Chapter 9
NINE
‘I don’t want to go to nursery,’ Toby wailed, almost as loudly as he’d wailed that he didn’t want to go home when I’d picked them up the previous day.
‘Well, you have to.’ With an effort, I kept my voice calm and reasonable, resisting the urge to physically chuck both children out of the door just so we could get on our way. ‘It’s good for you. You like it there. It teaches you valuable social skills.’
‘But I don’t want?—’
‘Valuable social skills? I can tell.’
‘I want to ride on my scooter.’ Meredith looked at me, eyes narrowed, lower lip jutting out menacingly.
‘Merri, you can’t. There’s nowhere to leave it there, and I need to go and see Granny after and drop off her shopping, and I don’t want to be lugging a scooter around with me. Okay?’
‘But I want to!’ My daughter’s wailing joined her brother’s.
I stood up from tying Toby’s shoelaces, pushing my hair out of my face. The kids going to nursery three days a week was meant to be a break for me – give me a chance to get on top of the million other things I needed to do, which seemed impossible with two small children constantly underfoot, bickering with each other because one of them wanted to go to the park and the other wanted to watch CBeebies.
Ultimately, it was supposed to pave the way for me going back to work, but the chances of that looked about as remote as they had when I’d had one of them clamped on to each of my breasts, chomping away at my nipples like a pair of flesh-eating bacteria.
At least Patch will be home tonight , I consoled myself. I still found myself flying solo with bathtime and bedtime most nights – and, now, dealing with the carnage of getting the pair of them ready in the mornings alone.
In a few months, hopefully I’d be getting myself ready for a day in the office too. Just as soon as I got around to writing my CV, creating a LinkedIn profile and actually finding a job.
It gets easier when you’re back at work , everyone said. You rediscover your sense of self.
Well, wouldn’t that be nice? Right now, it felt as if my sense of self had got lost somewhere along the way, possibly in a plastic box under a pile of Duplo, at the bottom of the overflowing laundry basket, or in the same place as my phone – wherever the hell that was.
Finding it (my phone, not my sense of self – although that would be a bonus) was on my to-do list for the morning, along with tackling the backlog of washing, cleaning up after the kids’ breakfast, having some breakfast myself, scrubbing off the sticky footprints that always seemed to appear on the kitchen floor (sticky feet? How?) and identifying the source of the mysterious beeping sound that had been driving me intermittently crazy all morning.
And that was just the beginning – there were numerous other items to be checked off, but I wasn’t sure what they were, because the list was on my phone.
‘Come on, now, darlings. Coats on. Let’s go.’
I wrestled up the zip of Meredith’s jacket and shoved a hat on Toby’s head. Looping both their rucksacks over my arm along with my own handbag and fumbling my keys into my jeans pocket, I grabbed their hands and began frog marching them down the street.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Toby protested.
‘Mummy, stop.’ Meredith turned up the volume of her shrieks, the sound penetrating my head like a dentist’s drill.
Jesus , I thought. If one of my neighbours called social services because they thought I was torturing my children, I had no idea what I’d say. ‘You’ve got me bang to rights,’ would make a good start, possibly followed by, ‘Yes, please take me away and lock me up in a lovely quiet police cell and bring me a cup of tea.’
The twins’ joint tantrum continued throughout the ten-minute walk to nursery. First Meredith threw herself down on the pavement and refused to move, forcing me to carry her. Then Toby cottoned on to this and tried the same trick, so by the time I arrived at Busy Bees, I was a sweating, frazzled mess, laden with three bags and two wailing children.
It was all I could do not to face-plant on the ground and howl myself.
And, of course, Princess Lulu arrived at the gate at the same time as we did.
Her name wasn’t Princess Lulu, obviously. It probably wasn’t even Lulu at all. But every morning, she strolled up in her Lululemon athleisure wear, poised and serene as if she’d just done half an hour of yoga nidra, her blonde hair sleek, her make-up perfect. Her little girl was immaculate in a corduroy pinafore dress and white (how?) tights. Her baby was asleep in his pram.
As always, I felt like we were two illustrations in a parenting how-to book, me with a massive red cross in the corner of mine, hers with a tidy, smug green tick.
‘Morning, morning,’ Bronwen, who looked after the four-year-old group, greeted us at the gate. When they saw her, the twins’ tears instantly stopped. Resisting the urge to drop them both, I squatted down, released them from my arms and kissed their cold, salty cheeks.
‘Off you go now. Be good, love you,’ I said to their rapidly departing backs.
Princess Lulu, meanwhile, was handing over her smiling daughter, saying something to Bronwen about picking her up early to take her to a violin lesson.
I imagined her day: her yoga class, her manicure, her lunch with a friend, the healthy yet elegant dinner she’d share with her banker husband. Whereas I hadn’t had a manicure in years, could barely touch my toes, and if Patch got pasta with sauce from a jar for dinner I reckoned I was making a decent fist of this being-a-wife/mother/housekeeper thing.
And far from a leisurely lunch with a friend, the social highlight of my day was going to see my mother-in-law.
Fighting down the sense of resentment that these visits always seemed to awaken in me, and the accompanying sense of guilt (more guilt. Item one on the ‘things they don’t tell you about motherhood’ list, surely – you’ll feel guilty every day for the rest of your life), I boarded the bus that would take me the few miles across North London to the house where Bridget had lived all her adult life, where Patch and his sister had grown up and where my father-in-law had died, three years before.
She’s lonely , I told myself. She’s elderly and she’s confused, and your visits mean a lot to her. Except it never seemed as if they did, not really – and I couldn’t quite understand how it had come to pass that it was me and not her son who dutifully paid them, once or twice a week.
He’s busy. He’s at work. Which was true, but I knew with the same certainty I knew Patch wouldn’t have unloaded the dishwasher before he left for work ( You have one job! One! ) that even once I too was gainfully employed, the visits to Bridget would remain something I did, not him, and that his own visits on high days and holidays would be greeted by her with far more enthusiasm than mine.
I got off the bus a stop early and joined the small throng of mid-morning shoppers at the local supermarket. What did she need? I’d made a list, lying next to Patch in bed the night before, but of course it was on my phone, and therefore might as well have been on the surface of the moon.
Teabags – she usually needed teabags. And washing-up liquid, and some fancy biscuits. And a few of the frozen ready-meals she always complained about, but seemed to eat and enjoy. And bread, milk and some blister-packs of cooked ham so she could have a sandwich for her lunch.
I paid for the groceries and for a heavy plastic carrier bag, because predictably I’d forgotten to bring one of the many reusable fabric ones that hung on the overloaded hooks in our hallway, and made my way down the familiar street, the wind biting through my coat.
Hurrying down the pavement, I barely glanced at the passersby: more chic young mums, heading for the gym or the hairdresser or out for coffee; elegant women my mother-in-law’s age carrying expensive handbags and browsing the windows of the local boutiques and bookshops; young men in cheap suits who could only be estate agents, their eyes on the prize of a multi-million-pound property deal.
And then, in the darkened window of a brasserie that hadn’t yet opened for lunch, I caught sight of my own reflection and stopped.
God. I looked a mess. My hair was scraped back in a ponytail, the ends showing under my woolly hat, parched and split. My face, bare of make-up, was doughy and pale. My jeans were baggy around the knees, my boots had collapsed at the heels and my navy down coat looked like the Primark purchase it was.
I barely bothered any more, that was the problem. I hadn’t the time or more importantly the inclination. There seemed no point in buying nice clothes, having my hair done or putting on make-up when no one ever saw me apart from the nursery staff, my children and my mother-in-law. Oh, and my husband. But sometimes I wondered if he did actually see me any more – or rather, look at me as anyone other than the mother of his children, keeper of his house and warmer of his bed.
Yet another thing I’d need to sort before I presented myself, faded and out of practice, to the waiting job market, I thought. Yet another thing to add to the to-do list on the phone I didn’t have on me.
I made a face at my reflection in the window and turned away from it – out of sight, but unfortunately not out of mind – and continued down the road towards Bridget’s house.
A few minutes later, I was knocking as I usually did at her front door, which had been painted dark red many years before but was now faded and peeling. The knocker itself had seen better days – rust made it sticky to lift, and I knew from experience that the only two sounds it would produce were a tentative tap and a resounding crash.
I settled for a tap, but there was no reply. I tapped again, waited a minute, then resorted to a crash: there was no way she wasn’t there; she was always in on Tuesday mornings, and besides, I’d let her know I was coming with her groceries.
I strained to hear the familiar sound of her footsteps, and just as I was about to knock again, I heard them, followed by the click of the latch. But instead of swinging open like normal, the door parted just a crack.
‘Oh, hello, Naomi, it’s you.’
I was used to Bridget not sounding exactly elated to see me, but today she seemed downright hostile. Through the narrow gap, I could see her face looked almost furtive. As usual, she was dressed as if she’d raided the costume department of a long-closed theatre, in a long paisley skirt and tapestry slippers, a shabby jade-green waterfall cardigan draped over her tie-dye T-shirt.
Not so usually, she was wearing lipstick – a bold slash of scarlet.
‘Morning,’ I said cheerily. ‘Delivery for you. I got those florentine things, but I couldn’t remember if you preferred dark or milk chocolate.’
‘Lovely’ – but she didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic – ‘thank you, Naomi. I’ll take the bag, shall I?’
I paused, startled. She always asked me in. Always, no matter how much of a rush I was in, I stayed for a cup of tea and to update her on how the children were doing. Did she have a man with her? But the idea seemed vanishingly unlikely.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll bring it in.’
‘Well, I’m not sure—’ she began, then she appeared to capitulate. ‘Come on in, then. There’s tea on the go, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea’s great.’
The door inched open and I stepped inside on to the shabby Turkish carpet that covered the wooden floorboards. Around me was the familiar clutter of my husband’s childhood home – the dusty seashells lined up on the windowsill, the dreamcatcher that was now mostly cobwebs suspended from the light fitting, the console table littered with handmade clay pots and metal trinket boxes containing loose change, keys, acorns and a crochet hook that had been there for as long as I could remember without ever having been used.
But there was something new – an unfamiliar smell hanging in the air, expensive and musky, not like the herbal perfume Bridget wore.
‘I’ll unpack this lot in the kitchen, shall I?’ I suggested, moving automatically through the house, feeling the carpet give way to a quarry-tiled floor beneath my feet.
‘There’s no need to bother, I can manage.’ Again, there was that evasiveness in Bridget’s voice.
Then I heard the sound of heels tapping on the floor. The unfamiliar scent intensified. And Zara appeared in the living room doorway, silhouetted against the cold winter light, her dark hair gleaming.
‘Hello!’ she said, like seeing me was the best surprise. ‘We were just playing cribbage. Shame you can’t join in, it’s a game for two really.’