Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  Tom bounces up and down on the back seat as though he’s just won the World Cup. He has no idea that today our lives changed forever, and I have no wish to tell him.

  ‘I think you’ll be the best football player in the world,’ I say. ‘Now pop your seat belt on, and we’ll get going.’

  ‘Can we have pizza?’

  ‘Yes, we can have pizza. But please put your seat belt on, or we can’t go anywhere.’

  Tom clicks his belt into place, and I fling the car into reverse. Asda is five miles away, and as my son rattles on about goals and penalties and free kicks, I can’t stop thinking about what Monica has told me.

  How does she know about Tom, and how long has she known? Has she told Simon? And if so, was I right and that’s why he’s been at school twice this week? Is he going to force me to give him access? My throat contracts. I can’t believe this is happening.

  After all these years.

  Why now? Why, why, why?

  ‘Mum! I said, did you see when the referee blew his whistle at me?! He thought I’d gone offside, but I hadn’t. I know more about the offside rule than he does, don’t I, Mum?’

  Tears spill over my lower eyelids, and splash onto my cheeks. I wipe at them with the back of my hand and try to hide my despair from Tom, but it’s hard. In fact, it’s impossible.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum? Why are you crying?’

  My son strains against his seat belt and just manages to touch my shoulder. I grab his hand and squeeze it. If I could, I’d hold on to it forever.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking about how proud I am of you, and I think you’re a magnificent football player.’

  ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ he says. ‘But please stop crying. You’re making my eyes feel watery.’

  I pat his hand and return my own to the steering wheel. He’s right. No good can come from my tears. I’m made of stronger stuff than this. My life is spinning, but it’s not yet out of control, and I have to make sure it stays that way. I think about the phone number hidden in my bedside cabinet, and know what I have to do.

  I have to speak to Simon.

  I have to be sure he doesn’t know about our son.

  After Tom goes to bed, I pick up my phone, but my hands shake so much, I can barely function. After thirteen attempts, I get up enough nerve to press the call button, although I feel so out of breath that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to speak. What if Monica picks up? What if one of their grown-up kids pick up? It rings four times and then a man’s voice booms down the line.

  ‘Hello?’

  Simon.

  His voice hits me in a way I didn’t expect, and I hang up and then regret calling at all. Although I withheld my number, I still fear that he’ll somehow figure out who was calling, and call me back. Stupid I know, since I wanted to speak to him in the first place, but I’ve never been one to let facts get in the way of a good dose of paranoia. I grab a glass of wine and take a large gulp. Medicinal purposes… I need this for medicinal purposes…

  Six minutes after the failed phone call, my phone rings, and it’s an unknown number again. I click the accept button, but don’t speak, waiting for the caller to either announce themselves or hang up. There is no sound, so I press my ear against the handset and wait. There is a breath.

  ‘Who is this?’ I ask.

  Another breath. Small and serene. A woman for sure.

  ‘Whoever this is, make yourself known, or I’m calling the police.’

  ‘This is Monica,’ says the voice. ‘I’d like you to meet me.’

  7

  ‘That was a lovely dinner, Mum.’ I rub my stomach, to show appreciation, and my mum smiles.

  ‘That’s good, love,’ she says, and then straightens her blue flowered dress. My mum may be nearing her seventies, but she still likes to wear a fancy outfit for Sunday dinner. May she never change.

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ says my dad. ‘We’ll send you the bill in the post.’

  Tom bursts out laughing. Dad says the same ‘joke’ every week, but somehow Tom still thinks it’s the funniest thing ever.

  ‘Do you need any help with the washing up, before I shoot off?’

  Mum gives me a quizzical look, as she picks up the gravy boat from the table.

  ‘You’re leaving so soon?’

  ‘Yes, remember I told you I was meeting one of my friends from work? We’re going over some stuff we need to do tomorrow.’

  My mum wiggles her head.

  ‘Oh yes. Sorry, dear, I was half asleep when you called last night. You go when you need to. I’ll be more than happy to spend the afternoon playing ludo with Tom, and your dad will be fine doing the dishes on his own.’

  My dad raises his eyebrows in mock disgust, and Tom laughs again.

  ‘Poor Granddad! But maybe you could bill Mum for that as well!’

  ‘Good idea!’ My dad takes an invisible pen out of his pocket, and pretends to scribble against his hand.

  ‘Don’t encourage him, Tom!’ I say. ‘He really will send me a bill, one of these days.’

  I get up from the table, throw my handbag over my shoulder, and kiss Tom on the top of his head. His hair smells like tea tree oil – a shampoo we’ve been using for the past year because they say that it’s good at keeping nits at bay…

  ‘See you later,’ I say. ‘Love you all lots.’

  ‘Love you too!’ my family’s voices ring out as I make my way down the hall. I bite my lip, as a mixture of guilt and regret ripples through my head. I wish I hadn’t had to lie to them just now, but what else could I say? Tell them that I’m going to visit the wife of my ex-lover? A lover by the way, who is the father of my son?

  No thank you.

  Not today.

  Not any day.

  The Garden of Olives – the restaurant where Monica has decided we should have our meeting – is not one I would normally go to. As a (fairly) young single mother, I’m used to sitting on a plastic chair in the Northampton branch of McDonalds, or hanging out with other mothers in the local coffee shop or family-friendly pub. This place is located on the outskirts of our village, and while I have driven past it many times on the way to somewhere else, this is the first time I’ve stood inside.

  The first thing I notice is the array of bright chandeliers, hanging from the ceiling. They send rays of light across the entire restaurant, illuminating the child-free couples, enjoying a long Sunday lunch. Every dining party sits in large, round booths, with cloths and fresh flowers on the tables. This restaurant is way out of my league, and I’m embarrassed that I’m supposed to be having coffee here. Is that even allowed? Everyone seems to be engrossed in huge meals, and my stomach lurches with a mixture of nerves and indigestion from my mother’s cooking.

  A man in a pink uniform bustles over.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asks without making eye contact.

  ‘Yes, I’m supposed to be meeting somebody,’ I say.

  ‘Did you book? We’re very busy as you can see.’

  I don’t care for this guy’s attitude, but I’m so intimidated by him that I don’t dare ask what his problem is.

  ‘She’s with me. Monica Travis. I have booked.’

  I swing around and there is Monica, dressed to impress in a cream suit with a gold trim around the lapels. My jeans and red shirt are out of place here. I’m dressed for a barn dance, stuck in a world better suited to The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The waiter checks for Monica’s name in a large white book, and then smiles for the first time since I arrived.

  ‘Very good, Mrs Travis,’ he says. ‘Follow me, please.’

  The waiter grabs two menus and saunters over to a booth in the corner of the room, right next to the window. The last time I drove past this window, I was heading to Northampton, and my infamous trip to Waterstones. Who knew that I’d soon be sitting here with the wife of my son’s father? Not me.

  I sit down, and I’m immediately thrown by the blue neon strobe, lighting up the back of the chair. As i
f that isn’t fancy enough, the wall next to me is covered in lilac-and-white flowers, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and see if they’re real. The table is set for two people, and includes tall, thick-bottomed wine glasses, a wealth of shiny cutlery and three tiny candles in glass holders. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d be mesmerised by the decorations, but as it is, the whole place is nothing less than a sensory overdose.

  Monica sits about three feet away from me, and plonks her huge black handbag on the seat between us. Then off comes the suit jacket, and that gets shoved on there too. I feel as though she’s building a wall between us, which is maybe just as well – at least it will keep her from launching a physical attack.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ The waiter seems enthralled by Monica, which isn’t altogether surprising. She’s a stunning woman, and even though she is in her forties, she has glowing, wrinkle-free skin and immaculate make-up. Her black bob is pinned back on one side, and she wears the kind of jewellery I’ve only seen in movies – or on members of the royal family.

  ‘We’ll have a pot of tea, thank you,’ she says. ‘English breakfast if you don’t mind. And we won’t need the menus, as we’re not going to be eating anything.’

  The waiter’s face falls, as he realises his tip won’t be as big as he expected it to be. He nods, gathers the menus and then heads to the kitchen. Monica and I sit in awkward silence, until she takes a breath, leans her head against her hand and turns her body to face me.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘you had Simon’s child.’

  Her bluntness hits me in the core, but I guess it breaks the ice.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘Tom.’

  She says my son’s name, and my blood freezes.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘It’s not hard to find out these things,’ she says, but offers no further explanation.

  The waiter arrives with a tray, and decants everything onto the table: Green, white and red teapot; a silver pot which I presume houses hot water; green cups and saucers; sugar; milk; and two tiny biscuits in red wrappers.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asks Monica. She shakes her head, and he trots off to a bigger, better table. Monica pours the tea into both cups, then adds milk and hands it over. Seems I don’t get a say in how I take my tea, but I thank her anyway.

  ‘How do you know I had a child?’ I stir the tea with a tiny silver spoon, and prepare myself for the answer.

  ‘I’ve known since the day you were supposed to go for the termination,’ she says. ‘I overheard Simon making the appointment for you. Stupid sod phoned them while I was in the bath… Must have thought the bathroom was soundproof or something. Anyway, he made the appointment, and repeated the details back to them. That’s how I found out.’

  As simple as that.

  Monica takes a sip of tea, and stares at me from the corner of her eye. She swallows and then her eyebrows knit together.

  ‘Our relationship was complicated at that time, for reasons that I won’t go into here, but anyway, on the day of the termination, I made sure I was at the clinic way before your appointment. I sat in the car park and watched as you both pulled up. You looked so young! Just a baby yourself, and while I hated you for being pregnant with Simon’s child, it seemed clear in that second that he was taking advantage of you. You didn’t look old enough to have any kind of opinion of your own.’

  I squirm in my seat. I’d take exception to that, if it wasn’t true.

  ‘You’re right, I was young, and Simon did take advantage of me. I didn’t know that then, but I do now.’

  ‘Age brings wisdom,’ she says. ‘At least it does for some people. Not all, unfortunately.’ She pours more milk into her tea, and takes another drink. ‘I must say that I couldn’t believe it when he dropped you off and drove away. But maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. That kind of behaviour was Simon all over. Anyway, you went into the clinic and I walked over the road with the intention of following you in.’

  ‘You followed me in?’

  Monica picks at a piece of fluff on her coat. One of her bright-red nails is chipped, but otherwise her hands are immaculate. I get a whiff of Daisy perfume. It’s the same as the one my mum wears.

  ‘I wanted to ask you for a favour. I wanted to ask you not to go through with the termination.’

  My stomach flutters at the casualness of her voice. She didn’t want me to go through with the termination? How does that make any sense? It doesn’t.

  ‘Why… Why would you do that?’

  Monica laughs and stirs her tea with a tiny, silver spoon. I’ve never seen anyone quite as obsessed with their drink as she is.

  ‘Because I had this crazy notion that I could pass the child off as my own. I had it all worked out. I’d pay you to end it with Simon, and then you and I could go away and in nine months’ time, I’d bring the baby home with me. I thought that if I had a child, I could force Simon to be with me exclusively, that it would make him settle down.’

  My mouth falls open, and Monica laughs and waves her hands in the air.

  ‘I know, I know! It’s like something out of a bad TV movie, isn’t it? But when you’re desperate, you think about all kinds of nonsense. You might not go through with it all, but you think about it nonetheless… However! Just as I reached the door to the clinic, it slid open, and out you came. I knew straight away that you had changed your mind about the termination, but I was so shocked to see you, that my idea went straight out of the window. Probably just as well.’

  I pick up my cup, but my hand shakes so much that I have to return it to the saucer.

  ‘You think I’m crazy.’

  Yes, yes, I do.

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘I don’t think you’re crazy, but you should know that even at the age of nineteen, I’d never have given you my baby. And that still applies by the way!’

  Monica grabs my arm, and my bicep contracts under her touch.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I think I’m a bit too old to pull off a fake pregnancy, don’t you?’

  I brush her off, by pretending to scratch my arm.

  ‘Does Simon know about Tom?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she says. ‘He’s got no reason to think you had the baby, and he’s never mentioned you.’

  There is a hint of joy as she implies how little I meant to Simon, but I know she’s right. I was nothing but a quick fling; his naughty little bit on the side.

  I hate men sometimes.

  ‘I want to know why were you at Tom’s football match the other day, and also why Simon has been to his school twice in the past week.’

  Monica sits bolt upright.

  ‘He’s been at his school?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him. I work on the reception desk. He was there to speak in assembly, about his job.’

  She nods her head.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. He said he was doing some kind of career talk. I didn’t realise it would be at your son’s school.’

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘Quite.’

  We sit in silence for a moment, and I play with the tassels on my handbag. This is awkward, but what can I do? We still haven’t got to the point of the meeting yet, or maybe we did and I didn’t notice. Either way, I just want to go home.

  ‘I want to ask you for a favour.’

  Her statement makes me jump. A favour? What can I give her that she doesn’t have already?

  ‘I want to tell Simon about his son.’

  I jump forward in my chair, and my teacup rattles and sends liquid into the saucer.

  ‘You want to tell him about Tom? No! Why would you do that?’

  My heart rattles in my chest. I can’t believe this. Almost ten years I’ve kept my son to myself, and now here is Simon’s wife, saying she’s going to reveal all. Why? Why would she do that? She grabs my arm, but I’m too quick and pull away.

  ‘We’re not perfect,’ she says. ‘But my husband deserves to know that he�
�s a father.’

  ‘No! No, he does not.’

  Monica finishes her tea in one gulp, and then dabs at her mouth.

  ‘Think about Tom,’ she snaps. ‘He’s had almost ten years without a dad, and look at all the things he’s missed!’

  ‘Yeah? And look at what he would have missed if Simon had had his way in the beginning.’ I lower my voice and the words come out as a snarl. ‘He’d have lost his whole life. His whole life!’

  Monica lowers her eyes, and flares her nostrils.

  ‘I know that,’ she says. ‘But he’s not going to do that now, is he? You need to give us a chance. Tom deserves to have an extended family.’

  My legs bounce under the table. I can’t believe that I walked into this situation, but I do know one thing – I’m walking out as quick as I can. I grab my coat and bag, and slide out of the booth. How I’m able to stand upright is a mystery, my whole body is shaking so much. Monica bolts forward, and her arms shoot up into the air.

  ‘You’re leaving? Why?’

  ‘I’m going home. I’ve got a headache.’

  Monica slides out of the booth, as the waiter appears back at our table.

  ‘Everything okay here?’ he asks.

  I’m gone before Monica – or I – can answer.

  On the way home, I can’t help but think about what Monica said. What did she mean, Simon deserves to know his son? How dare she! He deserves nothing but the slowest, most painful death that can be inflicted on him. He used me, he continues to use her, and she wants to give him access to a child? My child? She must be insane.

  My meeting with my ex-lover’s wife was nothing like I expected. I am left with more questions than I had at the beginning, and the story of how Monica wanted to pass off my baby as her own was creepy to say the least. Why is she following me around? Why does she want access to my son? What’s in this for her? There must be something. All these years I’ve been worried about Simon finding out about Tom, but Monica’s behaviour makes me wonder if I’ve been looking for danger in the wrong place.