Authors: Julia Llewellyn
42
A fortnight had passed. Nick was in his room at the Comfort Inn, Cleveland, Ohio. A club sandwich sat cooling on a plate in front of him, as he flicked from television channel to television channel, all of which seemed to be showing adverts for lawyers’ firms wanting to help you sue negligent sidewalk repairers.
The Vertical Blinds were halfway through their US tour. They’d already played Philadelphia, Boston, New York and Pontiac, Michigan. Parts had been really glamorous – flying across the Atlantic again (though it was only business class this time), driving across the Brooklyn Bridge in a real yellow taxi watching the Manhattan lights shimmer on the horizon.
‘Wow,’ yelled Ian. ‘We are in Noo Yoik. We’re gonna see steam coming out of the pavements. The Statue of Liberty. The Big Apple.’
‘A stabbing?’ Paul was ever hopeful.
‘You could stay in Burnley if a stabbing’s what you want. How about the Empire State Building?’
‘I wanna go into a sandwich bar and order pastrami on rye. I’ve always wondered what that is. And a soda.’
But Nick didn’t feel any desire to see New York. He just kept thinking about Kylie. Kylie in hospital, on a drip, white as a sheet. He’d done this to her by being a coward, by not having the guts to tell her it was over. By letting her find out about him and Lucinda through a call from a newspaper reporter. He’d behaved disgustingly, but he couldn’t even say he’d been punished, because however much his heart ached he hadn’t nearly died.
The tour had kicked off. They had a bus, like you did in the movies, which was fun initially, but the novelty of days on end trapped on a coach – even a glorified coach with giant tellies and snacks – soon wore off. The east coast of America wasn’t nearly as pretty as Nick had imagined, but seemed to be endless dreary highways lined by strip malls full of beauty salons and dry cleaners and Taco Bells. The towns they visited all looked the same: Camden, New Jersey. Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. Detroit. The gigs weren’t full and the reviews online were lukewarm, but nobody except Nick seemed bothered. They were too busy enjoying the groupies. Of course Nick slept with a couple – skinny blondes who screamed like police sirens as he thrust into them and scratched his back with their long nails, but halfway through he’d remember Kylie’s pink face and blonde curls and his hard-on would shrivel.
Nick pushed the sandwich away, nauseated by the memory.
He kept picking up his phone, jabbing in texts. But he didn’t send them. How could he? He’d ruined Kylie’s life, he absolutely couldn’t barge in again now. He had to respect her space, had to leave her to lead the life she’d wanted in the first place.
Gemma, also, was flicking unseeingly through the TV channels. Tomorrow, two weeks would have passed. The embryos would either have caught or not. She bought a state-of-the-art pregnancy test that also performed ballet moves, cleaned your grouting and did your tax return. But was midnight too early to do it? What about five a.m.? What about nine? Lunchtime? When was the magic hour when the embryos that had been inserted in her body suddenly, magically clamped to her womb wall?
Or – alternatively – let go in a sticky, bloody mess.
‘You’ll do it at seven a.m.,’ Alex had decided. ‘When the alarm goes off.’
‘And what if it’s a no?’ Gemma knew without a doubt that it would be. And then her life would be over. There would be no hope.
‘If it’s a no, we’ll get straight on the internet and start investigating adoption agencies. We will have a meeting with them sorted out by the end of the day.’
‘But you said no adopting…’
‘I changed my mind. We will get through this. Now go to sleep.’
Gemma wished they could make love, but it was out of the question. Far too risky. Though of course there were other things they could do to pass the time.
‘Do you fancy a blow job?’ she asked.
The gap between the digital clock clicking from 6:59 to 7 a.m. seemed to last an eternity.
‘Go on, then,’ said an equally sleepless Alex beside her. ‘Shall I come and watch?’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
Even now, they both managed a giggle.
She padded out of the bedroom into the funny bathroom that every potential buyer objected to. Unwrapped the plastic wrapper, opened the box. More foil to fumble with. In the bin. She hitched up her cotton nightie, sat on the toilet seat, stuck the stick underneath her and allowed her bladder muscles to loosen. The room filled with the warm, ammoniac smell of the first pee of the day.
She pulled out the stick. She studied the oval window. It’s OK, she told herself. Because we
will
adopt. Maybe an Indian baby. Or Guatemalan. But the top space was filling up. A vertical line was developing. First faint violet, then growing darker and darker. A red line in the porthole below.
Oh, good Lord.
‘Let me in,’ bellowed her husband from outside the door. ‘Put me out of my misery.’
‘Come in.’
He pushed open the door. She stood there.
‘Oh shit, I’m sorry,’ he said, seeing her pale face.
Gemma looked up at him.
‘No, darling. Don’t be sorry. It’s positive. We are going to have a baby.’
Grace was squatting in front of the courgettes. It was true what they said on the new gardening forums she’d joined, they grew like bloody billy-oh. What would she do with them all? She was eating courgette bread for lunch, pasta with garlic and courgettes for dinner, but she couldn’t even begin to make a dent into this surfeit.
‘Hello, Miss Porter-Healey,’ a voice said behind her.
She twisted round, losing her balance and falling on to her bottom. Looking up she saw Anton Beleek.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, wiping the sweat from her brow.
‘Sorry! Did I take you by surprise? I rang the doorbell but nobody came and…’
‘It’s fine. I was just… Do you like courgettes?’
‘We tend to call them zucchini where I come from. But yes, I do quite like them. They can be bland, but if you cook them in olive oil with lemon and basil, they’re really very good.’
‘I should try that.’ She stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Now, how can I help you, Mr Beleek?’
‘You know why I’m here.’
‘I do. And I can’t say I’m happy about it.’
‘I’ve spoken to your brother. He’s very keen for the sale to go through.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ she said archly.
‘You have huge debts to pay, Miss Porter-Healey.’
‘Please, call me Grace. Mr Beleek, I’m quite aware of the dire situation.’
‘Please, call me Anton.’ He was smiling.
‘I’m quite aware of the dire situation and I’m quite aware we will have to sell to you in the end. If no other buyer comes forward. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy messing you around.’
Like Richie messed me around.
She smiled at him. She was suddenly surprisingly aware of her skin glowing in the afternoon sun. She’d never had the biscuit feast after Shackleton died, instead she’d marked his burial by going online and ordering a special variety of rose to plant on his grave.
Anton Beleek looked around. ‘You’ve been working hard at this since I last saw you. Would you like to show me what you’ve done? Remember, I love gardens.’
‘I do remember,’ said Grace with a smile. She’d been otherwise distracted that day, but he need never know that.
Karen sat in front of Christine’s desk. Christine looked at her from behind the shades she was wearing to conceal yet another eye operation.
‘So you’re not resigning now.’
‘No. The whole Devon thing is off.’
‘Well, thank God for that. And how is Phil?’
‘Stable. Another round of chemo in a week.’
‘Christ. All that
poison
being dripped into your body. Perhaps he should try this shaman I heard about.’ Christine seemed oblivious to the irony that her body was awash with Restylane and Botox. ‘Shall I try to track him down for you?’
‘Thanks, Christine,’ Karen said, as she always did to such suggestions. People didn’t
mean
to be annoying. She stood up.
‘See you later.’
‘Karen. There’s one more thing. I’m leaving. Just handed in my notice. Jamal and I are off to India, he wants to write a novel and I… well, I want to put my money where my mouth’s been all these years and be a good supportive wife.’
Karen gaped.
‘So… obviously we were about to start to look for candidates. But now it seems you might be the obvious successor. Would
you
like to be editor?’
‘Me?’ After nine years as lady in waiting. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good. Well, that was easy. I’ll tell the powers that be that you’re my anointed successor. You will be able to cope with the case load, what with Phil and everything…?’
‘I’ve found the more I have to do the better I cope.’
‘Good stuff.’ Christine smiled. ‘Congratulations, Karen, you deserve it.’
‘I hope you’re happy in India.’
‘Me too.’ Christine’s phone started ringing. ‘Oh, that’s Jamsie now. I’d better see what he wants. Off you go. Talk later.’
Head reeling, Karen shut Christine’s door. She’d never seen that coming. Christine’s job. And she could take it now, now Phil had agreed they’d stay in St Albans, just in a different house.
Dazed, she walked down the corridor then turned the corner into the newsroom and slap – into Max. Her cheeks, warm from the conversation with Christine, were suddenly frozen and her hands shook.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I work here.’
‘But on the
Daily
. This is the
Sunday
.’ What a banal thing to say to the man she loved most in the world, more than anything except her girls, whom she’d dreamed about, yearned for, cried quietly over every night. Suddenly standing two feet from her, his brown eyes locked into hers.
The temptation to shout, ‘I’ve changed my mind, I’ll be with you,’ was overwhelming. But how could she with her colleagues all around her, tapping away at their keyboards? More to the point, how could she when her husband was recovering from chemo at home, her children petrified?
‘I’ve just got to have a word with Nicky,’ he said, nodding at the news editor, sitting a few yards away. ‘We need to work out which stories we’re covering in the next few months. So we don’t clash too much.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Shakily, she added, ‘See you then.’ She started to walk on. One leg in front of the other. Wasn’t that how you did it?
‘Karen!’
She turned. She must not show emotion. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m moving.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To South Africa. There’s a correspondent’s job up for grabs. Guns, wars, adventure. That’s going to be me.’ He couldn’t have sounded more unhappy.
‘South Africa. How wonderful!’ Nor could she.
Sophie approached them, waddling slowly.
‘Hey! What did Christine say? Hello, Max, how are you?’
‘I’ll tell you in a second,’ said Karen, just as Max said, ‘Hello, Sophie, I’m fine. You?’
‘All right. Six weeks to go now.’ Sophie’s eyes grew bigger as she looked at his ashen face, then hers. She’d guessed.
‘Can’t wait to hear all about it,’ she said to Karen, her voice laden with knowingness. She moved off, leaving them still frozen.
‘How’s Phil?’ Max asked.
‘Recovering. For now. It’s going to be a long road. Though the doctors think he’s got a good chance.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Me too.’ They looked at each other. She had no idea how she could bear this. But Phil was enduring his pain, so she’d just have to put up with hers.
‘Karen!’ yelled a voice behind her. She wheeled round.
‘Yes, Christine?’
‘I need to see your cookery pages before I go for lunch. Chop, chop.’
‘OK,’ Karen said.
‘See you,’ said Max. One last look and he continued down the corridor. He didn’t look back. Karen stared after him. It was as if an iceberg was in her chest.
She made it back to her desk by autopilot. Sitting down, she grabbed the mug of tea she’d made just before Christine had summoned her in. Although it was cold, its robust tannic taste seemed to thaw her icy veins somewhat, bringing her back to some kind of normality. A desperately sad normality, but still, a step further from where she’d been just a week ago. She would survive. She would get through this. She picked up the photo of Bea and Eloise, arms wrapped round each other, grinning cheesily into the camera, and – glancing around to check no one was looking – kissed both their faces. She’d slope off early tonight. Because she needed to see them both, more than she needed anything in the world.
43
Seven months had passed. Summer had merged into a surprisingly temperate autumn and early winter. Even now, with Christmas just weeks away and the shops full of holly and tinsel, the weather was still dry and mild.
For Gemma the time had passed agonizingly slowly. There’d been the sheer hell of the first twelve weeks, when she’d hardly dared move from the sofa, when she’d panicked because she wasn’t feeling sick enough, because her breasts weren’t as sore as she’d been warned. She worried because she didn’t have piles or indigestion, she longed for stretchmarks that refused to arrive. There was no way this baby could stick around; miscarriages were incredibly common. She’d done a pregnancy test every day, sometimes two. Alex hadn’t mocked at her, or complained. He understood.
When the day for the scan came, they were at the hospital far too early. Then the sonographer was running late. Gemma’s bladder ached from the cups of water she’d consumed to make the image good. When the time came she was so desperate to pee, she’d almost forgotten what they were really there for. She lay on a couch. Cold gel was squeezed on her tummy. The sonographer, who was skinny and jolly, pressed what looked like a Hoover nozzle against it. Almost instantly two tiny semi-humans appeared on the screen. Alex and Gemma held hands and gasped. The sonographer smiled wryly.
‘It’s twins.’
In shock from the news, they saw a consultant. Everything seemed healthy, though of course the babies might have to come out slightly early. Gemma’s tummy started growing at a rate of knots. They began breaking the news to people. A few tactful ones said, ‘How lovely,’ but more said, ‘Double trouble’ and ‘Rather you than me’ and ‘Jesus H. Christ.’
‘Why are they being like this?’ Gemma asked Alex. ‘Why can’t they be pleased for us?’
‘They’re jealous because we’ve been twice blessed. Two babies. We’ll have to come up with another name besides Chudney. What do you think of Chudwina?’
At twenty weeks they returned for the second scan.
‘All’s well,’ said the sonographer. ‘They’re even both head down for now, though that will most likely change. Do you want to know the sex?’
‘No!’ said Alex.
‘Yes!’ said Gemma.
‘Why?’ Alex said. ‘Don’t you want a surprise?’
‘Not really. You know I like to be in control.’
‘Well, that ain’t never going to happen again,’ said the sonographer with a smirk. ‘Not with twins. Sorry, but it’s true. Get all the help you can and then some.’
‘She’s right,’ Alex urged her. ‘Come on. We’ve got this far. Let’s just let life take us where it wants for a while.’
The sonographer printed out some muzzy grey photos. Two blobs in what seemed like a very small space. Chudney had a higher forehead than the other, Chudwina had squidgier cheeks. Gemma gazed at them for hours, like an archaeologist inspecting an ancient bit of Sumerian pottery for clues. Would one look like Alex and one like Bridget? Or perhaps there’d be some throwback and they’d end up looking like Grandpa Meehan, who had an enormous chin but a disproportionately small nose, not to mention a vile temper. It didn’t matter. So long as they didn’t take after her mother-in-law.
She was overcome with the need to share her news with Bridget. There was no one else in the world, she thought, who would coo over the pictures like she had, no one else who would fully share in the excitement.
But Bridget was still nowhere to be found. Texts went unanswered, and when she called her number it went straight to voicemail.
‘Why don’t you ask your parents?’ Alex said.
Gemma was unwilling. She didn’t want to alert her mother to the fact that the two daughters weren’t in touch; she was stressed right now, as the neighbours had decided to build a second villa bang between her parents’ lawn and their sea view. Last time she’d called Mum for an update, she’d said she was too upset to talk about it, but Gemma could get a blow-by-blow account of what was going on on her Facebook page.
Facebook.
Why on earth hadn’t she thought of that before? Gemma proudly avoided Facebook, declaring it to be for sad, time-wasting losers. Meaning it was exactly the kind of place her sister would flourish. She logged in. She searched for Bridget Hobson. She found her straight away. Her sister had posted a picture of herself in a purple feather boa doing a peace sign. She had four hundred and ninety-five friends, from all over the world, collected on yoga retreats, in ashrams, on self-discovery workshops in the Brazilian rainforest, beach huts in Thailand.
She had no idea if the olive branch would be accepted. But she had to hold it out. Reluctantly, against all her principles, she made up her own Facebook page, uploaded her scan picture, and – now she was part of the system – asked Bridget to be her friend. As if they were six years old. She added a message.
If you want to see your biological children then click on this link. I hope you’re well and happy. I miss you. G xxx
The message disappeared into cyberspace. Gemma blew a kiss after it. She’d hope, but not too much.
Grace was delighted with her herb garden. The sage, thyme and lavender were already growing fast, the rosemary wasn’t far behind. Even though the weather had turned and it grew dark so frustratingly early now, she was fitting in as much as possible. She’d lost two stone. Anton Beleek had been back three times to negotiate with her, once with a rather snooty young woman called Lucinda, and three times she’d shown him her progress before rejecting his offer. He’d taken it in good spirit.
Coming back into the kitchen, face scarlet, she turned her attention to the answerphone. A message. She pressed ‘play’.
‘Grace! It’s Verity. I have just received a call from a Lucinda Gresham at Beleek Developments. Apparently, they’ve been trying to buy the house for months and you haven’t been passing the message on to us. I can’t believe it! You know how worried we are about school fees. Really, Grace. This is awful. Call me back at once with an explanation.’
Grace smiled and pressed ‘delete’. The next message rolled out.
‘Grace, all right. I have a proposition for you. We buy the house. You become its gardener. We give you the gatehouse to live in for ever and you can take charge of the grounds. What do you say to that? Eh? Call me.’
Message three. ‘Anton again. Why haven’t you got back to me? Listen, what do you say I come down again and take you out to dinner to discuss my plan?’
Grace thought that could be an idea. She’d call him back once she’d planted the next lot of bulbs. She had to press on, the frosts would set in soon.
Alex was home early that night. He found Gemma sitting in front of the television, watching the Living Channel with its non-stop round of birth documentaries. She couldn’t help it, she was addicted, crying every time the baby finally appeared. She knew she was pretty much destined for a C-section but she still wanted to discover as much as possible about every birth option and keep them all open.
‘I’ve got news,’ Alex said.
‘Oh yes?’ The woman who’d looked so immaculate at the start of the programme was now huffing on all fours. Gemma found it seriously alarming. Was this really what birth was like? Perhaps the C-section was the best idea after all.
‘I know where Massy is.’
‘What?’ That had her attention.
‘Frankie Holmes found him.’
‘Frankie Holmes?’
‘Yeah. The scumbag I got off. He owed me one. So I asked him to track Massimo Briganza down. Wasn’t hard. He’s living in Penge. Doing casual jobs here and there. Turns out he’s a heroin addict. Got previous for robbery and fraud.’
‘Oh my God. And he was Bridget’s boyfriend.’
‘I know. What a charmer.’
‘But now we can nobble him?’ Gemma imagined Massy being carried off in a Black Maria. One of the babies – Chudney, she thought – kicked to show its approval.
‘No, Poochie, we can’t. He didn’t commit any crime. You gave him the money.’
‘But it was meant for Bridget.’
‘There is absolutely no proof of that. Sorry, Pooch.’ Alex’s eyes lit up behind his glasses. ‘But it’s not all bad news. Frankie’s got his eye on him. He’s having a word with his contacts.’
‘His contacts?’
‘You don’t want to know. But I have a sense Massy’s petty dealings will be heavily scrutinized from now on. Meaning he may end up in A & E by the end of the week. Not to mention in the Crown Court for coke dealing.’
‘Frankie’s done that for you?’
Alex shrugged. ‘I told you. He owes me. Big time. Now will you acknowledge that my job has got some uses?’
It was Christmas Eve. At The Hawthorns, Briar Road, St Albans, Karen was squatting in front of the telly, one eye on Jonathan Ross flirting lasciviously with Girls Aloud, the other on Bea’s new bicycle, which she was ambitiously trying to wrap. All around her were overflowing packing cases. They’d unpacked a few cooking implements and bedding, but everything else was still buried under bubble wrap.
It had all happened so fast. A month ago, despite the distractions of Phil being in and out of hospital, she’d put the house back on the market. Property was still in the doldrums and she wasn’t expecting any response, but she felt she had to do everything she could to get them out of the home where they’d suffered so much. But the very first night, the agent had called saying a couple with two small children, looking to make the move out of London, were interested. They viewed the following morning. They offered below the asking price, but they offered cash. On condition they exchanged within three weeks.
Karen heard about The Hawthorns, a rambling house on the town outskirts with a vast garden where an old lady had recently died (the girls hadn’t been told that, it would freak them out). They put in an offer to the family, and they’d snapped it up, on condition of a rapid sale. They’d been out of the old house by the end of the week. Not without a certain amount of tears from Karen and the girls. But the tears had quickly dried when they’d seen the size of the garden and their new bedrooms. They’d moaned a bit when they’d had to suffer a few nights of no central heating, but Phil had quickly fixed that. Now, they were both asleep upstairs.
‘Everything OK?’ Phil stuck his head round the door. He’d been in the cellar, working on the finer details of Bea’s new doll’s house which he’d made for her all by himself. Karen would never tell him that in Bea’s exacting circles doll’s houses had been ‘lame’ for about three years. It was good for him to have a project. The chemo and radiotherapy had gone well – the next round was due in the new year, but the doctors were optimistic.
And Phil… Phil had been much better this time round. Still often grumpy, still snappy, but he was attempting to keep a lid on it. He appeared to be pleased about Karen’s new job, and the consequent pay rise. He was distracting himself by making over The Hawthorns, and when that was done, he thought he might try to snap up another couple of properties while the market was on the skids and have them ready in time for the recovery.
So. ‘Everything’s fine,’ Karen said, smiling. ‘Do you feel better being here? Away from Coverley Drive?’
‘I do. I know it’s all superstitious baloney but I feel as if the demons have lifted. What I was wrong about was thinking we had to go so far. Just the other side of town is fine. And what about you? Has it broken your heart not being in Coverley Drive?’
‘Nope. I’ve realized that much as I thought I loved Coverley Drive, you can’t actually have your heart broken by a house. It’s the people who are in it that count. Though it helps if the heating’s working.’
‘I told you I’d be able to sort it. I’m a real man now.’
Karen smiled at him. He was gaunt, still the same bleached colour as his shirt, completely bald now – almost certainly for ever. But in the twinkling lights of the tree, she could see the old Phil, the one she’d loved far more than she’d ever realized. The Phil she suddenly wanted to be curled up in bed with, celebrating the fact they’d made it through another year.
She hadn’t forgotten Max. In fact, she missed him with a fury that was physically painful. At least once a day she had to lock herself in the toilet for a secret cry. Virtually every night she dreamed about him and woke sweaty and confused. He’d been working out his notice, so occasionally she’d spotted him across the canteen, and felt as if her heart had stopped. She’d read his stories in the paper. Every now and then, a text from him had arrived. Or an email. She’d deleted them, without reading. But most days now she managed to smile at things the girls said. She’d even laughed at Sophie’s reaction on realizing life with a newborn baby wasn’t straight out of the Cath Kidston catalogue. Work kept her incredibly busy, making all the changes she’d itched to do years earlier, and even though circulation wasn’t going up, it was staying steady, which was something in these times. Talking to doctors about Phil kept her busy. But Max was leaving for South Africa this week. By the time she returned to work in the new year he’d be gone for ever. That would make it easier. She’d get through it. In time she would be happy again.
‘Can you prove it?’ she asked Phil, forcing a grin. Forcing grins was the only way to get through this.
‘Prove what?’
‘That you’re a real man.’
Phil grinned. ‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. ‘If I must.’
He scooped her up in his arms. Karen shrieked, delighted. He couldn’t be as weak as she’d feared. Either that or she’d lost weight.
‘There’s a lot of rooms in this house that need christening.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Remember when we moved into Coverley Drive? We managed the conservatory then.’
‘And the shower room. And the utility room.’
‘And the freezing cold attic,’ he laughed.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ she said gamely. She wasn’t in the mood, but she had to try. It wouldn’t be as bad as she feared.
‘Oh, I think so,’ he said. ‘I think the kitchen might be the place. Right over the Belfast sink.’
‘Get you, Mr Drake!’
‘I have got you. Luckily.’
They started to kiss. It had been a long time. Phil’s hand crept up inside her shirt. Images of Max flashed through Karen’s mind.