concealed breasts. I came to see her as a bonus card, something to call on when I felt lonely. Like I said, I thought we were on the same page. Camille was away a lot for work—she was making a name for herself as a horse whisperer, travelling up and down the country giving advice on behavioral issues. I was a young man, and Yvonne was there, every day, in my face. And she was fun. She didn’t mind if things got a bit rough, she didn’t seem to care that I didn’t gaze into her eyes and tell her I loved her afterwards. I suppose, looking back, most of the time she was drunk. But then we all were. And then there were the drugs, passed around like sherbet; this was the noughties after all.
I thought we understood each other. She was sleeping her way to the top—it was obvious. It didn’t win her any fans among the women on the magazine, but they were in the minority anyway, and I quite admired her smarts, realising that keeping in with the boys was going to get her much further that any feminist agenda she might have entertained. And she was fearless. If someone questioned her rather louche behavior, she’d tell them she was behaving like the men who read the magazine. And what was wrong with that? She talked a good talk, had us all convinced.
How were we to know it was all an act?
Things came to a head at our annual editorial awards. Bertie had caught wind of her antics, suddenly noticed she existed. He was an old-school tabloid hack; cheeks red with self-induced coronary issues, breath that could turn milk sour. Every second word that came out of his mouth began with an F and rhymed with duck; my father would have been horrified to meet him. They were from different ends of the spectrum entirely. What women seem to forget is that we’re only human, we men. We get swept along with the tide sometimes. And if they’re not being honest with us from the outset, then what chance do we have?
But that night, there was a little sweepstake in the office among the features and news desks. Who would get to take Yvonne home? I was out of the picture; I had Camille staying over that night. I’ll admit there were some stirrings of jealousy when I heard them all laughing about it. Was I falling for her? Fuck it, who knows. It’s possible. I guess underneath the bluster and dropped knickers, I liked her. Is that a crime?
But that night, no one got to take her home. No one ever quite got to the bottom of what actually happened, but for some reason Bertie was seated next to her at our banqueting table. I guess he decided, despite being in his late 50s, that it was his turn. I remember what she was wearing: a tight, low-cut red dress that barely skimmed her backside.
The less chivalrous man would say she was asking for it, really.
I sat on the opposite side of the table, watching her flirting with Bertie throughout the dinner. Those same old tried-and-tested techniques. At one point, she got up to go to the toilet, and he pulled her back down on to his lap. She giggled, struggling back to her feet and hitting him on the arm in mock recrimination. As she walked away, he slapped her on the arse. I downed the rest of my drink, an
attempt to dull the feelings of confusion.
Our eyes met a few times over the course of the evening as I grew steadily drunker and I began to wonder—or was it hope?—if it was all for my benefit. I left early, in the end, unable to watch the sideshow any longer. Perhaps I knew, deep down, that there was more to it. On both our parts.
There’s a movement all over social media at the moment. #MeToo, with women telling their stories of sexual harassment to the whole world. It’s like they’ve stored them all up over the years, waiting for this moment. But we didn’t see it like that, back then. She was using what she had in fair exchange. Bertie was only trying his luck. And he didn’t need to bother; he was one of the most powerful men in our company, he must have had women throwing themselves at him all the time.
She came to my desk the next day, and she looked different, even then. There was a hardness in her eyes as she demanded we go to the canteen to talk.
“He attacked me,” she said, over her cup of tea. Her expression was so fierce, I had to look away. It was the first time, really, that I saw her as a threat. “And I’m going to the police.”
YVONNE
Ten days post ovulation.
Just a few more days left until I can take a test. Every other month I’ve taken tests earlier than recommended, and been disappointed. This month I am determined not to do the same. I will wait until the day my period is due, like a rational, sane woman in control of herself.
I can’t sleep. Instead, I lie in the darkness, turning over Violet’s message on her website in my mind. After reading it, I couldn’t resist texting Henry, offering my support. He replied with just one sentence.
You’ve done enough.
I think back to that Saturday night, and the regret washes over me again. But I push it away. It wasn’t my fault. None of it was my fault.
The fortune-teller was Katie’s idea. She dragged me along—a bit of fun, something to tell the grandkids, she said, before hastily retracting that statement with an apologetic shoulder pat. I told her it didn’t matter, because even though I was losing hope back then, I still had some faith that IVF would work for us. This was before our first three rounds, free on the NHS, all failed. I was still so naive back in the spring, thought we’d be one of the lucky twelve per cent of couples. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about, and surely if we tried hard enough, in the end we’d be rewarded?
I was a little nervous though. For a start, who knew that fortune tellers lived in beautiful mews houses in Notting Hill?
“Fortune teller to the stars,” Katie had corrected me when I asked. “That’s why she can afford to live here.”
Her name was Julianne. Slender, wearing a white shirt and dark blue jeans. No headscarf or gold hoop earrings. She looked like an interior designer.
We sat around her oak dining table and she offered us some herbal tea.
“Ladies,” she said. “Both creative. Very good friends. Your friendship is important, a gift, something to treasure.”
She was saying it more to herself than to us.
“Do you want your readings to be private or are you happy to hear each other’s?” Julianne asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind…” Katie said, looking at me. “What do you think, Von?”
I still wasn’t convinced this woman was going to tell us anything we didn’t already know, and I found myself shrugging.
“We’ll only tell each other everything anyway,” I said, and Katie nodded in agreement.
“You first,” Julianne said as she turned to me, her voice suddenly sharp. She reached across the table and took hold of my hands. Hers were soft and warm. “Oh dear. So much loss.”
Her eyes met mine. Beneath immaculately curled lashes, they were hard and searching, as though drilling into my soul.
“Issues with trust. Did your mother leave you, as a young child?”
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?” I said.
“You’re full of fire,” Julianne said, sitting back slightly in her chair. I was finding her gaze uncomfortable now, and looked down at her hands as they covered mine. “Rebellious years as a young woman … inadequate parents. And a great sense of loss. A partner, or a baby?”
There was an awkward pause. Katie was staring at me. I never told her. I never imagined this woman would be able to guess, just from looking at me. But how else could she know? No one knew.
I snatched my hands away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. Katie was silent beside me, Julianne’s eyes still piercing my face. It was as though the whole room was waiting for me to speak.
“An unimaginable thing,” Julianne said, her voice almost a whisper. “The hardest of times, and no one to support you. Because you weren’t supported, were you? Afterwards? Things just got worse?”
The tension in the room was almost unbearable.
“I had a miscarriage. That’s all. A long time ago.” My voice came out more of a bark than anything else. “I thought you were supposed to be telling me my future, not my past?”
“I’m so sorry.” I heard Katie’s voice next to me. “You never told me.”
“Honestly, it was years ago,” I said. “I barely remember it myself.”
“It’s going to be all right though,” Julianne said, grabbing my hands again. This time they felt sweaty, and I wanted to push her off. “Your husband. He’s exactly who you need, and you’ll be celebrating soon. Christmas. A new baby. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I frowned at her, doing the maths in my head.
“A new baby by Christmas? That’s not possible.”
“No, not by Christmas. At Christmas. That’s when you’ll find out. It won’t be easy, but you’ll get there. There will be sacrifices along the way.” She paused. “But not yours.”
Christmas is twelve days away. It had seemed a lifetime, that day in May, and now it’s nearly here. I roll over in the bed and look at Simon.
He’s a good man.
It’s 3.42am. In just a few months I’ll be awake every night at this time anyway, bleary-eyed and ragged, holding my baby to my chest. People say you don’t sleep well when pregnant. I didn’t notice it last time, but as it was a while before I realised I was pregnant, I wasn’t really paying attention. And I didn’t sleep that well back then anyway.
This time is going to be different. This time I will be ready, grateful, prepared.
“Not long now,” I whisper, stroking Simon’s hair. “I’ll give you what you want. I promise.”
LILY
“Everything all right, Lily?” Sylvia asks me when she comes to pick Archie up. I invited her in for a coffee, and now that she’s perched on the edge of my tatty old sofa, cradling her mug, I notice the thick layer of dust on top of the DVD player, the crumbs under the sofa. When you live alone with a three-year-old who makes mess continually, it’s hard to prioritise cleaning. As soon as it’s done, it needs to be done again.
“Oh you know,” I say, looking down at my chipped nail varnish, quickly hiding my hands underneath my legs. I painted my nails for my “date night” stalking Violet. I keep meaning to wipe it off and then forgetting. “This time of year is always hard.”
The second I say it, I am filled with regret.
Sylvia looks down. “You could always come and stay with us for a bit?”
I smile at her. She means well, but she knows there’s no chance I’ll take her up on the offer.
“Thank you. You’re very kind. But we’re fine. It’s just … Christmas.” I try not to sound bitter. “It’s always the hardest time.”
“Of course,” Sylvia replies.
There’s an awkward pause and then Archie barrels in from his bedroom, holding his favorite toy, Bear.
“All packed, Archie?” she says, pulling him on to her lap. “Has Bear got his things together too?”
“Granny!” Archie says, his bottom lip jutting out. “Bear doesn’t have anything. He’s a bear! He has fur.”
; “Oh, of course,” Sylvia says, grinning at me. “Silly Granny.”
“Silly Granny.” Archie gives a little titter of laughter and then wriggles off her lap, pounding his way back to his bedroom.
“Thanks for having him at such short notice,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
“Any time, you know that,” Sylvia replies. She glances at me, her eyes wide. “I just wish we could do more. You said you’re looking for a new job?”
“Yes. They’re desperate to keep me,” I blurt. “They’ve loved everything I’ve done so far. They want to promote me, in fact, but I suppose I’m bored, and I’m hoping for something closer to home, so I can be around a bit more for Archie. Time for a new challenge, you know!”
Sylvia’s eyebrows move together. She’s of the generation that thinks a job is a job, that you should hold on to them no matter what.
“Well, that’s a real shame,” she says. “As you know, if we can help in any way … your dad’s always keen. Financially, we mean. Not just with looking after Archie.”
Your dad’s always keen. Throwing money at the problem, his idea of parenting.
“You are so kind,” I say, again.
Sylvia takes a sip of her coffee, and looks at me for a long time.
“You don’t want to move closer to us? I’m sure you must have lots of friends in London, but…”
“Oh no, I couldn’t…” I begin. Couldn’t think of anything worse, I want to say. “Archie is so settled with the childminder; my life is here.”
“Of course,” Sylvia says, her eyes wrinkling as she smiles. As she does so, I remember her mentioning an operation to fix her cataracts last time we spoke. I have forgotten to ask her about it, and now it feels too late. “But you know we’re always here for you.”
I wave them off at the front door downstairs, my stomach turning over with guilt on so many fronts. Yes, I will be job hunting today, but Archie going to stay at Granny and Grandad’s house wasn’t strictly necessary at all. It’s a treat to myself; a weekend of freedom, and the ability to meet Luke, as suggested, at Violet’s panel talk this evening.
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