The Godmother (11 page)

“Congratulations on
The Pen,
I loved it,” said Claudia gushing at Michael. Ah yes, it was all coming back to me.
The Pen
was a very successful series that Neil had had a bit part on. Michael wrote it. I think it won lots of awards. “The world is yours for the taking now, I should think,” said Claudia. “It was absolutely brilliant.”

“My girlfriend is away filming,” he replied. “Otherwise she'd be here.”

Claudia looked perplexed. “Right,” she said, and looked at me to see whether she'd misheard. She hadn't.

“But yes, things are going well for us,” he continued, then turned back to David, the other godfather. The organ began to play.

“Welcome to my world,” I whispered in her ear.

“I don't understand.”

“You're not wearing your wedding ring.”

Claudia glanced down at her hand. “So? It's at the jeweler's.”

“He needed to mention that he was attached, just to make sure there were no misunderstandings.”

Claudia frowned again. Bless her, she'd been out of the game for a long time. “Misunderstandings about what?”

“About marrying you and siring your child.”

“But I was only complimenting him on the show,” she whispered furiously over the Mozart.

“You are a woman of a certain age, with no ring on your finger, and he is male and therefore in your sights as a potential sperm donor. He was simply marking out the battle lines.”

Claudia sat back against the pew. From time to time I saw her shake her head a fraction as she digested my words and his.

“But I wasn't being remotely flirty.”

I shrugged. “You spoke.” Claudia went back to shaking her head. At one point she gave my hand a quick squeeze.

“You are very brave, Tessa,” she said, staring straight ahead.

I squeezed her hand back before letting go. Coming from the bravest woman I know that was a compliment I would take.

There are a million little reasons why you love the friends you have. When Al came to join us in the pew, he slid in next to me so I was sandwiched between him and his wife. He flung his arm over my shoulder, leaned forward and shook hands with the other two men. Claudia slid a fraction away from me so that even Al's fingers weren't touching her. Al wouldn't even have noticed, but I did. And so did the comedian with the girlfriend because when we all started talking again, he happily engaged with me; he looked me in the eye, he looked at Al, but he never once glanced Claudia's way. She lent me her buffer. It wasn't for long. Who belonged to whom would materialize quickly enough, but for the moment I was not the social pariah, something to be feared, I was just a reasonably good-looking woman with enough social skills to make a professional comedian laugh. I did not care one bit that he graced me with his attentions, but I observed wryly how he ignored my friend. The whole episode lasted a few minutes but I learned a lot.

We sang hymns, listened to readings, heard from the Gospel. It was a major production. Then we processed back up the aisle to the stone font where water was rather unceremoniously poured from a couple of two-liter Sainsbury's bottles into a glass bowl. The vicar went down in my estimation at
that point. It's hard to imagine that the waters of the River Jordan are flowing out of green plastic bottles, though he asked us to. The twins did not make a sound. They slept through the whole thing. Neither even grimaced when the cold water was ladled over their scalps. Since I had barely seen those boys do anything other than cry, it was amazing how easy it was to adore them when they were asleep and I felt a warm outpouring of love for them which, I am ashamed to say, I hadn't experienced before.

Helen stood before the assorted throng as ravishing as she'd looked the day Claudia, Al and I had met her in Vietnam. I thought again what extraordinary potential Helen had had back then. Potential that was still untapped. Maybe the twins would be the making of her. Maybe she needed something to love to make her whole. Maybe Neil was a means to an end and the means were worth it.

“Do you turn to Christ as Savior?” The vicar was looking directly at me. Taken aback, I mumbled my response, conscious that if I did not believe one iota of this then I would be able to hold the vicar's stare and stand mute.

“Do you submit to Christ?” he asked, still looking at me.

Is it just me, or are these questions getting harder? “Submit” is not a word that forms easily on my lips.

“I submit to life,” I quickly replied, swallowing the fourth word. I should have swotted up on these questions.

“Do you come to Christ, the way, the truth and the life?”

Oh dear, I could feel the rumblings of schoolgirl giggles. The involuntary flicker of muscles at the side of my mouth. Claudia knew me well enough not to look at me, but I saw Al smirk behind his video camera. I think we were fourteen when we were thrown out of the school carol concert for exploding with laughter during “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,”
Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem…
Absurd, I know, but it was impossible to stop laughing. I pretended to cough. The vicar looked away. He'd probably seen enough.

The catatonic babies were passed in front of the four godparents and we all made a sign of the cross over their untroubled brows. Mine was more a kiss than a cross, but the love I felt for them was beginning to feel real. After that it was easier as the service became more of a group affair and the attention was no longer on us four. We took our seats for one final hymn and the Lord's Prayer. I had always liked the Lord's Prayer; it made sense to me and I used to
say it with gusto. But then they changed the words which I was gutted about because I'd believed them when they said it was in the words that the Lord had taught us. Well, how could it be if they'd changed them? I may have only been thirteen, but I knew when I'd been conned. I started to wonder what other liberties my religion had been taking in the name of the Lord. I'd been meaning to ask a priest for years. Maybe today would be the day.

Suddenly four trumpeters appeared. Claudia, Al and I stifled more giggles, silently agreeing that the pudding was now definitely being over-egged. One more “Thanks be to God” and, to the tune of “Oh When the Saints,” we heirs of the promise of the spirit of peace were free to go and get drunk.

Outside in the sunshine, everyone was smiling. There was a lot of milling about and calls for photos. We lined up along the cemetery wall and smiled into a dozen lenses. Still the twins slept, even through the trumpeting, which I thought was odd. Everyone said how incredibly good they were being. I watched Marguerite, Helen's mother, approach the newly baptized twins and noticed that even Helen's nemesis could not dim my friend's dazzling smile. Helen was protected by layers of christening gowns, delicious baby smells and the love of her friends. Yes, I thought, giving Neil a kiss on the cheek. Maybe the means was worth it. Not for me, but for Helen. I was happy for her. I was happy for A1 and Claudia who were now entwined in each other. I glanced at my watch. Yes, I was happy, happy, happy—now, surely, it was time for a drink?

No one was making any obvious moves towards the gate, so I loitered and smiled some more.

“Tessa King,” said an accented voice I knew too well. “Are you alone?”

No, I'm standing here with my imaginary friend, what does it look like? But then Marguerite knew that. She is brutally aware of the power of words. It is her forte.

“Marguerite,” I said, smiling as I turned. “You must be very proud of your daughter today. She looks absolutely ravishing. Honestly, I think she gets more and more stunning as she gets older, and to think she only just gave birth.”

Marguerite matched my smile but I knew the scoreboard read one-all.
Marguerite never appeared to pride herself in her daughter's beauty. She never prided herself in anything Helen did. We all knew the interior design course Helen had started would come to nothing, but at least she had tried to turn her hand at something. Helen was fantastically cultured. Jetting between her warring parents, she had had the chance to visit every major art gallery in the world, most historical sites of both the modern and ancient world, and had picked up an amazing eye for beautiful things. Her house in Notting Hill was a testament to that taste. But Marguerite had slammed interior design as the playground for dizzy, rich blondes. Helen never recovered and left the course halfway through.

I studied my friend's mother, so different from my own. Her long grey hair was plaited down her back. She wore Nicole Farhi grey cashmere trousers and matching wrap secured in place by a hunk of amber. The collar of a crisp white shirt framed her long neck. She was and always had been the epitome of elegance. Marguerite wore Farhi. It was like a signature thing with her, along with the short, rouge-noir-coated nails. She also wore heavy, dark eye makeup and could still get away with it. She was Helen, without the Chinese gene. There were many things I knew about this woman—she was vain, she was selfish, she could type 110 words a minute, she liquidized most of her food and she should never, ever have bred.

“I don't really understand the need for all of this,” said Marguerite, her accent still carried a hint of her Alpine youth. “Of course, it's wonderful that she has managed to have children, but did we really need the trumpeters?” She smiled conspiratorially.

I resisted the urge for a little bitch. “Nothing wrong in wanting to show off your achievements,” I said, looking over at the bundles of lace.

“Tessa, do you really think having a baby is an achievement? Anyone can do that.”

I looked over at Al and Claudia. He was standing behind her, his chin resting gently on her head, his arms wrapped around her, their four hands resting on her belly.

“Not everyone.”

Marguerite was watching Neil take slaps on the back from other small white men in dodgy suits. “You know what I'm saying. The baby bit is easy
for most people. Let's see how they do as parents. Perhaps it's not as easy as she thinks.”

That was probably the first time I'd heard Marguerite refer to her own mothering skills, however obliquely.

“She has Rose to help her,” I replied, not letting her off that easily.

“Rose. Of course. But you know, having too much help is something she should be wary of.” She looked back at me. “You have to learn to cope by yourself in the early days or you may never be able to. I was surrounded by my ex-husband's family, jabbering away at me in Chinese, grabbing Helen all the time; I had no idea what to do.”

Was I supposed to feel sorry for her now? No way. Not after all the years of mental torture I'd witnessed. “I think twins are a bit different. I barely see her as it is, and that's with help. She's completely ensconced in babyville.”

“She wanted a girl, you know. Can you imagine why?” Marguerite sucked in her cheeks. I didn't reply. I didn't want to go there.

“Poor girl got twin boys instead. What are we going to do with boys? They are so primeval. They have to be exercised like dogs.”

“She loves those boys,” I said.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course,” I replied, without even thinking about the question. “Don't you? They're your grandsons.”

She scowled. “Why do you always make everything so personal. It's very dull.”

“Oh dear, Marguerite.” I smiled jovially, teasingly, but I was trying to claw back some ground. “Finding the notion of granny a little hard to take on board?”

“Tessa, you know you are more intelligent than that, please don't play dumb for me. My point, which you are choosing to miss, is that maybe you only see what you want to see, what you expect to see. Helen has a husband and children, ergo she must be happy. Am I right?”

I wanted to stick my tongue out at her, but that would make it three-one to her. She looked over at her grandsons. “I don't think life is really as simple as that,” she said. “Of course, I am pleased to have grandsons. But you are asking me to jump for joy because my daughter has managed to do what women are
programmed to do. These are babies we are talking about. Babies are not very interesting, as I'm sure you're aware.”

“Except to their mothers,” I said, digging again.

“There are no guarantees for that, Tessa.”

Clearly.

Marguerite went on. “What if you discover you have a child but you don't possess the martyr gene required to enable you to give up most of yourself to the upbringing of your child at exactly the point in your life when you are in position to take the benefits of your own upbringing and do something of note? Are we lemmings? Can we not break the pre-programming? Are we not allowed to be individuals? It's absolutely ridiculous.”

Marguerite was right about one thing. I did make it personal. I wished I didn't, because then I could enjoy some of these debates, but I knew she was just justifying her abysmal mothering, when what she should really be saying was sorry. I think that's all it would have taken. I don't think Helen asked for much more.

“Great women and good mothering don't go hand in hand,” stated Marguerite.

So that's your excuse, I thought to myself. But I'm not as brave as I look, so kept mum.

“You and I both know that Helen didn't have many other options left to her. What else was she going to do?”

Actually, your daughter had a great deal of potential, if only she'd been better directed.

“It figures,” I said.

“What figures?” she replied.

“All the mothers of my friends with children have told me that they love their grandchildren as much as they did their own, if not more.” I paused. “Obviously it works the other way around.”

“I know that there is a part of you that agrees with me, Tessa, whether you care to admit it or not, otherwise you wouldn't still be single. Unless you're another of those desperate women waiting for a man to come and take care of them?”