The Mistress's Revenge (31 page)

I laughed so hard my face was wet with tears.

Daniel looked at me for a while, convulsing on the sofa, just staring, without saying anything, and then he went to bed.

I’m still laughing now.

I
’ve been checking Facebook again. Well, when I say again that makes it sound like I’ve made several separate checks, whereas I suppose it’s more like one continuous one. I usually have my screen set to
Susan’s page, although since you’ve been away, there hasn’t been so much going on so I tend to flit between hers and Emily’s.

I see Liam has put the photos from the party up on Facebook already. I can’t say I was particularly looking forward to seeing them but there aren’t any where I’m doing anything particularly embarrassing. Perhaps he took those ones out. He comes across as quite a sensitive sort. I wonder where he gets that from. Or perhaps I wasn’t so embarrassing after all. Sometimes I do think Daniel might be exaggerating it. I’d know, wouldn’t I, if I’d been that bad?

There are lots of pictures of people I don’t remember at all, which I suppose isn’t that surprising, and a whole series taken at the church earlier which are just divine.

You do take a good photo, don’t you, Clive. And it’s lovely the way poor Susan’s so natural in front of the camera. She really doesn’t care, does she? It’s so refreshing. And really what is the big deal about an extra chin—it’s personality that counts, isn’t it?

I simply adore that photo of the four of you—you, Susan, Liam, and Emily, standing outside the church, white confetti scattered like dandruff on your shoulders and at your feet. You are standing between Susan and Emily, an arm around both of them, with Liam on the far end, and you’re all leaning slightly toward Emily, who as usual has her hand on her bump, obviously saying something about the baby. There’s such energy in that photo, four adults so intent on one unborn child. Liam and Susan are laughing, their smiles betraying a strong family resemblance, but you have a slightly different expression as if you’re surveying the scene from one step back and though you’re smiling, it’s a much smugger, more contained smile, as if quietly taking credit for all of it—the wonderful wife, the handsome son, the fecund daughter about to produce the beloved grandchild. All of it your doing, your unmerited reward.

With all eyes in the photograph fixed on Emily’s neat bump, my attention also keeps returning there, to this unformed being that will be the icing on your cake—the cake that you managed to both have and eat (clever, clever Clive).

I know you, Clive, I know what is going through your head. I know the bargains you will have made with God, that you will turn over a new leaf, make your family proud, be a shining example for this blob of ever-dividing cells that calls itself a baby. Who knows, you might even believe some of them.

The new baby is a new beginning for you, the trapdoor into a future fizzing with promise. I like to imagine the type of modern grandparents you and Susan will make—flying in early from important work assignments in Florida and Spain and South Africa so as not to miss the baby’s birthday and juggling recording schedules and lucrative catering accounts in order to babysit for the day while the Sacred Vessel goes out. You’ll probably turn one of the rooms in your lovely St. John’s Wood home into a nursery and the baby will quickly get into the habit of staying with you one night a week to give Emily and the bland barrister some time to themselves. You’ll hate being called Grandad I know, so you’ll insist on “Clive” or some cute customized title like “Pappy.”

You’ve always told me how much you regret the time you spent building up your career while the children were young, missing out on most of their proudest milestones in pursuit of the next big break. “You must make the most of this time you have with your kids,” you’d tell me, your eyes the color of rotting algae, burning with benevolent conviction. “It’s such a cliché to say it, but you’ll never get this chance again.”

The new baby will give you an opportunity to right the wrongs of the past. You’ll smother it in attention and baby talc, gasping gratifyingly at every tiny step forward, every new food tasted, every inch grown. You and Susan will set up a savings account for it from birth and add generously at birthdays and Christmases. You’ll hold a christening party in your garden and take it on holidays to your new beach house in Croatia. You’ll shock yourself with how much you love that child, channeling into it all that redundant passion you used to have for me.

You want to know something silly? I’m jealous of that blob, with its jelly fingers and free-floating toes. I’m jealous of the way it’s so
protected and shielded from everything that could go wrong. I’m jealous of the way you’re all waiting so impatiently for it to arrive. I’m jealous of the unconditional love that awaits it. Is it wrong to be jealous of an unborn child? I don’t really think so. I don’t see how it’s possible not to be jealous of the unborn. Especially this unborn. Especially your unborn.

Who wouldn’t want to be born into a family like yours? Who wouldn’t want cool Uncle Liam and straight-talking Grandma Susan (not for her the vanity about titles)? Who wouldn’t want a mum who’ll pass seamlessly from being the World’s First Pregnant Woman to the World’s First New Mother, making restaurant owners clear a table in the quietest corner for her sleeping offspring and affixing one of those ridiculous
BABY ON BOARD
notices to the back window of her MINI Cooper (is it only me who entertains an irrational urge to press down on the accelerator and slam into the backs of cars bearing that arrogant yellow diamond? Do people really imagine the driver behind will think “Well, I was considering rear-ending that MINI Cooper, but that sign has given me second thoughts”?).

Once I thought I might be part of your family, your wonderful, high-achieving, post-theater-drinks-and-a-bite-to-eat-at-Joe Allen’s-style family. Now that blobby, unformed, floating mass that calls itself a baby will be taking my place, sliming its jelly-and-blood-streaked way into your honeyed, moneyed lives. Is that crazy?

I don’t think so.

I
’m not feeling so good today.

I’ve popped a couple of pills, but I’m not getting that surge of energy I’ve come to rely on. My hands have started shaking again. I’m holding my left hand in front of my face right now and it’s as if it’s vibrating. I can’t stop staring at it.

It’s not really surprising I’m in a state though. After crawling into bed when it was getting light this morning, I was shaken roughly awake by Tilly.

“Mum. Wake UP!”

You know, Tilly has to work on her people skills. She really does.

“Where’s the thing for Jamie?”

I’m not my best first thing in the morning these days. I just blinked at Tilly, not having the faintest clue what she was talking about, or why she was using that horrible hissing tone.

“Jamie’s birthday present. Where is it?”

Well, you can imagine I was a little bit taken aback, particularly with the Xanax still coursing around my system, rendering me partially paralyzed.

“You’ve got the wrong day,” I told her. “It’s tomorrow.”

But even as I was speaking, I was wondering whether tomorrow might not actually be today, if you see what I mean. I have been losing track of the time rather a lot recently. The days seem to be bleeding into each other like wet paint and I’m finding it hard to tell one from the other.

“You idiot!” Tilly’s face was a tight purple knot, straining against itself.

Then she disappeared and almost instantaneously her face was replaced by Daniel’s, also purple, and also not at all pleased.

“What the fuck is going on in your head, Sally?” A big splat of his spit landed on my lip and I had to literally hold my hand down under the duvet to stop myself from wiping it away. I had a feeling he might find that offensive. It might be construed as what Helen calls an incendiary gesture.

“There’s a ten-year-old boy downstairs quivering with excitement because it’s his birthday, waiting for his mum to come downstairs with his birthday present—the one he told her all about last week. How am I supposed to tell him she has forgotten all about it? Tell me that!”

Of course I felt really bad, then. I didn’t want to think about the way Jamie’s bottom lip would wobble when he realized there wasn’t any present. He’s just at that age where he’s realized it’s not “manly” to cry so he suppresses tears until his whole body resonates with them.

“I didn’t forget. I just lost track of the days.”

I have to admit it sounded pretty pathetic even as I was saying it. I will make it up to him. I really will.

When I stumbled downstairs (I’m thinking I might start sleeping in the cubbyhole. I find the stairs quite treacherous some mornings. It’s a balance thing, I think. Something blocked in my ear maybe) (blocked again. Is there a theme emerging?) I made a big fuss of Jamie and told him his present was too special to open in a rush before school and it would be waiting for him when he came home. He seemed cheered up by that, although he didn’t seem to want me to give him a birthday hug.

“It’s because your breath smells like yesterday’s dinner,” was how Tilly explained it.

Was Emily ever like that with you, I wonder? Any opportunity for a personal slight? I’m trying to empathize. I keep reminding myself about the hormones coursing around her system like migrating salmon, but that vicious streak is something I’m having trouble with.

My daughter has lost her way, that’s what the teachers said.

I wish to God she would find it again.

When Jamie had left for school with Daniel, I tried to remember what had been on the list of presents he’d told me he wanted, but nothing came into my mind. I think there might have been a bike of some sort, but I’m not completely sure and that would be a pretty expensive mistake to make, wouldn’t it? Particularly for people who are about to lose their house (I’m saying that, but you know I still don’t really believe it. Something will come up. Something always does, doesn’t it?). I wish I’d written down what Jamie said, but I thought it would just stick in my memory. I’m going to have to go out to the shops and hope something is jogged. I’m determined to make this a good birthday for him. When he comes home from school I’ll have cake and maybe a bit of decoration, and a present he’ll really love. I just have to work out what that is. I’m going to ignore the pain in my head and get dressed. I’m going to make it up to him.

I really am.

*  *  *

N
ow you’re not to panic.

Everything is going to be okay. I’ll deal with it all. As soon as I saw the entries on Emily’s Facebook page a few minutes ago, I knew something had to be done.

Georgia Hanley-Corrigan Hang on in there, babes. The baby will be fine. I’ll be round to the hospital as soon as xx.

Cassandra Wyn-Coleman Sending you healing thoughts and prayers, Em.

Flikka da Souza Piers knows the best obstetrics guy. I’m looking him up right now. Don’t let them do anything without getting a second opinion from your own expert first. Okay, sweetie?

How panic stricken you must be all the way over there in Maui, knowing this drama is going on. Emily in hospital! Some emergency with the baby! Susan must be going out of her mind with worry. Whatever has happened, poor Emily will be needing a mother figure, and with Susan so far away, I’m going to have to step in. I know which hospital she’s at, so I’m on my way over now. Hopefully it’s some puffed-up drama, but one can’t be too careful. I’ll just pop in to make sure she’s okay, and then I’ll get Jamie’s present on the way back. Don’t worry, I know you’d do the same for me. We must look out for one another, Clive. We are the same.

F
uck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck

How has it all ended up this way?

I only tried to help.

When did I become so out of synch with the rest of the world? It’s like I’m speaking a different language entirely to everyone else, and there’s no interpreter, no dictionary. When did I start getting it so wrong?

Let me just recap over the last nine hours to see if I can make sense of it all. What is it that Helen is always trying to get me to do? Oh, that’s it... bullet points. Let me bullet-point the last nine hours.

• Went to hospital

• Found Emily

• Died a million deaths

Breathe in, stomach out; breathe out, stomach in.

Okay. Let me start again.

When I looked up the hospital Emily’s friends had mentioned on Facebook I found it was in very chichi part of North West London. I arrived in a bit of a flap, I have to admit. I was so desperate to get there, you see, to be useful. I’d forgotten my oyster card and got on one of those buses where they don’t let you pay with actual money. The driver had some unintelligible accent and he kept saying “nerkash” at me, and my head was pounding and I just didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t understand,” I told him again and again, leaning my forehead up against the partition window and pushing the pound coins towards him. “NERKASH” he shouted. Eventually an elderly man in one of the front seats leaned forward. “He’s saying ‘no cash,’” he explained apologetically. “These buses take only oysters or tickets.”

The hospital itself, when I eventually got there, having had to get off the bus and buy a ticket from the machine, was a bit unprepossessing—low blocks of concrete and glass, surrounded by what seemed to be rather token trees—but inside was a different story. All that blond wood strip flooring! Those purple bucket seats! To be honest, I never realized just how different private hospitals are from NHS ones. No wonder you’ve always been such a fan of private health care!

The receptionist was very polite and didn’t seem fazed by the fact I was wearing the old Brazil T-shirt I sleep in over a pair of jeans and flip-flops. She showed me the route to the maternity ward on a neat little map of the hospital which she took from a pile on the desk in front of her. Do you know, I had the most insane craving then to admit myself to this hospital. It just seemed like the kind of place where people would take care of you and not judge you. A well-ordered place, with
little maps to get around—maybe we could all come to stay here, My daughter has lost her way. You wouldn’t lose your way in a place like this. Someone would always be available to find it for you.