‘Creating problems is the last thing I intend to do,’ she says. ‘But as far as I’m concerned – and as I told you the other day – Simon deserves to be told about his son, and then if he wants to see him, that’s something we’ll work towards down the line.’
‘But why now? Why after ten years of silence? It makes no sense to me at all.’
Monica shakes her head and prods her long fingernails into her forearm. Her fingers are covered in large rings that sparkle in the sun. They look real to me, but then again, what do I know about jewellery? Not much.
‘Because if we wait any longer, Tom will be a teenager and it will be much harder to develop a relationship with him. I’d love to get to know my stepson, and I know that given the chance, Simon would love that too.’
The word stepson rings in my ears. This woman will never be my son’s mother – step or otherwise.
‘You have no idea if he’d love it,’ I say. ‘He didn’t love it ten years ago, and I’m not sure what’s changed. Plus, what’s in this for you, anyway? Why do you want to have a connection with Tom? It doesn’t make any sense.’
Monica dabs her nose with a whiter-than-white handkerchief, and sighs.
‘I have no ulterior motives, other than I think it would be good for Simon to have Tom in his life.’
Suddenly it all makes sense.
‘I’m so stupid! Of course you think Tom will be good for Simon! You’re worried that your beloved husband is screwing around again, and you think he’ll settle down if he has a kid – just like you did when you followed me to the termination clinic. You’re using my child’s life to try and improve your own! Well, you can forget about that!’
Monica’s lips close into a tiny ball, but before she can say anything, Zach steps forward and hands her his business card.
‘If you do decide to tell Simon,’ he says, ‘please consider contacting us first. This is my number, and I think you already have Charlotte’s. If we could just organise this together, it will be much better – particularly for Tom, who is still a child after all.’
Zach’s calming attitude causes Monica’s shoulders to relax. She scratches her chin, nods and stuffs the card into her pocket, without looking at it.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ Monica says to my friend, ‘but I do have to get going now.’
I turn away without saying goodbye. I can’t bear to look into her eyes any longer.
The wind stings my face as Zach and I traipse back to his car. I throw my hood up over my head, but the freezing air cuts straight through me.
‘How do you think that went?’ Zach asks, and I roll my eyes.
‘What do you think? She wants Tom in her life, so that Simon will stay in hers! She’s evil.’
Zach bites his lip.
‘In her defence, she didn’t say that – you did.’
‘Oh, come on!’ I snap. ‘You know as well as I do that that’s why she’s doing this. There can’t possibly be anything else in it for her.’
We slide into Zach’s battered old Beetle, and he starts the engine. The windscreen is covered in condensation, which he mops up with an old yellow cloth. The rubbing results in tears of wet running down the glass, and he turns the fan on to full blast, in an effort to dry it.
‘Do you think she’ll leave me alone now?’ I ask, although I already know the answer.
‘Nope,’ Zach says, and then we take off from the kerb. As we pass Simon’s house, I peer inside, and see Monica standing next to the window, phone pressed to her ear.
A shiver runs through me, and it has nothing to do with the weather.
9
The next morning, I’m back behind the reception desk. I’ve got to sort numbers for the breakfast yoga club, but all I can think about is what happened yesterday afternoon. I shouldn’t have let Zach talk me into going round there. Monica is never going to leave me alone, and going to her house has just cemented that fact.
But it’s too late now.
‘Charlotte, please could you make a start on the monthly newsletter? We need to get one out before the kids break up for half-term.’
Margaret’s voice makes me jump, and I knock some of the yoga slips onto the floor. I move to retrieve them, but there’s so many that it would be rude to disappear under the desk while the principal still stands in front of me. I just leave them where they are.
‘Charlotte? I need you to print the newsletter today, if that’s okay?’
I shake myself back to reality.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘Is there anything particular you’d like me to include this time?’
Margaret hands me a buff folder, which is so thin that it can’t have more than a sheet or two of notes inside. Gosh, if this is all there is to go into the newsletter, I’ll have to make some stuff up.
‘There’s not much this month,’ she says, ‘but I’m sure you can whip it into something interesting.’
She spins her hands in circles, which just makes it look as though she’s miming along to that ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’ song. I stifle a laugh, but Margaret catches me.
‘Something funny?’
Beads of sweat pop up on my forehead, and tickle my hairline. So much for my oil-resistant foundation. The manufacturers obviously haven’t heard of Margaret’s wrath.
‘No, nothing funny,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking about something Tom said this morning, that’s all.’
Margaret sticks her nose in the air, and stares at me as though I’m something she just found on the end of her toilet brush.
‘Thinking about family is always enjoyable,’ she says. ‘I just wish I had the time.’
And with that, Margaret disappears back into her office. I ignore her sarky remark and instead, scoop the yoga slips off the floor, stick them to one side and then open the newsletter folder.
The first photograph makes me want to throw up.
There is Simon, standing with a group of children – one of them being my son. The note underneath describes the picture:
We were thrilled to welcome Simon Travis to school this week. He told the children all about his career in marketing and PR, and the children thought his presentation was entertaining and fun.
Six of the children smile at the camera, while the seventh – Tom – looks up at Simon.
I grab the scissors and try to stop my hands from shaking, as I trim my son from the photograph. There’s no way he’s going into this month’s newsletter. It’s bad enough that Simon will be in there! I shove the photo of Tom into my handbag, and then spend the next hour compiling the newsletter. There is news about the yoga lessons, the trip to Whipsnade, a new craft club and then the visit from the ‘market man’ as Tom calls him. I print it off, throw it onto the photocopier and make 230 copies; enough for every child plus some spares, just in case.
I leave the copier running, and head back to my desk, in time to see Tom and his friend, Charlie, looking for me.
‘Hey, you,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Miss Love sent us down to see if the newsletters are ready yet. She’s leaving early this afternoon, so wants to give them to us this morning instead. Can we have them?’
I look towards the copy room.
‘No, not quite, but they’re being printed as we speak.’
‘Great!’
Before I can stop him, Tom rushes into the room, and comes back, waving a handful of yellow newsletters in the air.
‘I’m so excited, Mum! Mrs Holmes says my picture is going to be in it this time! I forgot all about my photo with the market man, but now I’ve told all of my friends and I can’t wait to show Grandma!’
My little boy stares at the first page, and then whips it over to the back. The blood runs from my head, as I watch the smile fall from his face.
‘Where are you?’ asks Charlie. ‘I can’t see you!’
Tom stares at the picture, and I feel rooted to the spot. No matter how long he stares, he’ll never find himself in that photo, and I feel a
wful. I had no idea he’d even know he was going to be in the newsletter. Shit! I shouldn’t have chopped him out. What the hell was I thinking?
‘I’m not there,’ Tom says, and then he bursts into tears.
‘Why did you cut him out of it?’ My mum gawps at me from across the table. ‘You know how sensitive he is… And how excited he gets by things like that.’
I collapse my head into my hands.
‘I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get rid of the evidence that he was standing with his father. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’
‘And you couldn’t stick him back on and run them off again?’
I trace my finger around the flower pattern on my mum’s tablecloth, and shake my head.
‘I tried, but when I fished the cutting back out of my handbag, it was too crumpled to do anything with. If I’d stuck it back onto the photo, it would have looked ridiculous.’
My dad wanders in from the living room, carrying an empty mug of hot chocolate.
‘Tom’s watching SpongeBob. The hot chocolate seems to have calmed him down a bit.’
‘That’s good.’ My mum looks at me and lowers her voice. ‘You’ll need to be careful, Charlotte. It’s one thing to not want this man to be involved in Tom’s life, but it’s another to hurt the child’s self-esteem.’
My dad nods, as he rinses out the mug.
‘It’s a fine line,’ he says. ‘A very fine line.’
No shit! Well, tell me something I don’t know. I see the disapproving looks on my parents’ faces and just want to cry. I shouldn’t have cut Tom out of the photo. At the end of the day, just standing next to Simon was no evidence at all that he was his son. I was stupid, but when instinct takes over, even the craziest of decisions seems normal.
I guess this is just another element of mum guilt to add to my roster.
As if there wasn’t enough already.
‘I heard you tell Grandma that you cut me out of the picture. Why did you do that, Mum? Charlie says his mum would never do that!’
Good for Charlie, and his perfectly perfect mother…
‘It’s a long story,’ I say, as I try and navigate the traffic as well as my son’s emotions.
‘It’s not a story at all,’ Tom shouts. ‘You cut me out of the newsletter because you didn’t want me to be in there, that’s it!’
My car hits a puddle, and in my mirror, I can see a soaked, disgruntled pedestrian, shouting at me from the pavement. She thinks she’s got problems? She should be in this car!
‘It wasn’t that at all, Tom! I made a silly mistake. I was trying to trim the photograph to fit onto the page, and I accidentally cut you off. It was all just an accident.’
‘You treat me like a baby.’ Tom turns his head and stares out of the window. He doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, and I can’t say I blame him.
‘So, I had a few spare minutes this afternoon, and did some digging into Monica and Simon.’
‘You did? That was very investigative reporter of you.’
I smile at Zach, and he laughs.
‘I have my moments,’ he says, ‘although in this case it didn’t come to much.’
He hands me his iPad, and a newspaper report stares up at me, about the launch of Simon’s London marketing company. I had already seen this years ago, so it’s nothing new. I scroll and there is another pic from just six months ago, this time announcing the expansion of his company, to include a branch in Northampton. There is a photo of Simon and Monica cutting a ribbon outside the office, and it describes her as a housewife. I can’t imagine that went down very well. Even though I’ve only met Monica several times, she comes across more as a socialite than a housewife, but that’s just my point of view.
I hand the iPad back to Zach.
‘Was that it?’
‘That and the small ad I told you about the other day. Simon was selling a bicycle for £200 or nearest offer. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.’
Before I can reply, the living-room door bursts open, and Tom marches in, holding a green notebook.
‘Hello, Champ!’ Zach smiles at my son, but Tom averts his eyes from us both.
‘You have to sign my homework book,’ he says, and drops it onto my knee. I grab a pen from the coffee table, sign it and hand it back. Tom takes the book, and heads for the door.
‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’ I ask.
‘Thank you.’
He leaves the room, and the door slams closed behind him.
‘What’s wrong with Mr Happy?’ Zach points towards the hall, and I shake my head.
‘I managed to upset him,’ I say, and then I grab the iPad again. ‘Okay, at least the expansion of his company explains why they are back in Northamptonshire, but is it the only reason they’re here? Could you find anything else at all?’
Zach reaches for the plate of chocolate digestives, and sticks almost an entire biscuit into his mouth. He crunches down, shakes his head, and crumbs fly out of his mouth before he answers.
‘That’s it, except for some company records for Simon. Oh, there was this too, but how useful it is I don’t know.’
Zach brushes the digestive crumbs from his knees, and they scatter over my pristine floor. This is why we could never be partners. The way he eats his food would drive me bonkers. He presses the screen of his iPad, and up pops Facebook. It is a page for the Bromfield and Surrounding Areas Networking Group, and there in the middle of the screen is a photo of the latest meeting. Simon stands in the middle of the picture, and Margaret is three people away.
‘Simon and Margaret… So that’s how they know each other. Some crummy networking group. I guess she must have seen him as a good candidate for our careers assembly, and asked him to take part.’
‘Sounds feasible. Well, at least you’ve cleared that up.’
‘Did you find out anything about Simon’s children? They’ll be grown-up by now, but they may be able to provide some clues as to what’s going on.’
Zach shakes his head.
‘Nothing at all. They obviously fly under the radar, which is not surprising, with people like Simon and Monica as parents.’
Zach stares at my wall clock. ‘Hey, I better get going. I have to take Trevor out for his walk, and then get some dinner.’
We both stand up, and he shoves his iPad under his arm.
‘Thanks for doing that research for me,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome. Even if I didn’t find anything interesting. But then again, maybe their lives are none of our business anyway.’
He laughs, we say goodbye and then Zach disappears into my kitchen and out of the back door. His words linger in the air. Maybe Simon and Monica’s lives aren’t any of our business, but I have every right to know what their intentions are towards my son. Is Monica going to keep the whole thing hanging over my head, ready to explode at any moment? Or is she going to tell Simon straight away, and enjoy seeing him go off at me. After all, as far as he’s concerned, I did what he asked me to do, and terminated his child. What will his response be if he knows I walked out of that clinic, and into a life of motherhood?
I have so many questions…
And despite my terror, I need to have some answers.
I write and rewrite my email at least ten times, but as I read through the latest version, I think I have it right:
Dear Simon
It’s Charlotte here, (the receptionist at Bromfield Primary School). I need to speak to you about something rather important, and wonder if I could see you maybe before the weekend. If you’re okay with that, we can meet at the Mistletoe Inn, on the corner before you reach the old thatched cottages. I can do any afternoon, so please could you let me know? Thanks.
Charlotte.
I close my eyes and press send before I can change my mind. The email makes a swooshing sound, and I imagine it whizzing its way across space, and landing in Simon’s iPhone with a massive Hurrah! I place the phone onto the table and watch, begging him
not to reply, and yet at the same time, willing him to.
My phone buzzes and I almost jump off the couch. I grab it and stare at the message.
It’s from Simon.
Hey!
The receptionist at Bromfield Primary School? I think I know you as more than that! LOL! Do you want to see me about school business or personal? Happy to meet you at the Mistletoe Inn, regardless, but I’d rather it be for the latter, than the former.
Friday at 1.30pm?
S.
Xx
The kisses and the informality of the email cut into my eyes. I wonder if I did the right thing by asking him to meet, but as with everything I do recently, it’s too late now. I press reply, confirm that 1.30pm Friday is fine, and then send the message. A reply comes straight back, informing me that ‘S’ is looking forward to seeing me again.
Oh God.
What am I about to do?
I don’t tell my parents or Zach about my meeting with Simon, because I don’t want any worries – aka judgement. This is going to be hard enough as it is, without my dad telling me he wants to come with me; my mum warning me not to upset his wife; and Zach pretending not to be jealous that I had other sexual partners before him… No, maybe that’s not fair to my friend. He’s not really the jealous type, but the way he looked at me the other night when I mentioned my ‘fling’ was like a little puppy dog who’s been chucked out in the rain. I can’t cope with that. His reaction is the reason why I don’t go in for serious relationships anymore.
If they work for you, terrific.
But they’ve never worked for me.
10
Friday morning, and while I’m supposed to be making plans for some kind of school fund charity event, all I can think about is my meeting with Simon. What am I going to say? What will he say? Will he turn up? Will I turn up? So many questions swirl around my head, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything except my anxiety, but I have to get on with this bloody list, before Margaret gets on my case.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 8