The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  She makes a grotesque face, and Charlotte can’t help but laugh. God, it’s good to talk to someone else who feels the same as her – that motherhood is bloody hard.

  ‘We need to organise another girls’ night out,’ Jo says. ‘Can you believe it’s been almost a year since our last one? And no running off early this time!’ She wags a finger at Charlotte.

  Charlotte meets her eyes, wondering if she’s talking about the night that David and Miriam have told her about. What the hell happened? ‘Sounds good,’ she manages to say through the questions circling her brain.

  Jo peers closely at her. ‘Are you okay? You don’t seem your normal cheery, chipper self.’

  Charlotte manages a smile despite the shock of hearing herself described as ‘cheery’ and ‘chipper’. She’s been described as many things, but never that. ‘I’m all right. Just tired, you know.’

  ‘Do I ever. I’d give anything for a good night’s sleep. I swear to God, if someone had told me that at age three, he’d still be waking up, I’m not sure I would have ever got pregnant.’

  ‘As good as Layla is, sometimes she really needs to pay better attention.’ Jemma plonks back into the chair beside them, still holding the drooling baby in her arms. ‘If I hadn’t spotted her, Felicity would be halfway up that column by now!’ She shakes her head. ‘She’d better get her head screwed on right before I go back to work next week.’

  Charlotte’s mouth drops open. Jemma works? With three kids in tow – one of them only a few months old? Shame creeps into her that she’s judged these women before getting to know them. Hell, she’s even judged herself before understanding, railing against the choices she made.

  ‘I’m thinking about going back to work, too,’ she says, desperate to talk to someone about it.

  Jo and Jemma both swivel towards her, their eyebrows flying up, and Charlotte cringes. She could have said she was stripping in Soho and they wouldn’t have looked more shocked.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,’ Jemma says wryly, deftly wiping the baby’s chin while drinking her coffee at the same time. ‘You kept telling us how happy you were, and how being home with your daughter was a privilege. I never once heard you utter a negative word . . . unlike the rest of us. You were even starting to make me rethink my decision to return to work so soon!’ She sighs. ‘I should be used to leaving the kids – I’ve gone back after two maternity leaves – but it really is hard at first. Even after all this time, Felicity still cries when I go to work in the morning. Layla has to pry her off me.’

  Charlotte winces at the vision: a child crying desperately for her mother as someone tears her away. God, that sounds brutal. How does Jemma deal with that every day? Would it be like that with Anabelle, too?

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ Jo asks, leaning back in her chair. ‘I mean, you know how I feel about it. If I hadn’t been made redundant last year, I’d be working right now. God, work was my break.’ She makes a face. ‘Well, it was until they started running me ragged on a skeleton staff. I was almost happy to go, but I tell you, if someone offered me a job right now, I’d jump at it.’

  Charlotte meets the gaze of these two women, realising that they are even more like her than she thought. ‘I just . . .’ She pauses, trying to figure out what to say. ‘I just need something different from all of this.’ She gestures to the hall of crazy kids. ‘Besides all of this,’ she adds, so she doesn’t offend anyone. Not that she would offend Jemma and Jo, now that she knows how they feel.

  ‘Well, I can certainly understand that,’ Jemma says, hitching the baby up on her shoulder and placing a pristine muslin under her head. ‘Have you started looking yet? Any success?’

  Charlotte shakes her head, a sigh escaping at the thought of how dismal it’s been. ‘I’ve sent out loads of CVs, but nothing. I’ve been out of work so long that no one seems to want to take a chance on me. No one but my old company, anyway, offering me a role I pretty much started in ten years ago.’

  Both Jo and Jemma shoot her sympathetic looks. ‘It sucks, doesn’t it?’ Jo says. ‘I’ve gone to a few interviews, but as soon as I say I have a three year old, I keep getting asked when the next one’s coming along. As if the state of my womb is any of their business. No one seems to believe me when I say I’ve closed up shop.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d take that job at your old company,’ Jemma advises. ‘Just get your feet back on the rungs, get back in the game and up to snuff again. And you know what they say: it’s much easier to get a job once you’re already employed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be going backwards, though?’ Charlotte bites her lip.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Jemma says practically. ‘But the sad truth is that taking three years off might as well be ten – at least in finance, anyway. I don’t know what it’s like in your industry.’

  ‘Probably the same,’ Charlotte says, a heaviness settling over her. God. If only she’d known. Had she even paused to think what giving up her career would mean? Until experiencing it herself, she’d never once thought about the difficulty women face getting back into work – or tried to help them, she realises again. She’d just carried blithely on, so certain of her own trajectory.

  ‘But the good news is that once you get back in the door, I’m sure you’ll work your way up quickly. If not at your old company, then a new one,’ Jemma says. ‘If you’re really ready to go back, don’t wait around for the perfect offer, because it’s never going to come. Just get back in there.’

  Charlotte smiles at Jemma. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem. Keep me posted!’ She looks at her watch. ‘Now, ladies, it’s time to round up Layla and make a run for home again. I need to get some . . .’ And she’s off again, busily organising her life for the next one hundred years.

  Charlotte scans the room, raking her eyes over the toys and children for Anabelle. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Where on earth is she? She moves her gaze methodically up and down the hall, trying to ignore the small knot of panic inside when her daughter doesn’t appear after ten minutes of searching. She must be here somewhere; of course she must. Charlotte would have seen her if she’d tried to leave the hall, right? But then . . . she’d been busy talking to Jo and Jemma.

  She gets to her feet and takes a few steps forward, as if that will help her see better. She’s being ridiculous, she knows, but she can’t stop the horrible pictures tumbling into her head . . . of Anabelle crying, alone and afraid, without her. Where the hell is she?

  ‘Anabelle!’ Charlotte shouts, a strident edge of fear in her voice.

  Jo touches her arm. ‘What wrong?’

  ‘I can’t find Anabelle,’ Charlotte says in a shaky tone. ‘I don’t see her anywhere. I know she must be here, but . . .’

  ‘Right.’ Jo beckons Jemma forward. ‘Let’s each take a section of the hall, and I’m sure we’ll find her. Layla can watch our lot in the meantime.’

  Jemma gives a curt nod, and Charlotte feels a rush of gratitude that these women aren’t just telling her she’s being silly and irrational. They each stride off, Charlotte’s heart pounding and her mouth dry at the thought of losing her daughter. Losing her daughter! It’s unthinkable. Her panic grows into terror as more minutes pass without Anabelle.

  ‘Over here!’ Jo waves an arm from the far side of the hall and Charlotte flies over, moving faster than she can ever remember.

  ‘She was just having a little rest.’ Jo gestures into the nylon tunnel where Anabelle’s lying on her tummy, chin on her hands, gazing up at them with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  ‘Anabelle!’ Charlotte swoops down on her daughter, wedging herself as far as she can into the tunnel. Her arse is on show for everyone to see, but she doesn’t care. Her little girl is safe, and that’s all that matters. God, for a second there . . . She takes a deep breath. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel such a potent combination of fear, panic and guilt, then such a rush of relief and . . . love? If this is even an iota
of what she felt after Anabelle’s birth, then she can understand why she changed her life – why she changed so much. How could you not?

  ‘Can I get out now, Mummy?’ Anabelle shuffles forward on her tummy, and Charlotte can’t help laughing through the anger now coursing through her. She’d been so worried, and her daughter had been having a rest in the tunnel!

  ‘Sure,’ she says, easing herself out. Please God, may she not be stuck in here. That’s the last thing she needs after all this excitement. ‘But Anabelle, you need to stay in a place where I can see you. No more hiding. Okay?’

  ‘Okay!’ Anabelle runs off again and Charlotte sags against a column, trying to calm down.

  ‘I think I need a stiff drink,’ she says, glancing up at Jemma and Jo. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘No worries. I lost one of mine once in Boots,’ Jemma says. ‘Can’t even remember which kid it was now, but I do remember the absolute terror. Your mind goes straight to the worst-case scenario, doesn’t it?’ She shrugs. ‘That’s what us mums do best.’

  Charlotte nods. Us mums. For the first time, she feels like she’s not just acting like one; that she really is one – a mum . . . a mum who couldn’t bear to even think of losing her child. She’s never experienced fear like that before, and if she had her way, she’d never let her daughter out of her sight again. Except . . . she swallows down the conflicting emotion. That’s not exactly true, is it? She does want to go back to work, right?

  Of course I do, she tells herself. She keeps her eyes trained on Anabelle, following her daughter’s movements across the hall. She seems so independent – she’ll be more than fine when Charlotte finds a job, and Charlotte will be, too. They may have got used to being together 24/7, but it’s time now to loosen the apron strings. And maybe Jemma’s right. Maybe she should take up Ed’s offer and head back to the office. Although every little bit of her quivers at the thought of having him as her boss in such a familiar environment, it won’t be long before she can move on to a more senior position – back to the place of authority she used to have.

  She’ll make the phone call as soon as they’re home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  12 October

  Wow, it’s been so long since I’ve written . . . almost a year, in fact. That must show everything’s bumping along fine! Anabelle will be two soon, and she’s happy and healthy. I’m happy and healthy, David’s healthy (I’m not sure about ‘happy’, since our conversation rarely strays past ‘good night’, but he seems content enough), and this past year as a dedicated stay-at-home mum – and I say that with pride now – has flown by.

  Anabelle is a treasure, full of unexpected surprises to unwrap every day. She’s talking now, and although much of it resembles a foreign language, I love hearing the new words she masters. Other than the usual sniffles and sore throats, she hasn’t been seriously ill since her pneumonia, and she’s passed all her heart check-ups with flying colours. I couldn’t be prouder: of both me and her. We are a team, and I love her more than I ever thought possible.

  Sometimes, it’s hard to believe I’ve become one of those smug mums I used to avoid like the plague. Actually, I’ve more than just become one: I happily seek them out now, hitting up playgroups and baby classes daily. Despite my initial resistance, the women I meet there now form the foundation of my new life, and I couldn’t be more grateful for their tips and advice on how to nail this mothering gig.

  Popular topics include how all food must be organic or you risk poisoning your child; how to find the best photographer to ensure you don’t miss capturing a second of your child’s life as they grow and change; how you need to stretch your child’s mind by taking them to music classes, to movement classes, to the excruciating Mummy and Baby Yoga from which my hamstrings still haven’t recovered . . . how the day should be filled with valuable interaction, how the tablet is the source of all evil and TV something Satan created to liquefy children’s brains.

  In my previous life, I’m sure I would have sniggered – or, at the very least, rolled my eyes – at how obsessed these women are with their children. Now, I try to memorise everything, thinking how to apply it myself. Now, I understand. When you’re a mother, it’s not enough to be obsessed – and it’s not a job. It’s your life. It’s you.

  The unofficial leader of this tribe is a scarily efficient woman called Jemma, who has a daughter Anabelle’s age, a newborn, and is planning a third. She seems to know everyone – and everything. She even knows what schools her kids will go to, something I hadn’t even begun thinking about; but apparently we’re already too late for some places. Just hearing that made me feel like I’d already failed my daughter. I went straight home and phoned all the private schools within a one-mile radius, getting Anabelle on to every waiting list I could . . . even though we’d struggle with the fees on just David’s salary. I researched our local state schools, which were sadly lacking, before hitting on the idea of Anabelle attending the school close to Miriam’s house. Miriam is always going on about how outstanding it is, and I’m sure she’d let us use her address to apply from.

  Or maybe . . . maybe she’d even let us move in? She’s constantly saying she’s too old for such a big house and that she doesn’t feel safe, but she just can’t picture selling it. This could be the ideal solution for everyone! Imagine all the space Anabelle would have to run around in, not to mention her own room. It’d mean a longer commute for David, but we barely see him anyway. And it’d mean leaving Chelsea, but truth be told, I’m ready to go. I’m ready to start afresh, in a place with no bad memories.

  I’m finally getting there; finally feeling like a great mum. I make organic food for my family, ignoring David’s grimace at kale and quinoa. I organise biannual photo shoots for my family to document Anabelle’s every growth stage, and I dutifully display them in our lounge. I take away the tablet and set strict limits on any television time. I’ve enrolled my daughter in every toddler class going, even if it does mean we’re dashing around Chelsea like headless chickens most days. I’ve even used the last of my savings to buy a second-hand car so we can get to all our classes that much faster.

  And by the end of the day, I collapse. Motherhood may not be mentally draining, but wow, is it physical. There is nothing left of me once Anabelle’s in bed; I can’t even rouse myself when David comes through the door. My determination to do everything I can to give my daughter a solid start overrides everything else.

  Anabelle is my life, and I’m loving it.

  I am.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Charlotte stands in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. Not too bad, she decides, tugging her trousers up over the roll of fat ringing her waistline. She’s managed to lose some of the excess weight through her daily races with Anabelle – that girl has definitely inherited Charlotte’s competitive spirit; her hair is freshly cut and coloured and her suit is elegant. And if you don’t look too closely, you might not spot the three and a half years since she’s left Cellbril on her face.

  God, three and a half years. She sinks down on the bed, trying to identify the emotions swirling inside. She’s excited to get back out to the wonderful world of work; to show everyone how much she hasn’t forgotten and that she can still sign clients with the best of them. Hell, she can sign better than the best of them.

  But . . . there’s something else there, too, a sadness tinging the anticipation. Because although she may look like the same woman who secured the company’s biggest account, she’s not. Pancake-making and watercolour skills aside, she actually feels like a mother now – a mother who’s still learning every day, but a mother who loves her child. It’s a love gained from the hours of care and attention, an emotion that’s grown and almost snuck up on her, culminating in that moment when she thought she’d lost Anabelle last week. And while she knows beyond a doubt that she needs to work, the thought of leaving her daughter behind each day tugs at her heart.

  Ed had been a little shocked when she’d cal
led to say she’d take him up on his job offer, but he’d quickly recovered and transferred her straight through to HR. The same dozy woman from Charlotte’s days still worked there. Since she remembered Charlotte, there was no need to complete any new paperwork beside the contract, which Ed had had couriered over the next day. Charlotte had admired his efficiency; maybe they could actually work together. Although – she grimaces – he’s already scheduled her in for training sessions to learn his ‘certifiably successful pitch techniques’ for ‘the newbies’. As if she’s a newbie!

  ‘All set?’ David gives her a rare smile, and Charlotte nods. He’d been so pleased when she’d told him she’d found work; she’d longed to throw herself into his arms then crack open a bottle of champagne to celebrate, like they used to. She’d had to remind herself that his happiness was probably because he could now leave with slightly less guilt.

  ‘I think so. Your mother’s going to be here until you get home from work, right? I’m not sure what time I’ll be back.’ Hopefully not too late,she thinks. It is her first day. Anabelle will need to see a familiar face after the change of routine, and—

  Charlotte stops herself from going any further. Anabelle will be fine; she’ll have David. Charlotte needs to focus on proving herself.

  ‘Mama!’ Anabelle runs in from the lounge, where she’s been finishing her breakfast, her face covered with milk and cereal. Charlotte takes a step back, only just managing to get herself out of harm’s way. She bends down to Anabelle’s level, her trousers biting into the tops of her thighs.

  ‘Hi, honey.’ She smooths her daughter’s hair, thinking how much she’s going to miss their daily adventures – although she won’t miss the whining and the tears, that’s for sure. ‘You set for a good day with Granny?’ Thankfully Miriam has jumped at the chance to be with Anabelle, even if it does mean a long drive every day . . . until they move, anyway.