The Family Trap (8 page)

That doesn’t mean I won’t go. It just means I need him to appreciate that I’m giving up a lot for him. And that maybe he should meet me halfway.

I arrive at Wagamama’s ten minutes early, but Paul’s already there, craning his neck to look out for me. We’re sharing a long table with five other couples: not the ideal setting for an intimate tête-à-tête. I slide my bum along the bench and smile ruefully at my beloved. He grins and stands up to kiss me, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks anxious. As well he might.

‘Hi, guys! What can I getcha?’

Our waitress seems to have American pretentions, but I bet she’s as English as I am. I order yakisoba and Paul goes for the chicken ramen. I also ask for a fork – I’m really not a chopsticks kind of gal.

‘So,’ Paul says, doodling on the placemat with an abandoned crayon.

‘So,’ I repeat.

He looks up at me. Our eyes meet. For a second or two, our surroundings seem to melt away. There is only Paul and me, joined by a bond that is cemented in our shared history, stronger than perhaps either of us fully appreciate. As he looks into my eyes his expression relaxes, softens. A warmth creeps up through my belly; I have this weird sensation that he would say yes to anything right now. In this single, special moment.

‘Kitchen’s just told me your food’ll be ten minutes, guys. Is that all right for ya?’

The strident voice of the waitress severs our connection, and I slump back, disappointed. Paul mumbles, ‘Fine, thanks,’ and she gives us a double thumbs up before moving on to the next unfortunate couple.

‘Have you had a good week?’ Paul says. This banal question is such a comedown after that perfect moment of connectedness I feel as though I’ve been slapped. All I can do is nod.

‘And the packing? Are you all finished? I bet Lipsy can’t wait to get Phoenix’s nursery sorted out.’

In fact, she’s had Robert erecting furniture every evening this week. My bed is the only thing of mine left in the room, and that’s set to go into storage in my parents’ garage on Sunday.

I say nothing, just listen to him jabber on. Then our food arrives, stalling conversation for a further ten minutes. But my yakisoba goes down in lumps, I’m so anxious, so before Paul has even finished eating I decide to jump right in.

‘Look, Paul. I know I said not to make any hasty decisions, but you should know that I’ve been thinking long and hard about what you said in your email.’

His face lights up. ‘Why, Stella, that’s great. I knew you’d see sense.’

‘Not the kind of sense you were hoping for, I’m afraid. The truth is, I don’t really want to move away. That’s not to say I won’t come with you,’ I add as all the colour drains from his face. ‘I’m just saying that it isn’t what
I
would have chosen to do. If not for your new job and everything, if not for ... Well. I’m just saying, is all.’

He places his chopsticks on the table and looks at them. ‘You’ve picked a great time to come to this realisation.’

‘It’s not a realisation, Paul. I never
wanted
to move away. I merely agreed to come with you because it was what
you
wanted. Can’t you see they are two different things?’

‘I can see that one of them makes me feel guilty. As if I twisted your arm, or something.’

Oh, great. Sulky Paul. That’s all I need right now.

I reach across the wooden table top and grab both his hands. His knuckles are white.

‘I want to be with you. I want to marry you. That means compromise, right? It doesn’t hurt to acknowledge it, does it? To be honest with each other.’

Of course, if I was being really honest there is whole other conversation we should be having right now. But until I’ve got Paul onside with the
idea
of having a baby, I can’t dump the reality of it in his lap. Sometimes you have to go about things bit by bit. Sideways. This is one of those times.

‘I’ve been nothing but honest,’ he tells me. ‘I want to get away from here. I’ve failed, can’t you see that? My business has failed, I feel like a failure. This is more than a new start for me. It’s a lifeline.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody melodramatic. You’re not a failure, and you know it. Loads of businesses struggle in a recession. Now who’s laying on the guilt?’

The couple nearest to us – both blonde and willowy like elfin twins – shift in their seats uncomfortably. I lower my voice, but only a little.

‘You were the one who said “know yourself”. How about you do a bit of soul-searching too? We’re both going off to Derby because of Paul’s private affirmation plan, propping up your ego and giving you the opportunity to prove yourself. To yourself, I might add. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. You never have.’

Now, where exactly is all this coming from, I’d like to know? But it seems I can’t stop myself now I’ve started.

‘There’s no reason why you couldn’t have just carried on with Smart Homes, just kept plugging away with it until things got better. The lease on the office has another year to run – you’re the one who’s giving up on it. OK, so you’re not making the money you were three years ago – who is? – and I know things were getting really tight. But admit it, Paul, when this offer came from what’s his name, Tom, you jumped at it because you saw it as a way out. For you. I’m just coming along for the ride.’

Paul is looking off to the side, refusing to meet my eyes. The waitress comes over to clear, and her cheerful greeting dies on her lips when she sees our faces. The elves slip past us, holding up their arms as if afraid to risk touching any part of our bodies.

‘Can we have the bill, please?’ I ask quietly.

‘Sure thing,’ says the waitress. I watch her swing away. She has one of those impossibly pert behinds and a tiny waist. I don’t know why the sight of her makes me so sad.

‘Well, thanks for the lunch,’ Paul says. ‘And the heads up. I guess I know where I stand now, don’t I?’

‘And where is that, exactly?’ His sulky expression is wearing my patience thin. When you deal with a stroppy teenager on a daily basis there is no room in your life for placating men. Paul should know this. He’s pushing his luck.

‘Are you coming to Derby with me or not, is all I want to know?’

As if I haven’t told him over and over that I am.

‘Don’t you care at all about the things that are important to me?’ I ask.

‘I thought the same things were important to both of us. I thought we were on the same page.’

‘We are,’ I say softly. ‘Except when it comes to having babies.’

A silence stretches out between us. The restaurant is bustling – rising voices and bursts of laughter, shouts from the kitchen and the hum of the heaters – but Paul and I seem to be encased in cotton wool.

‘Ah,’ he says.

Ah, indeed.

I watch a different waitress walking towards me, holding a tray full of drinks in one hand. On a collision course with her is a child of about five or six, running while looking back over his shoulder, all flailing arms and legs. The waitress sidesteps him neatly and skirts around our table, switching the tray to her other hand. Two tables up, the boy’s parents start to scold him.

‘Aw, Mum,’ he says, drawing out the word into a whine.

I sigh and pull out my purse.

In the end there is no resolution. In real life there rarely is. We have to vacate our seats once the bill’s paid; more couples and a party of five are crowding in at the door. The busy shopping centre is no place to carry on a conversation, and before long we are at the car park. I’m parked on the first floor, Paul’s car is on the second. He walks me to mine, and then we hug. He laughs, nervously.

‘Well, that was intense.’

I nod. It’s nothing but the truth.

‘See you on Saturday, then.’

More nodding. I cannot think of a single word to say.

‘We’ll work it out, Stella,’ he tells me, whispering the words into my ear as if the closer he gets to my brain the more likely I’ll be to believe him. ‘You’ll see. It will all be fine.’

Like he said, maybe in a few days I’ll feel completely different.

Or maybe I won’t.

Chapter 8

I smooth my hands down the silky fabric of my dress then pull on my white gloves. Then I take them off again. Feet go into new white shoes – not too much of a heel, we don’t want to tower over husband-to-be, do we? Hair is swept into a loose bun and secured with one of my mum’s silver barrettes.

Something borrowed.

I’m getting ready in what we might as well just go ahead and call the nursery, peering into the tiny oval mirror which has been hung above the changing table to check my make-up, rocking in Lipsy’s brand new nursing chair as I pull on my tights. My family are waiting downstairs. Are they nervous? I know I am. My dad looks dashing in a navy suit with faint pinstripes, a white rose pulled through his left lapel. My mother, beside herself with excitement, is wearing a cream and blue trouser suit that shows off her trim figure and was, she confided in hushed tones, on offer at House of Fraser.

Lipsy and Robert are arguing in the kitchen; I can hear them from up here. I step out on the landing to listen.

‘I’m not even ready yet, I’ve got my hair to do and I’ve got to get changed. Why can’t you do it, that’s what I want to know?’

‘I am doing it. Look at me. This is me doing it.’

‘But you’re doing it wrong. You don’t hold it that way, no, put it … Oh, great. Now look what you’ve done.’

‘What I’ve done? We were getting on fine before you came along and stuck your nose in.’

‘He’s my baby.’

‘He’s my baby too.’

I slip back into my room, close the door, and stand with my back pressed up against it. My spine feels straight, empowered. I pull back my shoulders
– have I been starting to slouch lately? The skirt of my dress is knee length, gathered, soft over the hips and stomach. Which is just as well, although when I chose it three months ago I had no idea it would be concealing so many secrets.

Here’s a secret: I don’t want to marry Paul Smart today.

‘Mum?’ Lipsy bursts into the room, nearly knocking me off my feet. ‘What are you doing? It’s quarter to twelve. We need to get downstairs and do photos and that.’

‘Can I skip the photos, Lipsy? I’m not really in the mood.’

She glares at me. ‘Robert has gone to a lot of trouble to borrow that camera and he will be gutted if he doesn’t get to play official photographer today. Now come on, get your arse downstairs, will you? Jesus,’ she mutters under her breath as she stalks away. ‘What bride wants to skip the bloody photos?’

One who isn’t sure she wants to be a bride, I could tell her.

‘You look nice,’ I call out instead.

She turns, smiles. ‘You do too, Mum. Really beautiful. Paul’s a lucky man.’

Downstairs, my dad presses something into my hands. It’s about half the size of my palm and wrapped in white tissue paper.

‘It was my grandmother’s,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve been waiting for … well, anyway. She would have wanted you to have it.’

Inside the tissue is a silver locket on a fine chain, oval and heavy with delicate roses engraved around the edge. It’s empty inside.

‘For you to fill with your own memories,’ he says, and I look up, surprised. There are tears in his eyes.

‘Sorry you had to wait such a long time for my wedding day, Dad.’

He smiles and runs his hand over his shorn head. ‘Just grateful I’m not in a wheelchair like one of your old people.’

‘My ex old people,’ I remind him. ‘I can’t believe I’ll never see them again.’

Although I know I will see them again – I’ve promised to pop in next weekend. But it won’t be the same. Who knew I would end up getting so attached?

‘I don’t know how you stuck it so long, to be honest. Well, all credit to you. You always were a hard worker.’

‘You too, Dad.’ I lean in and lower my voice. ‘Do you honestly like your new job? Is it not really boring at the DIY centre? You know, having worked in the trade for so many years …?’

I want him to let me off the hook. Even though it was ostensibly his decision, I still feel responsible that our property business never materialised. Like I built his hopes up, or something.

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘It’s a laugh. A doddle, in fact. Really, Stella. I like it.’

Still, it must be a comedown for him. I’m about to press further when I remember what he said about how I always feel responsible for everyone else’s happiness. I clamp my mouth shut and purse my lips.

‘How come you two are just standing there yapping?’ Lipsy demands. ‘There are photos to be taken, balloons to pack into the car, there’s a cake sitting in there that’s not even boxed up yet. Come on, people!’

Dad follows Lipsy out of the room and I take one more look at the locket before slipping it over my head.

Something old.

I think it is at this point I realise what I’m going to do. The problem is, it’s going to take an enormous act of will to see this through. And I just don’t know if I’m strong enough.

I take out my phone and re-read Paul’s last email. Know yourself. Stop hiding from the truth and really look at yourself.

‘Ah, Paul,’ I whisper to the clear February sky. ‘I wish you hadn’t written that.’

Something blue.

*

I have a fluttering in my stomach that is more than nerves. Could it be the baby? Probably not, although as I haven’t visited my doctor yet, or thought too much about dates, I guess it’s a possibility. I look out of the car window and see a woman pushing a pram that is so old, an antique almost, it makes me smile. I crane my head to get a glimpse of the baby that is carted around so grandly, but then I see that the pram is full of plants.

Disconcerted, I turn away.

My dad drives calmly along the wide dual carriageways, unhurried and unflappable despite Lipsy’s panicky comments about how late we are going to be. But Lipsy isn’t here with us; she’s in the car behind with Robert and Phoenix and my mother. Which means I can talk to my dad again. Openly. I can tell him how I’m feeling and ask for his advice. That’s what dads are for, right? And mine has always been brilliant at advice.