‘It’s a beautiful day, let’s go for a drive,’ Ivan suggested one morning when Layla was barely a month old, walking into the bedroom with a tray and pulling open the curtains. The coffee and the biscuits he had bought back from a recent trip to Vienna were laid out with Polina’s signature precision.
Polina was a person whose age it was almost impossible to guess. Perhaps so many years of servitude had stripped her of any personal defining characteristics; above all else, she was Ivan’s housekeeper. And yet, Gabriela felt, it was hard to look at her without trying to catch a glimpse of the person she managed so successfully to mask.
If she had to guess, Gabriela would have placed her somewhere between her mid-thirties and late forties, though it was difficult to see her as a contemporary, able as she was to do things that, no matter what age Gabriela reached, she was doubtful she could ever master. The sort of things that women were supposed to know, not least when it came to children.
Sometimes she wondered if Polina had ever had a son or a daughter of her own. Somehow, it felt wrong to ask. Or perhaps it was the answer that she feared, the uncomfortable possibility that she’d had to abandon her own child in order to look after theirs. Whatever the truth, Gabriela was sure she could never have done this without her.
‘Go where?’ she asked Ivan, stifling a yawn.
It had been a night of a thousand feeds, all of which Ivan had been immune to as he slept through with ear plugs in the spare room, and Layla was snoozing in the bed next to Gabriela now.
He leaned down to kiss their daughter tenderly on her forehead, and Gabriela whispered, ‘Don’t, you’ll wake her.’
‘Don’t ask so many questions,’ he said. ‘Just pop on some clothes, something comfortable, and I’ll gather Layla’s things.’
‘Fine, but let me drink this first,’ she said, imagining the massage he would have booked her in for or the country walk and pub lunch he might have planned.
‘No problem, but have a shower straight after, we need to leave within the hour.’
Ivan was out in the driveway, fiddling with the car, as she stepped into the bathroom upstairs. The marble floor was warm underfoot and she caught a glimpse of her own reflection as she let the dressing gown fall to the floor.
Though Layla was still sleeping in a crib by their bed at night – a notion Ivan had initially resisted before accepting the quiet comfort of the spare room, with its king-size bed for one and plush curtains blocking out the light that would otherwise spill through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the green – her nursery was already fully prepared.
Gabriela’s stomach had turned the first time she saw it, coming home to find the cloud-themed wallpaper and matching prints above an elaborate white cot. Holding onto the doorframe for strength, she had a flash of the wooden cradle Jim and Saoirse had picked out years earlier, when Sadie was born.
‘It’s all pink.’
Ivan had studied her face for a reaction.
‘The 4D scan was pretty unequivocal. Don’t tell me, you’ve always wanted a son …’
She breathed in. ‘It’s not that.’
‘You hate it.’
‘I don’t hate it.’
‘You do. Look, we can change it …’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, kissing him gently on the mouth, pushing down the sickness that was rising inside her.
Layla screamed as Ivan strapped her into the car seat, but soon the cries settled as the engine started and they pulled out of the drive.
‘OK?’ he asked from the driver’s seat and Gabriela smiled wanly, looking out of the window at the parade of shops that were still alien and yet slowly becoming familiar to her. She was barely bold enough to walk further than the high street for fear of being spotted by some friend of Tom’s who might happen to be passing through the opposite end of London.
‘Mmm, just sleepy,’ she answered and he touched the radio, which was set to Radio 3, the sounds of Chopin enveloping her.
‘Close your eyes,’ Ivan said as they reached the traffic lights, and she let them drift shut.
Briefly, she lifted her lids again a while later, and saw fields fluttering in and out of focus as sleep overtook her once more.
‘Gabriela?’ Ivan nudged her gently and she started. Sometimes in sleep, she would forget where she was so that she would wake up expecting to see Tom’s face lying in the bed next to her.
When she half-opened her eyes, she was not in bed but pressed uncomfortably against the door of the car. As she came to she felt that they were still. Stretching, she caught a glimpse of the mobile hanging from Layla’s seat in the back.
‘We’re here,’ Ivan said.
Gabriela rubbed her eyes, only remembering she had applied mascara when she pulled her fingers away and saw a line of black.
‘Where?’ She sat straighter in her seat, recognising the low grey building even before she saw the word ‘Departures’ come into focus.
‘Jesus, what are we doing here?’
‘We’re going on a little trip.’
‘What? What are you …’
Ivan cocked his head. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he laughed.
‘But I don’t—’
‘Hey, shush …’ Layla had started to cry, the fractured build-up warning of proper tears.
Ivan opened the door and unbuckled their daughter. ‘Not you, too,’ he said, lifting her out and holding her against his chest. Moving around to the front of the car, he handed her to Gabriela.
‘I think she’s hungry.’
She was too stunned as Ivan passed their daughter into her arms to say a word. Instead, she sat back in the passenger seat, lifting her top and placing her nipple in her daughter’s mouth, which she latched onto with such force it was as though she feared it would soon be gone for ever.
‘I thought you were moving over purely to the bottle,’ Ivan said, but Gabriela was still too shocked to reply.
Once the frenzied sucking had settled into a rhythmic pull, she spoke again.
‘Ivan, I don’t understand.’
He looked up at her and smiled. ‘We’re going to Moscow.’