Her (3 page)

As if anyone would steal your bloody toddler, I think. Just park him outside for a moment or two. What could possibly happen? But these women, they all live in fear of being the unlucky one.
Oh, I couldn’t take the risk
, they say. All that anxiety. So many things to worry about. Parabens, E-numbers, UV rays. I wonder how they stand it.

I wait under the awning, in front of the boxes of yellow and scarlet fruit, turning towards the bookshop window as she selects a lettuce and pays for it. Then there’s the business of edging the buggy out again, sending a shiver through the cherries. When the buggy bumps down onto the pavement something falls out: Christopher’s shoe, a soft little fabric sandal. As she bends to retrieve it, as I squeeze past her to pay for my apple, I find it’s the work of a moment to dip my fingers into the yawning mouth of her bag.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ says the greengrocer, putting down a pallet of lemons, and I know what he’s really saying:
Sorry about that dozy mare
. Outside, she’s lifting Christopher up to the postbox as he pushes some envelopes into the slot. I can see the little grimace at his weight against her bump, his unhelpful vitality.

‘That’s OK,’ I say, handing over the coins, her wallet snug between my arm and my ribcage.

At home, I spread the contents out over the kitchen table, assembling the clues. She’s Emma Nash now. She lives on Carmody Street, in the little line of workers’ cottages between the park and the main road. The usual credit cards, library passes, loyalty schemes. Receipts: organic milk from M&S, flour and cereal from Iceland. A recipe from the
Guardian
supplement for chicken curry. A green prescription form, scrawled over with a GP’s hurried initials, for an entry-level antidepressant. Tucked behind the book of stamps there’s a small tired-looking snapshot, a picture of a man, the husband, the Mr Nash, smiling into the sun, arms folded, leaning against a bike on a country lane. Quite attractive, I suppose.

I have a quick shower and then I make the call.

‘Is that Emma Nash? I’ve found your wallet, you dropped it on the high street.’

She gushes a bit. I’ve saved her life, she seems to be going mad, she’d forget her head if it wasn’t, etc.

‘It’s no trouble,’ I say.

She’s so relieved. She asks if I live nearby, offers to pop over once her son has finished his tea.

‘Oh, let me bring it back, it’s no problem,’ I say quickly. I’m no longer nervous; I want to get inside her house. I want to see how she lives.

I anticipate that she’ll be more flustered on her own territory, less likely to recognise me, though the chances of that are really very slim. Still, I’ve got my line ready, just in case it’s needed. ‘I’m in Pakenham Gardens,’ I say. ‘It’s only around the corner. I’ll be with you in ten.’

I put everything back in the wallet and leave the house. It’s a beautiful evening. Monica Prewitt is out in her front garden, trimming the lavender bush, filling a trug with the spent straws, and the fragrance of it drifts down the street. Someone in number 34 is practising Chopin in front of an open window, going over the same few bars, making the same mistakes: a pleasant, mildly melancholy sound. The pavements are warm and dappled with sunshine.

I slow down when I get to Carmody Street. The houses here are two-storey, rather than three-, and the façades are narrower, less ornate, set back behind cramped front gardens that barely merit the term. Not all the houses have been gentrified: several still have net curtains. One is pebble-dashed. There’s a bit of double-glazing. Some ugly leggy climber roses. The noise of the main road at the end of the street changes as the traffic lights on the roundabout click through their sequences.

Emma’s is a halfway house. There’s a potted bay tree on the front step and a powder-blue front door, but the gloss paint is chipped, and some of the slats on the plantation shutters are broken, hanging off at an angle, giving the impression of a mouthful of bad teeth.
At full stretch
, I think, as I unlatch the little gate and walk up the short path. Then,
Here we are. Here we go.

Standing on the step, I’m aware, when I swallow, of the dryness of my throat. I run a hand through my hair, still a little damp from my shower. Then I put my finger on the bell.

There she is, standing in front of me, a distracted smile, glancing over her shoulder – waiting for the bomb to go off in the back room – while she’s talking: ‘idiotic’ and ‘feel so stupid’ and ‘incredibly kind’.

Close to, it’s quite overwhelming, the wholesome golden quality of her presence only partially dimmed by domesticity, pregnancy and the exhaustion particular to mothers of small children. The sheer height and health and strength and competence of her. I can see the dark roots of her hair and the streak of white at the temple where she has pushed it back impatiently with a floury hand. Ketchup on her jeans, the tea towel over her shoulder. She’s still beautiful.

‘Nina Bremner,’ I say, and we shake hands.

‘I’m Emma. I really can’t thank you enough . . . You’re a lifesaver.’

I say it’s not a problem, and then I open my bag, look down into it. The wallet’s right there, of course, underneath my cardigan, but I leave it, making vague noises –
Oh God where is it, it’s in here somewhere
– knowing she’ll have to ask me in. ‘It was just lying on the pavement by the postbox,’ I say, fumbling. ‘Outside the greengrocers’.’

‘Oh – yes, I had that thing to post. Christ. Some days I think I’m going mad.’

I look at her, smiling, nodding at her bump. ‘Well, at least you’ve got a good excuse. When’s it due?’

November, she says. When I tell her how old Sophie is, she says I must have been a child bride. And with this comment I remember her old impulsiveness, that reckless inability to pass on an opportunity to charm a stranger. It’s a character flaw, I know that now.

Behind her, in the darkness of the house, there’s the sound of the child throwing something or falling over. He calls for her. Flustered, she glances over her shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ I say, dipping my head again. ‘It’s here somewhere, I just . . .’

So she asks if I’d like to come in for a cup of tea.

Yes.

It’s all pretty much as I’d expected. The white-painted hall, the scuffed skirting and the varnished wooden boards, the buggy and small wellingtons painted with beetles tumbled against bigger ones, a hobby horse lolling out of the umbrella stand. A wad of unopened post balanced on top of the radiator. A wooden heart on a string dangling over the gilt-framed mirror. A china dish of shells and keys. A ball made from those red rubber bands postmen drop on the pavements. All the quirky bits of individuality echoing prevailing tastes.
This is us. This is who we are.

Beneath the chaos of crumbs and dirty pots, the kitchen is pleasant, unremarkable: pale blue units, enamel lampshade over the wooden table, a string of fairy lights looped over the Angie Lewin print of seed heads. The door is open to the small garden. Sun lies over the tangled grass, the tossed-aside watering can, the length of yellow hose. Someone’s trying to grow some tomatoes out there, I see.

The boy, Christopher, has scattered the end of his tea on the floor. As his mother comes towards him he looks at her with a satisfied expression, as if he has brought some righteous punishment to bear. I hear her mutter, ‘Oh, you—’ and then she’s at the sink, running hot water into a cloth. When she’s wiping the table and the floor, I fill the kettle and switch it on, and then I collect the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. Christopher watches me without curiosity. ‘And what’s your name?’ I ask him, and then I ruffle his hair, and I have the pleasure of feeling him twist away from my hand, objecting to my gesture. ‘Oh, isn’t he a poppet? They’re so delicious when they’re this age.’

We talk a little about how long they’ve lived here. I can tell she’s half-proud, half-ashamed of the house and its humdrum dishevelment: the enamel milk pans in pink and pistachio green dangling from hooks, the chipped china jug stuffed with sweet williams on the sill, the finger paintings moored to the fridge with magnets (crowns, beach balls, tiny tins of Italian beer). The way these small choices reflect upon her.

Christopher is removed from his highchair and makes his way out into the sunshine while I pour the boiling water into mugs.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says. ‘I never seem to be able to get things straight.’

I say something about knowing how hard it is.

‘I never realised how much mess is involved in just living,’ she says, trying to laugh. Incredulously, as if she can’t quite believe it, as if it’s nearly a joke, she describes all the small tedious steps involved in preparing a meal for her child and serving it to him and cleaning up afterwards: ‘One stone, all these bloody ripples.’

She goes on for a little longer, the housewife’s lament, and then abruptly stops, pressing her lips together as if to keep the words back. Her cheeks are bright with the novelty, the excitement of telling someone how she really feels. Or maybe it’s shame. I watch her as she rinses the cloth in the sink, hangs it over the tap. There’s something else in her expression that I can’t quite read; it frightens me. Maybe she has caught the edge of some ancient memory. But then her face clears and I realise I’m safe. She won’t remember. It meant nothing to her, after all.

‘Sit down,’ I say, ‘Drink your tea.’

So she sits, and we talk a little about safer things, her Italian summer, Sophie, my painting. I can see how exotic the private view sounds to her, and I say she should come, if she fancies it. The look on her face makes me realise I mustn’t follow through.
Hold back for now. See how it goes.

Perhaps sensing I’ve retreated a little, she mentions – she can’t help herself – that she used to work in TV.
I’m more than all this
, she’s signalling.
Look, I really am.
Then, with a little moue at the effort, she rises to her feet and goes outside to remonstrate with Christopher, who is whacking the hedge with a stick; and while this is going on I rinse out my mug in the sink and halt in front of the fridge, picking off the little plastic letters, rearranging them to make a phrase, a private joke, just for my own amusement. When she comes back, I surrender the wallet and say goodbye, promising to drop off an invite when I’m passing, and as I walk off into the scented evening, I wonder whether she will notice it, or if Ben will: the orange and blue and yellow letters spelling out b-a-d-p-e-n-n-y.

Nina forgets the invitation. She must have other things on her mind, and in any case I find I’m slightly relieved she hasn’t remembered: Christopher’s a nightmare with babysitters; and once I’ve got him settled in his cot I can’t really face the Northern Line. Easier to go downstairs and have a glass of wine while listening to people on the radio discussing movies and plays I’ll never see.

Ben comes home and finds me chopping vegetables like a person in a sitcom. I hear his key in the lock, the sound of my release. But he doesn’t know that’s how I feel, and I can’t put it into words. He comes home with his tales of incompetent floor managers and outside broadcasts gone haywire, and I feel nothing but envy.

‘So, how was your day?’ he might ask, sitting down at the table to eat the meal I have prepared for him.

I have to think hard to remember what we did. Did we see the GP today? Did I take Christopher to Monkey Music? Was this the day we went to the supermarket, or to Regent’s Park to meet Amy and Dulcie? Sometimes I make it up, so I have something to say, and I find he can’t tell the difference. ‘Sounds nice,’ he says, putting his knife and fork together, not really listening.

The business of getting out of bed and low chairs is now accompanied by sighs and grunts. I wait on the stairs to catch my breath and grip the banister in the dark. In the evenings I’m taken captive by Braxton Hicks. My stomach is tight as a drum, and something is revolving slowly inside it, something purposeful with elbows and knees as definite as coat hangers. I can no longer lie back on the sofa; I have to prop myself sideways to watch TV. Sometimes I grab Ben’s hand and place it just so, to show him what I have to put up with. ‘Amazing!’ he says happily, resting his hand there for a moment, then giving me a pat and taking it away.

We keep the back door closed now. The days are getting shorter. The grass silts up with fallen leaves. Christopher starts at playgroup a few mornings a week. He hates it at first, and I spend the first three or four sessions crouched on a low bench in the cloakroom, my back pressed into a chorus line of tiny coats, wondering if I dare leave. I’d planned to use the time constructively – go for a swim, tidy the garden – but once he finally settles in, I just head home and sit in an armchair by the window and don’t move until I’m due to collect him.

I cannot get enough of the silence.

My older sister Lucy visits for a few days and we cloister ourselves in the tiny room that Ben and I called the study, the room that will be the baby’s, sorting through the bin liners of winter clothing that various friends have donated. I don’t really need any more sleep suits or miniature white mittens, but Christopher does quite well: some jerseys, lots of vests, plaid shirts, corduroy trousers, a decent waterproof coat. The washing machine processes all these diminutive manly outfits. We pair up the dinky socks. We fold the tiny pants. It feels as if we are preparing for some imminent catastrophe.

In the park I sit on a bench, watching Lucy pushing Christopher on the swings. ‘Higher!’ he shouts. ‘Higher!’

Jane, an old colleague, sends me a chatty email. She’s researching a new show, a fly-on-the-wall documentary about au pairs. At first I think she’s being friendly, just keeping in touch, possibly sounding me out for future collaborations, and then I grasp the subtext: she wonders if I know anyone interesting, or mad, who might work for a case study.
What about lunch?
she says.

Ah, I remember lunch: something Lebanese or Thai at a table overlooking the wet reflective pavements of Goodge Street, picking over the latest management cock-up. For a moment I allow myself to consider it, the journey in on the bus; waiting in the lobby for Jane to appear, smiling at people I used to know,
yes, this is my little boy, say hello, Christopher! Yes, the next one’s due soon – I know, I must be nuts
; then the corner table, the unbearable frustration of trying to listen or speak while Christopher knocks cutlery to the floor, spills his drink and pulls my elbow, saying he needs a wee.