The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  ‘I thought it would be a treat,’ David said, biting his lip. ‘You’ve been superwoman these past few months.’ He shakes his head. ‘Supermother, I should say. I think it’s time to let your hair down a bit. Come on, you deserve it.’

  Supermother. Right. I turned away and gulped in air, trying to clamp down on the emotions swirling inside.

  ‘It’s a nice thought. Thank you.’ I forced myself to face him, lifting my lips in what must have been the fakest smile ever. ‘It’s just, well, I’m a little tired, and—’

  ‘I think we’ll always be a little tired from here on in.’ David caught my fingers. ‘Come on, Charlotte. Please? I feel like we haven’t properly talked for ages. Let’s ditch the show. We can just go for a drink or something. The Prince Albert?’

  Something shifted inside me at the mention of the pub across the street, the place we used to go for a Friday night drink together at the end of the long week. We’d stay for more pints than expected, then stumble across the road and into bed to make love. Longing flashed through me, but as soon as I recognised it, I pushed it away.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Not even for a quick pint? We don’t need to stay long. Come on, it will do you good to get away.’ He swallowed. ‘I miss you.’

  I looked into his eyes, his words echoing in my ears. Who exactly did he miss? Madam Vice-President, like he used to call me? The woman who’d cared more about her job than making sure her child was okay?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘But I need to stay here.’ My heart ached, but I steeled myself against it.

  Then I spun away from my husband and into the room where Anabelle was sleeping.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Come on, it will only take a minute. Snip, snip, and you’re done!’ Charlotte tries to drag an unwilling Anabelle into Moby’s, a hair salon just off the King’s Road. Her daughter’s fringe is now covering her eyes, and a haircut is well overdue. But Anabelle’s having none of it, gripping on to the doorframe.

  Charlotte grits her teeth, bearing down on the impatience and frustration boiling inside. After a fractious night in which Anabelle couldn’t settle for some reason, they’d both woken up on the wrong side of the bed. The morning had been punctuated by tantrums and crying, and Charlotte had looked forward to this appointment as the temporary light at the end of a very noisy, sticky tunnel. She loves hair salons: the sense of peace when you walk in the door, the feeling that you can switch off and indulge your love of trashy magazines with no one to judge you, and leave refreshed and revived, a better version of the person who’d walked in the door.

  Even though this is for Anabelle and not for her, she couldn’t wait. She’d pictured her daughter sitting placidly in the chair while Charlotte chatted to the hairdresser, having a little human interaction for once. She’d never realised how isolating staying at home with your child can be, and although she’s in no hurry to chat up other smug mums, it would be nice to feel she’s not alone in this world.

  Finally Charlotte manages to prise Anabelle’s clinging fingers off the door frame and coax her over to the stylist with a smile firmly nailed on to her face.

  ‘Are you Anabelle?’ the stylist asks, checking her clipboard. ‘Hello.’ She gestures to the chair, and Charlotte lifts her daughter into it, feeling sweat trickle down her spine. ‘And hello, Mum.’ She turns her grin on Charlotte. ‘How are we today?’

  Hello, Mum? Is that her new name? Apparently so, because that’s how the stylist addresses her throughout the whole torturous session, every instance setting Charlotte’s teeth on edge more and more.

  ‘I’m Charlotte,’ she snaps when she can’t bear it any longer.

  The stylist turns to her in surprise. ‘Oh, sorry.’ She raises her eyebrows at her colleague and they exchange a look, clearly not caring that Charlotte can see them.

  As Charlotte does everything in her power to keep her daughter still – she’s seconds from being jabbed in the eyeball with the scissors at one point – her mind spins. To these women and everyone else she meets, she is a generic ‘mum’, just another woman who stays at home while her husband goes out to work. That is her job, her role, her identity, now and for the foreseeable future. She looks up at her reflection in the mirror, taking in the mumsy brown bob and grey roots. This is her.

  ‘How quickly do you think you can cut my hair?’ The question bursts out of her before she can stop it. She hadn’t come for a new style, but now that she’s thought of it, desire flares inside.

  The stylist glances over at her. ‘What do you want done?’

  ‘Short pixie cut,’ Charlotte says, without having to think twice. That’s how she remembers herself. That’s who she is.

  ‘Thirty minutes, give or take,’ the stylist says. ‘If you don’t mind not having a blow dry afterwards. I can do you straight after your daughter.’

  Oh, Anabelle. Charlotte glances down at her daughter, remembering that she’s there. Shit. ‘Anabelle, I’m going to get my hair cut after you, okay? It won’t take long.’ And hopefully it won’t cost too much, she thinks, realising she still needs to talk to David about finances. Two haircuts in some Chelsea salons would buy a small car in other parts of the world.

  ‘Nooooo!’ Anabelle lets out a wail. ‘Home after this. I want to go home!’

  Charlotte draws in a breath, having learned that showing her frustration will only make Anabelle dig in harder. She wants this haircut. She needs this haircut – regardless of the cost. Time to bring out the big guns. ‘Right, how about an ice cream afterwards at that place you love around the corner? Three scoops!’

  Anabelle’s mouth drops open. ‘Three? Promise?’

  Charlotte nods. ‘Absolutely.’

  Half an hour later, long locks of Charlotte’s mousy brown hair lie in clumps on the floor. She shakes her head and smiles, loving how light she feels – both inside and out. It’s not just a haircut: it’s embracing who she is now. ‘God, that’s better. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem. You’ll need a colour again soon if you want to cover those roots.’

  Charlotte nods. She’ll pick up a box of black hair dye on the way home after ice cream. David will be stunned when he sees her – he always loved her with short hair, nuzzling her bare neck. She bites her lip. Or will he even notice? He barely looks at her any more, even when she swoops over to kiss him when he’s home from work – on the rare occasions she’s not already snoozing on the sofa. They’re more like roommates these days than husband and wife.

  Anabelle glances up from the magazine she’s been ripping apart, her mouth dropping open when she spots her mother. ‘Mama! Where’s your hair gone? What happened?’ Her little face crumples. ‘I don’t like it! Put your hair back on! Mama, please!’

  She dissolves into tears and Charlotte stares at her, unsure what to do. She’d never have imagined Anabelle would react this way to a haircut, of all things. Then a memory flashes into her mind of when her father shaved his beard – she must have been about three? She’d taken one look at him and started sobbing. It had been him and yet it wasn’t, and the change had been overwhelming. According to her father, she’d cried for a week.

  She feels the stylist’s eyes on her, and she bends down to engulf her daughter in a hug. ‘It’s okay, Anabelle. It’s just hair. I’m the same person you always knew.’ She swallows, knowing that’s not true. ‘I’m still your mother.’ The word sticks in her throat, and she realises it’s the first time she’s said those words aloud.

  She’s not the same person Anabelle knows, but whoever she is now, she is still a mother . . . and maybe, just maybe, she’s getting a little bit better at being one. She lets out her breath as Anabelle’s tears subside now that she’s in Charlotte’s arms.

  ‘Come on.’ Charlotte wipes Anabelle’s tears and gives her another quick cuddle, relieved that, unlike her younger self, Anabelle’s not going to cry for a week. ‘Let’s go and get that ice cream.’

  Anabelle slides f
rom the chair and grabs Charlotte’s hand, chattering away once again. As they head back out to the front, Charlotte glimpses herself in the mirror. Even with the soon-to-be-gone grey streaks and the few extra wrinkles, she looks like herself again – the professional, switched-on woman who wore business suits and was a shoo-in to be the next VP. Then she takes in the rest of the image: Anabelle clinging to her hand, her jeggings and her faded T-shirt. Charlotte blinks, trying to assimilate her newly coiffed head with the rest of the reflection, but the juxtaposition is so jarring.

  Will she ever be able to completely let go of the person she was before Anabelle came along? Does she even want to now? She’d followed the doctor’s advice and tried to walk the path of motherhood, but that doesn’t seem to be working. It’s been well over a month since the accident, and although she does feel more connected to Anabelle, she keeps waiting for the rush of maternal love that Lily spoke about – and that she herself must have experienced to sweep her life off-track. She’s starting to think it’s never going to happen.

  And with every day that passes, her desire to return to that path is only diminishing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Park! Park!’ Anabelle shouts through a mouthful of Cheerios, early one blustery morning.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Charlotte chews her cereal, heart sinking at the thought of going back to the park. Despite living here for years, she’d never even been to the park around the corner until recently, but she’s definitely making up for lost time. Over the past few weeks, she and Anabelle must have gone there at least once a day. And while there’s something so invigorating about breathing in fresh air, she’s not in the mood to hoist her daughter up the sand-encrusted ladder or dig with a stick in the woodchips. Not to mention that the weather today isn’t exactly inviting.

  ‘Let’s do something besides the park,’ she says, grabbing her phone to scan her weekly calendar. She cringes, noticing the only indoor activity available is a music class at a nearby church hall. According to her calendar, she used to take Anabelle there quite a bit. Lots of kids shoved into a small room with jangling tambourines doesn’t exactly sound like the ideal way to pass an hour. But actually, she can kind of understand now why she’d go there: at least there’s adult company. Some of the women she must have met at these places have messaged her over the past few weeks asking where she’s been, but she hasn’t responded. In fact, she hasn’t talked to anyone over the age of three since the outing to the hair salon – her husband excluded, of course. But then, you could barely call what they did ‘talking’.

  She sighs, remembering his reaction to her new hair. By the time he’d got home that night, she’d transformed her locks from their hideous brown-grey to a glossy black. She’d even put on make-up, making her eyes a sultry grey and her lips bright red. A full face of make-up had looked ridiculous with jeggings and a T-shirt, so she’d thrown on a leopard-print jumper she’d found shoved to the back of the wardrobe and a pair of black skinny jeans that she could just about fit into. Then she’d perched on the sofa and waited for David to come home – not quite sure what she wanted him to do, but hoping that, maybe, her transformation would trigger something between them; remind them of how they used to be.

  David had taken one look at her, raised his eyebrows, then gone straight to the bathroom to have a shower. Unable to damp down her frustration any longer, she’d followed him and yanked the door open.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked. ‘What do you think?’

  She knew he liked it – he’d told her the haircut suited her so many times in the past – but she wanted to hear him say it. If she couldn’t get him to say he loved her, at least he could say he loved her hair.

  ‘It’s nice,’ David responded with a sigh, as if even those words were too much to utter. ‘But didn’t you always complain it was a lot of upkeep? And really expensive to go to the stylist every six weeks, too?’

  He’d turned on the shower before she could even answer. Charlotte had backed out of the bathroom, disappointment and hurt stinging inside. For the first time, it felt like he wasn’t just rejecting the woman he’d argued with, the mother who’d wanted more kids. He was rejecting her, the woman she’d been before Anabelle. The woman who’d relied on him to calm the whirlwind inside her, and the woman who loved him now without the complications and burdens the past three years had heaped upon them.

  But he’s not the man she remembers, she realises with a jolt – the man who’d always been there. He’d kept a vital secret from her for years, and had allowed himself to be held at a distance from their daughter. The David she knew would never have stepped away; would never have let guilt drag him down.

  He’d changed, like she had, too. And she doesn’t know him now, any more than she knows the woman she’d become after having Anabelle. The thought digs uncomfortably into her brain as her doubts balloon. Is it possible to reconnect, if they’ve both changed so much? Who are they as a couple now?

  What she really needs right now is a friend. Maybe Lily could come over – or they could hit the music class together? Lily might treat her as mother extraordinaire, but at least she knows the old Charlotte. Charlotte’s tried calling several times, but despite her hope of rekindling their friendship, she hasn’t managed to connect with Lily since her visit weeks ago. Given how much work a three year old is, a newborn must be excruciating, and Charlotte can understand why most of her friends faded away once they had kids. Even so, Lily must still be chomping at the bit to get out of the house. Liam’s too young to hit a drum, but he might enjoy the music, and she and Lily can chat without worrying about their kids crying and disturbing others, at the very least.

  Charlotte clicks on Lily’s contact information and hits ‘Call’, turning on the TV to keep Anabelle occupied for hopefully longer than a minute. She’ll never take making a phone call in silence for granted again.

  ‘Hello?’ Lily’s voice is a whisper.

  ‘Lils? It’s Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh, hi. Sorry, I’ve just put Liam down for a nap.’

  Lucky thing, Charlotte thinks. She’d give anything to put Anabelle down for a nap, but the one day her daughter did drift off in the afternoon, she didn’t go to sleep again until ten at night. David had shaken his head, asking what on earth Charlotte had been thinking, before realising she didn’t know any of that stuff. She’d quickly brushed up on it, learning never to give Anabelle a lie-down if you wanted an evening of silence. The hour of peace wasn’t worth the evening of pain.

  ‘Listen, Anabelle and I might head to a music class in St Matthew’s Church in about an hour. I know Liam’s a little young, but I thought you guys might like to join us? It’s a good way to kill an hour or two!’ Charlotte winces at her words, remembering too late that she apparently cherishes every minute with her daughter.

  But Lily doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Does the outside world still exist?’ she asks. ‘God, I can barely remember the last time I left the flat. It’s all been such a blur, and to be honest, this breastfeeding thing is bloody hard. I mean, I love it,’ she adds quickly, ‘and I thought we were getting on fine. Turns out Liam’s not gaining enough weight.’ Charlotte can hear the stress crackling in her friend’s voice. ‘I don’t get it. I mean, he feeds for hours. How can he not be gaining weight?’

  Charlotte stays silent, wanting to comfort her friend but unsure what to say. If she ate for hours, she’d be the size of a baby elephant. Clearly it’s not the same for newborns.

  ‘Anyway.’ Lily swallows. ‘I think we’d better stay in. I don’t know how he’d feed in a noisy place, and I don’t want to risk him losing more weight. I just want to crack this, you know? Then I’ll be able to relax a bit. I really want to enjoy this time, after trying so hard to have a baby.’

  Charlotte nods, thinking how funny it is that she’s in the same place as Lily: they’ve both faced challenges when it comes to children, leading them to narrow their focus. The only difference is that, for Lily, it’s still very early days in he
r journey as a mother. It makes sense that she’d want to pour everything into her newborn; he’d need that from her. But in Charlotte’s case . . . well, it’s three years on, and she’s still giving everything to her child. That’s fine if it makes her happy, but right now, she’s anything but.

  ‘Well, maybe you two can come over here later this afternoon? I’ll make sure it’s nice and quiet.’ Charlotte’s voice is tainted with desperation now, and she swallows it down again. She’s not desperate. Well . . . maybe a little. She just needs someone familiar in her world, someone who cares for her and loves her. She blinks back the tears that have come from somewhere, telling herself to get a grip.

  ‘I’d love to, but we should probably stick around here,’ Lily says, and Charlotte’s heart sinks. ‘I’m not sure how much company I’d be, anyway – I’d probably fall asleep on your sofa. The other night I drifted off when I was trying to eat a piece of leftover pizza while holding Liam at the same time. When I woke up his little head was covered with pepperoni!’

  Charlotte bursts out laughing at the image, and despite the dismay in Lily’s voice, she starts laughing, too. For a second, it feels just like old times.

  ‘Okay,’ Charlotte says slowly. ‘Well, we’re free all week.’ God, were they ever. ‘What are you guys up to tomorrow?’

  ‘The health visitor is coming over to check Liam’s weight,’ Lily says. ‘And the day after, he has an appointment with the cranial osteopath. I’m hoping that helps his feeding.’

  ‘Right.’ Charlotte’s more disappointed than she wants to admit. ‘Lils . . . We should book a night out, just the two of us.’ The thought flashes into her mind, and she grins. What a great idea! What she wouldn’t give for an evening out to escape from all this for a few hours. ‘In a few months’ time, I mean,’ she adds hastily, remembering Liam’s weight issues. ‘And you know what? We could even do a girls’ weekend away! Just the two of us, somewhere with a posh spa. Loads of champagne and relaxing massages . . . that would be bliss.’