Flight (19 page)

Instinctively Rob turns back to look up the path for Laura, the shame of his deceit rearing its head again. ‘No – no, the last one I got was about meeting up. I haven’t seen one with a picture.’

‘Well, look out for it – and phone me when you get it? I’m desperate to know if it’s you or not.’

‘Will you resend it? I’m not at home but I can pick up emails on my phone now – resend it now, will you?’ He can hear the pace in his voice accelerating; they’re running out of time before Laura returns for him.

‘OK, I’ll do it straight away. So, about meeting up? What do you think?’

To Rob’s alarm the figure of Laura reappears in the distance, just beyond the bonnet of his car. She raises an arm to wave. ‘Ava, can I call you back later?’ he says.

‘What? Oh, yes – about meeting up? OK, you’ve got my number?’

‘Yes,’ he whispers, turning away from Laura as she now approaches, his pulse hammering. ‘It’s just I need to tell my family about you first, you understand?’

‘Of course! Just so you know, I’m sending that photo now – ’

‘Ava, I’ve got to go – ’ and then Laura is right beside him, and he panics and snaps shut his phone. Shutting off the phone; shutting off Ava.

‘Who was that?’ Laura asks, slipping her arm through his and steering them back towards the car.

‘Oh, another one of those poxy PPI claims companies.’ He stops in the road and turns Laura towards him. ‘Is she alright? Phoebe – is she going to be alright in there?’

Laura kisses him and jerks her head towards the car. ‘She’s going to be just fine. She’s made of stronger stuff than you and I, Rob. Your daughter’s a bloody trooper.’

Jane Pearson, one of Wren’s colleagues, had a baby just a couple of weeks after Phoebe arrived, and so it seemed natural that they should meet from time to time, for afternoon tea and ‘play’. Rob always thought this was a great laugh, the concept of these tiny babies playing, when they couldn’t yet sit up.

‘What do the babies do? Lie there pulling each other’s ears while you two drink coffee and natter?’

‘Pretty much,’ Wren replied.

One Friday evening, Rob arrived home just as Jane and baby Jacob were leaving, and, riding in on his end-of-
the-week
high, he invited her and husband Graham to join them
for Sunday lunch that weekend. As soon as Jane was safely off the front drive, Wren let her dismay be known.

‘Sunday lunch?’ she asked. She dropped her shoulders, appeared smaller still.

‘You’re getting awfully thin,’ Rob replied, as if that was a suitable response.

Wren lowered her eyes, handed him the baby and spent the rest of the evening in the spare room, sleeping on the single bed beside Phoebe’s crib.

When Sunday came around, Rob cooked, busying himself in the kitchen in the hours before the Pearsons arrived, while Wren took care of Phoebe. Somehow, they had managed to avoid talking about the impending lunch; over the past few months they had lost the ability to disagree out in the open, and instead Wren’s deep dread of the occasion steeped away beneath the surface, as Rob chattered about his work, and behaved as if everything was just fine.

‘Are they drinkers?’ Rob asked. He was standing in the doorway to the lounge, holding aloft one bottle of red wine, one bottle of white.

Wren looked up from Phoebe, who was tucked beneath her blouse, feeding. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know Jane all that well. Maybe.’

He knew she was criticising him, passive in her deflection. ‘Really? You seemed pretty chummy to me.’

Wren lifted Phoebe from her breast, adjusted her underwear and switched sides. ‘Well, I can tell you what washing powder she uses to reduce her eczema – and how long her labour was – and how many hours Jacob slept on Thursday night. But as for her drinking preferences, Rob, I really haven’t a clue.’ Her eyes remained fixed on the back of Phoebe’s head.

Rob lowered the wine bottles and smiled blankly. ‘I’ll stick the white in the fridge, then, just in case.’ He left her feeding and returned to the reassuring warmth of the kitchen, to potter about checking the lamb and singing along to The Clash until the doorbell rang at midday on the dot.

Jane and Graham breezed through the hallway in a flurry of goodwill, bringing with them the soft scent of Johnson’s baby powder and a bottle of Australian white. Jane handed Jacob to Rob as they returned to the front drive to ferry in a seemingly endless supply of baby paraphernalia, amid comradely laughter and eyes raised to the heavens.

‘He can’t go anywhere without Buns!’ Jane apologised as she lugged in Jacob’s enormous blue rabbit. She wiggled Buns in the baby’s direction to demonstrate. Jacob returned a flatulent blink, before extending a tiny hand, clenching and flexing his fingers towards the toy.

‘See?’ Jane laughed, and she scooped up the baby and left Rob and Graham in the kitchen as she went to seek out Wren. ‘There you both are!’ Rob heard her exclaim from along the hall, and he shuddered at the thought of Wren sitting on the sofa loathing Jane, loathing him. This whole thing had been a stupid idea. A stupid,
stupid
idea.

‘Jane’s the designated driver,’ Graham said as he handed over his bottle. ‘And in any event she won’t drink a drop while she’s breastfeeding. Probably why the little bugger keeps us awake half the night!’

Rob laughed and poured them both a drink.

‘I’ve told her – give yourself a break! A glass of wine won’t hurt; in fact it might do both of them a bit of good to loosen up a bit. But she won’t listen – determined to be Mum of the Year in everything.’

Rob offered George a stuffed olive. ‘An impossible task.’

‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? So, how’s yours? Phoebe? Does she sleep?’ He leant in, in an instant betraying his exhaustion. The circles under his eyes were puffy and grey.

‘She’s not too bad,’ Rob replied, erring on the side of vagueness. The truth was that she had been sleeping fairly well since she was a month old, but what new parent wanted to hear that? He indicated for them to move through to join the others. ‘Highs and lows, you know. I’m sure little Jake will be sleeping right through before you know it!’

‘It’s Jacob,’ Jane corrected him as they entered the living room. She was sitting on the rug with the baby, the coffee table having been pushed to one side to make room for Jacob and his vast array of multicoloured toys.

‘Like the cream cracker?’ Rob asked with a smirk. Wren met his eye, and he nearly, so very nearly detected a glimmer of a smile in the white of her eye that he was tempted to carry on. ‘Like David – ’

‘No,’ Graham and Jane answered together.

‘After the Old Testament,’ Jane said. After a tense pause, she broke into a wide smile and loomed over the infant, grabbing at his round tummy. ‘And what a fine little Jacob he is!’

Jacob gasped, startled, and for a moment Rob actually hoped he would cry. Instead, the baby gurgled happily and sicked up a thin dribble of breast milk. Rob glanced at Wren, saw her staring fixedly at the milky trail as it ran from Jacob’s mouth and pooled on the rug beside his ear. She looked appalled.

When the doorbell rang Rob was almost grateful. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, placing his glass on the mantelpiece and leaving the group listening to Jane’s plans to breastfeed for a
minimum of two years. He was still grimacing as he opened the door, where he found Laura standing on the doorstep, blessedly familiar in her parka and boots, her army surplus kit bag at her feet.

‘Room for a small one?’ she smiled, reaching out for a hug. ‘I was missing Phoebe, so I thought I’d surprise you!’ She inclined her head, tuning in to the strange voices along the hall. ‘Oh, God! You’ve got guests – I should have called!’ She dropped back down off the step as if to leave.

Rob reached out and grabbed her by the sleeve, dragging her over the threshold and scooping up her bag in one swift movement. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said, in hushed tones, nudging her along the hall. ‘You were sent to save us. I want you to meet Graham and Jane. They’re a brilliant advert for not having kids.’

At the beach kiosk, Rob asks for two teas and thumbs through his old phone messages as they wait – there’s definitely no sign of that email and photograph from Ava. Ava… How in hell’s name is he going to broach the subject with Laura, with
Phoebe
?

‘This is Arthur,’ Laura says, breaking into his muddled thoughts.

‘Oh?’ he replies. He takes a good look at the chap pouring hot water into their cardboard cups and wonders how he is of significance to Wren. He’s in his late sixties, weathered and slightly tatty, with a sharp intelligence shining from his eyes. Rob offers his hand. ‘Rob. Glad to meet you. So – so, you must know Wren?’

Arthur hands them their teas, gestures towards the milk and sugar. ‘I do,’ he replies.

‘We don’t really – ’ Rob starts to say, but Laura stops him with a touch to his wrist and he takes a small step away from the counter, feeling like a foreigner in a strange land. He looks out over the car park, where a group of surfers are congregated, unstrapping their boards and zipping themselves into wetsuits.

‘We don’t get to visit very often,’ Laura fills in, and Rob turns back to her, to watch her speak. She lies so easily, he observes. An unbidden thought rushes into the front of his mind: what if she were to leave him again? Would he see the signs; would he see it coming? He didn’t spot the signs with Wren, and she was gone in an instant. Suddenly he feels cold to the bone and he wraps his fingers around the corrugated cup, brings it close to his lips, draws in the heat.

Arthur hands Laura her change. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever known Wren to have visitors,’ he says, ‘so you must be special guests.’

‘We are!’ Laura replies, sounding high-spirited. ‘Have you known her very long, Arthur?’

‘Ever since she got here. I don’t know, nearly twenty years – gawd, that makes me realise how old I’m getting. I see her most days, though, with the sausages. She’s not much of a one for chitchat, but she’s a sturdy walker.’

‘Sausages?’ Rob asks, trying to bring his thoughts back into order.

‘Dogs.’ Laura laughs. ‘Dachshunds. Badger and Willow – you’ll get to see them later on, Rob. They’re lovely – makes me feel quite tempted to get one myself!’

‘So you haven’t seen her yet?’ Arthur leans back on to his stool, addressing Rob. ‘She was out on the rocks this morning as usual. I’m surprised you didn’t call in on her on the way past?’

Laura blows on her hot tea. ‘Rob’s only just got here, so we thought we’d take a walk on the beach after his long drive. Stretch our legs!’

Rob’s had enough of the lies and subterfuge. He just wants the truth to out. ‘We’ve just dropped Phoebe at Wren’s, so they can catch up.’

Laura stiffens visibly.

‘Phoebe?’ Arthur says, folding his arms, displaying rough fingers covered in newsprint.

‘Her daughter,’ Rob replies, ignoring Laura’s silent fury. Has Wren never mentioned her child to this friend of hers, not once in twenty years? He looks back along the coastal path, in the direction of the little stone cottage and wonders if Phoebe’s alright up there, alone with Wren.

Laura hooks her arm beneath his elbow and draws him away. ‘She was probably trying to avoid the subject of family. You know what she’s like. She’s very private.’ She raises a hand and calls back over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see you later, Arthur!’

They walk away, down through the car park to the wide expanse of sand below, feeling the heat of Arthur’s gaze on their backs.

Laura’s yearning for a child was a faceless beast, something Rob felt keenly in the silent moments when she was visiting, swooping Phoebe from Wren’s arms to cradle her gently, gazing down at her with an expression of love more profound than he had ever seen from Wren. Looking back, it was as if she, Laura, had always been Phoebe’s real mother. It was just that she hadn’t carried her in her womb, delivered her into the world. And it was this that she longed for, that she wept for behind the closed door of the spare room, where
she thought Rob and Wren couldn’t hear her. It pained him so deeply, this loss in her, this emptiness, and yet, from the moment Phoebe arrived, it became the thing they couldn’t talk about, the creature they couldn’t look in the eye.

In the October before Wren left, Laura arrived late one Friday night after an absence of over a month. She had been staying away, she said, because she didn’t want to jinx it by telling them too soon – and she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it from them for even a minute if she saw them. But in the end she couldn’t wait a second longer, needed to share her joy with the two most important people in her life. She was pregnant – just eight weeks, but it was the longest she’d ever held on to a child in recent years, and she felt good about this one, felt sure everything was going to work out. After all, how unlucky could one woman be? Wren’s spirits soared at the news, and she persuaded Laura to stay for the weekend, fussing over her like a mother, insisting that Laura have lie-ins as she brought her breakfast and newspapers in bed. Rob watched Wren, entranced. The life flooded back into her features, the light growing bright behind her eyes.

‘I’m not ill!’ Laura complained, as Rob and Wren sat at the foot of the single bed, pinching her toes, delighted at her news.

‘We’ll be in it together,’ Wren said as Rob left the room to respond to Phoebe’s cries from the kitchen. He returned with her in his arms and stood in the doorway, swaying her to sleep. ‘We’ll be the best parents,’ Wren said, ‘and Rob of course.’

Laura and Rob laughed; Wren always used to say it was more like
they
were the married ones, with Rob thrown in to balance them out. Laura picked up her mug and took a swig. ‘So what do you think I’ll have?’

‘I think you’re having a girl,’ Wren replied resolutely, and she moved up the bed to pull Laura against her body, to cup their chins over one another’s shoulder like two parts of the same person.

Rob watched them together, at the fresh glow radiating from Wren, and he wished Laura could stay, wished she could move in with them and stay forever. Only in the times when Laura was around could he fully acknowledge the steep decline he’d been witnessing in Wren; she grew fainter with every passing day, her vibrancy fading like a candle in a room with no air. When Laura returned, the flame would flicker to life, increasing in strength and luminosity, and Wren would return to their home, to him and Phoebe. He studied Laura’s face as she held on to Wren, her eyes closed, the creases of her forehead smoothed out in peace, and he thought about asking her:
Move in with us, Lolly, just like before – at college – remember how happy we were?
He imagined her reply, her delight – Wren’s delight – as they hatched their plan, filled up his car with her belongings, settled her into her new room. He saw Laura and Wren strolling through the park with their pushchairs, feeding ducks at the river, the three of them taking holidays together; growing old together.