She ushered them out and they trotted towards the car. Emily was standing next to it, watching Adam from a slight distance as he put the booster seat in the back. She had on a good quality coat. Navy blue, princess cut. Cashmere, probably.
Adam withdrew, looking flushed, and the girls climbed in.
‘I want them back by five,’ Lucy said. ‘And your friend had better drive carefully.’
She locked the car, went back into the house and shut
the door. She heard the Mercedes slowly turning and pulling out on to the road. Then it was deathly quiet.
With the girls gone, the house was suddenly enormous, echoey and unreal. More than ever, it struck her as somewhere it would not be her luck to stay; it seemed as if it might vanish at any minute, like a mirage, or one of those folk-tale mansions that disappears when you make the wrong, morally faulty wish.
She was tempted to have a little hair of the dog, but no, it really was a bit too early. Instead she decided to pop out for more cigarettes. The walk, in the fresh, cold air, would do her good.
She made her way to the newsagent’s near the station. The Lemon Brasserie, where she and Adam had gone for most of their anniversary and Valentine’s dinners, was decked out with tinsel and fairy lights, and the shop windows displayed reindeers and Santas and spangly snowflakes. It was bitingly cold, but as she came out of the newsagent’s she saw three girls strolling along arm in arm, all dressed almost identically, and quite inadequately, in thin jackets, tiny skirts and stripy tights, accessorized with fur-trimmed Santa hats. They were loudly discussing a miscreant boyfriend.
‘You should dump him!’
‘I know, but I already got his present, and I don’t want to be on my own at Christmas.’
‘Oh come on, what better time to meet someone else? Get yourself under the mistletoe!’
She had to step out into the road to pass them. Yet she found them charming – they looked so united. Was that how she and Tina and Natalie had been, once
upon a time: impervious to the elements and the world around them, confident in the belief that while men might come and go, they would always have each other for back-up?
In some ways, now that Natalie had a baby, and Tina had one on the way, she was closer to them than she had been for years. But while motherhood was now common ground, their experiences of love and marriage remained poles apart. How could Natalie, safely hitched to reliable Richard, understand what Lucy was going through? How could Tina, who was so self-contained, and seemed to be quite happy to live a life free of romantic entanglements?
Maybe it was unfair to hold their lack of understanding against them when Lucy hadn’t really tried to explain, hadn’t told them exactly what Adam and Hannah had done to her – but even if she did, even if she could bear to relate the story of her humiliation, they would never be able to return to the intimacy and frequent contact that had bonded their younger selves. They had children, which meant there would never be time. And, in the end, her friends could not give her what she was missing.
What was she going to do with herself till the girls got back? There was Christmas stuff she could be getting on with, but she really wasn’t in the mood. Usually she approached Christmas as a great labour of love: making the pudding and the cake and the pies; hunting down the right presents for everyone; dressing the tree with the treasured ornaments that hibernated all year round in the loft waiting for their brief, magical lease of life.
But this year she was cutting back, doing less, paying lip service; it would look more or less like Christmas, but it wouldn’t be the same – it would never be the same.
No, she should check all the job sites she was registered with. And once she had got that out of the way, she would investigate setting herself up on Facebook. She had to face facts; she was lonely. Putting herself out there would take the edge off her isolation, remind her that she was not without connections, and give her the chance to present her life in a way that would come across as positive, even to herself.
She had a quick smoke in the garden, then trudged upstairs and settled down in front of the computer. Before getting started, she checked her email. Nothing – just a message from Hannah.
Mum seems happy with the Christmas plan, though she did ask if I’d drawn the short straw coming for both Christmas Eve and Boxing Day (!). She said that at least you taking her out on Christmas Day means she’s in with a chance of getting a meal that doesn’t taste of mush.
Everything is fine in the flat, the boiler is bearing up under the strain and I am managing to keep the dreaded black mould at bay. It would be lovely if you felt like popping round some time when you are over this way to visit Mum and then you can see for yourself.
Well . . . why not? But if she was going to finally meet Hannah, wouldn’t it be better to do it on her own territory?
Lucy replied to say that yes, she would like to have a look round the flat sometime. And in the meantime, she knew it was short notice, but what was Hannah doing the following day – would she like to come for Sunday lunch, and see the girls?
As she pressed send she couldn’t quite believe that she was able to contemplate with relative equanimity the idea of inviting Hannah back into her house. No, it was more than that. She was almost looking forward to seeing her.
When the girls got back from seeing their father Lottie was paler and quieter than usual, and Clemmie was demanding and fractious. By now Lucy was familiar with these reactions. Lottie would thaw out in a day or so, and Clemmie would have a big tantrum about something completely unrelated before reverting to her normal bouncy self.
The next morning Lottie stayed up in her room, probably writing in her secret diary (which Lucy had so far been very disciplined about not reading – she figured that Lottie needed a safe, private space in which to vent, and her schoolfriends, who were into pop and ponies, might not be mature enough to provide it). Clemmie slept in, and the first thing she said when she came downstairs was, ‘Emily said she’d take me to the hairdresser’s to get braids put in. Can I do that today?’
Lucy opened her mouth to speak and found herself clenching her fists. She forced herself to relax and took a deep breath.
It wasn’t Clemmie’s fault. It wouldn’t be right to take
it out on her. She’d have to have a word with Adam about not letting Emily make promises she couldn’t keep – especially ones to do with hairstyles.
‘No, because Auntie Hannah’s coming for lunch,’ she said. ‘Won’t that be nice?’
She had the meal all planned: a bottle of decent white wine; a chicken to roast; and she’d make a trifle. You had to push the boat out for the return of the prodigal sister, and Lucy suspected there was nowhere else Hannah could get a decent home-cooked Sunday lunch.
The girls turned up their noses at Lucy’s trifle, predictably – Lucy was engaged in a constant battle with their stubborn preference for the pre-packaged. Lucy let them go off upstairs to play on the computer, and Hannah carried on gamely eating.
She was looking unfairly well: slim, but not gaunt, fresh-faced, possibly even make-up free. That was what being twenty-six and childless did for you; you could just roll out of bed, shower, pull on jeans and a T-shirt and look, if not quite radiant, then at least relatively pretty, and certainly presentable.
Actually, in a way, Lucy could see why Adam had developed some kind of crush on her . . .
This thought led to a certain insincere rigidity in Lucy’s face as she returned from clearing their plates, and said to Hannah, ‘It’s so lovely to have you here.’
Hannah glanced at her nervously.
‘It’s nice to be here,’ she said.
‘I know the girls are pleased to see you,’ Lucy told her. ‘Also, I want you to know I really appreciate what you’ve
done to fix up Mum’s flat, and keep an eye on her and everything.’
Hannah nodded, folded her arms, crossed her legs, pressed her lips together, stared at the tablecloth and waited. Perhaps this was how Hannah had presented herself at all the numerous interviews where she’d failed to land a permanent job? She looked as if she didn’t want any part of what was happening, or what might follow next.
It hadn’t occurred to Lucy before, but perhaps Hannah viewed the afternoon she’d taken off work back in the autumn to get Lottie from school, and the birthday party help, and even coming here today, as penance: acts of contrition that were necessary to redeem her guilt over having let Adam seduce her?
‘So how’s work, anyway?’ Lucy said. ‘Have they forgiven you for having to shoot off early that time?’
‘Oh, yeah, I’m somewhere else now. I’ve got an interview coming up for a six-month contract, though.’
‘Really, where’s that?’
‘Admin job. Department for Children, Schools and Families.’
‘You should get in touch with Natalie, ask her about it,’ Lucy said. ‘You know she works there.’
‘Oh, I expect I’ll manage,’ Hannah said.
‘No, seriously, you’ve got to make use of every possible advantage. She’s still on maternity leave, but she’s going back part-time in the spring. You should phone her. She won’t mind.’
Hannah looked troubled. ‘Well, but . . . have you told her what happened?’
‘What, you mean, did I explain that I caught you shagging my husband? No, I didn’t.’
Lucy realized too late how aggressive she had sounded. Hannah’s expression was startling: it was fear, pure and simple, and Lucy suddenly saw, with all the clarity of a revelation, how she must look from Hannah’s point of view: tired, overweight, drunk, wounded, angry, demanding and unpredictable.
And suddenly Lucy had the odd sensation of being back in her mother’s pink room at Sunnyview, but in her mother’s chair, looking at herself.
‘I was thinking about asking you if you’d move back in,’ she said. ‘But you won’t, will you?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ Hannah said. ‘But if it would help, if you ever need a breather, I’ll babysit any time you like. You wouldn’t have to pay me, obviously. I’m usually free these days. I’m not going out so much as I used to.’
‘You’ve toned down your social life a bit, then,’ Lucy said.
‘Yes,’ Hannah said. She looked at Lucy very directly and added, ‘Cut down on the drinking, too.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Lucy said. ‘Well done you.’
She got up and went out to the kitchen to stack the dishwasher. It was odd; she felt that she had been defeated, and at the same time she was relieved.
She didn’t expect to have much cause to take Hannah up on her offer of babysitting, as her social life was pretty much a non-starter, apart from the occasional pizza with other mums from school. But that evening
she got an email from Tina, and it included an invitation.
Everybody keeps telling me I’m going to be late, so I’m fully expecting to still be pregnant on New Year’s Eve and wondered if you fancied coming over to celebrate it with me, if you’ve got nothing else on? Can you believe it’s the tenth anniversary of my millennium house party? Natalie and Richard have got something else on but might be able to pop in for a quick one, and I promise to get in some decent champagne even though I can’t drink it, though surely it can’t make too much difference at this stage . . . You’re very welcome to bring the girls if you like.
Lucy promptly sent a message to Hannah to ask if her newfound love of staying in extended to New Year’s Eve, though she was careful to emphasize that she expected that it wouldn’t. Somehow she’d lost the appetite for inflicting any further guilt trips.
Then she decided to browse a couple of internet dating sites, just out of curiosity, before starting to hunt for special offers on Clemmie’s Christmas present of choice, the Talking Walking Pet Wolf.
It couldn’t hurt to try, and it was amazing the deals you could find online if you looked hard enough.
NATALIE HAD BEEN
looking forward to her first Christmas as a mother. She hoped it would help her to put the slip-up with Adele behind her, and affirm the choices she’d made: Richard, marriage, Matilda. It was a time for families. It was time for her to be happy, because what could be more affirming than that?
And she
was
happy – in snatches. She was happy one afternoon in late December, when she took Matilda out, wrapped up against the cold, for a walk on Clapham Common, and saw the lights come on in the houses they passed as they walked home, illuminating a series of variations on the domestic Christmas scene: greetings cards, fireplace, evergreen and holly, baubles, candles and gifts.
Being outside, and able to see so clearly the appeal of inside, reminded her of what she had read about space travel, that what was most remarkable about going to the moon was not the moon itself – a cold, pale, lifeless
lump of rock – but the sight of home from a distance, glowing in the darkness like a perfect round jewel.
She was happy, too, to see Matilda lying, in her red Santa babygro, on her sheepskin rug beneath their own lit-up Christmas tree, like the best present of all; and to take Matilda to the children’s service on Christmas Eve, and sing, ‘O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie, Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, The silent stars go by . . .’ and to feel connected, for a moment, to centuries of winter darkness in which new mothers had held their babies close, and been grateful to be sheltered and safe.
Yet somehow, none of these moments of happiness included Richard. She could see that he was having his own, separate, special Matilda’s-first-Christmas times – at least it looked that way: dandling the baby on his knee; feeding her turkey-and-parsnip mush; helping her open her first ever Christmas present from Mummy and Daddy, a little tinkly piano keyboard that played festive tunes . . . but somehow, she was always watching his experiences of happy fathering, and was never party to them. She was glad that he was getting the chance to spend some time with Matilda – he usually only just made it home for her bedtime. But when Richard and Matilda were together, she always felt at one remove, as if she was being granted the chance to see that they could function perfectly well without her.