Chapter 19 #2
“I guess,” he says. I let my breath out.
Looking at my pile of ironing, I sigh. “Honestly? So do I.”
There are always household jobs that can only be done when Effie is in bed. So instead of disgracing myself with inept phone sex, I make the arrangements for tomorrow and disconnect. There’s no playful, you hang up, no, you. We’ve both got things to do. And besides, neither of us is sixteen.
But when I’ve finished my chores and I slip into my bed, I wish I’d been brave enough to take his opening.
I think what it would be like to have Anders on the phone as I pull up my pyjama top and brush my palms over my own nipples.
Reaching into the bedside table, I pull out my old friend and press his button. He throbs in my hand.
Opening my mind, I think about that kiss. Anders’s hands on my face, the pressure of his fingers, the tingle down my spine. I feel his breath on my cheek, the closeness of his lips, the heady rush of being desired.
I’ve never come so quickly.
Effie is cooler than I expect about my suggestion for a picnic until she hears that Anders will be joining us.
Then her enthusiasm for the idea rockets.
I'm a little ashamed when I think back and realise we have never done a proper picnic.
We've had snatched sandwiches on a park bench as we travelled from A to B, but we've never sat on a blanket in the sunshine just to enjoy the food.
I should have thought of it before, especially as it's so cheap. We’ve had lunch in cafés and fast-food joints and eaten with our food gripped in our hands on the hoof.
It brings home to me how confined my thinking has become, focussing on the endless tug of war between work and life, the constant worry of making ends meet, the ever-present strain of trying to meet all of Effie's needs as well as my own. Once again, I’m flooded with the feeling of never being quite good enough at anything: motherhood, work, life.
And yet, in the last few weeks, Anders, who knows nothing about raising a child, has shown me how important it is to have spontaneous fun. I thought I was more the expert on childcare, but it's surprising how much childless men like Rob, and now Anders, have had to teach me.
Anders has volunteered to bring the picnic, so I don’t have to spend time making sandwiches and chopping fruit.
Although I told him not to go overboard, when we meet up with him at York Gate, the southern entrance to Regent's Park, he is carrying a bulging backpack.
His tawny hair curls out from under yet another baseball cap, this one beige.
His eyes are once more hidden behind sunglasses.
But this time he is rocking a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans.
As soon as Effie sees him, she drops my hand and runs forward. Stopping in front of him, she offers her little fist, and he meets it. I can't help smiling. “Come on, Mummy,” she chastises me for my lack of speed.
At first, Effie slides her hand into Anders’s, but as we pass through the gilt and black gates into Queen Mary’s gardens, it isn't long before she skips off.
She chases a passing butterfly and then crouches over a bee on a flower.
I don't remember ever having that quality when I was a child.
I was far more interested in doing than in looking.
But I admire it in Effie. Even at four years old, she can stop and find wonder, displaying her sheer curiosity about the world.
“Can I?” Anders gestures to my tote bag.
“Be my guest.” I hoist it up and drop it into his hand. He slings it over his right arm, then casually drops his left one around my shoulders. It’s only loosely draped, not pulling me in tightly. But still, I'm acutely aware of his fingers resting on my shoulder blade.
We saunter along. As always, I have one eye on Effie, but my mind is pre-occupied with Anders and the weight of his arm. We’re walking like any couple. It's the strangest feeling in the world.
Some children are feeding the birds, but Effie ignores them. She's an old hand at pigeons; they don't excite her. She's far more interested when we reach the ducks and geese.
“Don't touch,” Anders warns as she gets close to a goose. Effie looks up with a scornful glance, as if to say: Do you think I’m a child?
We cross the bridge and follow the path beside the boating lake. There are pedaloes out, mooching lazily around on the water.
“Can we go on one?” Effie says. I answer quickly, before Anders can intervene. She can be very appealing with her big eyes, and some people are not good at saying no to her. “Not today, sweetheart. We're going for a picnic, remember?”
The explanation is enough. She nods but keeps glancing at the boats as we move on.
Eventually, we leave the lake behind, heading for the bridge over Regent’s Canal. “Mummy says people live on those boats.” Effie points to the barges lined up along the bank. “I wonder what that would be like.”
“Fun,” says Anders.
“Cold,” I say hastily, before he lands me in more trouble.
As we reach the bottom of Primrose Hill, he says to Effie, “Race you to the top.” The two of them set off running.
He keeps just an arm's reach in front of Effie all the way up, then pretends to run out of breath at the summit so she wins.
She's jumping around, waving her arms, delighting in victory like the child that she is.
And I think: good. Sometimes it seems to me that Effie was born old, born quiet, born responsible.
At the top of the hill, we step off the path.
Under the shade of a tree, its leaves still bright and green and new, Anders removes his sunglasses.
He opens his backpack, unrolls a picnic blanket, and lays it on the ground.
Effie hovers as he takes out sandwiches and countless bags of crisps.
There's a plain ham sandwich for her, more ornate ones for us: New York deli Reuben, chicken tikka, salmon, and prawn marie rose. There’s more.
Chopped fruit is followed by cake slices and cookies, a cheeseboard, a bag of wine, both still and sparkling water, and three different flavours of pop.
I slide those back into the bag immediately before Effie catches sight of them.
It’s a feast and far more than we can possibly eat. I can’t help laughing at the thought he’s carried all of this up the hill, while racing my daughter.
“I didn't know what you might like.” He waves his hand over the spread. And it just makes me giggle more.
The day is bright and, despite a distant haze, the view is magnificent. You can see the London skyline and pick out all the landmarks. But Effie loses interest fairly quickly. She wanders off, her eyes fixed on the grass. “Ants!” she calls in delight.
She crouches down to observe them. Then she rubs her fingers over her crusts, dropping a line of crumbs. I give you my daughter; more interested in feeding ants than pigeons.
“Have you been on the London Eye?” Anders asks, choosing a sandwich and waving it at the horizon.
Once more I experience a twinge of shame. I wrinkle my nose. “It's expensive,” I say. “I was waiting until Effie was older. Hopefully, she will remember it better.”
“I love this view,” Anders says. “Do you and Effie come here?”
I shake my head. Another shaft of guilt. “Effie and I normally go to the park closest to us, or the larger ones like Hampstead Heath or Hyde Park.”
He doesn't pass comment. “It's strange,” I say. “You can live somewhere and see something so frequently that you lose any desire to visit it. It just becomes part of the landscape. A tourist who comes to London for a week has probably seen more of the sights than I have and I’ve lived here for years.”
I lean back on my arms. “Are you disappointed in my lack of adventure?” I say, turning my face up to the sun, revelling in the simple joy of being able to close my eyes, knowing that someone else is watching Effie.
His fingertip lands on my forehead, traces a path down over my nose and my lips, around my chin, down my neck, and stops between my breasts. “I don't think I could ever be disappointed in you, Cora,” he says, and his voice is hoarse.
Opening my eyes, I see he’s not looking at me.
I follow his gaze to where Effie has found a new playmate, a Jack Russel.
I move to get up, not happy being so far from Effie when she’s in the presence of a strange dog.
This one looks harmless, but it's young, and you never know when they might give an overexcited nip.
Anders's hand lands on my arm. “I'll go,” he says.
He levers himself upright and closes the distance between himself and my daughter.
Effie is crouched down, both her little hands stroking behind the dog's ears.
Anders doesn't intervene; he lets her play.
But he stays close enough to step in if anything goes wrong.
Eventually Effie sees Anders waiting, and she gets up, slides her hand into his, and they walk back to where I am. But the puppy follows.
“Dogs like Effie,” I say.
“And Effie likes dogs,” she adds.
“I miss having a dog,” Anders says. “We always had them when I was growing up.”
I can see Effie's eyes light up, but she doesn't get to ask any more questions because the dog's owner arrives. She’s an elderly lady, shorter than me, wearing a coat even in the heat of the day.
“She does love having a fuss made of her,” she says to Effie, who has stooped to pet the dog again. “But she's not quite mastered coming to heel yet.” She bends down and clips a lead onto her dog.
“She's lovely,” says Effie, looking up at the stranger.
“Oh, aren’t you a grand girl,” the old woman says. Then she looks at Anders. “And you’ve got your daddy’s eyes.”
Anders doesn't correct her. More worryingly, and this is new, neither does Effie.
My daughter is honest to a fault. Truth and justice are her stalwarts.
For her to ignore such an obvious falsehood without issuing a correction is uncharacteristic.
Suddenly I go cold. Because I'm not sure who is fantasising about Anders more: me or Effie.