The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  Clever man.

  ‘Right.’ David expertly jemmies the car into a space outside their front door, and Charlotte tries not to groan as the movement jerks her head. ‘Just wait there – I’ll come around and help you.’

  He slams his door then hurries over to her side, taking her arm. Every muscle protests as she unravels her body from the seat. God, she feels like she’s aged forty years, never mind . . . however long it’s been.

  She stands for a minute on the pavement, heart sinking as she stares up at their first-floor flat. Where are the turquoise curtains she paid an absolute fortune for? They may have been a little overpriced, but they had a lifetime guarantee! David used to laugh that he could spot them from the top of the street. You could, if you peered closely, and she’d always prided herself on the small splash of colour in the otherwise brilliant-white façade of their terrace.

  But now . . . now the curtains are gone, replaced by hideous blackout curtains that look like they’re straight from an Argos catalogue. Ugh, she can see the plastic backing from here. They’re just curtains, she tells herself, beating back the fear that she’s capitulated on other, more important matters, too. Fabric quality is hardly a matter of life or death.

  David takes her arm and together they head up the walkway. The front door clicks open, and Charlotte breathes in the familiar scent: a hint of damp mixed with something like chicken soup. She smiles as they start up the stairs, remembering the first time David carried her over the threshold after their wedding, laughingly scooping her up in his arms despite her protests that after consuming almost all the champagne at the head table, she was going to be sick on his shoes.

  ‘A little vomit is a small price to pay for matrimonial bliss,’ he’d said, although he’d set her back down when she started to gag.

  As her husband fits a key in the lock, a wave of certainty sweeps over her. Small changes like curtains are bound to happen when you have kids. But when it comes to the big things – relationships, work, life – she’s sure they’ve kept things the same. This child is the icing on top of their wonderfully delicious cake. And once Charlotte sees her daughter and is back in her familiar environment again, her memory will surely return. The strange in-between place she’s in right now will vanish, and her world will be right again.

  Right, here we go. David opens the door and Charlotte steps gingerly into the flat, ready to embrace a tidal wave of emotion.

  Ready to embrace what her life is now.

  ‘Mummy!’ A little girl streaks into her arms, throwing her body against Charlotte with such force that she struggles to stay upright. She sways back and forth, tightening her grip on the child so they both don’t fall over. The girl is warm and wiry, and it’s as if she’s trying to attach herself to her mother . . . as if she wants to be an extra appendage.

  Charlotte breathes in the toddler’s fresh, soapy scent, and waits. Waits, for that fierce protective love mothers always rave about. For the all-consuming emotion, the connection unlike any other, the instant recognition of flesh and blood.

  Waits to become a mother . . . to remember wanting to be a mother.

  Silence hums in her ears – silence inside and out. Because even as the child wraps herself closer, Charlotte just feels empty, as if this girl belongs to someone else. She closes her eyes and tries her best to conjure up memories and emotions. But everything stays blank, a metallic deflector lobbing back the last thing she remembers about children: she’s not ready. Panic and fear rise inside, and she glances up at David for help.

  ‘Whoa,’ David says, reaching out to steady their daughter. ‘Go easy on Mummy, Anabelle. She’s got a rather big lump on her head.’

  The child pulls back and reaches out to touch the bandages on Charlotte’s forehead. Charlotte’s eyes trace her daughter’s face, and she tells herself to stay calm. She’s been through a lot in the last few hours, and perhaps it’s too much to expect memories to just rush back in. But they will return. They have to. She must remember her very own child – remember wanting her, loving her. This girl in front of her now is half her DNA, for God’s sake.

  And taking in the face before her, it’s obvious that this is her daughter, unmistakably so. She has the same dark blue eyes, fringed by lashes so long they won’t need mascara. The same straight thick chestnut hair, already showing its annoying tendency to escape from any ponytail, any time. And the same nose with the slight upturn that Charlotte hated as a child, and still does. It’s like looking at a picture of herself from thirty-odd years ago. The only bit of David she can spot is the high, wide forehead . . . and perhaps the bow shape of Anabelle’s top lip.

  Charlotte shakes her head. It’s so bizarre to see their features mirrored in a child – their child. Will she ever get used to that?

  Of course I will, she tells herself again. Just relax. Just give it time, and everything will come back.

  ‘Does it hurt, Mummy?’ Anabelle asks, her finger prodding the tender spot on Charlotte’s head.

  ‘Shit!’ The word slips out before Charlotte can stop it, but Christ, ‘hurt’ is an understatement. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters through the blinding pain, glancing sidelong at David. He’s looking at her as if she just killed a kitten rather than let a swear word loose.

  ‘Do you want to go and lie down?’ he asks tentatively, as if he expects her to protest. ‘I can take Anabelle to the park, if you’re okay with that.’

  Of course she’s okay with that! Entertaining a toddler with a head like this is impossible, and David’s more than capable of taking Anabelle out on his own. Her head is throbbing even more now, and she needs to rest and give the memories space to start filling up the empty spot inside her.

  ‘Thanks, babe.’ Charlotte leans into her husband, desperate for something solid in this strange world. He’s still for a second before putting his arms loosely around her, as if he’s afraid she’ll break. She lays her head on his chest, breathing in his scent as her arms tighten around him. He’s still using the cologne she got him last Christmas – or whenever it was – and she remembers how he sprayed it on, then hugged her so close that she pulled away, laughing that she couldn’t breathe. The cologne clung to her for the rest of the day, and even now, when she smells it she feels the strength of that hug – the strength of their love.

  ‘Would you look at the state of you!’ Miriam comes into the corridor, a look of horror on her face as she examines the bandage on Charlotte’s head. ‘I can’t believe they let you out of hospital. They should have at least kept you in for observation. In my day . . .’

  Charlotte nods numbly as Miriam’s voice drifts over her. A few years may have passed, but her mother-in-law hasn’t changed. She’s still going on about ‘her day’ and she looks remarkably the same, although she always did appear older than her age. Charlotte remembers her surprise when, a few months after they’d met, David announced he was organising his mother’s fifty-fifth birthday party. With deep lines scoring Miriam’s face and wispy grey hair in a no-nonsense short style, Charlotte had reckoned her to be at least ten years older. Raising three young boys on her own had clearly taken its toll. But instead of relaxing and enjoying life now that they’d grown up, Miriam remained as focused on them as ever, as if her happiness was solely dependent on theirs. Her sons still worshipped her, despite the constant stream of advice and phone calls, doing everything they could to make her life easier.

  Sometimes too much, Charlotte often thought, after David was summoned yet again to change a light bulb in his mother’s cavernous home in suburban Surbiton. Even so, she couldn’t help but think that Miriam must have done something right to have such devoted sons.

  ‘The doctor said everything looks fine,’ Charlotte says to Miriam now, aware that everyone seems to be awaiting her response. Just saying the words calms the fear prickling inside her. The doctors wouldn’t let her out if things weren’t right. All she needs is rest, and then everything will come back. ‘Thanks for staying with Anabelle.’

  Miria
m nods, drawing Charlotte in for a hug. Charlotte’s eyebrows rise in surprise as she’s engulfed in her mother-in-law’s soft embrace, and she resists the urge to pull away. She never hugs Miriam! The most warmth her mother-in-law has ever shown her was letting her turn on the boiler early for a hot shower during a rare overnight visit to her house. Right from their very first meeting, things between them were strained. Knowing how important Miriam was to David, Charlotte had launched a campaign to make a great first impression, picking David’s brain for hours on what she could do. They’d settled on inviting Miriam out to a posh restaurant Charlotte had spent ages choosing. They’d had a lovely meal, but within seconds of ordering after-dinner espresso, David had turned green and rushed to the loo to be violently ill. Miriam and Charlotte had bundled him into a taxi back to the flat and Miriam had stayed the night to take care of her son, pronouncing him poorly from food poisoning. Charlotte had tried everything to help, but Miriam had only shaken her head and brushed her off brusquely, as if she was trying to intrude on Miriam’s rightful place.

  Things hadn’t gone any better since. Miriam had never really warmed to her, despite her constant efforts over those first couple of years, as if she was never truly convinced Charlotte was the right woman to make her son happy . . . as if she somehow knew she wasn’t up for producing the clutch of grandkids Miriam so desperately desired. Any suspicions certainly hadn’t put her off talking about it every ten seconds, though.

  ‘Thank goodness you and Anabelle are all right. I can’t bear thinking about the alternative.’ Miriam dabs her eyes, and David pats her arm.

  ‘Oh, Mum. It’s okay, don’t worry,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll feel much better when you’re all within shouting distance,’ Miriam says, fishing a tissue from her cardigan sleeve. ‘Then I’ll know where everyone is, all the time.’

  Charlotte forces a smile through the rising dread. What does Miriam mean, ‘within shouting distance’? Is she planning to move to Chelsea? Perish the thought. The only way Charlotte can cope with Miriam now is by pretending that she doesn’t exist . . . or that she lives on another planet, only dropping by for intergalactic visits to criticise the way others live. Then she’s gone, disappearing into a black hole that sometimes sucks David in, too.

  It couldn’t be more different to Charlotte’s relationship with her own mother, whose life is too busy and full to provide her daughter with endless opinions on inane topics . . . thank goodness. Is she still working just as hard? Charlotte wonders. After all, her mum would be . . . how old, exactly? Even with however many additional years, it’s hard to picture her mother slowing down. The last she remembers, her mum still worked full-time as the chief operating officer for a London public relations firm, having climbed up the corporate ladder quickly during Charlotte’s childhood. She may not have always made it home for bath and bedtime or out to the endless school concerts and activities, but Charlotte never doubted that her mum loved her. She didn’t need her to dash across the city for a ten-minute school assembly to prove that; she felt it in every cuddle. Anyway, she had her father, who had more than made up for any gap her mother’s crazy work schedule had created.

  Charlotte smiles through the pain in her heart, thinking of her kind, good-natured dad. He’d been the ultimate father figure, even if he’d often played more of a maternal role. With her mum gone most of the time, he’d thrown himself into raising his only child, working part-time so he could be there when she needed him. It was him she’d turned to when she’d broken her tooth by tripping into the door, and him she’d first cried to when Tom Baxter had broken up with her in Year Eight.

  When her dad died of a heart attack in her second year at uni, Charlotte had felt like she’d lost the centre of her world. At his funeral, both she and her mum had stood like statues, unable to hug or even speak. Without her dad to connect them, their grief kept them apart. Charlotte had thrown herself into her studies, emerging from her books only when Lily insisted. Her mum had done the same, getting promoted that year. After graduation, Charlotte had followed her mother’s example, using work as a convenient way to block out the sadness that ambushed her whenever she had a free moment . . . and had discovered along the way that she loved the rush of success and pride that came with every pitch she won. The burst of emotion inside would never erase the pain her father’s death had left, but for just a split second, it filled her up once more. Over time, she and her mother had bridged the chasm her father had left, although they’d never had a close relationship. Lily, then David, were the ones she’d learned to turn to.

  Charlotte was proud of her mum, though, and she’d always regarded her as the kind of parent she wanted to be: having a successful career to set an example for her child, yet loving and present whenever possible. Like mother, like daughter . . . hopefully, anyway.

  Please may I be exactly like my mother.

  Charlotte glances down at her jeggings and trainers, wondering again why she’s dressed like this. And where had she been going with Anabelle in the car? Had she left work early? Nausea swirls inside and she puts a hand to her mouth, hoping she won’t be sick.

  ‘Go and lie down.’ David nudges her into the bedroom. ‘Have a rest, like the doctors said. Anabelle and I will walk Mum to her car, and then we’ll go to the park. Can you just tell me where her jacket is? And maybe her wellies, too? Do you think she’ll need them? And her mittens?’

  His questions barely penetrate Charlotte’s pounding head, rebounding off her as she pads into the bedroom. She clamps her lips closed to stop a moan from escaping as she takes in the interior. The tranquil bedroom she’d designed in shades of turquoise and cream has been totally transformed into something infinitely less desirable, and much less relaxing. Hideous grey blackout curtains hang from the window, a small chest of drawers has been shoved into the tiny space by the bed, and nestled in the corner of the room is a toddler bed with a menagerie of soft toys on top of a garish dinosaur duvet. Anabelle’s name is printed on the headboard in pink (pink!) stickers, along with a huge number ‘3’ beneath it.

  Okay, then. Her child is three – that’s not so bad. At least Anabelle can talk, and she must be able to do most things for herself, right? She must be past the phase of needing her mother for everything. Thank goodness Charlotte doesn’t need to change nappies. Ugh.

  She sinks on to the bed – thankfully the mattress is still the same – and pulls the now-stained duvet cover over her. She knew it would be difficult squeezing everyone into a one-bed flat, but . . . bloody hell, how do she and David ever have sex? Not to mention a lie-in or one of their infamous ‘bed parties’, where they cart wine, cheese and those horrible smelly nacho chips David loves to the bedroom, then burrow under the duvet for hours, just enjoying each other and their life together?

  Because as much as she must love her daughter, Charlotte’s certain she can’t want to be by her side every hour, every day – and night. Motherhood doesn’t have to be the total surrender of your time, your space, your life.

  It can’t, because she’d be certifiably crazy by now if it was.

  This much she knows for sure.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  14 April

  I’m about two months in now – two months of growing this tiny human inside me. And no matter how many times David tenderly touches my belly, the fact that there’s a baby there still feels so theoretical. A very small part of me worries that I’ll show up for my ultrasound in a few weeks’ time and the sonographer will turn to me with a furrowed brow, asking why on earth I thought I was pregnant, since my stomach is empty.

  Not that I’m complaining about my lack of symptoms so far. Oh God, no. I’ve heard horror stories from friends who were practically bedridden with nausea from day one, or those who kept falling asleep on the job. I could do without the extra cup size – I’m curvy enough without adding more – but I suppose you can’t pick and choose.

  Apart from my blossoming bosom and David’s occasional reminder to eat more and wor
k less, life is carrying on as usual. I’m still running every night after presenting David with my exhaustive research showing that it is indeed safe, and I’m still planning our weekend forays to markets, pubs and theatres. I’m working as hard as ever, taking on new projects and pitches. When I tell Vivek I’m pregnant – and I will, once I pass three months – there will be no room for him to doubt my commitment.

  I could wait to tell him until my belly is big . . . Hell, I could probably wait until the month before giving birth, for all the notice he takes of my physical appearance (once I dyed my hair red, and it took him two months to realise I’d changed something). But I’ve heard Vivek grumble about women waiting until the last moment to say they’ll need cover, leaving him and the team scrambling. I can’t do that to him, and I want time to show him that this pregnancy doesn’t mean anything different. I don’t need any special considerations, and I don’t need any concessions. I’ll still be the one he can count on to deliver; the one drinking in every extra bit of knowledge and experience he shares. Impending motherhood won’t distract me from my job.

  The only thing in my life that has changed is the appearance of baby books in our flat. I’ve been doing everything possible to prepare for a newborn, right down to understanding the mechanics of breastfeeding (although, to be honest, the word ‘lactate’ will always gross me out). I’ve stuffed my mind so quickly with so many facts, I feel like I’m cramming for an exam I only remembered I was doing at the last minute.