-Ellie–
I guess there are times in motherhood when you just feel like giving up. When your toddler just becomes too much to bear. That it would be easier just to leave them screaming in a pushchair than try to rationalise or bribe them out of a tantrum. Not that I got that impression from Mum. Mum never seemed like she wanted to give up. Even as the last bit of life bled out of her in hospital, she was clinging on to me.
Maybe it’s a bit too early to be thinking it. When your child isn’t even born. And Leo, hello there Leo, in my belly, please don’t take it personally. I love you already. I’m very much looking forward to when you appear. But I’m thinking the whole motherhood package. The bit where there is also a father. Or at least supposed to be.
He is interested in Leo, I know. I know he is concerned about finances, as all new parents-to-be are, particularly when they’re the sole breadwinner (if we don’t count my new fictitious maybe-job in children’s publishing). I know he told me to cancel the antenatal classes, and to learn for free from the internet or get some help from the NHS. And I know he doesn’t know I didn’t cancel them. But I wish he’d been there, at the class today. I really wish he’d been there rather than being stuck in the office, again. I wish he was driving me home, rather than me coming back on this bus, alone.
Because the other couples, they seemed to enjoy it. They had a giggle when they had to snuggle up close to each other. They looked earnest when told how to breathe through the contractions. They looked indignant at the idea that the little one might reject the lovely breast at first. They did everything together. And I was alone. I told them about Will. Said he was busy. You should have brought someone else, said the course leader. Who? My mum? I doubt coffins coached down from Newcastle are welcome. Put a bit of a dampener on a course about new life. My fake mother-in-law? As if! I can hardly imagine a worse person to be your birth partner than Gillian. She’d probably steal the baby as soon as it was out. And Sophie isn’t yet found.
Although it’s Sophie, actually, who can help me through this. Through this feeling of why the fuck should I bother if Will is going to prioritise work over my ability to breathe properly. Or finances over life. Because it’s always mothers who pull you through in the end. Just like I will have to. Yes, little belly-Leo. I have to pull you through, one day. Or rather, the midwife will at first. But I’ve got to put aside my Ellie qualms and use my mummy-shield to blat away all that might harm you. That’s the mantle I need to take on. Not just yet. In a few months. I still have time. But I will do my best for our family. You, me, Will. We’ll have to assume, for now, that my best will be good enough. That I’ll become the sort of mother you see in all those antenatal videos: doting, capable and composed. And yes, Sophie, your new grandmother, my new mother(-in-law). She’ll be there to help. Even if Will’s head is somewhere else. I don’t know where. But it’s not here, with me. I hope it will come back, post-birth. Sophie might even bring it back. But if not, I’ll just have to rely on Sophie instead.
Because I’m expecting my Sophie news any minute. The first email report. From Monsieur Dufort. My own French private detective. Sounds very murky, I know. All frosted-glass doors, cigars, and cracking peanuts in cars. But actually it’s pretty slick. They’ve got a website and everything. I just filled in a form and got a free quote. Shame the actual work isn’t closer to free. Bit pricey, actually. But the way I look at it is this: I’m buying a mother. I know that as a mother I will be priceless, eventually. And so Sophie must be too. So getting her for ready money, however much of it, is a bargain. Even if she did abandon Will. But I can teach her how to be a good mother again. And I’m sure she had her reasons for leaving. Gillian was probably one of them. Oh, but seriously, I cannot devote any more brainpower to Gillian. I thought about phoning her, after the field trip, to tell her she couldn’t frighten me, and that she wasn’t going to stop me finding Will’s mum, or her own dirty little secrets. But do you know what? Let her sweat. Let her come looking for me. I’ll be armed, with my knowledge, and with a steelier weapon if necessary.
It’s not that I gave up. That’s not why I got a private detective. It’s because I know best. I know that if I’ve spent hours on the internet searching for someone and I still can’t find them, it’s because they’re not there. Not on the internet. Shocking as that sounds. It was like she didn’t want to be found, our Sophie Reigate, née Travers. Not so much as a picture on-line. However many combinations I put into Google, Sophie wasn’t there. But then, obviously, 1984 was pre-internet (at least for normal non-geek people). She never created a digital footprint. And she obviously never did enough to make herself super-famous. So as far as Google is concerned, she doesn’t exist.
But because I know best, in my pre-mum state, I realised that the internet is not the only source of knowledge. Realised that what I needed was a foot soldier. With the little snippets of knowledge I owe to Miriam, the right person, in the right place, would be able to unwrap Sophie Travers from whatever Parisian anonymity is cloaking her. And when I told him, Monsieur Dufort, about the information I had, he told me it was more than enough to go on. A teacher, about sixty, also a musician, brunette with dark red lips. And a name: Sophie Travers.
Will is going to be so pleased. It was meant to cheer him up, but now it’d be worth it just to go back to the status quo, whatever that is. Grab him back from wherever he is. Make him engage in us, as a family. There’s been a return to his tossing and turning recently, I’m afraid to say. The names he calls out vary: sometimes Sophie, sometimes Max. Once, even, the name we don’t mention. So I didn’t mention it, the next day. But it hurt, you know, that he’d say it in his sleep? He has been saying my name too, though, and little Leo’s, and the usual talk and die, hammer-type stuff. Plus Gillian and John. So it’s not exactly selective, his subconscious. But I will be listening for any more he says about that whore, the unmentionable one, from back then.
Anyway, yes, so it’s not just about happy families. It’s also a restorative. For these dreams he seems to be having. Never tells me what he’s dreamt about. Never even admits to having dreams. Says he can’t remember them. Which may well be true. Or he may be trying to protect me from whatever inner demons he is still battling. And maybe that’s right. When your little ones grow up, you’ve got to allow them to have some secrets. As long as they’re not wicked or dangerous ones. Which Will’s can’t be. Because he’s my Will. And because in his waking time he is still being so helpful with the practical things. He’s totally remastered the nursery. Done it in this really stylish monochrome effect. More stylish, frankly, than I would have thought him capable of. Much as I hate to think that Gillian had any influence on him, he must have got more from her interior design skills than just having his life redecorated. It’s all black and white, the whole room. My favourite bit is the zebra. Or rather, an interpretation of a zebra. Its stripes are a bit funny. White ones much longer than the black ones, which only go a short way down its body. But anyway, very stylish. And he cleaned up the M.C.R. crib so that’s white and gleaming, with a little black and white cat toy sitting inside it, just waiting for Leo. A lion might have been more appropriate than a cat, but I suppose it’s the same family.
The only thing that did worry me a little about the black and white was – Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, what would worry me? The piano connection. That it’s all just a shrine to Max. Nothing to do with Leo at all. But then that’s just me being silly really. Must be. Because a zebra is just a zebra, not a piano. Isn’t it?
I’m thinking like a private detective. That’s what it is. Questioning everything. Making connections. Unlike Will. He seems to question nothing. He didn’t even ask how my job interview went. So I told him it went really well, that they loved the fact I was pregnant – in fact, they wished all their new recruits were pregnant – and that they’ll probably call me back for another interview. He just nodded. Didn’t pick up on the irony at all. I don’t even think he was listening – too busy painting the zebras. There’s me, trying to give him a bit of extra hope, a bit of extra happiness, and he only has eyes for zebras. Still, they’re for Leo. Suppose it shows his dedication as a father-to-be.
Hopefully M. Dufort will see some connections. I’m paying too much for a nil return. But I doubt there’s much risk of failure. He gave me a call, earlier today, M. Dufort, to tell me I should expect to receive his report today. He said – in perfect English, hardly a hint of an accent – that I was a very lucky lady. Because there was some kind of big celebration at a local restaurant, centred around Sophie. The chef toasting her, making all sorts of speeches about her past and her future. Easy for my own private dick – and for once, I don’t mean Will – to stare at her without being observed.
So even though I’m still on the other side of the Channel, I’m getting so close now, I can feel it. Can almost feel her, Sophie, her French double-air-kiss on the cheeks as she welcomes me to the family. Or I welcome her to ours. Either way. I’ve planned my outfit. I have this really cool red, white and blue ensemble from Joules. If I wear a little beret, it will be just perfect. I’ve even started practising my French. Not that she just speaks French, of course. But it’s nice to make the effort. I’ve learnt how to say ‘Welcome to my new mother.’ “Bienvenue, ma nouvelle maman.” There’s a great pronunciation aid I found on the internet, says you pronounce it like bee y’ah ven –
But never mind that now. As the bus nears my stop, I check my phone again. And, if I’m not mistaken, here it is. An email from M. Dufort. The report. I click to open it. There’s a covering message, which I skim through. ‘I would suggest at first that my client open the picture attached to check that she is happy that the woman on whom I have reported is the correct one.’
My stop appears, and I do my usual ‘pregnant woman levering herself off seat’ routine. I waddle as fast as I can back home, go through the rigmarole of turning off alarms, washing my hands, and then – finally – I can do as suggested and open up the attachment.
And yes, there she is. The thick brown-black hair. Dyed now, maybe, but still as lustrous. The deep-red lips. A bit thinner perhaps than the ones on the photo, with lines at the edges. But unmistakably the same woman whose photo was pointed out to me in the school corridor. Sophie Travers, I’ve found you.
This time she is not just standing and staring – pouting – at the camera. She is deep in conversation with a man in a chef’s hat. A romantic conversation, maybe, because she has her hand on his forearm, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes. And on her finger, too, I see – from a rock of a ring. Her other hand is propping up her head, and she’s leaning forward. M. Dufort has caught her mid-word. The lips are pouting, maybe in some French vowel, and her skin is pulled taught over her enviable cheekbones. She looks happy, in love and relaxed. And so does the man with her, whoever he is. Max’s replacement, maybe. So she can’t have had a bad life. All I need to do is transport her life back over here and she can be happy, in love and relaxed back in the UK. A holiday, maybe, at first, but when she sees Will again, she’s sure to want to stay longer. Those Freudian or whatever tight-arsed analysts would probably say I’m looking for a new mummy for me. But I’m not. It’s all for Will. Plus I am my own new mummy – or soon will be.
I open up the report attachment itself and read through. It’s all here. I’ve got the name of the school she works at, details of a fiancé – must be the man in the picture – called Alain, and an address. And even a phone number. M. Dufort has earned his wages. What we don’t have is an explanation as to why she left. But that will come in time. Soon, we’ll all be joking about it merrily. For now, all I need to do is dial the number.
I punch it into the phone. I think at first that the line is engaged, but then I realise it’s the French dial tone. Aggressive and cold-sounding. Then a voice answers.
“Allo?”
“Sophie?”
“Oui. Qui est à l’appareil?”
“Oh, hi, Sophie. We haven’t spoken before. My name’s Ellie. I’m married to Will. Will Spears. Born Will Reigate. I believe he’s your son. I’m calling because – ”
And then I realise I am talking to myself. Because the line has gone dead.