The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 26
She’s removing the last traces of Phillip from her home, if not her heart, all boxed up lovingly and destined for the loft. But closing the lid on this lifeline is like saying goodbye to Phillip all over again and she can’t help it, as she stands looking down at the envelope she’s holding with both hands, a tear splashes on to it, one last part of her joining all the memories of him before she slides the lid closed on all of it.
The one thing she leaves is the framed image of the two of them on her bedside table, but even this needs to move. She carries it into the lounge and places it on a bookshelf, nestled amongst her novels and designer biographies. Less visible, no longer the last thing she will see before she closes her eyes each night, but still there, casting a loving watch over her daily routine.
Then she’s cleaning: the entire apartment from top to bottom as if physically scrubbing away the stubborn stain of her sadness. The bed is stripped; she attacks its frame with polish, then she’s vacuuming the mattress and banging dust out of the pillows, then shooting bathroom spray all over the en-suite.
Kitchen cupboards are emptied and wiped clean inside before everything is re-ordered and replaced. She fills the oven with toxic smelling foam and leaves it to do its thing while she disinfects the floor and all the work surfaces. Three hours later the place smells like a hospital and is show-home spotless. Fresh cut flowers from the garden are placed in the kitchen and lounge, windows are thrown open and Helen upturns the sticks in her jasmine scented oil diffuser sending a waft of pretty scent floating through the air. Somehow she feels this is a new beginning. A bit like the monstrously thorough clean she gave the family home after the school holidays when the kids went back to school – taking all their mess, smells and clutter with them. It’s the ultimate cleanse, spurred on by the deadline of Betsy arriving in ten minutes.
There’s an uncomfortable suspicion in Helen about her daughter’s visit. They spoke just a couple of days ago, covering all the usual stuff and Helen mostly bugging her about whether Jacob’s finally fixed the security light at the front of the house that’s been broken for two months. Is Betsy drinking too much, partying too hard, does she ever just have a night on the sofa? In between all the nagging there was no mention of Betsy dropping by. Betsy’s visits are usually planned weeks, if not months, in advance and carefully co-ordinated around work schedules, boutique bookings and her daughter’s hectic social life. Then the text came last night announcing she would be arriving less than twenty-four hours later. Something must be wrong. The mum panic button has been activated and a long list of catastrophic scenarios are fighting it out in Helen’s head when the doorbell rings. Here she is. A bundle of girly energy, alive with ambition and positivity, as always.
‘Mum!’
Helen’s worries melt as she sees her daughter’s trademark broad smile, her corkscrew blonde curls (always a mystery where they came from) bouncing off her shoulders as she hurls herself into the outstretched arms of her mother.
‘Come in, come in, but shoes off, I’ve been going crazy with the polish this morning. Is Jacob not with you?’
‘No, he’s writing!’ Betsy shouts the words over her shoulder, already shooting up the stairs, into the lounge and hopping on to the sofa, feet curled up under her, totally at home. She misses the controlled intake of breath that Helen is taking, pushing her lips together to hold in any judgement of Jacob that may be in danger of escaping them.
‘Something is different, Mum. What is it? What have you changed?’ Betsy’s eyes are all over the room.
Helen looks up towards the loft hatch. ‘Oh, nothing, just a quick clean, that’s all.’ The last thing she wants to do now is waste their precious moments together raking over the morning’s activities.
‘So, Jacob.’ This conversation needs to happen and better it happens face to face than pieced together over countless text messages that Betsy might then feel she needs to hide from him.
‘He’s on a deadline.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She doesn’t entirely mean it. It might be nice to see him and give him a mild grilling on his work plans but she is also thrilled to have some unexpected one-on-one time with Betsy so they can finally talk.
‘Well, it’s good actually, Mum, because, guess what? He’s landed a book deal! His first novel is going to be published and the advance he’s being paid will mean we can really go nuts with… Actually, come and sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘That’s wonderful news!’ Helen is next to Betsy on the sofa, beaming just as broadly. Finally, he’ll be paying his way, her daughter can take her foot off the gas a little.
‘So, we were wondering, what’s the best way to spend this money? What should we do with it that would be really worthwhile and special and great for everyone?’
Oh no, there’s some horrible overly generous charitable donation about to be announced, Helen can feel it coming. Poetry to rehabilitate ex-offenders or to save knackered beach donkeys. Please, no.
‘Listen, Betsy, I think you should be really careful with this because…’
‘We’re getting married, Mum! Jacob has proposed and I said yes, obviously! Woo-Hoo!’
‘Oh my goodness!’
‘And when the time comes, Mum, I’d like you to walk me down the aisle. Will you do that for me, please?’
Helen can’t say a thing. She buries herself in her daughter’s arms, squeezing her so tightly, sobbing into those sweet-smelling curls, needing more than ever to feel the warmth of her dewy collagen-loaded skin. And the squeeze is being returned, Betsy appreciating, no doubt, the emotions that are surging through her dear mum right now. Helen’s eyes stay clenched while her mind fast-forwards to the day, probably about a year from now, her daughter ready to take that incredible step into the future. She can see the dress she’ll be wearing, knows exactly which one she will recommend she tries on first, sees herself steadying Betsy all the way along the aisle through a sea of smiles to the altar. There will be no father-of-the-bride speech that day but no matter. Helen will be there, determined, strong, overflowing with enough love for both of them.
‘I’m so, so proud of you, Betsy.’ It’s two whole minutes until Helen gathers herself well enough to say the words. ‘This is the very best news you could give me, today of all days.’
* * *
As she waves Betsy off later that afternoon, Helen is aware of a man climbing out of a black Audi across the road. Something about the way his head is dipped, his shoulders hunched with the collar of his jacket upturned like he doesn’t want to be seen tells her something is not quite right. He lacks the carefree or clueless demeanour of a passing tourist. She doesn’t recognise him as local either but he’s heading her way. Although she has never seen this man before something keeps her rooted to the spot, waiting for him in the doorway of The White Gallery where an hour ago she and Betsy were trying on veils.
As he crosses the road without looking, eyes sharply focused on his destination, he pushes open the gate to her front garden and starts to walk deliberately towards her. Now she can see the upset etched all over his unshaven face. There is a brief moment of fear when she wonders what on earth this man might want with her and then the fuses ignite and connect in her brain. Her mind is thrust back to that answerphone message. The distraught-sounding man that never made sense at the time. He’s close enough now for her to see two bloodshot eyes trained intensely on hers, searching for some recognition, some comfort. He opens his mouth to speak but only tears escape him. Helen says what she knows he can’t.
‘Emily?’
Then his arms are around her, head heavy over her shoulder. She feels the weight of him collapsing into her as he whispers a pain-filled yes into her ear.
27
Dolly
Dolly’s eyes flash open, her brain switches on and she’s immediately hit with the sense she has a lot to achieve today. She just can’t remember what. Dodging more deadlines from The Dick? No, it’s Saturday. Another gloriously pointless row w
ith Josh? Nope, he’s supposedly out flat-hunting for himself again. She attempts to throw herself out of bed before remembering she’s anchored by the hard boulder that’s pressing down heavily on the front of her. Oh yes. Baby prep! And lots of it.
The weeks are flying by and Dolly is steering this express train to motherhood with all the gusto she once reserved for star-jump burpees and squat holds. All her obsessive commitment and relentless focus on herself has found a new place to breed, fanned by the underlying competitive edge that seems to swim passive-aggressively around her antenatal class each week. As she’s heaving herself slowly out of bed, hands supporting the boulder, she thinks briefly about the eight other women in her class, all first-time mothers-to-be, all convinced they know the best way to deliver and raise a baby – regurgitating chapters of the latest baby tome, just like the colicky babies they are all so keen to avoid having.
She winces remembering that first meeting, when she cluelessly arrived fifteen minutes late because she hadn’t bothered to Google-map the address, then was forced to do her little intro to the group without hearing what the others had said. She’d prattled on for ten minutes about her job and her social life, making it all sound as glamorous as possible – neatly skirting the lack of loving partner bit – before the teacher finally said Yes, but how many weeks are you Dolly? Tell us something about the baby to muffled sniggers from around the circle. Then she sat there, rigid with panic for another forty minutes as her pathetic lack of anatomical knowledge was glaringly exposed to a room full of vagina know-it-alls.
Bloody womb-obsessives she mutters as she heads for the bathroom. But it’s staggering the effect a little communal humiliation is having on Dolly. Once shamed, now fully focused – getting ahead of the others with her birth plan and researching her way to the top of the class, determined to be first to buy and pack her hospital bag. Anyway, before anything more can happen today, she needs to execute her morning routine. She waits until the shower temperature is just right before she steps into it. If it turns her skin pink, it’s too hot for the baby, she knows that now. She stands there for a few minutes, letting the water fly off the boulder at right angles, thinking about Josh, wondering if he will ever bugger off and give her the space she needs to grow – in every sense of the word.
He’s shown practically no interest in her or the baby since she told him she is definitely keeping it. Another epic row was followed by more awkward living around each other, Josh saying he’s looking for somewhere else to live but never actually achieving that. Last night she caught him looking at her. As she slumped on the sofa, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, he looked, asked the odd question about pregnancy timings then drifted back off into his own selfish world. She gave up hope of reconciliation a long time ago. Too many horrible things said. Too many insults that can’t be unheard.
Dolly steps out of the shower and reaches for her anti-stretchmark oil. She’s getting through litres of the stuff. Its bland nutty smell has permeated every item of her clothing and bedding and probably the curtains and carpets too. She’s slapping it all over her body now, sending oily splashes up the bathroom walls and over the cupboard doors. Then she’s wafting around the room naked while it seeps into her curves. When she finally feels like less of an oil slick she throws on a robe and heads for the kitchen for some iron-rich porridge with a side of smoked salmon for baby brain development.
The remains of last night’s cook-a-thon are still sprawled across the work surface. She snaps the lid shut on the box of homemade sweet potato gnocchi and starts to force it in to the last remaining space in the freezer – next to a range of pasta sauces, cottage pies and veggie bakes she’s spent the past week making, decanting and freezing, just as advised at antenatal class. Cook now, then enjoy in those first few weeks after the baby is born when you’ll barely have the energy to lift your head from the pillow, let alone tackle something as co-ordinated as cooking dinner. OK, she’s well ahead of the game with this job but that’s how she likes it. She fleetingly wonders whether she should be portioning them for one or two. Oh bugger him, Josh isn’t her responsibility any more. There is also now a designated cupboard in the kitchen that houses all baby-related kit. The spiralizer had to go to make room for the bottle warmer but it’s a long time since she ate a string of raw courgette pretending to be pasta anyway.
As Dolly starts to spoon the cement-like porridge into her mouth, the pelvic floor exercises can begin. She’s sucking herself in tightly while the imaginary elevator travels upwards, pausing at different floors before climbing higher and higher then making it’s controlled steady descent. Every single day she does them, never missing it, totally committed to the preservation of whatever might be left of her after labour. Well, that and a desperate hope she won’t be one of those mothers who has to carry a spare pair of pants around in her handbag, living in fear of an almighty knicker-wetting sneeze.
There is some slightly terrifying internal perineal massage designed to stop you tearing during labour that was explained at last week’s class – causing even Helen’s normally immovable eyebrows to shoot skywards. This is also about to be added to Dolly’s morning routine. But first she wants to research the inflatable balloon contraption you can buy over the internet that does the job for you, negating the need for your own fingers. She just hopes The Dick isn’t chancing past her desk the day she’s looking for that on Amazon.
Dolly dumps her empty breakfast bowl into the sink – something for Josh to do later – and heads back to the bedroom to dress. Her hipbone skimming skinny jeans and bum-hugging jumpsuits moved out long ago and in their place hang a line of wide-legged jeans topped with six inches of belly-warming elasticated heaven and leggings that go all the way up to her boobs, so it’s like pouring herself into a giant sock each morning. Dolly knows she will struggle to give these up after the baby arrives. They’ve become part of her, a line of defence against the haters, just like the baby on board badge she never thought she’d wear. On any other woman it was a crushing bore or an aggressive stand aside people, incredibly important pregnant lady coming through brag. But somehow now it’s OK, more than OK, a discreet ad for everything that is exciting for Dolly right now.
Shares in Amazon are surely soaring thanks to the never-ending arrival of all manner of baby paraphernalia – a fabulously extravagant use for the no-longer-needed wedding fund. It’s Gina Ford’s The Complete Sleep Guide today, now that she’s finished her Contented Little Baby Book and transferred all the salient points on to cue cards, ready to be easily and quickly referenced when sleep deprivation has pureed her brain. Inspired by one of her over achieving classmates, Dolly just needs to put the finishing touches to the schedule for the baby’s first four weeks. The times she will eat, sleep and play and then she’s going to add the horrifyingly few mother and baby groups that don’t clash with the routine to the calendar on the wall in the kitchen – a level of organisation previously completely unknown to her – but my God did she enjoy sharing that in class. She worked out early on that the most together women in the group are all signed up members of the Gina Ford fan club – which is when she ordered her first book. The rest seem to be subscribing to the let the baby tell you what it needs school of thought. They are also, coincidentally, the ones with the least attractive husbands and who show up every week having dodged the make-up bag and hairbrush. Decision made.
So, now for today’s big task – buying the pram. She texts Tilly, making sure she is ready for their planned 11.30 a.m. call, still an unholy hour for anyone childless, but especially Tilly who is rarely in bed before 2 a.m. at the weekend.
Where Helen has been the wonderfully measured voice of practical calm, Tilly is keeping Dolly grounded, stopping her sliding too far into the mummy world where she might start honking things like Keep that vape away from my baby! and You do know this is a 30 mph speed zone? That’s why, despite having no working knowledge of a pram whatsoever, she’s been chosen to advise Dolly on the most expensive purchase of all
– on the thing that will be glued to the front of Dolly for the next two years. And just like the marketing strategist she is, Tilly’s done her homework. Dolly’s mobile rings twice before the dynamically assertive voice of Tilly fills her ears.
‘OK, I’ve been asking around and this purchase is actually considerably more significant than you might think, Dolly.’
‘Right.’
‘Think of this pushchair as the maternal equivalent of the new Miu Miu Mary Janes. It’s your gateway to the best invites from the sort of mummy cliques you’ll want to hang out with and a brilliant barbed wire fence to those you don’t – assuming you choose the right one of course. But that’s where I come in. What’s your budget?’
‘A thousand pounds – or what would have been my accessories budget for the wedding.’ She’s trying to make light of it but inside it feels like someone is stamping on her heart. Dolly still can’t quite believe she’s talking about her wedding as something that is no longer happening, when it once occupied so much of her energy, so many of her determinedly happy thoughts.
‘Bloody brilliant! That means we don’t even have to look at the Maclarens or the Mamas & Papas. I also think we should avoid the Bugaboo. Yes, I know it has a huge celebrity fan base but it’s a little too mass market for you, darling.’
‘Er… should we be thinking about safety features? Brakes? Three-point body harnesses? Head cushioning?’ Dolly is logging on to her laptop at the breakfast bar so she can call up images of anything Tilly recommends.
‘All important, Dolly, but if you want to be Cool Fun Mum and blend, blend, blend then we need to get the aesthetics right first. They all have to pass the same safety tests, don’t they? But do they all have a coffee cup holder that can accommodate a Starbucks grande latte? Do they all have handlebars slim enough for your Anya Hindmarch changing bag? And crucially the mobile phone attachment that means you can be hands-free gassing all day long. Because, frankly, what else are you going to be doing? And do they look the business?’