Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
I woke early the next morning, feeling the warmth of Patch’s body in bed next to me, then hearing the trill of his alarm and the rustle of the sheets as he stretched over to snooze it. Still half asleep, I lay still, conscious that something was different – something had happened.
My first realisation was of what hadn’t happened. My house hadn’t burned down. And my children hadn’t woken up in the night.
The idea that the two things might somehow be connected made me sit bolt upright in bed, fear waking me more effectively than any alert on a mobile phone could have done. The events of the previous night came rushing back to me – my talk with Patch, Bridget’s panicked call, the dash home, the discovery that everything was all right. But what if it wasn’t? What if some sort of toxic fumes had been released into the air, and poisoned the twins in their sleep?
I pushed my feet into my slippers, snatched my dressing down off its hook on the back of the door, and stumbled to the children’s room, opening the door slowly and fearfully.
They were both in bed, where I’d left them the night before. As I watched, Meredith turned over, flinging one arm above her head outside the covers. Toby muttered something, reached for Blue Bear, found him, and burrowed deeper under the duvet.
Bewildered, I returned to our room and found Patch sitting on the edge of the bed, yawning, his phone in his hand.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I mean – nothing’s wrong. It’s just weird. The kids slept through.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘They’re both still sparko. This literally never happens.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased about it.’
‘I am. Obviously. But – seriously, how do we even wake them up?’
‘God. You’re right. I have no idea.’
We looked at each other, then started to laugh. Of all the things I’d learned how to do as a parent – change nappies, breastfeed without flashing my tits to all and sundry, pick my battles, all the rest of it – this was a skill I’d never had to acquire. Of course, there might have been the occasional night when one or the other of them hadn’t interrupted my sleep, but they’d always come into our room before I was fully awake, or called for us, or otherwise jerked me out of bed, grumbling and exhausted.
‘Do you think this is it now?’ Patch asked. ‘Do you think they’ve cracked it and they’ll do it for, like, ever?’
‘I very much doubt it. Well, maybe when they’re teenagers we’ll have to drag them out of bed, kicking and screaming.’
‘Them or us?’
‘Dunno. Probably both.’
Together, we returned to the children’s room. I’d left the door ajar and we stepped in, silently watching them for a second, lost in delighted surprise. Then Patch went over and pulled the curtains open. Morning light filled the room; I could see a rectangle of blue sky filling the window frame, bright with the promise of a warm spring day.
Patch and I stood together for a moment, looking down at our sleeping children. It was an amazing thing we’d done, I thought – the most amazing thing ever, creating these two perfect, small people out of our bodies and our love.
The idea should have filled me with joy, but it didn’t – it made me feel inexplicably sad. If I’d known, on whichever of the countless occasions when we’d slept together that had resulted in a sperm and an egg – or rather, in the random case of my body, two eggs – that our relationship hadn’t been what I’d trusted it was, would I have done things differently?
If I’d known when we were first together, delighted with the newness of our love, that I hadn’t been the only woman in his life, would I have stuck around?
I wanted to believe that I wouldn’t – that I’d never have allowed any of it to happen. But I’d been so besotted, so head over heels with him, so enthralled with the knowledge that he was finally mine, that I hadn’t allowed any doubts to cloud my happiness.
But you did know , I reminded myself. You knew, all along, when you were busy falling for him, that he was taken.
But he told me he’d ended it.
Not until after you’d kissed him. He hadn’t ended it then, but you went ahead and did it anyway.
I shook my head, as if I could physically dislodge the thoughts that were whirling through my mind. The children had woken while I was musing – Meredith instantly alert as she always was, Toby drowsy and yawning. On auto-pilot, I got them up and dressed, my distraction preventing me from entering the dreaded morning fishwife mode.
I made coffee for Patch and myself, stuck some bread in the toaster, then hurried upstairs and dressed, dragging a brush through my hair and wondering how on earth the likes of Imogen managed to emerge from their houses groomed and stylish each morning. Did she have a nanny? A house husband? A time machine? Whichever it was, I needed some of it.
I’d made my choice – I was going to have to make the best of it. I’d made my bed (actually, I hadn’t – the duvet was still scrunched up at its foot, Patch’s pillow on the floor where he always threw it during the night) and I was going to have to lie in it.
‘What time are you home tonight?’ I asked Patch, noticing with a flicker of pleasure that he didn’t have his gym bag over his shoulder as usual.
‘Early. Seven thirty, eight? Maybe we could…?’
‘I’ll cook something nice,’ I promised. ‘Early night?’
‘For sure.’ He leaned in and kissed me, not the usual quick peck but a lingering contact between his lips and mine that felt like a promise.
Or perhaps not a promise – perhaps it was something else. A request, or even a plea for something. Something I wasn’t sure I was able to give.
But I had to try. I owed that to Patch, and to myself. So, after dropping the children off, I flew into action. First, I went round to Bridget’s and found her in good spirits, laughing about her mishap the previous night and apparently able to recall every detail of the incident clearly.
‘You’ll have to show me that wooden spoon trick of Patrick’s,’ she said. ‘Next time, I’ll know what to do and I won’t have to interrupt your night out.’
Just a few hours before, I’d been certain that I’d never be able to ask her to babysit again, but now I second-guessed myself – what if it had just been a blip, a mistake anyone could have made? Depriving her and the children of the pleasure they took in one another’s company on the basis of that seemed like an over-reaction. But still, it had happened. It had been real. And I was worried about her.
‘Bridget,’ I asked, ‘when was the last time you saw your doctor? Just for – you know, a once over?’
‘Are you suggesting I’m losing my marbles?’ She put her teacup down firmly. ‘Because I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.’
I felt a pang of sadness for her, and fear for what lay ahead. I loved her; she’d always been welcoming to me and her adoration of her grandchildren was one of the best things in their lives. And I hated doing this – ahead, I could see my role in managing her health and wellbeing increasing while Patch stood back and let me get on with it.
If I was going to take on that responsibility, I might as well start now.
‘I’m not saying anything of the kind,’ I told her firmly. ‘I’m not a doctor – I have no idea. But I – and Patch and the children, and Niamh and her kids – want you around and well for as long as possible, right?’
She nodded slowly.
‘There’s probably nothing wrong at all,’ I went on. ‘But why not make an appointment, just for a check-up? Where’s the harm in that?’
She made a vague, helpless gesture with her hands. ‘I’m frightened they’ll find something wrong, of course.’
‘Oh, Bridget.’ I got up and squatted down next to her, taking her hands in mine. ‘Of course you are. But if there’s anything wrong – and there might not even be – putting it off isn’t going to help, is it?’
She looked down at me, and for a second I saw the fear in her eyes. ‘I’m only seventy-five, you know.’
‘Exactly! You’ll be around to see Toby and Meredith graduate from university for sure. So why not stop worrying and just do it?’
‘All right,’ she promised. ‘I will.’
Shortly afterwards, I hurried home and set about cleaning the house from top to bottom. I walked to the high street and bought lamp chops at the fancy organic butcher rather than raiding the supermarket as usual. I begged the woman in the beauty salon for a last-minute appointment and had the hair ripped off my legs and bikini line with hot wax.
I kept myself so busy that I barely had time to think of the Girlfriends’ Club WhatsApp, or wonder what might be being said on there without me – about me.
Overnight, the feeling of outraged injustice had died down and been replaced with hollow sadness. For well over a decade, my friends had been my sounding board, my home base, my lifeline. And now I’d chosen to walk away.
Or perhaps I’d chosen to jump before I was pushed. When I’d needed them most, they hadn’t been there. They’d heard the other side of the story – Zara’s side, no doubt told to them when I wasn’t there, and then confirmed by me – and their little jury of three was still out on who to support.
Well, I’d made my choice. Without my friends, I’d have to make my own way, and that meant I needed my husband more than ever. I was going to stick by him – stand by my man, as a tabloid newspaper would have put it, if Patch was a philandering footballer and I was his long-suffering, hair-extensioned wife – and my family, even if it meant sacrificing my relationship with my friends.
Already, with my initial anger having cooled, I could feel the void. Looking at the package of lamb chops, blood seeping through their paper wrapping, I remembered the incredible potato dish Kate had once made, loaded with cream and garlic, and thought how, just a few days before, I’d have messaged to ask her for the recipe. I thought how I could have shared the news of the twins’ sleeping through the night with Rowan, and how she’d join me in punching the air triumphantly but be there to console me if – as would almost certainly happen – it all went tits up again in a night or two. I imagined commiserating with Abbie over the excruciating pain of my Brazilian wax, and how she’d be able to recommend exactly the right combination of ice packs, aloe vera and paracetamol to soothe it.
But there was no point dwelling on that now. While the children splashed in the bath, I had a lightning shower. Then I dried them off, got them into bed and read them a story, trying to conceal my urgency. ( Hurry up and go to sleep. Don’t mess me around tonight. And once you’re asleep, it would be fricking amazing if you could maybe stay that way for, like, eight hours? Maybe? )
And then, dressed in my nicest underwear and a jersey wrap dress that Patch had always liked and which by some miracle still fitted me, I went downstairs, set the kitchen table, lit candles and opened a bottle of wine.
On the morning of Andy's funeral, I’d asked myself when I’d last had sex with my husband and remembered that it had been Christmas Eve. And now, Christmas Eve was still the last time.
And the time before that? On Patch’s birthday, obviously. In June.
It was normal, I’d told myself, after pregnancy, a painful, infected C-section wound, endless breastfeeding and broken nights. We’d get back on track, I’d thought.
But now the children were just months away from starting school and our track was nowhere in sight.
With relief, I heard Patch’s key in the lock. I filled my wine glass, poured one for him, and met him in the kitchen doorway with a kiss.
‘You look lovely.’ He sounded surprised, which made his words less flattering than they should have been.
‘Wait till you see what’s for dinner,’ I joked back. ‘It’ll be ten minutes. Want to grab a shower?’
Patch took in the candles, the smell of meat sizzling under the grill, the open bottle of wine.
‘Sure.’ He grinned and kissed me again. ‘Be right back.’
After we’d eaten, I opened another bottle of merlot – excessive, probably, but in that moment I felt I needed all the Dutch courage there was going.
‘Shall we sit on the sofa?’ I suggested.
Patch slotted the last plate into the dishwasher. ‘Sure. Unless you want to go upstairs?’
‘Don’t want to risk waking the kids.’
‘Gotcha. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’
I laughed. Knowing he felt the same way I did about this – that it was some kind of make-or-break moment, a challenge to be risen to – gave me hope. We were a team – we were in this together.
He took my hand and led me out of the kitchen, flicking the light switch off as we went. The lamp next to the sofa glowed softly. The television was off. A Spotify playlist of nineties chill-out classics was playing.
‘So,’ he said, ‘do you remember how we do this? Because it’s been a while.’
‘I think first you take off your shoes,’ I joked, trying to hide how ridiculously nervous I felt.
‘On it. Jeans as well?’
‘As far as I can recall, yes. I mean, you could leave them on, but that would be…’
‘Tricky?’ He raised an eyebrow and I giggled, reassured that he was finding this just as awkward as I was.
‘Yeah, I think I read that somewhere.’
We laughed. Feeling as apprehensive as someone about to go into a job interview, I watched as Patch unlaced his shoes and stepped out of his jeans. The muscles of his thighs were hard and defined. When he raised his arms to take off his shirt I saw his skin stretch taut over his abs and chest. Untying the belt of my dress, I felt painfully conscious of the extra few pounds I’d been meaning to lose for years, the stretch marks on my belly and thighs, the way my breasts would sag when I removed my bra.
It doesn’t matter , I told myself. You gave birth to his children. He loves you.
But still, I wished I’d turned the light off.
Dropping my dress to the floor, I stepped towards him, feeling his strong arms around me, the warmth where our bodies met. I closed my eyes and waited for his kiss, and when it came I kissed him back, feeling the familiarity of his lips and tongue, waiting for the equally familiar surge of desire to fill me.
But it didn’t come. And after a few moments, I realised it wasn’t going to – and neither was I. I’d loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone. He was the father of my children. He was the most handsome man I’d ever kissed.
So why couldn’t I make myself feel desire for him?
I didn’t ask him to stop. I tried my best to enjoy it, without actually faking it. I told myself it would be all right; we loved each other, we were just out of practice. I told myself that trust could be rebuilt and intimacy return.
All the same, when it was over, I was conscious of a surge of bitter sadness.
Is this what I’ve signed up for? Is this how it’s always going to be now?