Greenwich Park

by Katherine Faulkner

  Ruby brings me in and starts jumping up and down on the sofa, giddy and excited. The ceilings are low and sloping – I’m worried she’ll hit her head on the skylight. ‘Careful, Ruby,’ I say. I don’t expect she’ll do much damage to the sofa – it is already squashed and battered, covered in the same orange throw Charlie had in his teenage bedroom.

  When I go through to the kitchen to find Charlie, he is nowhere to be seen. He must be in the bathroom. On the side are a chopping board and pans, two bowls of half-eaten spaghetti Bolognese on the side. There are onion skins and carrot peelings, an empty tin of tomatoes. I’m incredibly thirsty all of a sudden.

  ‘Charlie, it’s me, Helen,’ I call. ‘I’m just grabbing a glass of water.’ When I open cupboards, looking for a tall glass, all I can find is children’s cereals, cocoa, brown rice, peanut butter, pasta sauces.

  Charlie emerges from the bathroom. He looks at me, puzzled. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, glancing back through at Ruby.

  He pauses.

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Just water, thanks.’

  He turns on the tap, lowers his voice.

  ‘Are you here about –’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I mutter. ‘When Ruby is in bed.’

  Ruby is still jumping up and down on the sofa when I walk back in, her hair braid following her up and down in the air, thumping against her gap-toothed grin. She is telling me about how she lost another tooth, and the tooth fairy came, and then it came again at Daddy’s, because it must have got confused, and they are doing the Romans at school, and do I know what a charioteer is, and Nora isn’t her friend any more and can she stay up late? I tell her it’s already quite late, and she’ll have to ask her Daddy, and that I need to go to the bathroom.

  From the bathroom, I hear the muffled sound of Charlie telling Ruby it’s bedtime, that she needs to brush her teeth or they won’t have time for a story. As I wash my hands, I notice a pink pair of Disney pyjamas warming on the radiator.

  I make myself a cup of tea and stay in the kitchen, listening to Charlie reading The Twits to Ruby in her bedroom. Within a few minutes, I hear him creeping out, flicking the light off. The flat feels still and quiet. I walk into the living room to see Charlie slumping down on his sofa, cracking open a beer. I sit down awkwardly next to him. His spider plant needs watering. The blinds on his window are broken.

  ‘So. How are things?’

  Charlie shrugs. ‘Fine. Same as always.’

  ‘Ruby seems happy.’

  ‘She is happy.’ There is a snap in his voice.

  ‘You don’t need to say it like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s just so obvious what you’re thinking, Helen. I don’t know why you don’t just come out with it.’

  I sniff, set my mug down on his coffee table. ‘I just … I don’t know why you insist on living here. Not when you have all that money. You could live somewhere better. Somewhere with a garden. That roof terrace isn’t even safe. It’s like you live here on purpose, to prove something.’

  Charlie looks at me, and I recognise the anger in his face, from when we used to fight, when we were children. But it is a man’s face, now. We are not children any more.

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me about parenting?’

  The words sting me.

  ‘I live here, because Ruby lives here,’ he says. ‘Her school is here. Maja and Bruce live here. My work is three streets away.’ He gestures into the air. ‘I don’t know what you want, Helen. Normal children don’t live in mansions on Greenwich Park with seventy-foot gardens. Normal families live like us.’

  He takes a deep swig of beer, puts the bottle down harder than he needs to.

  ‘We take her to the playground. We take her to Brownies and football and forest school and karate. She loves her school. She has friends. She has hobbies. Occasionally she even eats fucking vegetables. She is happy. We are happy, Helen.’

  I look at my younger brother. I see that there is a sticky chocolate smudge on his jeans, bags under his eyes. I think about the home-made pasta sauce, the pyjamas on the radiator. And I realise I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. And my brother, my useless, naughty little brother is doing it already.

  Charlie’s face is so like Mummy. I think about when Ruby was born, how tiny she was, how perfect. The picture they sent of her with her little hands and feet, her rosebud lips. A picture I could barely look at. I think about all the times we said we’d go and visit, all the times I said I was going to do it, this time. That this time, I would get there. But then when we got to the car, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I think about Charlie’s voice on the phone. ‘It’s cool, Helen,’ he’d say. ‘We understand. I hope you’re doing OK.’

  Then I think about when I’d gone to see Ruby with Katie, on her third birthday. How the present I’d got her was too babyish, and she didn’t really like it. How she’d run to Katie, and not me. I think about later, all the times they came to Greenwich and I tried to take her to educational things, and she’d been bored, fussing at Charlie’s feet, asking if she could go and splash in the fountains, or watch the busker and the bubble man at the park gates, or ride on the merry-go-round, or get an ice cream from the van. Why didn’t I just say yes? Why was I always trying to be like Daddy?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just. Sometimes, you feel … so far away.’

  I see his face soften. His eyes. Mummy’s eyes. And then he does something he hasn’t done in years. He puts his arm around me. After a moment, I hug him back.

  When I sit back into the orange sofa, Charlie rises and plucks an Action Man from the beanbag, and throws it into the toy box, then sinks into it, so that he is now opposite me.

  ‘You didn’t need to come all this way, Helen,’ he says eventually. ‘You must be knackered. I’d have come to see you, if you’d said. If you’d wanted to talk.’

  I nod. I say nothing.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  I pass him the photograph Katie took from the club. He looks at the picture, and I see his pupils dilate. He inhales sharply.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  I don’t answer the question.

  ‘I need to know the truth, Charlie. About you and Rachel.’

  41 WEEKS

  HELEN

  Daniel and I get to Serena’s exhibition late, and it is busy, glasses of wine clinking, the hum of chatter spiralling up into the high roof of the warehouse. The room is dark, except for the white beam of the light boxes that display her photographs. There are eight on each wall. The pictures cast blurry white reflections in the shiny floor, like a moon over water.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask Daniel.

  He shrugs. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

  I turn and look at him. ‘Daniel, is something wrong? You’re being so short with me.’

  He looks at me, then at the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I’m just stressed about work. And I know you’re cross with me about coming home late.’

  He looks so dejected, like a little boy.

  ‘I don’t mean to give you a hard time,’ I say. I take his hand. ‘I just need you at the moment, that’s all. And all this Rachel stuff doesn’t help.’

  He sighs, pulls me to him. I’m so big he can barely hold me close.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better at being around, all right?’

  I exhale, feeling tears gathering in my eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur into his shoulder. When he pulls away, I blink the tears back, try to smile. He takes my hand.

  Rory and Serena have been away in Italy. She has been posting pictures on Instagram of their holiday, a hotel painted in bright opal colours, a turquoise sea. In one of them she is sitting in a jacuzzi, even though the books tell you not to during pregnancy. I couldn’t see her bump in it. I’m looking forward to seeing her, seeing whether she is looking bigger now, like me. If her baby is early, it is not inco
nceivable that it could even come before mine.

  While Daniel stares at the first photograph, I crane my neck around the room, but I can’t see Serena. I grab a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter and follow Daniel around, trying to look like I’m deep in thought.

  Eventually I get bored of going at Daniel’s pace, so I skip a few pictures ahead. I need to find one photograph and think of something to say about it if I need to. Not this one – I can’t actually quite see what it is supposed to be. It looks like something wet and bumpy, like the back of an avocado, or a snakeskin handbag. Something reptilian. Glancing to the side first, I cheat and look at the little card next to the light box. Cobbles on the mews in rain, it says. It doesn’t give a price.

  I try the next photograph. It is an image of a slender man, almost in silhouette, leaning against the wall of their upstairs balcony. Behind him the city is a mass of light, and his face is in darkness, a plume of smoke escaping from his lips. It takes me a moment to recognise the outline as Daniel’s. He doesn’t look like my Daniel. He looks strange, unknowable. The outline of his face seems no more human than the squiggle of the London skyline.

  The picture gives me a strange feeling. When was it taken? I look at the card, but it says simply: Untitled. There is a little red dot next to it, to indicate that it has been sold. I turn to Daniel, to ask him about it. Only then do I notice that he seems to have taken off somewhere.

  ‘Helen! So good to see you!’ Serena is beside us all of a sudden, a column of silk and perfume. She is bigger now, her bump cocooned in the pale, shimmering fabric of her dress, round and perfect, like a huge pearl.

  She kisses me, her soft cheek brushing against mine. ‘I can’t believe you came – you must be so fed up. How long are they letting you go over?’

  ‘Only until Sunday.. Or it’s the dreaded induction.’

  We grimace at each other.

  ‘Poor you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I hope he gets a move on soon. Did you have a good holiday?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘I’m glad. You look great.’ I hesitate. Should I mention Rachel? I wonder whether the police have been to see her or Rory. I decide not to bring it up. Instead, I gesture at the photographs. ‘This is all amazing – as usual. You’re so talented.’

  Serena beams. ‘You’re so sweet, Helen. Thank you.’

  I glance at the photograph next to us again, the one of Daniel. I’m about to ask her about it but I see her expression flicker, as if there’s something she’s just remembered.

  ‘Helen, do you want to get out of here? Come over for some tea or something? It’d be good to catch up. Properly.’

  ‘Now? What about your party? Won’t people be surprised –’

  ‘Oh, no, it doesn’t matter about all that,’ she says, dismissing the gallery guests with a wave of her hand. ‘Renata will get people’s details if they’re interested and everyone knows I’m pregnant. Come on.’ She takes my arm. ‘It’s so boring anyway. It’s all just bankers and hedgies. None of them have a clue.’

  ‘Well, all right, but I’d better tell Daniel –’

  ‘He won’t mind,’ she says quickly. I can’t see where he has gone. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Outside, it is so cold it makes me gasp, my breath escaping in tiny clouds. I struggle to keep up with Serena as she strides up Maze Hill, the wind stinging my cheeks. It is a relief to step into the familiar glow of her home, the warmth of their front room. I perch at the seat in the bay window while Serena makes tea in the kitchen.

  The photograph of Serena and her bridesmaids is in its usual place on the mantelpiece. It’s an image I have looked at so many times that I could probably paint its likeness from memory, but still, I can’t resist hauling myself up and picking it up for a closer look, feeling the heavy silver weight of it, the familiar moss-like softness of the fabric mounted on the back. I know from experience that my thumbs will leave marks on the edges of the frame that I will have to wipe carefully before Serena is back in the room.

  When the photographs of Serena’s wedding came back from their photographer, there was not a single one like this of her and me. There were lots of the bridesmaids. I suppose they were a photogenic bunch. And there was no reason for the photographer to know I was Rory’s sister, and such a close friend of Serena. I didn’t have a corsage, or a special dress in duck-egg blue. The photographer had also taken several of Serena in the morning, getting ready. The bridesmaids were all there, and Serena had given them all special pale pink dressing gowns. The pictures showed them clutching flutes of Buck’s Fizz with elegantly manicured nails, helping Serena tie the line of pearl buttons at the back of her dress.

  The thing about Serena is that she somehow seems to collect female friendships, effortlessly, like the bangles she wears on both wrists. I think of that awful hen weekend in Cornwall again. There were friends from Serena’s primary school, secondary school, university, work, ‘hockey’ – I had lost count. How is it that some women amass such huge collections of people who love them, yet I can’t even go to an antenatal class and make one nice, normal friend?

  As I place the photograph back, I notice something on the mantelpiece that wasn’t there before. A card, the same one that sits on our mantelpiece at home. DCI Betsky. Homicide.

  I sink down into one of Serena’s sofas just as she returns. Serena places the tray onto the mango-wood coffee table. She pours fresh mint tea into the mugs and hands one to me. Then she drops two cubes of brown sugar into her own, wraps her slender fingers around it and then curls back into the sofa, looking as if she’s taking her place in a painting.

  She has changed from her silk dress into jeans and a white jumper that drapes off one shoulder. Her eyes are still painted the same shimmery silver as the dress she was wearing. She leans back into the sheepskin throw around the back of the sofa. It seems to enclose her in its soft fingertips. Her sleeves are rolled up and I can see her forearms are brown from her holiday. I feel pale and self-conscious in comparison. I pull my own cuffs over my knuckles, my cardigan around my middle. It won’t go round the bump any more.

  ‘You’re so lovely and tanned.’

  ‘Italy was heavenly,’ she says. She leans forward, places the mug down. ‘But then we got home to find two detectives on our doorstep.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Which was somewhat surreal.’

  Serena puts her hands on her knees as she stands. It’s the first time I’ve really noticed her seeming to feel heavier. ‘I’ll show you the card –’

  ‘I saw it – the same woman came to see us, too. DCI Betsky. I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.’

  She turns to look at me, puzzled.

  ‘It’s not your fault, darling. Why are you sorry?’

  My jaw tightens, my mouth feels dry. She is being kind. She knows exactly. I am responsible for all this, I think. Rachel was my doing. I brought her here.

  Serena plucks the card from the mantelpiece, turns it over. ‘Rory said something about Charlie,’ she says. ‘Did you and him have some sort of row?’

  ‘He’s not speaking to me,’ I confess. ‘Or at least, he’s not returning my calls.’ I realise I’ve been fiddling with one of her Mongolian hair cushions, the strands knotted around my fingers.

  ‘Why not?’

  I sigh. I’m sure she’ll find out sooner or later. ‘You won’t believe this. But Charlie knew Rachel from before I met her.’

  Serena’s eyes widen. ‘Charlie knew her?’

  I bite my lip and nod. I tell her about the photo of Charlie and Rachel that Katie found at the club.

  ‘Christ. Did you ask Charlie why he never told any of us that he knew her?’

  ‘I did more than that. I made him go to the police.’

  As soon as Charlie admitted he’d known Rachel from before, I’d called Maja, asked her to pick Ruby up, so Charlie and I could go to the police. Maja and Bruce arrived within twenty minutes. It was obvious they’d been out for dinner;
Maja’s hair was pinned up at the back of her neck, a woody perfume on her coat. Ruby’s eyelids barely flickered as Bruce gently lifted her from her bed, carried her down to their car.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to Maja at the door. I hadn’t seen Maja in years. She looked great, her clothes more grown-up-looking, expensive. A few strands of grey in her hair. She’s not the sort to dye it.

  Maja stared at me coldly, as if I was an idiot. ‘She’s my daughter, Helen,’ she said. Then she turned and followed Bruce down the steps, holding Ruby’s bunny by the neck.

  It was only when I got Charlie to the police station that it occurred to me we’d picked the worst possible time. The plastic chairs in the waiting room were packed with Friday-night drunks, blokes with cuts on their heads, skeleton-faced drug addicts. I had to shout to be heard by the woman on the other side of the glass case. I assumed they’d be able to pick up the details, that the case would be on file somewhere. It had been on the news. Surely they knew what I was talking about? Instead, we were met with blank faces, shaking heads, flickering computer screens that yielded no information. We were told to wait.

  So we waited. I sat down next to a homeless man who kept falling asleep, a balled-up coat wedged between him and the radiator. Charlie stood, pacing round the room, his fists clenched, pretending to read the crime prevention posters and look out of the window. Anything rather than speak to me.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, someone turned up, a brisk young detective with shiny shoes, and showed Charlie into a room. He held the door open for him with one hand, pressing his tie flat to his chest with the other, his spine soldier-straight. I was asked to wait outside. The door was closed before I could object.

  I felt in desperate need of sugar. I dug out a pound, keyed in the hot chocolate option at the drinks machine. The machine squirted a hot brown stream into a beige cup. I took the drink and slumped back into my chair. When I’d finished it, I massaged my bump, hoping to feel the reassuring shift of movement in response to the sugar, a kick or an elbow. Nothing. I stared at my shoes, tried not to make eye contact with the drunks.