by Leah Mercer
‘Anabelle! Put that back!’ Too late, she notices that her daughter has grabbed a particularly trashy tabloid from the rack by the till and has somehow managed to turn to a page featuring women with hardly any clothes on.
‘Mummy! Look! That lady has really big—’
Charlotte yanks the paper from her hands and Anabelle yowls in protest. Desperate to prevent a full-on meltdown, Charlotte gives her the debit card to keep her quiet while she unloads the groceries on to the conveyor belt. Silence at last.
‘Sorry, Mummy.’ Anabelle’s small voice makes her head jerk around, and her heart plummets. Her daughter has bent the debit card so far, there’s a huge white crease down the middle. It looks more like a teepee than a card, and scanning it will be impossible.
‘Anabelle!’ Charlotte grabs the card. God, what had she been thinking, giving it to a toddler, anyway? Stupid, stupid, stupid. No matter, she has another card for her own account. She hasn’t used it since the accident and, thankfully, it’s still there in her wallet. She hands it to the woman behind the till, breathing deeply to try to stay calm. If anyone had told her a shopping trip with a toddler would raise her blood pressure more than pitching to big companies, she’d have said they were mad.
‘I’m sorry, but your card has been declined,’ the checkout lady says, handing back her card.
‘Declined?’ Charlotte squints at the card. Has it expired, maybe? No, the date on the front says it’s valid for another year. ‘Can you try it again, please?’
‘Sure.’ The woman takes her card and runs it through another time, then shrugs. ‘Sorry, it’s still not working. This machine can be a bit funny.’
A queue is building up behind them, and Charlotte feels her cheeks grow warm. Her mind scrambles for a solution, not an easy feat with Anabelle now trying to balance on her feet. ‘Can you hang on to our groceries? I’ll just go the cashpoint and see if I can get it to work there.’
The woman nods. ‘Of course. There’s one inside the entrance.’
Charlotte hurries Anabelle along with her to the cashpoint. She taps in her code, then hits ‘Cash’, hastily selecting one hundred pounds. There should be more than enough in her account – although she was never one for saving; her comfortable salary meant she never had to scrimp at the end of the month.
‘Anabelle, just wait . . .’ Her voice trails off as two words on the screen pop up: ‘insufficient funds’. What? She quickly taps the button to check her balance, her heart dropping when the machine relays its current status: –£16.24.
She blinks. She’s overdrawn She’s never been overdrawn in her life – not even when she was a poor student. Okay, it’s not by much, but still.
Then it hits her. She doesn’t have a salary any more. She doesn’t have a job. There’s only one way her bank account can go, and that’s down.
Everything inside her goes cold.
Charlotte takes Anabelle’s hand and plods out to the car park, feeling heavy and weighted, despite leaving with no groceries. She’d known she wasn’t working, but it hadn’t sunk in that she’s totally dependent on David. She can’t envision going to her husband and asking for money, even if she did need something. How could she stand there, meek and grateful, as he dishes out cash?
Even if being a stay-at-home mum is a valuable, important role in society, not earning an income makes her feel . . . insignificant. She’s always had her own money, right from the age of sixteen when she worked in a fast-food restaurant on weekends, flipping burgers and burning her arms on the grease from the deep-fat fryers. Christ, she still has the scars.
But it’s not just about the job or the money. It’s the ability to stand on her own two feet, like she did when paying her way through university and putting down a sizable deposit on the flat. It’s being able to buy what she wants, when she wants – even insanely expensive turquoise curtains that cost as much as a small car.
It’s about her independence . . . yet another important part of her that she can’t believe is gone.
Charlotte fastens Anabelle into her car seat then sits for a moment behind the driver’s wheel, desperately trying to conjure up her earlier resolve to find a way back to her pre-accident life. She still wants to, of course. She still needs to, for herself and for her family. But with every day that passes, the more she discovers how much she’s changed. So many things she holds dear are gone, as if someone has flicked a switch on those parts of her.
The things I used to hold dear, she reminds herself. She couldn’t have thought them important any longer, or she wouldn’t have been able to function.
Charlotte takes a deep breath and starts the engine, leaving another piece of herself behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
2 January
Today is the day I was supposed to return to the office. The second of January: the start of a new working year, and the date I’d thought this mothering gig would feel old hat. My baby would be settled into a routine, sleeping through the night, her feeds regulated. I’d fit back into my old wardrobe, and my brain would be firing on all cylinders instead of just one (if I’m lucky). I’d put on my high heels and slide back into my life.
I couldn’t be further from that life if I tried.
I wouldn’t have even remembered this date, actually, but I’d set the alarm on my phone before going off on maternity leave – God, I really was chomping at the bit to return. The persistent buzz jolted me awake at 6 a.m., and I wanted to murder my former self when I figured out what the noise was. I hadn’t heard it in a while – there’s no need for an alarm with a newborn in the house, let me tell you. Anabelle is our personal siren, alerting us that it’s time to snap to it. I’m not complaining, though. I can’t complain, not after everything we’ve been through. If she wants to feed 24/7, bring it on.
And so, instead of rising to dash out the door, I turned over in bed and listened to my baby breathing. In, out, in, out . . . I’d never heard a sweeter sound, and I’d never been more grateful for anything in my life. I need to savour this, to remember how lucky I am, and to be thankful every day that things turned out as they did. What more could I ask for than a healthy child?
Anabelle and I are like one now. It’s hard to know where she stops and I begin. She’s next to me at all times, and the rhythm of her day and night has become mine, too. Christmas came and went in a mist of fatigue, barely recognisable as a different day. In the past, I couldn’t have imagined not marking the holiday with my usual over-the-top gifts and decorations, but now I’m happy to have every day the same . . . wonderfully, boringly, the same.
David feels a bit like an extra, an unnecessary appendage in my world, where only one thing matters. He tries to change nappies, to do a feed and to put our daughter to sleep, but the truth is, I can’t accept his help. I need to do everything to prove I’m worthy of this. He stares at me sometimes like I’m a stranger, like he’s trying to figure out how I got here. In many ways, I suspect I am a stranger to him now: a person who threatened the dearest thing to him. Not that he’d ever say that – he doesn’t even know that – but I know. My secret’s like a jagged thorn wedged in my heart, twisting deeper with each breath, amputating everything but love for my child. And even if I wanted to get close to him, I couldn’t. I’m too scared his kindness will ease out that thorn, tempting me to tell him what happened. And I can’t. I can never tell anyone. I can barely even think of it now myself.
When I told David that I wasn’t returning to Cellbril, he blinked in surprise and disappointment. My heart gave a pang – I knew how much he’d been looking forward to being with Anabelle, but I just couldn’t let go.
‘But why?’ he asked. His fingers tightened around mine like he was trying to anchor us – to what, I didn’t know. ‘I mean, I can understand asking for more time to be with Anabelle, especially after what happened. But quitting? What about your career? What about becoming VP, and everything you’ve been working for?’ His words echoed Vivek’s, and I flinched. I didn’t need remind
ing of how driven I’d been; how much I’d risked. ‘I know the past few weeks have been tough . . . really tough, but we’re over that now, right? Anabelle is fine. There’s no need to give up a job you love because of a birth defect.’
‘A birth defect?’
David made it sound so minor – not something that would have killed our daughter without a major operation. I should have been grateful that he downplayed its severity; but I’d never, not in a million years, see it the same way.
‘Look, why don’t you take a few more months,’ he carried on. ‘Call Vivek and tell him you’ve changed your mind. I can put off my leave from work for a bit.’
I shook my head. I wouldn’t change my mind. I couldn’t. ‘I know money might be tight on just your salary, and that we won’t be able to look for a bigger place,’ I said. ‘We can forget any holidays, and we won’t have money for the cleaner or any of that, but we should be able to get by if we’re careful.’ I bit my lip. I hadn’t even thought about the financial implications of not going back – of not having my own income any longer. It was just something I had to do.
I stared down at my husband’s hand, surprised at how big and heavy it was after Anabelle’s tiny one. ‘I can’t go back there,’ I said, meeting his eyes again and praying that he wouldn’t make me try to explain. ‘I need to be home. I need to be with Anabelle.’
‘All right.’ David slid his hand from mine, his expression unreadable. I’d thought he’d be happy, but instead he seemed . . . weighed down. ‘I suppose you can always find a job, if you do want to go back at some point.’
I nodded, but I couldn’t even contemplate that. All I could think about was the life I was so lucky to be building. I hadn’t realised the value of what I had, but I’ll never forget now.
I’ll never forget what my daughter means, and how fortunate we are to have her.
That much is certain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Okay, what do we do next?’ Charlotte squints at the recipe on the tablet. A dusting of flour covers its surface. ‘We need to add two eggs.’ She glances down at Anabelle, only just able to reach over the countertop even with her step. ‘Do you want to crack them?’
‘Yes, please!’ Anabelle reaches out for an egg and smacks it hard against the bowl. It collapses completely, shell and all, into the mixture. ‘Oops.’
Charlotte can’t help but laugh at the disaster in front of them. It seems her daughter has inherited her defective cooking genes. Even with lots of practice over the past two weeks, Charlotte is as bad as ever. The roast chicken dinner she finally managed to make was diabolical – the potatoes boiled over, the chicken didn’t cook all the way through, and despite saying he’d be home early, David had turned up well after Anabelle had gone to bed. He hadn’t even touched the roast, opting for a simple sandwich instead . . . not that Charlotte could blame him.
But despite Charlotte’s horrific kitchen skills, Anabelle’s begged over and over to bake some treats together. Apparently it was something they used to do, and so – in the interest of remembering, to which she seems no closer – Charlotte had agreed, although she’d rather face death by firing squad than make cookie dough.
But actually, she’s been enjoying it. So far this week, they’ve made a sponge cake (burnt), a lemon loaf (raw), and today they’ve moved on to chocolate chip cookies (hopefully, edible). To Charlotte’s surprise, Anabelle’s a great helper, although her assistance has had no bearing on the outcome of their efforts. Their disasters have become something of a joke, both of them breaking out in giggles at the monstrosities they’ve made.
‘Okay. Let’s start again.’ Charlotte sets aside the eggy bowl and reaches for the flour. Too late, she discovers she didn’t close it properly last time, and flour flies through the air, landing on Anabelle’s head.
‘Anabelle! Your hair is white!’ Charlotte grins, holding up a shiny tin so Anabelle can see her reflection.
‘More!’ Anabelle reaches up to touch her hair. ‘More, please!’
And before Charlotte knows what she’s doing, she’s sprinkling more flour on her daughter’s hair. The sprinkle becomes a handful, and the kitchen is engulfed in a cloud of white, coating everything. Anabelle’s delighted laugh floats around her, and for a brief instant, Charlotte feels pure joy – something like the way she felt as a child, when the whole world could seem magical. She leans down to swoop her daughter up in her arms, spinning them in circles.
‘What on earth . . .’ David’s voice trails away, and Charlotte glances up to catch his incredulous expression. God, is he actually home early for once? She holds out a hand. ‘Come on, join us! It’s the Wonderful World of Flour.’ She throws another handful of flour in the air for added effect, trying to ignore the thought that soon she’ll need to clean all this up.
For a split second, it looks like David might actually take a step forward and join in, but then he shakes his head. ‘You two enjoy that. I’ll just go and get changed.’
Charlotte sighs as she watches him walk away. What will it take to make him relax just a bit? If the Wonderful World of Flour won’t crack his façade, then what will? She knows he’s afraid, but avoiding her at every turn is hardly the answer. Ever since that day at the supermarket, she’s been dying to talk to him about their finances – his finances, rather, since she has none of her own – keen to understand if they’re doing okay, what their monthly income is and how much she can spend. But he’s hardly even around any more, disappearing into the office even at the weekend, claiming he needs to catch up on some files. Since when has he ever felt the urge to ‘catch up’? He’s never even cared about his job, let alone staying on top of it. Things must be bad if he’s taking refuge there.
Fear darts through her. Does David really believe that things are over between them – that his revelation and their argument was the final impasse? Does he really think she won’t be able to forgive him for keeping his secret; that their love isn’t strong enough after all? He must, if his absence is anything to go by. He’s pretty much checked out already.
But what if she never remembers? How much longer can they go on like this, living in limbo, waiting for the axe to fall? Her stomach churns at the thought of them splitting up. She’d be alone with a three year old she doesn’t remember, broke, with no prospects – Jeremy Kyle’s wet dream.
Something has to give. Either her memory, or . . .
‘Come on, let’s tidy up,’ Charlotte says to Anabelle now, abandoning all hope of chocolate chip cookies. Sighing, she gazes down at the little girl, who’s trying futilely to catch the flour still swirling in the air. She is cute, and over the past couple of weeks, Charlotte has actually enjoyed spending some time with her . . . some. She’s had fun, but it’s not nearly enough to compensate for the life she’s leading; not enough to plug the holes in her heart when she thinks of David and a life without him.
Charlotte wipes a cloth across the counter, sending more flour flying. She’ll keep trying to be the mother she was, keep going on the path that’s been set out. Eventually, she’ll get there. She just hopes that when she does, her husband will still be by her side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
14 February
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t even remember. I did have it marked on the calendar, but not as a romantic holiday; as ‘Anabelle Three Months Old!’ And while I should probably feel bad admitting that – while all the baby books make a point of saying ‘Make sure you remember you’re a couple, too’ – the baby books haven’t been through what we have . . . what I have. Caring for a child who had such a traumatic start combined with all the usual newborn needs is enough to knock anyone flat, and by the end of the day, I can barely form a sentence, let alone be romantic.
Truth be told, when I think of David . . . well, I want to run away. I want to run from his tender glances, his praise, his constant encouragement to go back to work and his continuous offers of help. Because I don’t deserve it, and if he knew everything, he
wouldn’t be so loving. I turn away from him, that thorn jabbing my heart, and redouble my efforts with Anabelle to prove – to him, to me, I don’t know – that I’m sorry. I can see the hurt flickering on his face, but I can’t fall into him. Not now.
So when David came home early from work tonight bearing roses and chocolate in a garishly red heart, I didn’t swoon with romance. Instead, I felt like fleeing. Most parents would jump at a night out after three months straight with a newborn, but not me. How could I smile and accept tokens of love, knowing I might have risked the dearest thing to us – knowing I could have eased her journey into this world and helped secure her future, but didn’t? Knowing that if he had even an inkling of what I’d done, he might flee from me, too?
I took a deep breath and tried to smile, dodging his hug to set the flowers and chocolate on the side table.
‘Mum has agreed to look after Anabelle tonight,’ he said, and I could see he was trying to hide his disappointment at my lacklustre reaction. ‘And I’ve booked us a show at the Royal Court and dinner at the Botanist afterwards.’
I jerked towards him, my mouth dropping open. ‘You what?’ It was already six o’clock, I’d been wearing the same clothes for two days and God knows the last time I’d washed my hair, which was scraggly and threaded with grey now.
But that wasn’t really it. I couldn’t sit next to my husband all night, pretending we were fine – smiling and acting like the past three months were nothing; like my negligence was absolved. Guilt weighs on me with every breath I take, and some silly romantic evening out won’t shift that. Not to mention that leaving Anabelle for a whole night is out of the question. What if something happened? I’d never forgive myself – again.