Forget Me Not (11 page)

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘They’re … lovely.’ I wished that she could knit her own life into some more meaningful shape.

‘And this is for you.’ I opened the little pink gift bag. Inside was a tub of Crème de la Mer.

‘What a treat, Cassie – thanks!’

‘Well, I figured you’d need a bit of luxury having just had a baby. Anyway’ – she offered Milly her little finger to clasp – ‘she’s … adorable. Aren’t you, darling? Yes, you
are
, sweetie. She’s like Mum, isn’t she?’ she added quietly. And this surprised me as Cassie rarely mentions Mum – as though she can’t bear to.

‘She
is
a little. The mouth. And the chin.’

‘And is she good?’

‘As gold.’

‘Feeding well?’

‘Fairly champing at the tit.’

‘And has
he
been in touch?’ Cassie asked in her characteristically direct way.

‘No,’ I murmured. ‘He hasn’t and, to be honest, I’d rather not discuss him.’

Cassie slumped into a chair. ‘I think I know why it didn’t work out between you.’

‘How could you possibly know?’ I said wearily. ‘You only met him once, for five minutes.’

‘That’s true – but I could tell that he was somehow … restless. It was as though he was poised for flight.’

‘I don’t see how you could have known that when I didn’t,’ I protested. ‘Especially as I hadn’t told you anything about him.’

‘It was because of his footwear,’ she replied.

‘His what?’

‘I noticed that he was wearing desert boots and they’re often worn by men who travel a lot.’ I stared at her. ‘Plus you had hopelessly incompatible names. How could you go out with a man called Xan, when you’re called Anna?’ she went on. ‘“Xan ’n’ Anna” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? Nor does “Anna ’n’ Xan” – though you could have just called yourselves “Xanna”, I suppose …’ She wound her long dark hair into a thick knot and secured it with a pencil while she considered the question.

‘How was your Austrian spa?’ I asked, keen to change the subject.

‘Interesting,’ she said judiciously, ‘if a little rigorous. All we got to eat were these prison rations of plain yoghurt and sourdough bread, each bit of which we had to chew seventy-five times.’

‘And how much did you have to pay for this privilege?’

‘Two grand all in.’

‘For one weekend? Good
God
. So your work must be going well, then. What are you doing?’

‘Nothing you’d approve of,’ she replied cheerfully.

‘Still temping?’

‘Well … the agency hasn’t got much at the moment, so to make ends meet I’ve started doing some evening work.’

‘Of what sort?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘Well, it’s just talking to people over the phone …’

‘What people?’

‘Male people,’ she replied. She pulled the pencil out of her hair and down it fell with an almost audible
swish
… ‘Men.’

‘You talk to men on the phone? What for? Is it market research of some kind?’

‘No.’ She sighed. ‘It’s because they’re rather lonely and a bit … sad, really …’

The penny dropped. ‘Oh my God – you’re doing telephone sex.
Please
don’t tell me you’re doing telephone sex,’ I said, wondering, as I often do, how the same ingredients could have produced Cassie and me. It’s not so much that we’re like chalk and cheese, and in any case I’ve always thought that chalk and cheese – especially Cheshire cheese – aren’t that dissimilar – from a distance. No, with us it was more a case of chalk and coal.

‘Well … I prefer to call it “adult phone entertainment”.’

‘You can call it what you like, it’s still …
sleazy
, Cassie.’

‘Not really,’ she said amiably. ‘I only
talk
to the men after all – I call myself “Jade” – and it doesn’t take that long. The average call only lasts six minutes, you know – I can knit while I do it – although some of them want to talk about some
pretty
unusual things and …’

‘Spare me the details. I don’t know how you can!’ I added crossly.

‘Well,’ she said evenly – Cassie rarely takes offence – ‘I can because I’m not a prude, and because I have a very active imagination: and to me it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry,’ she added airily. ‘More important, I can make a hundred and fifty pounds in an hour.’

In late June, Jenny got in touch and invited me over for tea on Sunday. Her little girl had been born a fortnight late, ten days before, so this was the first opportunity for us to see each other with our babies.

I fed Milly, put her in her sling with a pink sun hat on her head and set off on foot for Hesketh Gardens on the other side of the Goldhawk Road. Within a couple of minutes Milly had been lulled to sleep by my walking and by the warmth of the day, her head flopping forward like a wilting rose. Panicking that she couldn’t breathe, I kept trying to tip it back, but down it would droop again, so I gently cradled it with my left hand. Wimbledon was on and as I walked along I could hear the thwack of tennis balls floating out of open windows, then bursts of loud applause, like sudden rain.

Jenny had a basement flat at the far end of her street. I went down the iron steps. A burglar alarm winked at me, the windows were cross-hatched with bars, and there were large stickers on the door with stern injunctions to deter hawkers and junk mail. There was also a large ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ sign.

I pressed the bell and after a moment heard a bolt being drawn back, then the turning of a key and finally the sound of the chain being taken off.

‘Your security’s tight,’ I said as Jenny opened the door. ‘It’s like Fort Knox around here!’

‘Well … the area’s a little bit … rough. And being in a basement flat … alone, with a baby …’

‘Of course – you can’t be too careful.’

‘Anyway.’ She smiled. ‘Come in. Let me see her …’ I lifted off Milly’s hat. ‘She’s utterly adorable.’

I felt a burst of maternal pride. ‘Thanks.’

I followed Jenny down the narrow hall into the small sitting room, where a Moses basket was lying in the middle of the sofa. I peeped inside. Jenny’s baby was lying on her back, her hands up, in that ‘I surrender’ pose that babies adopt. She had a downy covering of fair hair; her mouth was a perfect little Cupid’s bow; her eyes, flickering with sleep, were large and thickly lashed. Her cheeks were a peachy pink.

‘She’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘She has the face of an angel.’

‘The face of an angel,’ Jenny echoed, almost sadly, I thought. In the momentary silence that followed I wondered if she was thinking about the baby’s father and whether she longed for him, as I still longed for Xan.

‘She looks like you,’ I added.

‘Do you think so?’ Jenny said happily, as though I couldn’t have said anything nicer.

‘I do. And Grace is a lovely name.’ I undid the poppers on the babysling. ‘Did you call her that because she was born on a Tuesday?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I decided on it long before she was born – from the moment I knew that I was having a girl.’

‘So you found out? You never said.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone – I wanted to keep that knowledge just for myself.’

‘That’s understandable – but why did you want to know?’

‘Because … I thought it might help me bond with the baby. I wanted to begin that process as early as possible.’

‘Did you have a preference?’

‘No,’ she replied carefully. ‘But when the radiologist said it was a girl, I did feel a little relieved.’

‘I felt that too,’ I admitted as I settled Milly on my shoulder. ‘But only because I thought that a girl might cope without a father a bit better than a boy would do.’

Jenny nodded. Then we went through the names that the other women in our class had called their babies. We’d had e-mails announcing the arrival of Louis, Jacob, Amelie, Lucas …

‘And
Lilac
,’ Jenny exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

‘At least it’s not Daffodil,’ I pointed out.

‘Or Mesembryanthemum!’ She giggled. ‘Katie’s twins are Jonah and George.’

‘Then of course there’s Erasmus,’ I snorted. ‘Who but Citronella would inflict Erasmus Pratt-Barker-Jones on their child?’

‘Poor little boy,’ Jenny said. ‘And her accompanying description of the birth – did you get that?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘In all its gory details – as though none of us had just been through it ourselves!’

‘Still, at least we don’t have to see her again,’ Jenny said as she went into the kitchen. ‘Now, let’s have some tea.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘Yes – relax.’

As Jenny filled the kettle I stood by the open french windows and glanced at her patio garden; it was almost bare, with a few straggly white geraniums, some dark-pink valerian and an enormous yucca in a glazed pot.

‘I’m afraid the garden’s a bit of a disaster area,’ Jenny called out.

‘I wouldn’t say that. It just needs a few more things in it.’ I squinted at the sky. ‘But it’s west-facing, which is good.’

‘I’d like to make it nice, but I haven’t a clue about gardening.’

‘I could get you some plants.’

‘Would you really?’

Now I glanced around the room. The walls were lined with serious-looking novels, and heavy-looking books about education and psychology:
Female Empowerment and Feminist
Theory; What About the Boys? Issues of Masculinity in
Schools; Cyberfeminism; The Gendered Self in Discourse
. There was a colourful screen print over the fireplace, a reclining nude in blue pastel on one wall, but not a single family photo, and only two or three baby cards, as though she hadn’t told many people. Nor was there a hint even of the man responsible for Grace’s conception.

By now I’d known Jenny for three months. I knew a bit about her childhood in Northern Ireland; I knew she had an identical twin sister who was married and lived in France; I knew about the school where Jenny had taught and the near-violence she’d endured from one or two of the more disruptive pupils. Yet when it came to her private life, Jenny remained an enigma.

‘So how are you finding motherhood?’ she asked as she brought in the tea.

I gently rubbed Milly’s back, while she nuzzled at my neck, making little squeaking noises. ‘I find it wonderful – but terrifying.’

‘It
is
scary.’ She set down the tray. ‘The idea that another human being’s entire safety, health and well-being rests in our inexperienced hands.’ She lifted the lid off the pot, stirred it, then looked at me enquiringly. And I thought she was going to ask me whether I took milk or sugar. ‘Do you have any regrets?’ she suddenly said.

‘Regrets?’

‘I mean … about going it alone. It’s not going to be easy, is it – emotionally – it’s going to be hard at times … and lonely … there’ll be a lot of anxiety …’ She let the sentence drift.

Did
I have any regrets? I remembered what my mum had once said –
I don’t think having a child is ever a mistake
… – and now I could honestly say the same. ‘No, I don’t,’ I replied. ‘And you?’

‘I thought I would,’ she said quietly as she poured the tea. ‘My greatest fear was that I wouldn’t love the baby. I
needed
to,’ she went on, with a flash of the strange intensity that she sometimes displays.

‘But you
do
love her?’

‘Oh yes.’ She clapped her hand to her chest with relief. ‘More than I ever imagined I would – I love her more and more each day.’ She gazed at Grace. ‘It’s a miracle.’

‘It is.’ I stroked Milly’s cheek. ‘But although I don’t for a second regret having her, at the same time I do feel … sad.’

‘Why’s that?’ Jenny asked softly.

‘Because Milly’s this living, breathing piece of a man I loved and hoped to live with, but who doesn’t love me in return, or want to live with me.’ My throat ached. ‘Even though I’ve had his child.’ I felt a tear slide down my face, then seep into the corner of my mouth with a salty tang.

Jenny came and sat next to me. ‘I can understand that,’ she said softly, as she handed me a tissue. ‘But maybe as your relationship with Milly grows you’ll feel so happy that any regrets about not being with her father will fade.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping.’ I sniffed. ‘But they might actually get worse – as she becomes more like him, or starts asking me about him as she gets older. That won’t be easy.’

Jenny’s expression darkened. ‘No.’ She sighed. ‘That won’t be.’ She passed me my tea. The mug was stamped with ‘Behind Every Successful Woman Is Herself!!’ in large pink letters. ‘And have you heard from him?’

I shook my head. ‘But if he does get in touch, I’ve decided that I will want him to see Milly – however painful it is for me. I don’t feel I can deny that to either of them.’

Jenny shifted uncomfortably before returning to her chair. ‘Well … in your situation that’s probably right.’

I felt suddenly emboldened to ask her a personal question. ‘Do you think you’ll see Grace’s dad?’ Perhaps she’d softened her position since having the baby.

‘No,’ she replied firmly. I heard her inhale deeply, as if steadying herself. ‘As I’ve said before, he’s not on the scene …’

‘But will he help you financially?’

‘Oh no.’ She seemed to shudder with distaste. ‘And I wouldn’t want that even if –’ she looked out of the window – ‘if things were … different.’ She sipped her tea. Her mug bore the slogan ‘I Think, Therefore I’m Single’. ‘And how’s your maternity nurse?’ she went on, keen to change the subject.

‘She’s wonderful.’ I dabbed at Milly’s mouth with my muslin. ‘I wish she could stay for ever.’

‘But you’ll be fine on your own,’ Jenny said as she swatted a fly away from the Moses basket. ‘Babies sleep so much that you can still get a lot done. I’ve been able to work quite a bit since Grace was born – I even managed to write half an essay yesterday for my counselling course.’

I put down my cup. ‘But you’ve had some help too, I guess. From your mum?’

Jenny gave me a wintry smile. ‘I wish…’

‘Oh. I … thought she might be helping you.’

‘Well, it would be normal to think that, but she and my dad haven’t even been to see us.’ Grace began to stir, so Jenny picked her up and unbuttoned her shirt.