by Zoë Folbigg
‘Don’t!’ Olivia laughed. ‘Anyway, I’m too scared to wear my D&G flats – she’s not snaffling them. Look, I’m just at the shop, I’ll call you back in a sec…’
‘OK well hurry, this is too cool and too important to be usurped by unsightly footwear. Call me right away. I’m pacing the office.’
‘OK, will—’
Olivia looked at the screen and realised Vaani had already hung up. She pictured her walking up and down their light and airy office in Camden.
They outgrew Vaani’s flat in Belsize Park shortly after the first collection launched in 2007, and moved into an office around the corner from there, where they stayed for ten years. Last year they moved to a converted Georgian building on Arlington Road, spacious enough for a label that had just hired a business development assistant and a head of ecommerce. Olivia Messina London now had twenty employees in the capital, ten in India, and Olivia in her studio in Guildington. Last year’s health hiccup and LFW no-show aside, they were booming.
Olivia was so impatient to know Vaani’s big news, she hurried into the shop and walked straight to the till.
‘School shoes for Bleeker,’ she said, while a fizz of excitement danced in her belly. The AW18 collection had gone down a storm in February and industry insiders spoke in happy hushed tones how Olivia Messina’s return to health had heralded her best collection yet. The new website was up and running and looking amazing. The right kind of celebrities were wearing Olivia Messina on the red carpet. The checks and balances were all bubbling along buoyantly.
What could it be?
A mousy young woman came back from the storeroom.
‘Size seven, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
She opened the box but Olivia didn’t really care for what was inside – they looked ugly online, they looked ugly in the shop – so she waved her hand as if to say 'fine'. At least these would see Flora through to the summer holidays.
‘That’s just fifty-five pounds please…’
Fifty-five?!
Olivia took out her wallet, paid and looked at the screen of her phone, willing the shop assistant to hurry up.
‘Would you like a bag?’
‘No thanks, I’ll carry the box.’
The phone rang again and Olivia answered instantly.
‘I can’t wait either – what is it?’
‘Hello, Mrs Bleeker?’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ Olivia said, frowning into her phone and realising from the number on the display that it was the school office calling. ‘Yes, that’s me. Is everything OK?’
‘We’ve had a bit of an incident.’
A chill ran down Olivia’s body, shooting into her legs.
‘I’m afraid Sofia has a head injury.’
‘A what?’
‘A head injury. She’s OK, but we have decided to call an ambulance as there is a lot of blood.’
‘Oh my god.’
The shop assistant busied herself, stapling a receipt to a piece of paper as she felt the ill ease of the customer.
‘She fell over and cut herself on the play equipment at lunchtime.’
‘Play equipment?!’
Olivia pushed the shoe box back at the shop assistant and walked out onto the high street.
‘She is all right, and she is conscious – we just want you to know so you have the choice whether to come straight to school, or meet Sofia and Miss Cave at A&E. I suppose it depends on where you are…’
Olivia thought of the crowded A&E department in the hospital she had been to for so many appointments in the past year, where people always snaked and smoked outside the door. It was a good twenty minutes away, by car, which was back home on the drive.
‘I’m coming,’ she said without hesitation, as she broke into a run, out of the shop and into the May sunshine. Running running running. Past banks, bakeries and opticians, her yellow trainers thumping with every horrified step. She ran with the image of Sofia, bleeding from a neat cut above her eyes until the conjured scene became darker. Her head was split open, her bare and pink brain entrails tumbling into the hands of her horrified teacher, her face pale and lifeless, her mouth clamped open.
Olivia ran faster, legs pummelling the pavement as she thought of the dead baby she had held in her arms.
‘No Sofia, no Sofia,’ she whispered to try to keep rhythm. She had never run before unless she had to. Her breathing was frenetic and laboured.
No Sofia, no Sofia.
‘My baby!’ she cried, as shoppers turned their heads to look at the maniacal woman pelting down the high street. Olivia wasn’t even aware of them. Only that her cries hindered her running now, so she closed her mouth to gain speed, faster than she had ever run in her life.
My baby, my baby.
Panic engulfed her until she could barely breathe. She had to get to school before the ambulance did, even though she wanted the ambulance to be there in a flash. She didn’t want Sofia to go to the hospital alone, or for Sofia to die alone, without her.
I can’t run!
Olivia’s legs whirred in a blur, past the pub with scaffolding on the outside, past the park with the water fountains, towards Sofia’s school.
My baby.
The image wouldn’t go away. Sofia’s blue face. A goodbye to Jude in the delivery suite, blood and afterbirth on the floor, and all for what? Sandwiches in a pub – the pub she was running past – after the cremation. He should have been 11 now. He ought to have been at big school with Flora.
Not my baby!
At the far end of the long winding high street was a bridal shop. A black slate love heart hung from the door saying ‘By appointment only’. An Olivia Messina London bridal dress hung on a mannequin in the window. Based on the wedding dress Olivia had worn to her own wedding. Her first creation. Her most favourite creation, after her children.
As Olivia ran past the bridal shop, knowing she wasn’t even halfway there, one leg buckled, sending her kneecap crashing to the paving slabs, followed by the smash of her arm and cheek. The mannequin wearing her dress looked down on her as she passed out. The phone in her bag buzzed with excitement.
Forty-Two
August 2009
Cambridgeshire, England
‘Happy birthday Dad!’
Daniel raised a bottle of Peroni in the pizzeria next door to the bank his dad used to manage. Olivia, Matt and Silvia raised an assortment of glasses and bottles, while Annabel looked out of the window, onto the high street, bored. On the blue banquette side of the table, Flora peered over Bertie’s shoulder, to try to fathom what the game on his iPad was all about. But subtle, repeated nudges indicated he wanted to be left in peace.
‘Thanks son,’ John said, as he stroked his new chisel set as if it were a thing of beauty.
‘Happy birthday to you for last month too Olivia!’ Silvia raised her wine glass again. ‘I don’t think we’ve seen you since, have we?’
‘No. But thank you. And for the candle. Did you get my card?’
‘Yes, we did love. Did you have a nice birthday? What did you do?’
‘Blissfully, nothing!’ Olivia laughed.
Silvia smiled back approvingly.
Silvia quietly adored Olivia, ever since Daniel first took her to Elmworth to meet his parents in the summer of 2001. John had fired up his new barbecue set for a family party to celebrate his mother’s eightieth birthday, who kept saying unwittingly xenophobic things and asking Olivia questions about ‘that Mussolini’ as if Olivia’s family had known him. But Silvia and John Bleeker were fascinated by Olivia: her upbringing, her family, her job, as if she were some kind of heavenly creature their son had captured in a net.
‘What’s that type of pasta called that’s not twists but curly spirals?’
‘Do you celebrate pancake day in Italy?’
‘Have you ever been to the Pantheon?’
‘Is the Mafia still a “thing”?’
They were always full of questions and wonder for Olivia, and loved
how happy she made their youngest son.
Olivia enchanted everyone in the garden that day – apart from Daniel’s bigoted grandma – and Annabel, who had barely broken a smile for Olivia, and had gone home claiming she had a migraine.
Eight years, two grandchildren and one deceased grandma later, Silvia’s warmth and Annabel’s hostility had only blossomed.
*
Olivia tried to bring Annabel into the conversation – she seemed cut off beyond the noise of Bertie shooting dragons.
‘Are you back at work tomorrow?’ she asked cheerfully, hoping to strike up some joy. The most animated Annabel ever got was when she spoke about clients.
‘Yeah, can’t wait,’ she said in a tone so flat that Olivia couldn’t work out if she were being sarcastic or not.
‘Long summer eh?’ Olivia asked conspiratorially, although hers had been delightful. After three busy years of growth and development – Olivia Messina London was on its sixth collection – Olivia had decided to take a month off so she could enjoy Flora’s first summer since starting school, so she could rest properly.
‘What’s the point of being the boss if you don’t make the most of it?’ Vaani reasoned, sending her off with a promise that they would be fine without her.
Daniel didn’t have a football tournament he had to travel to and cover; it wasn’t an Olympic year – summers ending in odd numbers were always Olivia’s favourite – so he worked normal hours and Olivia would spend days out with Flora at Linton Zoo, Shepreth Wildlife Park or the Fitzwilliam. She took Flora into London a couple of times to see Daddy’s office and have lunch with him – but mostly Olivia would tinker in the garden studio, while Flora played Lego on the workbench or dress up her dolls in silk, tulle and ribbon.
Daniel made it home in time to read Flora’s bedtime story and kiss her delicate nose goodnight, before sitting on the sofa, holding Olivia tight and trying to reassure her that, this time, it would be OK.
*
The horror of her second baby’s arrival, early and sleeping, was too much to bear. A boy she and Daniel called Jude. His heart had stopped, sometime in the night, before the morning Olivia realised she hadn’t felt a kick, at thirty-six weeks.
Olivia had gone back into the house to get her doppler out of the bedside drawer, the one Daniel bought them when she was pregnant with Flora, but she couldn’t hear a heartbeat. There was no sound of galloping horses rushing along the beach.
Sometimes I didn’t hear it with Flora.
Just silence, as she frantically moved the probe across her distended belly.
The position might not be right.
But Olivia had a terrible feeling, it had been too many hours since she last remembered a kick, so she called Daniel, got in the car and raced to the Rosie. The sonographer waited for Daniel to arrive from London before confirming the news, and the consultant recommended a natural birth, as it would come with fewer complications; increase Olivia’s chances of having future children.
‘I don’t want any more children, I want him!’ she cried, but three days later she was induced. The atmosphere was subdued, the birth harrowing. In the delirium of pain, Olivia feared they might take her baby away, they might put him in the bin.
‘I MUST HOLD HIM!’ she screamed, as she kept pushing through.
The midwives and consultants assured her she could, for as long as she wanted to, and Jude was born, sleeping and silent. A beautiful treasure, his arrival heralded a strange sense of peace over the room, and Olivia held him tight.
‘I love you so much, I love you so much,’ she kept whispering soothingly, apologetically.
Daniel was encouraged to take photos he didn’t want to take and to cut a lock from his baby’s dark and bloody hair. A young midwife noted Jude’s weight and measurements in a memory booklet. An older midwife asked Daniel to help her make handprints and footprints, holding limp limbs that didn’t move.
When Jude was taken to the chapel of rest, Daniel followed him out to the corridor and let out an anguished cry, while Olivia wept into the arms of the silver-haired midwife, who held her firmly until Daniel came back in.
During Jude’s funeral Olivia thought if it weren’t for Flora she would jump in that furnace with him.
*
This summer, with the trepidation of growing a life, yet not allowing themselves to enjoy it, to become complacent, they slowed down, didn’t travel, and met family for simple celebrations, including John’s sixty-fifth birthday and Olivia’s thirty-fourth.
‘Well, I took Friday afternoon off, but that was enough to be honest. What with the Bank Holiday today.’ Annabel’s mouth barely moved as she talked. Olivia’s gaped open in disbelief. She really wasn’t sure if Annabel were joking, her sarcastic, caustic manner made it hard to tell. ‘The summers are so long,’ she complained. ‘Especially with His Nibs’ school.’ She nodded to her six-year-old son, engrossed in shooting dragons. ‘Can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow to be honest.’
After one long weekend?
Olivia looked at Bertie’s wide and mesmerised eyes, lost in a game, and suddenly felt terribly sorry for him. It was his parents’ decision to send him to a school where you paid to have long holidays they complained about. His parents’ decision to send him to Granny and Grandad’s and summer camps instead of taking time off. His parents’ decision to joke about what a pain he was to entertain, even for just one Friday afternoon in the entire summer holiday.
Bertie gave Flora another jab with his shoulder and suddenly Olivia didn’t feel so sorry for him.
‘Erm, Bertie…’
He gave his aunt a petulant stare.
Olivia turned back to the conversation at the adults’ end of the table. Silvia was telling Daniel and Matt about a holiday they had booked.
‘Thailand, in October… we’ll be back in time for half-term…’ Silvia nodded reassuringly to Matt and Annabel. They had plans to go to Bangkok. Do a river cruise. Take in some shopping. Visit some temples. The beach. It all sounded wonderful, and goodness knew they deserved it.
Flora slipped under the table, tired of her cousin’s prods and shoves, and climbed up at her grandad’s feet, to sit on his lap and look at his chisels.
‘Hmm, I don’t think these are for you my petal!’ John chuckled, as he perched Flora in place on his lap. Daniel moved the carpenter’s tools out of reach.
‘Hey!’ protested Bertie. ‘He’s my grandad!’
‘Er, he’s Flora’s grandad too,’ chuckled Matt, with a bemused and adoring smile. Bertie slunk under the table, emerging by his grandad’s legs, and edged Flora off his lap.
‘Now, now…’ said John, without too much protest.
Daniel took Flora onto his lap as a waitress brought doughballs and calamari.
‘Remember we booked a similar trip for Easter 2005? The tsunami decimated the whole resort.’
‘Oh yeah,’ remembered Matt.
‘Is it the same resort, did they rebuild it?’ Olivia asked.
Silvia lifted a doughball with a manicured finger and dipped it gently into a dish of butter.
‘No, they never did – we’re going somewhere else, the other coastline I think…’ Silvia said philosophically, as she took a bite.
‘Well, maybe it was for the best,’ piped up Annabel to everyone’s surprise. The table turned to her, to see if she was about to say something momentous. They could feel it coming.
‘That holiday after the tsunami – maybe the first hotel was shonky, maybe it’s not as good as the holiday you’ve booked now. Like with Jude…’ Annabel nodded to Olivia’s bump.
‘Shonky?’
‘Some things just aren’t meant to be.’
Olivia felt a punch to her stomach and a kick from within it as the whole family fell silent.
‘Two kids’ margheritas?’ a chirpy waitress asked.
‘Mine!’ Bertie shouted.
Forty-Three
June 2018
Cambridgeshire, England
‘Sorry Daddy, sorry…’ Flora smirked as she slinked into the car, dressed like Dua Lipa with an auburn topknot.
Daniel was so livid he could barely speak. He glared at the car’s large digital clock display as he inhaled the smell of fruity booze and cigarette smoke.
Ten past midnight.
‘Jesus Flora…’ He shook his head as his daughter fumbled with the seat belt, clumsily scrabbling to clunk it into the buckle in the dark, while simultaneously arching her body towards the door so her dad might not tell she was tipsy. That she had smoked five cigarettes while standing in the garden with George Burford-Mason.
Daniel pulled away from the kerb with unusual carelessness, rubbing his chin between changing gears. Flora chewed wildly on minty gum.
‘It’s just it took me ages to find my jacket. It’s a big house. Amelie said she’d put all the coats—’
‘Save it!’ Daniel shouted, with such rage it startled Flora, pressing her spine into the back of her seat. Her dad never shouted at her, not like that.
They drove from Amelie’s house two villages away back home to Guildington in fifteen minutes of tense and stifling silence, Flora waiting, for Daniel to tell her off for drinking – or perhaps he had realised she had been smoking and she couldn’t passively blame it on her friends. She concocted excuses as she looked out of the window at the inky summer night through fuzzy eyes, but all of them felt flimsy. She knew her dad was no fool.
They pulled onto the gravel drive in front of the glass house, lights switched off, save for the dull red glow of Flora’s lava lamp in her bedroom upstairs. Daniel turned off the ignition as his shoulders slumped.
‘I’m sorry, Papa…’ Flora conceded.
‘Your sister is sleeping up there,’ Daniel bowed his head to look up at the house through the windscreen. ‘I’ve practically left her home alone, in the middle of the night, to get you from a party I didn’t feel comfortable about you going to. And you kept me waiting forty minutes…’
Flora was surprised; that wasn’t the thing she thought he was most angry about – she had thought she was only a few minutes late.