~
I hear Chloe wailing in the middle of the night. When I roll over, Alex’s side of the bed is empty. As usual, he has got there first.
I get out of bed, push my feet into my slippers and grab my dressing gown from the back of the door. Then I make my way along the landing and peep in through the door to Poppy and Violet’s bedroom – now Chloe’s room – which Alex has left ajar.
He’s holding a bottle of milk in one hand and cradling our baby in the other arm and as I watch, he sits down on one of the single beds. The squalling stops as soon as Chloe’s mouth finds the teat and she starts to suck hungrily on it.
‘It looks like you’ve got it all under control again,’ I say.
Alex has got up twice with Chloe every single night since we brought her home. He hears our daughter before me, gets out of bed to go to her before me, and he feeds her and holds her far more often than I do.
But that’s about to change.
Alex looks up. ‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You go back to bed. Chloe and I can manage.’ Looking down again at our daughter, he adds, ‘Can’t we, petal?’
I wonder if he called Poppy and Violet ‘petal’, too. Probably, given that they have flowery first names. Maybe he nicknamed his ex-wife “princess” as well.
I feel a strange mixture of gratefulness and helplessness, as I often have since coming home from the maternity hospital. I’m thankful that Alex knows what to do with a newborn baby – he has been amazing – but I feel useless in comparison. He’s a great father, but his efficiency makes me feel like a bad mother.
I’m also rather jealous when I witness scenes like this because I’m reminded that Alex has been through all this before – twice – with two other daughters, and, more importantly, another wife.
‘You don’t need me, then?’ I ask, torn between staying here and going back to sleep.
‘Nope. We got it.’
As I walk away, my husband starts singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ to Chloe. How odd. I sing all the time. In the car, in the shower, while I’m cooking. But I’ve never heard Alex sing before.
The following morning, we’re up before Chloe. Alex has been on paternity leave, or so he calls it, although technically he’s not an employee, as it’s his business. But his two weeks are up and it’s back to work. When Chloe wakes up, I bring her down to the kitchen so we can keep Alex company while he eats his breakfast. I get as comfortable as possible on the wooden chair and encourage Chloe to latch on to my nipple, but she’s not having it.
‘Can’t think why she’s not mad about your boobs,’ Alex says, a cheeky grin on his face. He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of expressed milk. He runs warm water from the tap over it for a few seconds before handing it to me. Chloe stops protesting mid-scream.
‘She has certainly taken to the bottle,’ Alex jokes.
I paint a smile on my face, although I wish Chloe would take my breast. Still, with Alex back at work, we’ll have time to bond, my baby girl and me.
‘Will you cope?’ Alex asks.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, although I was just asking myself the same question.
‘You should get some light exercise. Take Chloe out in the pram for some fresh air.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s a great idea.’ We could walk to the shop in Grasmere and buy some chocolate. Alex has been making me healthy meals so that Chloe gets all the vitamins and nutrients she needs through my maternal milk, but I’m starving all the time. Silver lining: at least the pregnancy weight is falling off me. Perhaps that’s the idea.
‘Are you feeling up to having that barbecue this weekend?’
I’m keen to meet his friends, but right now I’m permanently tired and I look pretty terrible. ‘Yes,’ I say. Might be able to sneak a glass of wine. Beer. Punch. Anything with alcohol in it. It’s been so long. Ooh. Food. Grilled skewers and kebabs. Rice. Something other than quinoa and lettuce. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. I won’t be late home.’
When Alex has left, I carry Chloe upstairs to my bedroom. She falls asleep on her activity playmat on the floor while I shower with the Pet Shop Boys and Dexys Midnight Runners blaring out of my wireless speaker from Hannah’s playlist, which I’d put on my phone.
Hannah. Phone Hannah. I sent her a text with a photo when Chloe was born and she wrote back – succinctly – with her congratulations. That was a fortnight ago. And that’s the only time I’ve heard from her for well over a month now.
I stop the music on my mobile, but before I can ring Hannah, the phone rings in my hand. I stare at the caller ID in disbelief. What does he want? I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but I swipe the screen and take the call.
‘Hi, Kevin.’
There’s music playing in the background. Placebo, I think. Kevin’s favourite band. I can’t make out which song.
‘Hi, Kaitlyn. I’m just ringing to let you know the sale on the house has gone through. It’s all taken care of.’
The familiar sound of his voice and the dulcet tones of his West Country accent – the dropped h’s and lengthened a’s – instantly transport me to another place, another time. Home. I sit down on the bed, still wrapped in my towel, my hair dripping onto my shoulders.
‘Oh. Thank you, Kevin, for seeing to all that.’
Kevin always dreamt of building us our own home one day. A place with sea views. That’s one of the reasons we stayed in that house so long, even though we could easily have afforded something bigger, something better. That and the fact that with no children, we never really outgrew our place in Minehead. It might have been small, but it was big enough for the two of us.
‘There’s some paperwork to sign. I’ll have it sent to you by post.’
‘All right. Thanks.’
‘Maybe you could text me your address?’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh, and, Kaitlyn?’
‘Yes?’
An awkward silence. What’s that called? A pregnant pause. How inappropriate. Kevin breaks it.
‘Many congratulations on your wedding and the birth of your daughter. That’s wonderful news.’
‘Thank you.’
I realise I’ve thanked him three times and said very little else. I want to say so much more. I want to ask him how he is. Where he’s living now. I want to know how he found out about Chloe and if he’s OK about that. But it’s too late. Kevin has ended the call.
I put on my underwear, which gives me a few seconds to breathe normally again, and then I grab the phone again to try Hannah. I don’t expect her to answer, but I can leave her another message. I prepare it in my head as her phone rings on and on.
‘Hello, Kaitlyn.’
She sounds out of breath.
‘Hannah!’ I’m delighted to hear her voice, despite several weeks of confusion and concern. Why hasn’t she been in touch?
And then I hear it. This time I can make out the song. Without You I’m Nothing. At first I think they must be listening to the same radio station. Kevin listens to the radio all day long while he’s at work. So does Hannah. And then the penny drops like a dead weight. It’s Monday. Kevin’s day off. Hannah doesn’t work on Mondays either.
‘You’re at Kevin’s,’ I whisper. It’s not a question. But I have no idea where he lives now. I correct myself. ‘You’re with Kevin.’ Two possible meanings, both fitting.
‘I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn. We didn’t want you to know until we were sure it was … serious. And then I didn’t know how to tell you. I feel terrible about avoiding you all this time.’
We don’t talk for long – the conversation is stilted. I no longer want to tell her about Chloe. I can’t confide in her about Alex. I don’t tell her how much I’ve missed her. At the end of the call, Hannah asks if I think we can still be friends.
‘Hannah, you’ve been my best friend nearly all my life. I’ll get used to the idea.’ I’m going to need some time. But I don’t tell her that. ‘You’re right for each other, you and Kevin.’ As I say it, I realise it’s true. Hannah has always needed someone kind and dependable. Someone exactly like Kevin.
I can hear the smile in her voice as she says goodbye. I do my best to keep the tears out of mine.
I don’t want to mope around the house all day, so I decide to go for that walk. Thinking about it now, I realise there’s no pavement for at least two hundred yards if I walk from home into Grasmere as I planned. I don’t relish the idea of pushing Chloe along the road, so I change my mind about setting out by foot and decide to drive into Ambleside instead.
It’s a bit of a fiddle, but I manage to fasten the pram into the car and Chloe into the pram and then fold down the pram chassis so I can put it in the boot. I feel ridiculously proud of myself, but it doesn’t obliterate my sadness.
As I pull out of the driveway, I reason with myself. I left Kevin. That was my choice. I should be glad he’s found someone else. Shouldn’t I? Even if that someone else is my best friend. And I should be pleased for Hannah. She deserves to find a man who can make her happy. Perhaps I will be pleased for her, in time.
I start singing ‘Molly Malone’ to Chloe, even though I’m pretty certain she’s asleep and my voice sounds a bit choked. It will get Kevin and Hannah out of my head, anyway. With a jolt, I realise that my mother used to sing that song to Louisa and me. She probably sang it to Julie before us. She could carry a tune, my mum. I stop mid-verse. Oh God, I miss my mum and my twin sister.
I also miss my dad and Julie, Daniel and my nephews. I’d love to see them and for them to meet Chloe. But Alex insists that I should wait until I’ve fully recovered from giving birth before having to look after guests as well as a newborn baby.
I fight against the lump in my throat. I have to stop wallowing in self-pity. I have to be strong. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to Alex again. He only has my best interests at heart, I’m sure, but I’m feeling very cut off from my family, not to mention estranged from my best friend. I’m sure I can make him understand that I need to see someone other than him and Chloe.
And my mother-in-law. Sandy means well and she helps out a lot, but she has been round nearly every day since we brought Chloe home and it’s too much. It’s probably too much for her, too. I’m looking forward to the barbecue, sort of, but Alex’s friends don’t count, either. I want to see my family and my friends. Otherwise I’ll go mad.
Then I remember Vicky. She works in Ambleside. Maybe I could pop in to the estate agency and say hello. I sent her a text when Chloe was born with some photos. We’ve exchanged text messages on a couple of occasions since then.
When I’ve parked the car and got the pram clipped onto the chassis, I ask a shopper how to get to Swift and Taylor Properties, where Vicky works, and I find it easily enough. There are stone steps leading up to the entrance, only a few of them, but enough to make it impossible to take the pram into the estate agency. I don’t want to leave it at the bottom of the steps with Chloe in it, but she’s sound asleep and if I lift her out, she’s bound to wake up.
I tell myself no one is going to take my baby. If I stand at the top of the steps and don’t actually go into the building, I’ll be able to keep an eye on her. So, leaving her in the pram outside, I go up the steps. The automatic doors open. I stand in the doorway, turning my head from time to time to check on Chloe, but the doors start to close and then reopen. Close, open, repeat.
‘Come in, love,’ says a woman in her fifties, who is sitting at one of the four desks and peering at me over the top of her bifocals.
Reluctantly, I step into the room to allow the doors to shut behind me. I shuffle from one foot to the other, uncomfortable at the idea that Chloe is out of my sight now.
‘I … um, is Vicky here?’ I ask her.
‘Vicky?’
‘Yes, she’s a friend of mine. She works here.’
‘Vicky who, love?’
‘Er … I don’t know her other name, I’m afraid.’ Maybe there are two Vickys.
Her phone rings and she picks it up. ‘Swift and Taylor Properties. How can I help you?’ She covers the mouthpiece and, nodding in my direction, she hisses at her colleague, ‘Dennis? Can you look after this lady?’
Her colleague grunts grudgingly from his desk without taking his eyes off his computer screen. He’s the only other person in the office. The other desks are unoccupied.
I’m suddenly overcome with panic about leaving Chloe outside. ‘You’re obviously busy,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I’ll come back another time. Sorry to disturb you.’
How odd. I’m sure Vicky said Swift and Taylor Properties. She even has their name on a sticker plastered along the side of her car. I remember seeing it in the car park at the swimming pool. She said she hated that advert and used her mother’s car at weekends.
As I go back outside, it occurs to me that Vicky’s colleagues may call her Victoria, supposing that’s the unabbreviated form of her first name. Or perhaps they use ‘Miss’ and her surname. I’m about to turn around and enquire again, but then my heart stops. The pram has gone. I can hear the woman call out to me as I race down the steps shouting.
‘Chloe!’ I almost lose my footing. ‘Chloe!’
My world crumbles around me in slow motion. My chest tightens so that I can’t breathe; my eyes mist over so that I can’t see.
‘My baby!’ I cry.
‘It’s OK. She’s here with me.’ I know who it is, although she has her back to me and doesn’t turn round. I recognise her mellifluous voice. ‘I saw you through the window, so I realised this must be Chloe.’ She’s pushing the pram backwards and forwards as if to calm Chloe, although there’s no noise coming from the pram. ‘You’re so tiny,’ she coos, bending over and stroking Chloe’s cheek.
‘Hi, Vicky. It’s great to see you,’ I say, feeling stupid and trying to recover. I walk round in front of her and kiss her on the cheek. She’s wearing a cornflower blue cotton skirt and a white strappy top and looks lovely, as always. ‘You scared me!’
‘Did I? I’m sorry.’ Vicky focuses her attention back on Chloe. ‘Your baby is so beautiful.’
I smile at that. I take a peek at Chloe. Still fast asleep. I can breathe evenly and see clearly again.
‘Who does she look like?’ Vicky asks.
‘Well, she has my mouth and complexion, but the blue eyes are Alex’s. She doesn’t have his nose, thankfully, or my ginger hair!’
‘I assumed you dyed your hair! You’re so lucky!’
‘Hmm. I didn’t use to think so. I’m glad Chloe’s fair like her dad when he was little and my dad when he still had hair!’
I look down at Chloe again. She’s so pretty when she’s sleeping. ‘Your colleague didn’t seem to want to tell me where to find you.’ I nod towards the window of the estate agency.
‘Which one?’
‘The woman with the glasses. Well, the man – Dennis is it? – wasn’t much help, either, actually.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Ruth’s a dotty old bat! Harmless, but a bit overprotective. And that Dennis is a waste of space. Have you got time for a coffee?’ She pauses long enough for me to nod. ‘Wait here a tick.’
And with that she runs up the steps and disappears. For the few seconds she’s gone, I wonder if Vicky really does work here. Then I wonder if I’m the one who is dotty. Of course she works here. She’s just gone inside. And anyway, why would she say she works here if she doesn’t? The misunderstanding with Vicky’s colleague Ruth is down to me. Vicky is my friend – the only friend I’ve made since moving here – and I don’t even know her full name.
Vicky re-emerges with a plastic bag in her hand. She waves it at me and I wonder what’s in it, but I don’t dare ask.
‘I haven’t got long, I’m afraid,’ she tells me. ‘I went to a private viewing this morning and my colleagues think I should be pulling my weight this afternoon to make up for it.’ She winks conspiratorially, but I’ve missed the point.
‘What? I don’t––’
‘I think I’ve found a little house. Well, a garden flat. Near Troutbeck.’
I furrow my brows.
‘About three miles north of Windermere,’ Vicky informs me. ‘It’s perfect for me and the dogs. I’m going to put in an offer and avoid showing anyone else around it for the time being.’ She grins. ‘My mum is paying the deposit. I lost all my money when … well, that’s another story.’
‘Oh, Vicky, that sounds wonderful!’ I ask her loads of questions and she tells me all about the house as we walk along the narrow pavement side by side. Her excitement is palpable and contagious.
As she’s talking about how she’s going to decorate what to her mind has evidently already become her new home, I think about the house I used to live in with Kevin in Minehead. Some time ago, Alex offered to invest my half of the money from the sale. He mentioned something about a high-interest building society account, but I didn’t pay much attention. I’m relieved he’s happy to sort that all out for me. I’ll have to remember to text Kevin with my postal address and tell Alex the house has been sold.
Vicky stops walking and talking at the same time and I realise I’ve tuned out. I don’t seem to have missed anything important, though.
‘This café is quite nice,’ she says. ‘Will this do?’
‘It looks great,’ I say and Vicky holds the door open so that I can manoeuvre the pram inside.
Over coffee, she hands me the bag she retrieved from inside the estate agency.
‘This is for you,’ she says. ‘A present for the baby.’
I’m touched by Vicky’s thoughtfulness. I’m holding Chloe, and Vicky reaches out to take her so I can open the present. It’s beautifully wrapped and as I tear off the paper and ribbons, I can feel Vicky’s eyes on me, keen to see what I make of her gift.
It’s a baby carrier.
‘You haven’t got one already, have you? If so, we can exchange it.’
‘No. No, I haven’t got one.’ My family have sent lots of clothes and my mother-in-law bought the activity playmat. Alex and I had already bought the pram and cot. We have no end of baby paraphernalia. But I haven’t got one of these.
‘You can carry Chloe around like a baby kangaroo in a pouch,’ she says, her eyes bright, ‘and use your hands to do other things, like read a book or tidy up. A friend of mine had one and couldn’t recommend it highly enough when I asked her for advice on what to buy you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I’m very moved by all the trouble Vicky has gone to.
‘Also, I’ve found a sports centre with crèche facilities in Cockermouth. It doesn’t have a pool, but it does have a gym. It’s a bit of a trek, but I thought when you were feeling up to it, we could go?’
‘Oh, Vicky, that’s really sweet of you.’ I’m tired all the time and the last thing I feel like doing is sport, but I hear myself saying, ‘Give me a couple more weeks!’
Then I remember the barbecue.
‘Ooh. Alex is having a barbecue this weekend for some of his friends. Would you like to come?’ I ask.
Vicky looks shocked, but her tweezed eyebrows do tend to give her that expression. ‘I’m not free this weekend, I’m afraid. Sorry,’ she says. She finishes her coffee, leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, before adding, ‘I thought your husband didn’t know about me?’
‘He doesn’t. But I could tell him about you now. I’m no longer pregnant so I don’t need to meet up with you for swimming sessions behind his back.’
Vicky chuckles. ‘Oh, you should think twice about that,’ she jokes. ‘You might need an alibi one day. And anyway, I quite like being a secret.’ She winks. I’m a little disappointed she can’t come, but I’m not sure how Alex would feel about me inviting a friend round to his party without running it by him first, so it’s probably just as well.
As I stifle a yawn, I notice Vicky check her watch. I down the dregs of my coffee. Vicky is apologetic about having to rush off, but I’m feeling much better for seeing her.
By the time I get home, however, I’m utterly exhausted. I feed and change Chloe and when she falls asleep, I put her down gently in the pram, which I’d left in the hall, and wheel it into the sitting room. I lie down on the sofa with my book, planning to read a few chapters before getting the dinner ready for this evening. If I can show Alex I have a handle on everything when he comes home, there’s a good chance we’ll spend an evening without him losing his temper or me getting upset.
I immediately feel guilty for thinking along those lines. Alex has been terrific recently. In fact, there hasn’t been a cross word or a bad mood since the day Chloe came into the world. He seems to be back to his default setting. But at the same time, I’m not going to take that for granted. I’d like things to stay the way they are. Keep on top of things. Keep him happy.
Before long, though, my eyelids get heavy. Slight change of plan. Plenty of time. Right now, I’m going to take a nap.