“May I?” Stevie stuck one finger into the curl of Tommy’s tiny soft hand. “The fingernails! I have larger cuticles.”
“Small, but perfectly formed.” Poppy gazed proudly down at her son. “He’s a little trouper.”
A triumph of medical expertise, patience, and love. Stevie felt herself welling up. Was it safe to love him now? “He’s got the all clear?”
“Yup.”
Stevie slipped her arm through the crook of Poppy’s and they walked through the olive-green front door, shutting the park and northwest London’s familial bustle of bikes and Bugaboos behind them. “It must be good to be home,” she said.
“Oh, God, heaven.”
Poppy sat down, unbuttoning her blouse and propping the tiny bundle beneath her bust to suckle. Stevie listened, stunned by the disproportionate loudness of the suck.
“No table manners yet, I’m afraid. He’s a ferocious feeder.” Poppy adjusted her nipple. “Guzzles and guzzles. I lose about a pound a day. He gains it.”
Stevie pulled up a stool next to her sister. “You’re not doing all that military scheduling like you did with the other two, then?” She had to force herself to ask baby questions. Because these were the
A B a d B r i d e ’ s T a l e
317
questions Lara would surely ask, the debates that she and Sam would engage in, as a line was clearly drawn between their new family life and her new single one, like a new political frontier.
“No, not this time. I’ve relinquished all attempts to control any- thing. I’m just so bloody grateful to have Tommy home.” Poppy pointed at the piles of Lego bricks and garish-colored toys carpet- ing the floor. “Life’s completely chaotic, as you can see. But I’ve ceased to care. I’m all for muddling through.”
“That’s not like you.”
“Well, you know what they say: All women turn into their mothers eventually.”
Stevie was unable to stop herself from imagining Lara saying the same thing as she gaily suckled her first child, a beautiful baby with its daddy’s coffee-bean eyes. “I suppose.”
Poppy laughed. “Our childhood was bonkers, wasn’t it? Do you remember those family camping trips? This morning I was think- ing about suggesting to Piers we all go camping to that campsite in Sussex—you know, the one that everyone bangs on about, but then I remembered the hell of camping in the late seventies. Bugs, lukewarm tea, damp sleeping bags. Do you remember, Mum used to wash Neil’s pooey nappies out in mountain streams and then tie them to the roof rack of that dreadful old Volvo, and Dad would drive at breakneck speed down the Welsh lanes to dry them?”
“Our parents were so embarrassing.” Is this what Lara and Sam’s grown-up progeny would be doing one day, filtering their childhood, trying to make sense of it all? Stevie frowned and looked away.
Poppy chuckled quietly to herself. Then the chuckle died down to a sigh, then to silence. Neither of them spoke. Poppy studied her sister’s face solemnly. “Stevie, I’ve never seen you look thinner.”
“Thank you.”
“Or quite so miserable.”
Stevie eyes watered instantly. She gripped the seat of the stool. “Oh, I’m okay.”
“Do you miss Jez terribly?”
“No.” Stevie smiled. “I don’t. Not really. It’s weird without him.
I’m used to him being around, but I don’t miss him.”
Poppy frowned. “Is Sam related to your emotional state in any way?”
“Lara’s pregnant, Pops.”
“Pregnant?” Poppy’s mouth dropped open. Her nipple popped out of Tommy’s mouth. Tommy screamed. “Oh, my god! You are joking?”
Stevie stroked Tommy’s velvety head. “Not.”
“But . . . but . . .” Poppy looked outraged. “But you and Sam are
meant
for each other.” “Don’t.”
“Lara doesn’t want kids.”
“No law against changing your mind.”
“Oh, Stevie.” Poppy was still in shock. “Oh, I am sorry.”
Stevie dismissed her concern with a wave of her hand. “Forget it.” “But . . .”
“
Please.
It wasn’t meant to be, Poppy.”
FORTY-ONE
Æ
stevie didn’t show up to work on tuesday. for the
second time in her life, she called in sick on Monday night, left a message when she knew no one would be there to answer the phone. The prospect of continuing life, dusting herself down, pre- tending everything was normal—clocking in, clocking out—left her empty. What was the point? What was the point in another working week, month, year? Leading to what, exactly? A holiday, a new pair of shoes, a mortgage on a two-bedroom flat somewhere in zone two? It all seemed horribly meaningless. Being in Lara’s flat— a gesture of her generosity—didn’t help. Not at all. It made her feel guilty. She still hadn’t been able to face calling Lara back in re- sponse to the pregnancy news, which undoubtedly made her a wretched unworthy human being and a poor friend. She would lose both Lara and Sam. Nothing less than she deserved.
Stevie leaned against the duck-egg-blue wall, feeling its cool plaster on each vertebra of her newly skinny back, and observed Lara’s things—bits of Lara, reminders of a simpler friendship: the battered old leather sofa they used to watch old Hepburn movies
on; an inherited Tiffany lamp with a long crack, a legacy of one par- ticularly debauched New Year’s Eve party that Lara regretted throwing two years ago; an armchair restored in candy-pink velvet, where Lara would curl up in the morning wearing vintage silk camisoles and frilly knickers. Lara’s old fashionable boho life. Was it all over now? Where would she and Sam live? Would they bring up the baby here? Or New York? She hoped they’d stay in New York. It would be less painful.
As she’d walked across the railway bridge two days ago, out of the green sunny haven of Port Meadow and into someplace darker, the reality of her situation had slapped her face like a dousing of dirty canal water. She’d compromised her life by marrying Jez—by
settling
, how she hated that word—and it had resulted in her pres- ent loveless, childless, futureless circumstances. While Lara, who had lived life to the fullest, taking each opportunity as it came, never apologizing to anyone for putting sex and career first, had ended up with the nice guy—the guy Stevie wanted—
and
a baby. It was more than ironic. It was horrible. Yes, she was jealous. She was unbearably jealous of Lara right now, which filled her with more self-loathing.
“Fuck,” Stevie muttered, thumping heavily on the sofa and pressing all the buttons on the remote control at once in the hope that one might switch on the telly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Fifteen min- utes later—as indicated by Lara’s oversize vintage wall clock— Stevie realized that she hadn’t listened to a word of the program, a documentary about the mating rituals of dolphins. Instead, her at- tention was rooted to her mobile phone, which lay blinking malev- olently on Lara’s cluttered sideboard. What kind of friend was she? Pull yourself together, girl. Do the right thing. Feeling shaky and
faint, she pushed herself up, one hand on the dry cracked leather of the sofa arm for support, and grabbed for the phone. What would she say? How could she pretend? Would Lara
know
? Wiping a tear from her nose, she selected Lara’s name from the contacts book. Do the right thing, she told herself. Just do the right thing.
Beep!
Stevie jumped. Who the hell was that at the door? She wasn’t in the mood for visitors.
Beep!
She wouldn’t answer it. She couldn’t face seeing anyone. Go away.
Beep!
“I know you’re in there, Stevie Jonson. Open the goddamn door!”
Stevie didn’t recognize the voice, although it sounded familiar. Checking her ravaged reflection in the hall mirror, she trudged, one foot in front of the other, toward the door, pulling up her sloppy velour tracksuit bottoms as she did so. Nothing could make her feel much worse than she already did. She pressed the intercom buzzer. “Who is it?”
“Who do you think?” The voice didn’t sound happy. “It’s Katy.
Katy Norris. Open up.”
Katy Norris? Christ. Did she need this? Probably not. But she also felt a strange compulsion to face the woman who’d stolen Jez, or relieved her of Jez, depending on which way you looked at it. She buzzed Katy back into her life.
Katy stood in the doorway, wild-eyed beneath a plume of blond hair. “I hope you’re satisfied now.”
“You’ve got some fucking cheek.”
Katy barged past her. “Revenge, is it? Revenge for stealing Sam from under your nose, all those years ago? I thought you might be the type to hold grudges.”
Stevie followed, finding the powerful wake of her perfume hard to stomach. “What the fuck are you talking about?
You
of all peo- ple.” She spat the words out, her sense of righteous victimhood aroused.
Katy turned on her leopard-print pump. She glanced around the sitting room. “Jez told me you’d moved out. I’m sorry. But . . .”
“You’re sorry?” Stevie trembled with rage and disbelief.
“Sorry?”
“But it’s no excuse. You, who had so much, who . . . who . . . fucked it up for me.”
“I’m not
with
you.” Stevie’s voice was hard, unmoved. “You ruin my marriage and come over here and accuse
me
of ruining
your
rela- tionship? I daresay you managed to mess up your relationship per- fectly well without my help.”
It was Katy’s turn to look bewildered. “Ruin
your
marriage?
What are you talking about?”
Stevie pulled up her tracksuit bottoms, wishing that Katy weren’t quite so glamorous in her lipstick-red silk top. She hated the idea of Katy looking at her and thinking, “No wonder he’s not inter- ested.” Clothes were armor, and she was only protected by cotton jersey with Lycra. “Oh, come on, Katy. Jez has told me
everything
.” Stevie blew air out of her mouth crossly, lifting the scrawl of frizzy curls that had begun to masquerade as bangs as her wedding cut grew out. “I should chuck you out of here right now.”
“Everything?” Katy’s voice was quieter now, her perfect eye- brows descending to a puzzled V. “I really don’t know . . .”
Was it possible that Jez hadn’t actually declared himself to Katy?
Unlikely. She must be hamming it up. “Oh,
please
.” “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stevie’s fists clenched. “Do I have to spell it out?” Katy nodded.
“Jez is . . .” She paused, the words catching in her throat. “He’s in love with you.”
“What?” Katy sat down, paling. “In love with
me
? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I daresay you did nothing to encourage him.” Stevie snorted sardonically.
Katy shook her head furiously from side to side. “I didn’t . . . I
swear
. I haven’t done anything.”
“Oh, say what you like.” Stevie affected her bored, do-I-look- like-I-give-a-fuck voice. “Jez has declared his love for you, our mar- riage a mistake, hence . . . me living here. Romeo over there.” She stared at Katy, realizing that she felt almost comforted by Katy’s perfumed blond perfection. The two of them were so different. You either loved one type of woman or the other. And yes, she thought, Katy and Jez were better suited. She could swallow that. Because she couldn’t go back to him now, not ever, Katy or no Katy.
“He’s never said anything, Stevie. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“Well, now you know.”
“Oh. Goodness.” Katy’s voice lost its accusatory edge. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not mutual?” Stevie let out a hollow laugh. What a fine mess! Both she and Jez splitting up for lovers who didn’t reciprocate. Hopeless in both marriage and divorce.
“Well . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Oh. Don’t go there. I wouldn’t expect you to tell me the truth anyway.” Stevie sat down on the sofa. Her voice softened. “And I’m not about to give you my blessing. But I suppose it’s only fair to tell you that, with or without you, Jez and I are seriously over. He’s a free agent now.”
Katy flinched. “That’s very grown-up of you.”
“Yeah, well,” Stevie growled. “Whatever. So what were you shrieking about before? What have I ruined? Or have I taken the wind from your sails now? Bring it on.”
“Seb.” Katy’s face clouded over again but the anger had gone. “It’s Seb.”
“Run off with an Upper East Side princess, has he?” Stevie knew it was cruel. But her own pride dictated that Katy suffer. “Now
there’s
a surprise.”
“No. You put them in touch.” Katy pulled at her cheeks. “Funny, it doesn’t seem so important . . .”
“What?
What,
Katy?”
“It’s your friend Lara. He’s been shagging Lara.”
“Lara? No, not possible.” Stevie laughed. “Honestly, he may be shagging half of Manhattan, but he’s not shagged Lara. Lara’s going out with Sam. She’s . . .” She was about to say, having Sam’s baby but didn’t want to voice it.
“She was shagging Seb.” Katy spoke very quietly. “I’ve seen the proof.”
“What? Like a thirty-four-C Victoria’s Secret bra down the back of the sofa? Come on.”
Katy looked sternly, unflinchingly into Stevie’s eyes. “I’ve seen the pregnancy test.”
“What?”
“He’s got her pregnant, Stevie. He’s gone and got her up the duff.”
after katy had gone,
Stevie slid down a wall like she’d been shot. The events of the past few days were too much to take in and had left her giddy, disoriented, and spinning, as if she’d popped down a Wonderland rabbit hole to a place where life’s rules—all the things she’d accepted as certainties—had been flipped. Not only had her safe little marriage been exposed as a sham, she had been exposed as someone capable of lying to others, but mostly someone capable of lying to herself. The fact that she’d come so close to kissing her best friend’s boyfriend horrified her. That she’d come so close to spending a lifetime with a man she didn’t love hor- rified her even more. And now, like a strange, messed-up angel in leopard-print pumps, Katy Norris had come to give as she had once taken away. She’d saved her from Jez. She’d delivered her the news about Lara.
Which meant . . . there was nowhere to hide. There was now no impeding relationship between her and Sam, just complications. Her life was unmapped: She had to charter it. She bent her head be- tween her knees. She was relieved, spent. Then an awful thought hit her. What if Katy had got it
wrong
?