Babyville (22 page)

“How is Mark?” Sam's tone was tentative. “Have you heard anything?”

“Nope. Have you seen him?”

“Amazingly, no.” Amazing only because Mark lives just a few streets away, but Sam had always known that however much she loved Mark—and she truly did—when he and Julia split up she would have to make a choice, and her loyalties lay with Julia.

There was a long pause before Julia spoke. “The baby is apparently due any day now.”

“Are you okay with . . . everything?” Of course they've talked about Maeve. Sam and Bella both listened for hours as Julia poured out the tears. It took a week. A week of crying and pain, and then Julia professed to be over it. She said the tears were a result of shock, and the pain was for the life she had once thought she wanted, but by the end of the week she had closure. At least that's what she said.

Bella and Sam didn't believe her at first. Couldn't believe that Julia, Julia who had winced in pain at the sight of cooing babies, who could spend hours in Mothercare dreaming of chubby fingers and curling toes, Julia who was convinced the reason for her inability to get pregnant was Mark, could move on so quickly. So easily. So relatively painlessly.

But it seems that Julia had moved on. She still found it hard to accept that there might be something wrong with her after all, but with every day she knew she'd made the right choice. She was exactly where she needed to be, doing exactly what she needed to do.

“The amazing thing,” Julia said after a pause, “is that I think I'm genuinely fine. I wouldn't go as far as to say I'm happy for him, but if you'd have told me this time last year Mark would be having a baby with the woman who replaced me at work . . .” They both snorted with laughter at the ludicrousness of the situation before Julia continued, “I would have either smacked you or screamed with rage. But I'm fine. I'm actually . . . oh God. Am I going to say this? I'm actually relieved it's not me.”

“So children really aren't on your agenda, then?”

“Not yet. I'm having such a blast here. Working like a madwoman, out every night. I wake up each morning with the most astonishing surge of energy. Sam, my feet barely touch the ground in New York, and I love every bloody minute of it. I can't think of anything I want less right now than having a fat stomach, a boring husband, every evening spent in front of the telly, and a screaming baby keeping me up all night.”

Sam absentmindedly stroked her own fat stomach and sighed. “Oh shit,” Julia said. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just the whole domestic thing. I thought I wanted it so badly, the whole thing. Husband. Baby. Nice house. And I just don't. I feel like I was dead during all that time with Mark. Not that it's his fault. It was us. We were just so wrong for one another, and I look back at that person and know she wasn't me, just a vague shadow. This is the life I need to lead now, and if things change in the future, I'll deal with them when I get there.”

Sam wanted to ask if Julia had come to terms with the possibility that she might not be able to have children, but she couldn't. Not yet. And she knows Julia. Knows she will, rather like the ostrich, have buried the fear deep, deep enough for her not to have to face it.

“And the delectable Jack?”

“We still see one another, but really as friends.”

“Friends who occasionally have sex, by any chance?”

Julia giggled. “And what, pray tell, other sort of friend is there?”

“You mean, when they're handsome and funny and think you're the best thing since sliced bread?”

“Exactly. I didn't mean you,” she snorted.

“I should bloody hope not. But you and Jack. Definitely not an item?”

“Definitely not. I'm not ready for that, but he's a fantastic friend.”

“And the sex?”

“Why, fantastic!” Julia laughed. “As if you really needed to ask.”

Sam
shakes some organic spinach leaves into a bowl and hesitates over the cheese grater. It's definitely clean, but definitely not sterile. Can she be bothered? She hesitates, wonders whether anything terrible would happen, but knows she could never forgive herself if something did. With a sigh she puts the kettle on to boil—again—and dunks the cheese grater in a bowl of boiling water for ten minutes to sterilize it.

“This has become the house of fucking water,” she said in fury last night, as Chris walked in, dumping his coat in the hall. She had lifted the lid of the sterilizer and dumped it quickly in the sink, but not before it had left a trail of steaming puddles all over the kitchen worktops. This added to the fact that for the past five months she had refused to heat bottles in the microwave, and had heated them in a pan of boiling water, meant that her surfaces were indeed rather liquid. “All I do,” she said in exasperation, wiping the puddles away for the sixteenth time that day, “is mop up fucking water.”

“My day was lovely, darling, thank you.” Chris chose to ignore her comments. “I'm very tired, and I've had back-to-back meetings with potential stockists all afternoon, but what a pleasure it is to come home to my beautiful wife, and a delicious home-cooked meal.” He leaned forward to kiss her, which she ignored, feeling the rage already building up. Deep breaths, she told herself, chopping celery into smaller and smaller pieces. But the rage was too strong.

“You can make fucking jokes,” she said viciously, “but you haven't been stuck in all day with a screaming baby. You have absolutely no idea what it's like for me. You have no idea how hard I've been working and I've got no help and then you breeze in here and expect me to be in a good mood when I'm completely fucking exhausted and I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up.”

“And what do you think I do all day? You act as if I'm leaving the house every morning to go to a party. You're not the only one who's suffering, Sam, you're not the only one who's run off their feet.” Chris thought he understood what Sam was going through, but, really, there was only so much a man could take. And what about him, for heaven's sake? He'd had a nightmare day. He was run off his feet, trying to finish three tables and a sideboard, and he came home only to be completely ignored or screamed at by this wife that he barely recognized anymore.

But it was different for Chris. He couldn't understand why, for three months, Sam had been unable to get dressed. This wasn't because she didn't want to, or because she was too exhausted, but because George screamed solidly. All day. The only time he would be quiet was if he was walked up and down the stairs in Sam's arms, or pushed around the Heath in a pram. And heaven forbid she should stop walking to try to grab a coffee.

Sam was trying to look after George, to keep the house clean, to do the ironing, to cook children's meals for George and grown-up meals for Chris, and to retain some sanity at the same time.

But the worst thing of all was the loneliness. She couldn't remember being independent. Or vivacious. Or fun-loving. She could barely remember ever leaving the house.

“At least you get away from it!” Sam screamed. “At least you get out of this fucking house. I'm trapped here all day, and I haven't got a minute to myself, and then you come home and crack jokes about home-cooked meals. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Like a takeaway pizza?” Chris said hopefully. Contritely.

There was a long pause as Sam felt the anger start to diffuse. She would give in. This time.

“Make sure there's extra pepperoni,” she grumbled, as she dragged her feet up the stairs to run a bath.

22

“I was in labor for
forty-six hours.” A ruddy-cheeked woman bounces her smiling, chubby daughter up and down on her knee as Sam tries to look interested. “And eventually I ended up having an emergency cesarean. They were going to use a ventouse, or forceps, but thank goodness they bypassed it and went straight for the knife.” She chuckled as she reached for another slice of carrot cake, and Sam knew it was going to be her turn soon.

“How was your birth?” All eyes turn to Sam, who wonders whether it would be possible to grab George from his position under the Baby Gym, sandwiched between two babies who look as bewildered as he, and run out.

She gazes into the expectant faces of the mothers sitting around a stranger's living room, and smiles. “Absolutely fine.” She's never met these women before, for God's sake. Her birth is nothing to do with them, and, quite apart from anything else, repeating it day in day out bores her rigid. And it's not even as if George is a week old, when she might have quite enjoyed talking about the horror of giving birth. He's six months. Why the hell are they still asking her? What, in fact, is she doing here, in this room with these women she doesn't know, pretending that they all have something in common, just because they have babies the same age?

“Were you at UCH?” one of the women asks, and Sam nods, before jumping up—excellent timing—to rescue George from the grip of one of the babies next to him.

“Tell me we can leave,” she whispers into George's ear, disguising it with a kiss and a cuddle, but George shows no sign of having heard. With a resigned sigh she puts him down and reenters the mothers' circle.

The
mother and baby group is a last resort. Sam thought she was prepared for motherhood. She thought she'd be happy strolling around the streets with her OshKosh B'Gosh–clad child, smiling benevolently at all she passed. The perfect mother with the perfect child.

She envisaged picnics on the Heath. Had dreamed of throwing her baby up in the air while he/she giggled uncontrollably and gazed at her with adoration. Sure, she had expected exhaustion and sleep deprivation, and she knew she wouldn't have any more time for herself (although she couldn't have imagined quite what that actually felt like), but nothing had prepared her for the loneliness and the boredom.

Her friends either have much older children, and are busy ferrying them back and forth from nursery school to play dates, or no children at all.

“You'll meet people, no problem,” her friends with children had said. “Join the mother and baby group. Or baby massage classes. There's always loads going on.”

Thus far, she'd avoided all of them.

She'd seen them in the tea shop in South End Green. Gaggles of mothers, surrounded by prams and associated debris, all looking exhausted but fulfilled. Or in Hampstead, more glamorous groups of women, making the effort to wear makeup, their Touche Eclat doing a brave job of covering up the shadows under their eyes.

And she'd passed them on the Heath. Groups of women gathering outside the One O'Clock Club, all of them smiling indulgently at Sam as she trudged past with her secondhand pram.

She had avoided them because she was terrified of being a mother. While she realized that motherhood was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, and while she accepted she was thrilled to leave her job once she became pregnant, the thought of being a full-time mother, or worse, of anyone looking at her and thinking she was a full-time mother, filled her with dread. And confusion. She never thought she'd feel this way.

She'd seen it happen to other people. Once sane, intelligent, interesting women with careers and opinions and strong viewpoints dissolved into shadows of their former selves the minute they had a baby. They didn't have time to read the papers, and even if they managed to catch the news once a week they didn't have the energy to form an opinion on the story of the moment. Their short-term memories seemed to completely disappear. Their talk consisted solely of topics related to babies, children, child care, and the hell of finding a decent mother's helper.

“You're being so judgmental,” Chris had said when she tried to explain her fears. “How do you know these women are ‘mindless mothers,' as you say so disdainfully? How do you know they're not just like you? They could be incredibly bright, they could have careers too. You're not superior to them, you know.”

“I know.” Sam was immediately defensive. Indignant. Ashamed. Because she knew Chris was right. That was exactly how she felt.

But five months of talking to herself all day was enough. At least, she had thought wryly, as she blabbered away one morning to a disinterested George about paint colors and whether she should go with Old White or Barley White, George will be getting the benefit of having everything explained to him. At this rate he won't just be Georgenius, he'll be Einstein the bloody second. (Even if his particular area of expertise will be vegetable purees and paint colors.)

She knew something had to change when she was pushing George along the road, and spied a woman pushing a buggy farther up the road. Quickening her step until she was almost jogging, Sam eventually managed to pull up alongside her. She looked nice. Her baby looked around the same age as George, and she definitely didn't have that exhausted look in her eyes. Her buggy was a snazzy three-wheel-drive, and her trainers were Adidas. She looked like someone who could be a new friend.

“Hi,” Sam said with a smile and a raise of her eyebrows as if to say, “God, what a nightmare. Babies. Buggies. Screaming. Managing to stay young and trendy, despite being a mother. You and I are in the same boat, surely have so much in common, why don't we walk together, and then perhaps a cappuccino afterward . . . here's my number, call anytime you like. Really, day or night.”

“Hi.” The woman smiled back cautiously, slightly coldly.

Sam continued unfazed. “Great buggy,” she ventured, slightly out of breath, having exerted herself more in the last two minutes than she'd done in the last fifteen months. “We were thinking about one of those. How do you find it?”

“Very light,” the woman said, as Sam relaxed and they fell into step, side by side. “And easy. I love it.”

“And she's gorgeous,” Sam cooed, peering over at the little girl snuggled into a sheepskin to protect against the cold November air. “How old is she?”

“Five months.” A pause. “Yours?”

“Almost six months. It goes so fast. I can't believe it.”

“Mmmm.”

“I'm Sam, by the way. This is George.”

“I'm Emma. And that's Chloe.”

“Are you going to the Heath? We could walk together. If you are. I mean, if you'd like.”

Emma shook her head. “We're actually going up to South End Green. I have to get some shopping. Sorry, but nice to meet you.” She smiled as she maneuvered the buggy around the corner, and Sam stood for a while, fighting the urge to run after her, to say that she too needed things from the shop. That she would join them, but of course that would be desperate, and Sam couldn't appear desperate.

“It was nice to meet you too,” Sam found herself shouting, as Emma and Chloe disappeared from view. “Perhaps I'll see you again?” This last was said as a question, and Emma turned around with a smile, shrugged, and nodded, and then left. Sam stood there as a hot flush crept up her face. She recognized that smile. That was the smile she gave when frumpy full-time mothers tried to befriend her. It was a smile that said: Don't think about being my friend because I am not one of you. I am better than you. You are a full-time mother and I have so much more going on in my life than just my child. You're bored and lonely and desperate, and I am none of those things (even if I am).

Sam turned her head and examined herself slowly in the window of the wine shop. Black stretchy leggings that were once a size 10 but had almost certainly been stretched, if not into oblivion, then into what Sam dreaded might have been a size 14. Flat black boots that were the only comfortable things she had to walk in, although admittedly they weren't exactly making a fashion statement. Pushing George closer to the window, she looked at her face and frowned.

And she knew then why Emma had granted a small, tight smile before running away. Sam looked exactly like the desperate women she herself avoided. Oh God. Had it really come to that?

This isn't really me, she wanted to shout. Look! Let me show you photos of what I really look like, what I used to look like. But now, the desperate reflection in the shop window really was Sam, and that was when all resistance to the mother and baby groups finally broke down.

Sam
re-enters the mothers' circle and sips her coffee. This is her first meeting, although the other mothers have met twice before, and a couple of them were in hospital together or know one another from prenatal classes.

She feels like something of an outsider, not helped by the fact they have decided to meet at someone's house every week, and Sam can't help feeling uncomfortable sitting on the sofa of a woman she's never met before, tucking into carrot cake that one of these women—amazingly—has found the time to make.

There are four other women there. Natalie with her daughter, Olivia; Emily and her son, James; Sarah and daughter Laura; and Penny with Lizzy.

“Thank God there's another boy.” Emily leans over to Sam and laughs. “I felt completely outnumbered last week.”

“It is extraordinary, isn't it,” says Sarah, in whose house they are all sitting, “how many people have had girls recently? You two are the only people who seem to have boys.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement.

“Lucky for the boys, though,” Natalie says. “I'd better teach Olivia about the birds and the bees early.”

“Would that be before or after the ABCs?” Penny says, smiling.

“My daughter's a genius,” Natalie puffs proudly, a twinkle in her eye. “ABCs? She'll be writing her first novel within the year.”

“Thank God,” Sam laughs. “I thought I was the only one with a genius child.”

“Oh no.” Natalie shakes her head vigorously. “All of us have genius children.” The other mothers agree, laughing. “In fact, this isn't just any old mother and baby group. This is a mother and baby group especially for genius children. I mean honestly. Look at my daughter. See the way her tongue's lolling attractively at the side of her mouth? That's actually sign language. We've been learning it together and what she's actually saying is, Mum, I'm bored and why are you forcing me to lie on a play mat when intellectually I am so superior to this.”

“At least I know I'm in the right place,” Sam says.

“Speaking of the birds and the bees—” Sarah ventures.

“Yeuch!” Natalie says forcefully, as Sam decides she definitely likes her. “Do we have to?”

“I just wondered whether you'd all done it yet.”

“Sex?” Emily laughs. “Are you nuts?”

“You don't mean it still hurts?” Sam's horrified. Admittedly sex has been the very last thing on her mind, but she and Chris have managed to have it a couple of times, and even though the first time was rather strange, it certainly wasn't painful.

“No! I meant why, for God's sake. Who'd want to?”

“I've got to say I agree,” Penny chips in. “I'm running out of excuses but the truth is I'm just completely exhausted. And I hardly feel sexy with saggy boobs and a fat stomach. God. Sex is just the last thing I can think of. The only thing I want to do when I climb into bed at night is sleep.”

“I, thank God, haven't had sex once,” Natalie says. “I've been telling Martin my stitches are painful. Bless.”

Sarah frowns at Natalie. “Stitches? I thought you said you had an emergency cesarean?”

“Your point?”

They all start laughing.

But
it's true, Sam thinks sadly, even as she's laughing. She and Chris had an amazing sex life, not that you'd know it now. Everyone told her that it all changed when you got married, but it never had for them. Up until George was born they had still managed to have sex at least three times a week. She can count the number of times since on the fingers of one hand.

The first time she laid eyes on Chris she was at a party, six years ago. She knew most of the people there and, despite being on the husband hunt at the time, thought it wasn't going to be a party at which she'd pull. Julia was supposed to have come with her, but had dropped out at the last minute thanks to a stinking cold, and Sam hooked up with a couple of other friends just so she wouldn't have to walk in on her own.

She'd had a great evening. Had downed cocktails like they were going out of fashion, had flirted innocently with inappropriate men, and had danced the night away.

Toward the end of the evening she found herself in the kitchen. Sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging against the washing machine, she was laughing at the efforts of Tony—not her type at all—to chat her up, when something made her turn her head.

The front door was opening and in walked someone who made Sam's heart, literally, stop. The smile left her face as she leaned forward to see better. There was nothing special about him. Average height. Average looks. Nice smile. Typical male brown leather jacket. But put it all together and Sam knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this man was going to change her life.

“I'm going to have him,” she thought, except she unfortunately thought it out loud, leaving a bewildered Tony standing in the kitchen by himself as she jumped off the counter and went to meet her destiny.

“I'm Sam.” She held out her hand as Chris looked at her and a smile spread across his face. He had been in the process of taking off his jacket but he stopped to shake her hand. And didn't let go.

“Chris.”

“So shall we go, Chris?”

He never bothered taking his coat off.

They went to a hotel in Swiss Cottage, unable to think of anywhere else other than a hotel that would be open so late. Sat in a huge plush sofa and talked about everything. The more they talked, the more Sam knew.

He dropped her home and she skipped in without even a kiss goodnight. But still she knew.

The next night he phoned her at six. She had, by this time, caught Julia's cold. She was lying in bed, a box of tissues on one side, the television remote control on the other, and a mug of lukewarm Lemsip on her bedside table.