Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ipswich

10th August: The night of the murder

Caroline

Eve has fallen asleep. I reach for her hair, very softly, my fingers stroking the blonde curls like lamb’s wool under my touch. Jenny gets to do this every night, I think to myself; she gets to hold Eve close and watch her grow, watch her change just a tiny bit every single day. I thought I’d do that when I was pregnant, get one of those apps that monitors the baby’s development. Your baby is the size of a walnut. Your baby is the size of a grapefruit. Little pictures on the screen.

For a few weeks after our conversation in April, I thought Callum was going to change his mind. I was overly affectionate towards him, playing the role of girlfriend at every given opportunity, not making a fuss when he was late to meet me, cooking for him in my flat on nights when he told Siobhan he was working late. He hadn’t mentioned the baby since that first evening, and yet still, my deluded mind told me that things would change, that he would come to his senses, that once he began to see clearly, he would surely realise how brilliant this baby could be. It could bring us closer, I thought, it could legitimise what we had. I let myself imagine it – just for a minute – a world where I wouldn’t have to hide Callum’s existence from my friends, where I wouldn’t have to think about his other life, and where I wouldn’t have to compete with his daughter for attention. We could get a place together, kit out a room for the baby – I’ve always thought yellow would be nice for a baby’s room – and cement our life together. He could see Emma whenever he wanted, and Siobhan – well, Siobhan would just fade into the background. Our roles would be reversed.

One Monday, I went for a blood test at Ipswich Hospital. I was alone – of course – but my plan was to show Callum the result when I got back. I knew – I knew – that once he saw the official reality of what had happened, once he saw the reality of what we had made together, he would realise how much there was to be gained by us having this child. I wasn’t going to find out in advance whether it was a girl or a boy, I thought to myself on the way to the hospital; I wasn’t going to find out because I wanted it to be a surprise. Secretly, though, I had always longed for a girl – a little girl that would have my hair and his eyes. I’ve always liked the name Tabitha.

‘First time?’ the nurse said, drawing the blood, and I’d nodded, trying not to wince at the sharp sting of the needle.

‘Where’s Dad today?’ she said. She had a nice accent – Northern, comforting, and I warmed to her immediately.

‘Oh, he couldn’t make it,’ I said, and I thought I caught a flicker of pity cross her features so I quickly followed this up with a lie: ‘He’s picking me up afterwards, though. We’re going out for a nice dinner to celebrate!’

‘Oh!’ she said, looking relieved and immediately perking up. ‘Lucky you, pet. That sounds great.’

I lay back, feeling much more comfortable as she bustled about with the paperwork.

‘All done!’ she said cheerily after a few minutes, ‘we’ll see you soon, Ms Harvey.’ On my way out, she handed me a pack of notes, all the information I’d need for my first twelve-week scan, and gave me a little pat on the shoulder. For some reason, her kindness had made me want to cry. I have fooled you, I thought to myself, I’ve fooled you into thinking I really am the person I want to be.

The ultimatum came that night, in my apartment. Callum wasn’t one for beating about the bush; he was a direct, to-the-point person, and when we first met it was one of the quantities I most admired about him. I’ve never been particularly decisive.

‘Caroline,’ he said, ‘I can’t stay with you if you keep this baby.’ He delivered the words with an earnest look in his eye, as though it was a fact rather than a decision over which he did of course have full control. His words stopped me in my tracks, made my heart sink like a stone.

He came closer to me, to where I was sitting on the sofa, a blanket over my knees, playing at being a normal mother-to-be, taking care of myself even though the pregnancy was in such fledgling, early stages.

‘You do understand,’ he said softly, ‘I can’t do it to Emma.’ He’d paused. ‘I know what I’m asking of you is hard,’ he told me, as if we were talking about a tricky crossword puzzle rather than a life-altering decision. For some reason, Jenny’s words floated into my head. Misogynist, noun: a person who dislikes, despises or is strongly prejudiced against women.

I’d stared at him, almost uncomprehending, and he’d sat down beside me, put a hand on my legs. I felt icy cold even though I had the blanket on, as though I’d been submerged in water.

‘I’ve got something to suggest to you,’ he carried on, ‘an offer, of sorts. To show you how much I care. How much this means to me.’

I could see his lips moving but I was already struggling to focus on what he was saying. Already my mind was spinning into a world of horrible imaginings – a world in which Callum left me alone in the flat, pregnant and unloved. A world in which I faced the humiliation that would bring, and the hardship of bringing up a child whose father refused to acknowledge its existence.

Suddenly, his face was right beside mine, his lips next to my ear. I could feel his breath, warm and sweet.

‘If you’ll do this for me, Caro, I’ll leave Siobhan. I mean it. We can be together, a proper couple. No more lying, no more sneaking around.’ He’d paused. ‘But I can’t give you a baby. I can’t do that to Emma. Another child – it would break her heart. She’d feel as though she was being replaced.’

I stared at him, not saying anything. Gently, he kissed the side of my face, trailed little kisses towards my lips.

‘Think about it,’ he whispered. ‘I know I’m asking a lot of you. But I’ll do it, I’ll leave Siobhan. If you’re prepared to be reasonable about the baby.’

He pulled back a little and smiled at me, his head tipped slightly to one side as if everything he was saying was reasonable, as though it would be the rational thing to do. My heart was thudding. For over a year, all I had wanted was for him to leave Siobhan – I had asked him to, I had even, one particularly sad night, begged him to. And now here he was, offering it to me on a plate.

‘I’d still want to see Emma,’ he carried on, ‘of course. But Siobhan and I could work something out.’ He shook his head. ‘They’d never forgive me for having another child, but this way… well, this way we could be happy. Really happy. Just the two of us.’ He kissed me again, this time on the lips. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Caro? We could go on a mini-break, have some time together, figure out how it’s all going to work.’

I felt vulnerable, unmasked by my own wanting. Of course I wanted us to be together. Us being together would catapult me into the world of coupledom, of legitimacy – I wouldn’t have to spend weekends alone in the flat whilst my friends and their husbands cosied up with boxsets, I wouldn’t always have to be the odd one out at parties. But could I sacrifice a child? Give up the thought of ever being a parent?

As if he could read my mind, Callum started speaking again. ‘After a while,’ he said, ‘after a while, who knows? Emma might come to see you as a mother figure too. She and Siobhan aren’t that close. It’s me she’s closest to. And as long as she knew nothing was changing between she and I, as long as she knew my attention wasn’t going to go to a newborn, well…’ He tailed off. ‘She’d be OK with it.’ He nodded, as though reassuring himself. ‘She might even be happy for me.’

On the day I had the abortion, I was wearing loose, pyjama-like clothes and I had never wanted a mother so badly. My own mother died when I was sixteen, so you’d think by now I would be used to this strange, untethered state of existence, and usually I am, but on the day of the abortion I wanted nothing more than to have her back. I closed my eyes after it was over, and let my head fall back against the seat of Callum’s car. Neither of us spoke at first – I didn’t feel up to it – but after about ten minutes he began to talk. His words tumbled out of his mouth, faster than I’d seen him speak before; reams and reams of justification. As we pulled up outside my flat, he looked at me, and just for a minute I thought I saw a flash of guilt. But I was so pathetic, so hopeful, that when he said he’d come inside, and tenderly helped me out of the car, I was lost once again.

At least I’ll have Callum, I remember thinking to myself as I leaned on him, as we walked to my flat, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d somehow made a bargain with the devil. A silly phrase, really. But that’s what it felt like.