Chapter Ashleigh Fitch and Remy Hughes 2002 Aged 40 #12
‘What kind of a deal?’ She stifled a yawn.
Midge kissed her firmly on the mouth and she felt her body respond, yielding to the escape he promised, this man that she so loved.
‘Mu-um!’ Bertie called as he entered their room.
She sat up, as Midge leapt to his side of the bed and was almost instantly re-engrossed in the remote control.
‘What is it, love? You should be asleep.’
‘I was asleep, but Harper woke me up. She’s crying. I can hear her through the wall.’
‘Oh no! I’ll go and sit with her. She probably had a bad dream.’
It wasn’t unheard of: bad dreams, tummy aches, feeling sick, being too cold, too hot, the room being too dark, too light, needing a drink of water, or questions about the universe that meant her babies couldn’t sleep – things like, did everyone die?
And what would happen if she died? The sudden remembering that they needed to take in a hamper for the harvest festival, a robot made of tinfoil, a hat for a parade, a project about otters, a knight’s costume, or a raffle prize.
The reasons they had been pulled from slumber over the years were numerous and varied.
‘She didn’t have a bad dream, she’s crying because Casey’s been mean to her today.’
‘Yes, she told me. Don’t you worry about it, Bert. I’ll deal with it.’
‘Casey said she was smelly and called her Farter instead of Harper again.’
Again?
To hear that her baby girl had been so cruelly addressed and that she’d chosen not to share the detail was heartbreaking.
‘Who said that to her?’ Midge fired.
She saw the way her husband’s jaw clenched and his muscles drew tight on his bones, as if someone had pulled a cord on his anger.
‘I’ll tell you about it in a sec.’ She placed her hand briefly on his arm, knowing it would calm him, and flung back the duvet. ‘You get Bertie back to bed and I’ll go and talk to her.’
‘You mustn’t ever call people names, must you, Mum?’
Remy looked over her shoulder, giving Midge a hard stare, as she grabbed her dressing gown from the back of the door and went to console her baby girl.
‘No, you never must.’
Ashleigh
Ashleigh parked the car in a side road and took her time walking to the office.
The sun on her face was a comfortable blanket to warm her bones and ease the autumnal gloom.
It was her favourite season: the smell of damp leaves, the aroma of real fires, hot chocolate on dark days, and who didn’t look good in an oversized neutral-shade cashmere knit and a decent pair of jeans?
Archie had arrived home after she’d fallen asleep last night.
This morning she didn’t mention his croissant for breakfast or the fact that the white shirt he’d worn for dinner the previous evening was spattered with red wine that would be a pain for Marguerite to launder.
It was her intention to eat with him tonight, Evie too, like one of those families you saw on TV that sat around the dining table and discussed their day.
It felt like a good place to start, a way to connect with her daughter around the kitchen table, sharing food and tales of their day.
She’d make an extra effort and, having left instructions, looked forward to the lasagne Marguerite would whip up for them.
Memories of her own childhood were peppered with images of the four of them laughing and eating around the dining table, her parents chit-chatting over their heads as she and Remy did all they could to make each other laugh.
In fairness, it hadn’t taken much, no more than the insertion of chip fangs or a pea up the nostril.
Simpler times. It would be nice to see her sister when they went out for her dad’s birthday.
Nice, but she’d also be looking forward to jumping into her car and heading back to the big smoke.
She loved her twin, of course she did, but it was complicated.
Clara was tip-tapping away when Ashleigh arrived at the office. The smell of coffee cut through the air.
‘Morning, Clara!’
‘Morning, Ashleigh.’ The girl with her overly serious demeanour barely looked up. ‘I’m just heading out, actually. I have an early viewing at Grove Park Gardens, and I want to make sure it’s warm, put the lamps on.’
‘Good call. No sign of Guy yet?’ She looked behind her at his desk, which was obviously and unusually empty.
‘Nope.’ The girl shook her head. ‘Shan’t be long.’ Clara spoke as she grabbed her handbag and left.
Ashleigh leaned back in her chair, feeling the same sense of satisfaction she always did when alone in the classy, pleasantly styled premises.
The glossy magazines on the glass-topped coffee table were angled just so.
The beautifully arranged white roses that spoke of understated class.
The mink-toned cushions on the pale sofa with centre chops that made them look pricey and inviting.
In short, they tried to replicate the kind of decor in the kind of homes they sold to the kind of people who could afford to live in houses like this.
It filled her with a sense of achievement like no other.
The business had not come about through luck or because of a handout from Archie’s parents.
She was not in the chair because someone knew her and had given her a leg-up; it had not been gifted.
It was instead hard won, grown from the smallest of dreams, a structured loan, and the hardest of grafts, and it was hers.
Well, more specifically, it was theirs. One of the few things in her life she felt was hers on merit.
She put a call in to Guy.
‘Buongiorno!’ She did her best Italian accent.
‘Hello, you. Are you in the office?’
‘No. I’ve decided to not bother today, going to get my nails done instead.’ She tutted. ‘Of course I’m in. Clara’s got a viewing on Grove Park Gardens.’
‘Oh yes, good! Good.’ He let out a long, slow breath. ‘It’s been quite the night.’
‘You alright?’ He sounded a little out of sorts, the man who was never ill, never absent, never anything other than on form.
‘Did you hit the sauce last night?’ It was the first place her mind went, that he might have overindulged, picturing him at uni, the boy with the voracious appetite for fun, never knowing when to pump the brakes.
‘No, nothing like that.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘And I’m more than alright, actually. Ada went into labour yesterday evening, a little earlier than we anticipated, but he’s here! He arrived, a couple of hours ago.’
‘Guy! Oh my God! Guy!’ She felt the whoosh of joy at this marvellous, marvellous news.
‘He – a boy! Oh, mate, that’s wonderful!
I’m so happy for you.’ She couldn’t help, in that moment, but picture him as the idiot member of the crew he’d been in when they were younger.
The one who drank the most, was sick first, would walk miles to find a kebab or a Maccy’s when the booze glow ebbed, and the one who had her back, the one who always had her back.
‘We’re okay, aren’t we, Gigi?’
‘Of course we are. We’ll always be okay.’
She felt the tightening in her throat, quite overwhelmed with a rush of love, heavily flavoured with nostalgia.
It happened like this, these reminders that they were no longer carefree students with their whole lives ahead of them and barely a care in the world.
It had been a lovely time. The loveliest. ‘That’s so cool.
Mother and baby doing well? I think that’s the standard question! ’
‘Yes, yes, really well. He’s awesome, Ash, so tiny! But just . . . awesome!’
She heard the crack of emotion in his words and was pleased for him, pleased for them both.
It was something she understood, even if it didn’t reflect her own feelings around becoming a mother.
She had seen and felt the elation in those all around her, none more so than in Archie, of course, and that had felt like enough, to know it was her effort, her body, her sacrifice that had made the whole thing possible.
‘We’ve decided to call him Ben.’
‘You’ve decided to call him Ben?’ she asked with undisguised shock, her words coasting on laughter.
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re joking?’ She hardly dared ask, the tone of his voice suggesting a distinct lack of humour.
‘I’m not joking, no. Bit controversial, I know, but . . .’
‘Bit controversial? Your dog is called Ben! Ben the dog! Ben the dog with his many, many outfits!’ She pointed out the obvious, wondering if maybe in a state of post-birth delirium and with a heady cocktail of drugs whizzing around Ada’s system, this had been decided in error.
‘Yeah, and honestly, Brett, there’s no name we like more, so Ben it is!’ He laughed.
‘That’s absolutely mad!’ She laughed too.
‘It’s not mad. It’s practical, and we like it, so.’
‘Well, obviously you like it, proof being that you already named your much pampered dog Ben and now you’ve called your son Ben.
What will happen if you have another baby, a girl maybe, will she be Ben too?
Benita? Benjamina? Or maybe you could just number them all: Number five, your tea’s ready! Number three, phone call for you!’
‘I’m, erm . . .’ He didn’t laugh in the way she had anticipated, and she felt her gut fold with having got it so wrong, as the clock ticked loudly.
It was strange, to feel so awkward and ill at ease when chatting to Guy.
Guy! ‘I’m going to let you go, Ashleigh.
’ Ashleigh, she noted, not Brett. ‘I know you must be busy.’ His thinly veiled dismissal was jarring, and she knew that the old Guy, the pre-Ada Guy, Gigi, would have laughed loudly at the thought of having a whole brood of Bens.
But this Guy . . . It was a marker of where they were at – matured, a little estranged, grown up?
All three. His reaction hit her like a thump in the gut.