Until You're Mine Page 7

  ‘So . . .’ Pip says, trying to fill the gap. We’re running out of conversation. Lilly and the twins are in the playroom. They seem to be getting along well enough. I can hear clattering and chattering and occasional whoops and at least they are not killing each other. Pip and I are sitting at Claudia’s kitchen table (I think of everything in this house as belonging to Claudia) and exchanging banter about children and babies and pregnancy and giving birth. Then Pip strikes me full in the face: ‘Haven’t you ever wanted children of your own?’

  It’s one of those unanswerable questions. Well, it is if I am to remain in my newly-constructed bubble of lies and deceit as well as keeping my job, anyway. Mess up too soon and I’m out on my ear. Explanation is impossible.

  To field it, I try a laugh. Then I try a long sip from my mug of tea. Next I try a shriek to the children to check they are still playing nicely. I glance at my watch and stare at the wall clock but Pip’s only been here ten minutes. She won’t be leaving yet. Besides, I haven’t answered her question.

  Haven’t you ever wanted children of your own?

  ‘I . . .’ I falter. I have no idea what to say. ‘Well . . .’

  Pip’s interested smile has diminished and now she is also looking for ways to stop me having to reply. My body language has become awkward – pained face, crossed arms hugging my very un-pregnant body, both feet jiggling nervously on the tiles; I couldn’t make it more obvious that I don’t want to talk about this. But now I have to.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. The syllables are razors in my mouth.

  Pip just stares at me, feeling wretched, wishing she’d never asked. Look at her, sitting in Claudia’s nice pine kitchen chair, all pregnant and wide and brimming with life and hope and love. Her breasts are big and heave together within her oversized sweater. It could be homemade – a hand-knitted effort to go with her home-grown baby. How lovely. How very not me.

  ‘I haven’t really met the right person yet.’

  I don’t need to say any more. I should stop right now. She would never understand. Pip would simply be relieved that her faux pas has passed and we could talk about baking or schools or how long she’s known Claudia. Instead, for some unknown yet horrific reason, I continue. ‘It’s not for want of trying, I can assure you. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m obviously in my thirties and no man in my life so I’d better get a move on, but how on earth am I going to do it without a partner?’

  What am I saying?

  I dig my nails into my palms to silence myself. I know only too well there are many ways to get a baby without a partner. It’s just that none has worked yet.

  ‘You’re in your thirties?’ Pip says in a lame, flattering attempt to change the subject. Her cheeks are crested scarlet. Pregnant women get hot easily.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ I tell her. ‘Thirty-three, an old maid and no children.’ I laugh, but it comes out slightly demented. I hear my mother’s words from beyond the grave: Fancy, she’s not married, no children. Told you so . . . Then another little laugh to lighten things up as, while I somehow want Pip – someone, anyone – to feel my pain, I mustn’t let it ruin everything. The last thing I need is for her to tell Claudia I’m some baby-obsessed psycho. She’d kick me out in nothing flat. This is all so finely timed. I catch my breath. ‘But it’s OK. I’m lucky to be working with children.’ Another laugh. More convincing this time.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Pip adds with a sigh, which is clearly one of relief. A punctuation mark; a full stop.

  ‘Mummy, Noah broke Barbie,’ Lilly says, thrusting a contorted naked doll at her mother.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Pip says with a sideways glance at me as if it’s somehow my fault. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘Noah,’ I say with forced disdain, ‘why did you do that?’ Really, I’d quite like to pat him on the head and tell him well done.

  ‘Cos Barbie’s stupid and not real,’ he says, echoing my thoughts.

  ‘That’s not a good reason to break someone else’s doll,’ I tell him. ‘What do you say to Lilly?’

  Noah shrugs. He bites his lip until it bleeds.

  ‘Say sorry,’ I tell him.

  ‘She’s not broken any more,’ Pip says, handing back the mended doll to Lilly. ‘Just bent a bit.’

  I watch Noah’s eyes track Lilly and slightly-bent-Barbie as they leave the room. He’ll have another go for sure. I’m learning that he’s quite like me: things that are perfect are just asking for it.

  *

  When Pip has finally left with a sullen Lilly in tow and a promise to make the play-date a weekly occurrence, I get started on the boys’ supper. I promised homemade soup, didn’t I?

  I peek into the sitting room and see that the twins are glued to some cartoon or other. A double-take shows me that Oscar is actually asleep, lolling on the arm of the chair with a string of drool leaking onto the upholstery. Noah glances at me idly, our new bond stretched silently between us, and turns back to the telly without a word.

  I pull the door closed and grab my coat, purse and keys. On the top step, I scan the street left and right. There’s no one about, no one paying me any attention. I can almost see it from here and, with a big breath, I launch myself down the steps and through the front gate. Without stopping, I dash to the corner shop, buy what I need – silently cursing the old woman in front of me counting out her change penny by hard-saved penny – and, before I know it, I am back in the hallway slipping out of my coat. Trying not to pant, I peek into the sitting room again. The boys are still safely in the same place, but then my vision goes blurry as adrenalin rushes through me. A hand on the doorframe steadies me.

  ‘James,’ I say automatically. I force the smile that’s buried beneath the shock.

  ‘Zoe,’ he says, and I have less than a second to decide if he’s angry, if he knows I left his sons alone. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, still unsure and cursing myself for having no idea how to make soup.

  ‘You look chilly,’ he says, standing up and stretching.

  ‘I’ve just taken the recycling out to the bins,’ I say with a silent prayer of thanks that I actually did this chore earlier in the afternoon and had the presence of mind to remember. Full bins in the kitchen would have given me away. I slide the plastic shopping bag across the floor with my foot, although I needn’t have bothered because James flops back down into the sofa and shrugs an arm round each son.

  ‘Great,’ he says awkwardly, and now Oscar is awake and James is more interested in talking to his sleepy son than bothering with me.

  ‘I’ll get their supper started then,’ I say, and leave for the kitchen.

  *

  ‘Something smells divine,’ Claudia says. She looks tired and stressed but with the veneer of a brave face pasted over the top. I don’t think she’s entirely comfortable with me being here yet. What she needs to understand is that it’s a necessity for both of us.

  ‘It’s the soup,’ I say proudly. A great pot of it is simmering on the Aga’s hotplate. A quick search on the internet told me how to use the damned thing before I started the job. Apparently my previous employers had one. ‘Homemade, of course.’ Ten empty cans – homemade soup only comes in big batches, I once learnt from my aunt – are now crushed and deposited right at the bottom of the recycling dustbin. Mix in a few fresh herbs and no one’s going to question where it came from, not if they think I’ve been peeling and chopping vegetables all afternoon.

  ‘Pip came round earlier,’ I tell her to get her off the scent, but she’s straight back on it with her nose hovering over the pan, belly pressing against the Aga rail, sucking in the smells of my faux home cooking.

  ‘There’s a secret ingredient, I’ll bet,’ she says, briefly closing her eyes.

  Our faces are close. She’s only a breath away. All that new life buzzing inside her.

  ‘If I tell you that,’ I say with a smile, ‘I’ll have to kill you.’

  *

  Later, when the boys
have scraped their bowls and asked for not only seconds but thirds too, once they have sucked on peach quarters and licked their fingers, after a warm bubble bath shared with a dozen plastic dinosaurs and a story from me, and after I’ve said goodnight to James and Claudia (with a few questions to her privately about how she’s feeling; if she thinks her time is close), I slump onto my bed as if my bones have dissolved from exhaustion and grief. When the tears come, I have to bury them in my pillow. When the anger comes, I bite into it, leaving little teeth marks of frustration in the crisp cotton.

  Why did this have to happen now?

  I pull my holdall from the bottom of the wardrobe. I unzip an inside compartment and pull out the little blue and white box. Clear Blue, it says on the front. Over ninety-nine per cent accurate. Two tests.

  All it does is make me want to go home. All it does is make me feel empty and utterly useless inside.

  10

  ‘SHE’S BEEN SMOKING.’ I’m waddling up and down the drawing room.

  ‘Nonsense,’ James says wearily. ‘She doesn’t do that. Have you forgotten we asked her at the interview?’

  ‘I smelt it on her. No doubt.’

  I think for a moment. He’s right. She definitely told us that she didn’t smoke. But I don’t want the boys watching her have a sneaky cigarette outside the back door or even smelling it on her. Before you know it, they’ll think it’s OK to do it themselves. It’s not the way I want them brought up.

  ‘Ask her if you’re that bothered by it,’ James says.

  ‘How can I?’ I reply. I’m pacing back and forth between him and the fireplace. ‘It’s no good if she thinks we don’t trust her.’

  ‘You’re being so silly,’ James says. For some reason, he’s pointing at the empty grate. It’s always chilly in this room but James insisted we come in here to talk as it’s furthest away from the boys’ room and Zoe’s staircase. ‘Don’t you remember that she lit the sitting-room stove earlier and was complaining how hard it was to get going? She said the room filled with smoke and she was apologising. That’s all it was, Claudia. Wood smoke on her clothes.’

  Surely James knows as well as I do that there’s a difference between the two. I may be pregnant, but I haven’t lost my sense of smell.

  ‘No, no, you’re wrong. It was cigarette smoke on her breath.’

  We are suddenly silent as the door clicks open at the same time as we hear a quiet knock. ‘It’s just me,’ Zoe says. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.’ She looks anxious.

  Did she hear us talking about her?

  ‘Come in,’ James says.

  I pray she didn’t hear me.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ she says, perhaps sensing our embarrassment. ‘We can talk tomorrow if you’re busy.’

  She’s waiting nervously in the doorway looking at each of us in turn. Her face is both pleading and apologetic. There’s something on her mind and she’s not sure how to say it. She looks as if she’s already been in bed, maybe unable to get to sleep. Her hair is slightly mussed on one side and the light eye make-up she was wearing earlier has been removed. The pale skin of her cheeks and forehead has the soft sheen of night-cream still absorbing, while her back-to-front T-shirt and woolly bed socks are another give-away of the intention of an early night.

  What led her downstairs again, I wonder?

  ‘We’re not at all busy,’ I say, feeling slightly sorry for her. I pat the empty space on the sofa, and when she tentatively sits, I glance at James with a slight widening of my eyes that only he would notice.

  No smoke without fire, something my mother always used to say, flashes through my mind.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’ I’m suddenly struck by the thought that, after only two days, she’s going to hand in her notice. I hadn’t considered that she might leave us.

  ‘Nothing’s bothering me, exactly. It’s just . . .’

  ‘Would you like me to leave you two to talk?’ James suggests.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’

  James nods and marches out, grateful for the reprieve.

  ‘Just what?’ I ask Zoe, picking up her tentative thread again.

  ‘I’m not sure how to put this. I guess asking you outright is the best way.’

  Zoe picks at her clipped nails. Her hair scratches around her neck in thin tufts. If I were her mother right now I’d tuck it behind her ears and gently push a finger under her chin to lift her head. I’d stare into her milky grey eyes and fathom what was wrong before she even knew it herself. I’d pull her close, hug her, make her realise that I’m there for her, whatever she was going to ask.

  ‘It’s about the weekends.’ Her words are gossamer thin.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how you feel about . . . it’s just that it would be really useful if . . .’ She bows her head further.

  ‘Zoe, I don’t bite.’

  Finally, she lifts her head and stares at me square on. Her jawline is neat and petite, as if sculpted with fine fingers. Her cheekbones echo the precision of her face; they in turn give way to those misty eyes. She looks as if she has permanent tears just waiting to drop.

  ‘I don’t really have anywhere to go at the weekends.’

  I try to figure out what it means, but before I can, I’ve already answered. ‘Then you must stay here.’ It was the gush of relief that she wasn’t handing in her notice, despite my suspicions, that made me say it.

  ‘Really?’ Her chin lifts higher and her eyes brighten. There’s a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, more hesitantly now, realising I should probably have asked James first, especially after what I just accused her of. But I’m certain he won’t mind. Besides, he’s away again very soon and it was him who was keen for me to have home help in the first place. ‘Is everything OK, Zoe?’ I feel I have to check. Despite the interview, her CV and references, it strikes me that I actually know very little about her home life.

  ‘That’s so kind of you.’ She nods gratefully. ‘And everything is fine. It’s just that . . .’ Again, she looks so sad, so pained, so unsure of me.

  ‘What, Zoe?’

  ‘I have some issues with the person I’m living with.’ She pauses and thinks. ‘Was living with, I should say. We’ve had some problems and it’s not working out. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.’

  ‘A break-up?’

  Zoe shrugs, and I realise that by hiring domestic staff I also take on their personal lives. ‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘Some things are impossible to work out.’

  And for some reason, she stares longingly at my pregnant stomach.

  *

  I’m lying on our bed, exhausted. I’ll disappear to the spare room soon enough, but for now, I know I’ll never sleep. James is lying beside me, almost asleep, and I need to talk. He’s barely listening.

  ‘I can’t say it was creepy exactly,’ I tell him. ‘But almost.’ I prod his shoulder a little.

  I’m lying on top of the covers in my tent-like flowery nightie and a thick robe that only just reaches round my middle. James often jokes that the last time he saw me naked was when my waist was a neat twenty-seven inches. I hope I’m back to that size again next time he comes home. The women in our antenatal yoga group are always comparing stretch marks and girth measurements. I prefer not to think about my body. Too much thought and I go into a flat spin of terror. I’ve had too many disappointments.

  ‘James, did you hear me? I said I can’t say it was creepy exactly—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ he mumbles. His eyes are closed. He’s lying on his side, facing away from me.

  ‘It was just the way she looked at me. It was . . .’ I don’t want to sound smug. ‘It was almost as if she was jealous of me or something.’

  James opens his eyes and rolls onto his back. He stares up at me. I’m propped on one elbow and not very comfortable. ‘It’s late, Claud.’ The eyes close again. ‘Don’t be weird.’

&nb
sp; ‘And then the cigarette smoke too . . . Did she lie to me?’

  James’s eyes are open again now. ‘Your hormones are getting the better of you, Claud. Zoe isn’t creepy or jealous and she doesn’t smoke. End of. She just wanted to stay weekends. It could work out well for you both.’

  ‘I’m not sure, James,’ I say quietly, but his eyes are shut again.

  I flop back onto the pillow and play the scene through my mind again. It was the moment she said ‘Some things are impossible to work out’. How much sadness did those words contain? ‘Sounds complicated,’ I’d replied, but she didn’t divulge anything else.

  ‘That’s when she reached out and touched my tummy, James,’ I say to my dozing husband. ‘James,’ I say louder. ‘I said she put her hands on the baby.’

  James rolls over and groans. ‘So?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s what women do, isn’t it?’ He pulls a pillow over his head.

  He’s right, of course. Since I’ve been showing – and that wasn’t for about five months – I’ve attracted way more attention than I’d like. Initially, I chose not to tell many people I was even expecting, excluding family and close friends, although I was wary with them, too. Given my history, disappointing everyone with yet another miscarriage was another burden of grief I could do without. I’d learnt my lesson. Plus, in my line of work, people are all too willing to criticise me about becoming a mother as retaliation to me simply doing my job.

  ‘It was the way she touched me, James. As if . . .’ I pause and shift positions. I’m tired. I’m probably not making sense. ‘Oh, I don’t know. But she put both palms right here,’ and I touch my bump even though he’s not looking. ‘She left them there for way longer than was necessary. She stared right at me, right into my eyes. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘She was probably waiting for a kick,’ James mumbles.

  ‘Maybe,’ I agree with a sigh. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’ I kiss the side of James’s head and leave for the spare room. We’ll both get a better night’s sleep this way.