Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
‘Meredith and Toby, we need to be out of the house in five minutes.’ I heard my voice rising as I hurried downstairs, a tiny backpack in each hand. ‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’
There was silence from the children, both of whom were in front of the television, half empty bowls of porridge on their laps, glazed expressions on their faces.
‘I’m going to count to three,’ I said. ‘One, two…’
With glacial slowness, Meredith stood up, putting her bowl down on the sofa, where it tipped precariously over.
‘Don’t put that there!’ I snapped, snatching it just in time.
Calm down, Naomi. They’re four. Thinking about upholstery cleaning is exactly what they don’t do.
I forced myself to take a steadying breath, then remembered that they still – clearly – hadn’t cleaned their teeth and that the received wisdom was that children should only be permitted to do so unsupervised round about the time of their sixteenth birthday.
‘Come on. Upstairs – teeth. Now.’
I remembered – not for the first time – how, when I was pregnant, I’d imagined what kind of a mother I’d be. The idea that these two minute proto-people were growing inside me had felt so daunting it was almost terrifying – that, somehow, I’d be responsible for not only getting them to full gestation and out of my body in one piece (or, ideally, two), but that I’d then need to rear them to adulthood.
And, even though I’d only seen them in grainy grey images on ultrasound scans and didn’t even know their names, the love I felt for them had been overwhelming. I’d nurture, cherish and protect them always, I’d promised myself. I’d lavish all the love and attention I possibly could on them. I’d never, ever shout at them.
Ha. As if.
It had only been a few weeks before I’d lost my shit the first time, during one late-night feed when Toby had been fussing at my breast. My already shredded nipples were screaming with pain, my teeth were clenched and every cell in my body was crying out for sleep – even though I knew that when sleep came, I’d be snatched from it almost straight away and wake feeling even worse than I had before.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I’d half sobbed, ‘please just latch on!’
Next to me, Patch sat up in horror. ‘You can’t speak to him like that.’
‘He doesn’t understand.’
But still, shame had flooded me. I’d sworn at my baby. I’d failed as a mother. I’d probably scarred my precious son irreparably, before he was even two months old.
When I confessed this to Rowan, she’d laughed. ‘Welcome on board the guilt train, Nome. Next stop, death.’
Since then, I’d learned to set aside some of my images of perfect parenthood and accept that I was doing my best – I could only do my best. But the mother I’d imagined myself being – the one who’d happily play with her kids for hours, never lose patience, always serve healthy, nourishing meals, dispense stickers and praise for good behaviour rather than chocolate buttons for bribes – her best would be better than this.
As I quick-marched the children to nursery, I found my feet beating out a rhythm on the pavement: this isn’t enough, this isn’t enough . Being my children’s mother and Patch’s wife wasn’t enough for me, even though it was the thing I’d thought I wanted most in all the world. Or maybe I wasn’t enough for them, or didn’t have enough: enough patience, enough love, enough self-sacrifice.
That’s selfish, Naomi , said the guilt-loving voice deep inside me. You wanted someone else’s man and you took him, and now you want something else. Maybe now you’ve made your bed, you should try lying in it a bit longer?
I was so distracted by my thoughts that, turning into the nursery gates, I almost collided with Princess Lulu. Actually, I did collide with her, but she did a strategic last-minute side-step that meant my shoulder only just caught the shoulder of her cashmere coat, and she narrowly avoided tripping over Meredith.
Hold on – cashmere coat? I stepped back and looked at her. Instead of her usual designer athleisure, she was wearing what looked like a navy trouser suit underneath the expensive outerwear. Her hair was up in a bun instead of in its usual beachy waves, and she didn’t have her daughter’s scooter in one hand as she usually did, but instead a rose gold leather laptop bag.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘Sorry about that.’
She smiled. ‘One of those mornings? Me too.’
‘Aren’t they all those mornings?’ I pushed my hair back under my woollen beanie and squatted to kiss the twins. ‘Off you go now. Be good. Love you.’
‘I mean, yeah…’ Princess Lulu looked down at her pointy black boots as if she was surprised to find herself wearing them – or perhaps checking they were a matching pair. ‘But today’s worse for me. I’m starting back at work and I’m properly shitting it.’
I did a double take. It sounded almost as if this perfect woman was actually human. ‘Wow. Yes, that must feel like a lot.’
‘It’s terrifying. I’m worried I’ll get lost on the way to the office, I’ve forgotten how to send emails, and when my PA gets up to go to the toilet I’ll tell her not to forget to wipe her bottom.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. I’m thinking of doing the same, later in the year, but…’
‘It’s a lot,’ she echoed. ‘I’m only doing three days a week at first. We should have a coffee sometime and compare notes.’
‘That would be great. My name’s Naomi, by the way.’
‘Imogen.’ She extended a cool, pale hand and I shook it. ‘I must dash, I don’t want to be late. But coffee, for sure – maybe next week?’
‘Sounds good.’
She hurried away, the tails of her coat flying out behind her. I watched her go, torn between pleasure at having had a normal, adult encounter with a woman I’d assumed would never deign to talk to me, and my usual envy. Of course Princess— Imogen had a job to return to. Some sort of highly paid City gig, I was willing to bet, in which her experience and knowledge were so highly valued she’d been able to dictate her three-days-a-week terms and her employer had willingly sucked it up.
But she’d seemed nice. She’d seemed as nervous as I knew I’d be in her position. She’d suggested we meet for a chat, so she must think I was a potential friend – unless she was just lining me up to invite her daughter home for playdates and fish fingers when she was kept late in some high-powered meeting.
But the encounter had reminded me how nice it was to talk to another adult who wasn’t Patch, Bridget or the woman who checked my age when I bought gin in Sainsbury’s.
It had reminded me how much I needed friends. It had brought home to me that I needed Rowan, Kate and Abbie in my life – I couldn’t allow Zara or ghosts from the past to damage our friendship.
I turned away from the gates of Busy Bees and walked back the way I’d come, more slowly this time, taking my phone out of the pocket of my coat. The last time I’d tried to speak to Rowan, it hadn’t ended well. That had been my fault, I realised – I’d basically ambushed her at work. I should have known that she’d be busy. It hadn’t been fair.
I needed to try again – to be more considerate, more strategic. I needed to get to the bottom of what Zara had meant when she’d said they’d been talking about me – whether it was something important or just a fabrication to make me feel uneasy.
I tapped the WhatsApp icon and began typing, not in the Girlfriends’ Club group but in the private chat I had with Rowan.
Naomi:
Hey. Hope everything’s okay with you. I wanted to talk – are you free in the next few days?
Leave it open-ended – don’t give her a chance to say she’s busy on a particular day .
There was a pause, and I felt an anxious knot in my stomach, the way you always do when you’re waiting for a reply to a message you’re not sure will have been welcomed.
But it took her just a few minutes to respond.
Rowan:
You’re right, we need to have a chat. I’m sorry about what happened last time I saw you. Shall I come round to yours tonight?
Naomi:
That would be amazing. P working late then at gym. Shall I cook?
Rowan:
Don’t go to any trouble. We can get a takeaway or something. Be there about 7.30 x
Just one kiss? And her message sounded oddly formal. ‘Don’t go to any trouble’ – well, it wasn’t like I was going to prepare a four-course menu for my closest friend. But I stopped off at the supermarket and stocked up on hummus, pita bread, olives, random pastry things and (of course) wine, and then spent the morning blitzing the house and baking a batch of my chocolate brownies, which had achieved something akin to legendary status within the Girlfriends’ Club over the years.
By half past seven, the children were bathed, in bed and under strict instructions to stay there. And I – I realised – had worked myself up into a right tizz, as if it was a hot date coming round rather than my best mate.
When I heard the doorbell buzz, I literally jumped, even though it was seven thirty-five and I’d been expecting to hear it for the past ten minutes. I dashed to the door and flung it open.
‘Hey.’ Rowan smiled, but without her usual warmth. She looked tense, and for the first time I wondered what conversations had been going on behind the scenes – whether she’d been briefed by the others on what to say to me, how to act, the importance of reporting back after our meeting.
‘Hey. Come in, it’s so nice to see you.’
I took her coat – which normally she would have dumped over the bannister – and she offered to remove her shoes, which she surely knew wasn’t necessary.
While I poured merlot into glasses and ferried bowls of snacks over to the coffee table, we made stilted conversation about how our days had been. Then we sat down, the foot or so of distance between us on the sofa feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.
‘Look—’ I began.
At the same moment, Rowan said, ‘Listen, Nome?—’
‘It’s okay, you go first.’
‘No, you go.’
We laughed, and I felt the tension ease a bit.
I tried again. ‘I wanted to talk to you. Because it feels like things have been weird, and I don’t understand why. I spoke to Patch about it and he said it all sounds like a load of playground drama, and maybe it is, but…’
‘Playground drama’s kind of a big deal when you’re in the playground.’ Rowan’s lips moved into something that wasn’t quite a grimace but definitely wasn’t a smile.
‘Exactly.’ I took a gulp of wine and bit an olive in half. The salty morsel felt almost too big to swallow.
‘The thing is, Naomi…’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Ugh, this is horrible, isn’t it?’
I nodded miserably. ‘Whatever it is, you might as well just come out and say it.’
‘Okay.’ Rowan also gulped at her wine, taking such a big sip that it left stains on the corners of her lips as if she was smiling, although she wasn’t. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘Look, we always knew you liked Patch, even when he was still with Zara.’
‘Guess I didn’t do as good a job of hiding that as I thought,’ I quipped.
But Rowan didn’t laugh. ‘No, you didn’t. And when you two got together – well, it felt kind of inevitable. We were all really happy for you. But we didn’t know…’
‘Didn’t know what?’
Her words came out in a rush. ‘That he’d actually cheated on her with you. And I know he was the one in a relationship and it was on him and it’s all ancient history. But if we’d known at the time, we’d have told you to wait. We’d have said it wasn’t worth hurting a friend for a man. Because Zara was terribly hurt. And if we had – if we’d known, and you’d waited – we could maybe have avoided it all going so horribly wrong.’
‘But I did wait,’ I insisted. ‘Patch and I – okay, there was one kiss. Just the one. I know it wasn’t right, but nothing more than that happened until after he’d split up with her. I would never have let it happen.’
Rowan sighed. ‘Nome, that’s not what Zara says. And – I’m really, really sorry to say this – I believe her. We all believe her.’
‘But she—’ I began.
‘Look, she got into a bad place. She did some bad stuff. It’s just…’ Rowan looked miserably down at her hands, twisting the napkin between them. ‘We never thought you were that kind of person, Nome. I never thought that.’
‘I’m not that kind of person,’ I insisted, my voice sounding high and thin. ‘I don’t know what Zara’s told you, but it isn’t true. Patch broke up with her before we got together. I’d never have done what you think I did. Honest.’
‘That isn’t what Zara says,’ she repeated wearily.
‘But Zara—’ I began, but then I stopped. Even all these years later, it felt wrong to tell Rowan that Zara hadn’t been faithful to Patch, either. Even now, the weight of the promise I’d made to her ( promisepromisepromise? ) was too heavy a burden to set down.
‘Ro, are you saying you believe Zara and not me?’ The sense of injustice hit me with the force of a wave at the seaside, tumbling me, making it hard to know which way was up and almost impossible to breathe.
‘It’s not really about who I believe.’ Rowan sighed. ‘The thing is, I think we treated Zara unfairly back then. Not just you – all of us. We knew at the time she had a lot going on in her life and not everything she told us was true, but that was all… you know. All part of the same picture. All the trauma from her past.’
What trauma? I thought. The trauma she told you about or the trauma she told me about or the trauma she told Kate…
As if she could read my mind, Rowan said, ‘And I know she made stuff up. But that’s kind of to be expected, when someone’s damaged like that. But she didn’t make it up about her and Patch still… you know. When you…’
I sat there in silence, the accused in the dock, my defence suddenly gone AWOL. The only way I could justify my actions would be to tell Rowan what Zara had been up to, but the promise I’d made to her was one I still wasn’t able to break.
‘I know it was a long time ago.’ Rowan reached over and squeezed my shoulder. ‘It’s just all been a lot to take in. And Zara really needs friends right now. She really needs us. And we – I – we didn’t think you’d be willing to offer her friendship, even now. Even though…’
‘Even though what?’ I took another gulp of wine. The tannin in it made my mouth dry – or maybe it wasn’t only the wine.
‘This isn’t really for me to share,’ Rowan said wearily. ‘But I don’t see how I can not tell you. You’ll find out sooner or later. Zara’s… she’s not well, Nome.’
I almost joked, Well, we all knew that! But I realised Rowan didn’t mean what I would have meant – she meant something else. Something serious.
My voice sounding thin and strained, I began, ‘Are you saying she’s?—’
‘She’s got cancer, Nome. She got a call from her doctor in Paris with some test results. She’s had to go back there and start treatment.’
‘Ro, I hate to ask this. It’s awful to ask. But are you sure?’
‘Jesus, Nome. Can’t you ever let up? Look.’
She took her phone from her bag, tapped the screen a few times and handed it to me. On it was a post from Zara’s Facebook feed – the feed I’d blocked years before. It showed Zara in what was clearly a hospital ward. She was wearing a white cotton gown with a geometric print, her shoulders resting against a blue pillow. She was wearing make-up: smoky eyes and red lipstick.
Got my slap on for the occasion , she’d written.
Wouldn’t want to frighten the nurses – or M le Docteur, who I’ve developed quite the crush on. No nail polish allowed, though – how random is that? I’m going in in fifteen minutes. They don’t know yet how much they’re going to have to take out. See you on the other side.
‘What… Do you know what kind of cancer it is?’
‘Cervix, apparently.’ Rowan took back her phone and tucked it in her bag. ‘So, you see – it feels like it might just be time to let go of the past, right? Have a bit of compassion.’
I nodded mutely. I felt almost as if I was being crushed by guilt. Even though the rational part of my mind knew full well that you didn’t develop a potentially fatal disease because your boyfriend kissed someone else more than ten years ago, I still felt responsible. And Rowan was right – I hadn’t been compassionate. My first instinct had been to doubt what Zara had said, not offer friendship and support.
Another part of me was thinking, First Andy, and now this. It’s too much, too soon. It’s not fair.
And then I realised how incredibly selfish that thought was too.
‘That’s awful,’ I managed to say. ‘Just – terrible. What can we do?’
‘Nothing,’ Rowan said. ‘She says she’ll tell us how it goes. I guess you could send her a message or something, if you want.’
Us – you. I got the sense that the ‘us’ didn’t include me.
‘Nome, I should go.’ Rowan reached over and zipped up her bag, not meeting my eyes. ‘I don’t want to get home to Clara too late.’
‘Have another glass of wine, at least.’ She’d barely touched the first one.
‘I can’t. I’m driving.’
She stood up and we looked at each other for a moment, then stepped closer and touched each other’s shoulders in something that should have been a hug, but wasn’t. I fetched her coat and we said goodbye at the front door, watching as she climbed into her battered turquoise car and drove away.
Then I went back inside, looked at the undrunk wine and the untouched brownies and threw myself down on the sofa, and burst into tears.