Why is it that when I know I have to be suited and booted and on parade I fall in through my flat door at four in the morning, having popped out for a quick drink nine hours earlier? It was innocent enough. I’d spent the week effectively ignoring all the things I had to do while spending hours on the things I didn’t. Despite having long chats with my parents about my next move, I managed to forget to make any of the calls I had to until I was in the middle of a yoga class, in the cinema, or it was three o’clock in the morning. I’d lie awake having lengthy rehearsals of what I would say when I called the recruitment agency but in the morning I’d have a boiled egg, make some coffee and spend a happy four hours listening to music and clearing out my wardrobe. Procrastination is an art I have clearly mastered.
But then on Friday evening a girl I used to work with sent me a text message saying she was in the area. We agreed to meet up in my local pub for a speedy catch up. I would have ducked it, although I liked the girl very much, because she was closer to the work drama than I cared to go at present. However, she told me she was meeting friends for dinner, which meant we couldn’t get stuck into a long debate about my ex-boss, and also, she had moved to another chambers. It was to be one quick drink before going home to think pure thoughts about renouncing the devil at the twins’ christening the following morning. I had a shandy, for heaven’s sake. What trouble could a shandy get me into? Less and less lemonade, that’s what. I am a weak-willed woman with a terrible desire to flout responsibility—except, of course, that’s only half the story. Because I long for responsibility too. I long to say, “Sorry, can’t find a babysitter. See you in seventeen years.”
I should have never left my flat because after a few more pints, and a great deal of gossip, it seemed like a good idea to make my ex-colleague’s friends come to where we were. Then it seemed like crisps were as good as anything for dinner. And then the bell tolled and someone suggested a sweaty disco club round the corner that I didn’t even know existed. And then, of course, tequila…
Most civilized christenings are at three o’clock in the afternoon. Thus the replete and fully rested child is more likely to reflect the success of their exceptionally natural, gifted parents and gurgle perfectly through the service. It also gives the godparents, who tend to be a breed apart, time to recover from their night out. But Helen and Neil opted for the eleven o’clock service, followed by a fully catered-for champagne brunch back at their enormous house. I woke the morning after my “quick drink,” pulled the eyepatch off one eye and squinted at the clock through caked-on mascara. I pressed “snooze” one more time, knowing I was getting dangerously close to cutting down even my own speedy personal record for scrubbing up to an unacceptable panic. I went over my outfit in my head. My hair reeked of tobacco, but I didn’t have time to wash and dry it. I wondered whether Febreeze might work. Maybe a heavily scented hat was a better option. I possessed a particularly fetching trilby that I purchased off eBay which would hold the odor in nicely, but it meant a quick rethink on the part of the wardrobe. Trouser suit. High boots. Airy, fairy, floaty godmother look was out, gangsta-rap, hip-hop queen was in. The alarm buzzed again. Surely twenty minutes hadn’t passed already?
Full-fat Coke and tinted extra moisturizing cream with an SPF of twenty-five were the first items I lined up for my repair kit. I took the Coke into the shower and coated my boozy skin with extract of grapefruit, wearing a plastic shower cap so watertight that it left unsightly indentations along my hairline, like my own personal stigmata. More scented body cream, hairbrush, no make-up—make-up, more scent, fabulous boots, bag and hat and I was ready to walk into the hallowed portals of St. John’s Church perched on top of the hill that Ladbroke Road climbs. Claudia could be the good godmother. I would be the godmother that made the grandmothers’ eyes roll and the grandfathers revert to their twenty-five-year-old selves. I would be the ying to Claudia’s yang. I didn’t know who the godfathers were. Friends of Neil’s, I presumed, so I had already dismissed them.
My taxi arrived outside the church just as Neil’s ochre-colored Range Rover Sport pulled up behind. I paid, then turned to see Helen, looking incredibly glamorous, emerge from the back. She was wearing a very tailored white suit with a tight pencil skirt and staggeringly high “nude” heels. Her dark skin glowed, her hair was pulled back and hung in one long thick furling strand down her back. Her bold make-up accentuated the tapering of her wide eyes. The only jewelry she wore was a diamond cross and her diamond wedding ring. The haggard creature I’d seen was gone. She looked incredibly beautiful. The transformation was hard to take in. She smiled at me as someone handed her a bundle of lace that I took to be one of her sons. Neil took the other bundle. He looked fit to burst and it reminded me sharply that despite my own prejudices towards the man, no one really knows what goes on in the privacy of a marriage. It was a secret society that boasted only two members. It should not be judged on the snippets of information that landed at the feet of the non-members, or second-guessed by the uninitiated. Neil and Helen smiled at each other and I stepped proudly into line behind them, ready to become godmother once more. Twice more. Four times more. Tick. Tock.
Claudia was already inside the church, chatting to a portly woman clutching a stack of hymn books. I could see Al’s bald pate hiding behind a rather unwieldy, old-fashioned video recorder, taping it all for posterity. I waved at some people I recognized, and then realized seconds later that I was waving at the cast of a sitcom that Neil had been in, and lowered my hand. I looked away and smiled at a pillar. I was trying so hard not to feel awkward or out of place. Maybe I shouldn’t have dressed like Michael Jackson.
“You look fabulous,” said Claudia, grabbing my arm.
“No, I don’t,” I replied. “But I appreciate the lie.”
“You do,” she insisted. “Why is it so hard to get you to accept a compliment?”
“I only got to bed a few hours ago.”
“Now you mention it, there is a vague whiff of the brewery about you.”
“Compliment, you say…I hoped I’d covered most of it with grapefruit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m pregnant. I have the nose of a hound. No one else will notice. Was it a fun night?”
“Very. I met a girl from work—”
Claudia grabbed me aside. “Oh my God. And…?”
I exhaled. “He’s gone. In fact, he went mad after I left. He’s been committed!”
Claudia’s mouth dropped open.
“I know. Complete breakdown. It wasn’t really anything to do with me.” I felt an odd sensation saying that. Relief. Disbelief. And a terrible sadness and anger because if it hadn’t been anything to do with me, why had he chosen to follow me home? To call me during the night; stand over my desk and watch me work; ostracize me from my colleagues by favoring everything I did. Then throw an enormous boulder in the middle of my career path. If it had nothing to do with me, why was my life upended, on hold? “Turns out he’s got some mad compulsive thing going on; it could have manifested itself as pencil shavings collection or avoiding cracks in the pavement. My friend didn’t really know the details. They’re trying to keep it hush-hush, but according to someone else in another chambers, the wife had him committed.”
“Something many wives might envy.”
“Not you.”
Claudia smiled but carried on patting my arm reassuringly. “Seriously, you must be so relieved.”
“I’m relieved because it proves that I didn’t invent all of this.”
“Come on, why would you?”
To make my life more interesting, I wanted to say. I paused, “Because I was bored at work?”
Claudia ran her hand up and down my arm. “No, hon, that was real.” If there was a silent subliminal message in her reply, I chose to ignore it and my first answer. Just in case.
Al came up and put his arm around his wife’s waist. Claudia beamed up at him. Al was slimmer in build than Ben. And obviously had much less hair. But there were similarities too. They both had an easy charm, and were men of the deepest integrity. Al spoke softly and listened to others, which was why Helen adored him as well. Hell, we all adored Al. He was fundamentally a kind man, and they seemed hard to come by. He smiled back at his glowing wife and held the smile until she was distracted by the organist, pumping up the pedals, then I saw his expression change. The look we exchanged was enough. He knew I knew, I now knew he knew I knew, and we were both terrified. Claudia’s attention returned to us and the moment passed.
“So, Tessa, are you ready to welcome Jesus into your heart?” Al said, leaning over for a kiss.
“Unmarried, skilled and willing to provide food—you bet,” I said.
“I thought he was married, wore dresses and had a penchant for prostitutes,” Al replied, before being poked in the ribs by his wife. “Or was he married to a prostitute?”
“Al, we are in a church!” said Claudia, raising her eyes to the heavens.
“The dress thing I could probably overlook, but married men are out.”
“Do you think monogamy and monotheism are part of the same package?” asked Al, tilting his head to one side.
“Alexander Ward, are you suggesting Jesus could have taken a second wife?”
“Shh,” said Claudia.
I giggled. “I think Claudia thinks we are getting dangerously close to blaspheming.”
“No,” said Claudia, beaming broadly. “You are blaspheming. Ah, Reverend Larkin, may I introduce you to Tessa King, the other godmother.”
I turned to see a handsome man in a dog collar smiling at me. “Of course, the one who couldn’t make it to our little pre-christening chat.”
I searched my brain for a reason why I hadn’t wanted to have a tête-à-tête with this man. Oh yes. I am not a Christian and currently see organized religion as an impediment to social inclusion and world peace. I don’t have a problem with God, you understand. I have a problem with what is done in His name. Any of His names. Is it hypocritical of me to accept the role of godmother, therefore? I have had this debate with myself numerous times and the answer I’ve conveniently come up with is no. Slight of word, an extra vowel here and there, and religious declarations are easily transformed into sensible moral codes of conduct that I’ve been happy to verbalize. God becomes Good, and I’m happy to welcome good into my heart. Renouncing evil is a skill I’m honing. At Caspar’s christening I opted for sneezes instead of Jesus, which didn’t work so well because I got the giggles; I don’t think Fran and Nick minded. The day they were married and christened their son was a day of incessant laughter. We were playing at being grown-ups. Well, I was.
“Claudia tells me you are a bit of a pro at the godmother thing, so you’ve probably heard it all before.”
I smiled at the vicar. He was being nice, but his words had a familiar sting about them that I was keen to ignore.
“A refresher course over a pint would probably be useful,” I replied.
The vicar laughed.
Claudia laughed.
“You’re terrible, Muriel,” she whispered into my ear, as we watched him go.
She was wrong, I wasn’t terrible. I felt terrible. I didn’t want to be a vamp, a predator, a woman with loose morals. I wasn’t really like that—couldn’t they see? I was simply reverting to type, putting on a show, being what they expected me to be. I didn’t want to be a professional godmother. I wanted to be me. But who was that? Just as I got a handle on her, she seemed to change.
I must have frowned because Claudia looked concerned.
“You all right with this?” she asked.
I nodded like Churchill. Not the statesman. The nodding dog.
“Remember,” said Claudia, “I know how you feel.”
That was true. We had both done a fair few christenings; this was only the first time she’d done one pregnant.
I kissed her cheek. “Right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Claudia took my arm and together we walked up the aisle to take our place in the second pew.
A lot of my single friends find weddings hard. Another brazen reminder of what they have failed to achieve: to find someone to love them. I don’t. I actually love a good wedding so long as you know the people getting married really well. The trick is avoiding the weddings of people you don’t know that well but are invited to unexpectedly. I went to a few of those, thinking that venturing into new pastures may yield alternative and exciting crops. It was not to be. My dining companions were either gay, prepubescent, or sat to the right of Genghis Khan. So I stopped accepting those invitations. They are also cripplingly expensive.
Weddings of friends I find easy. I go with no expectations other than to have fun with my mates. Christenings, however, are different. At weddings you are only one step behind. Something that could be rectified by the end of the evening.
Failing that, possibly by the end of the month because no one ever knows when they are going to meet “the one” or “someone,” at any rate. At christenings it is all too clear that you are two steps behind, and suddenly the one in the white dress getting all the attention is toothless and dribbling and reminding you that babies take time to cook, time to make and you still haven’t found someone to make them with and the one thing you don’t have is time. I lowered my head and pretended to pray, which felt largely like praying. Keep my mother strong. My father alive. My friends safe. My godchildren happy. And me? What did I pray for me? I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted children, God, not more Godchildren.
“Hey, Tessa, shift it.” It was Neil. “This is David and Michael.” I looked up at the godfathers. We all shook hands. David did not have a ring on his finger, but there was a chalky watermark on the left shoulder of his jacket that looked distinctly like dried spittle to me. Sure enough, moments later, a small child ran up to him and passed him a plastic train, then ran away again to a woman holding a baby. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Michael, I recognized from the world of comedy but couldn’t quite place.
“Congratulations on The Pen, I loved it,” said Claudia gushing at Michael. Ah yes, it was all coming back to me. The Pen was a very successful series that Neil had had a bit part on. Michael wrote it. I think it won lots of awards. “The world is yours for the taking now, I should think,” said Claudia. “It was absolutely brilliant.”
“My girlfriend is away filming,” he replied. “Otherwise she’d be here.”
Claudia looked perplexed. “Right,” she said, and looked at me to see whether she’d misheard. She hadn’t.
“But yes, things are going well for us,” he continued, then turned back to David, the other godfather. The organ began to play.
“Welcome to my world,” I whispered in her ear.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not wearing your wedding ring.”
Claudia glanced down at her hand. “So? It’s at the jeweler’s.”
“He needed to mention that he was attached, just to make sure there were no misunderstandings.”
Claudia frowned again. Bless her, she’d been out of the game for a long time. “Misunderstandings about what?”
“About marrying you and siring your child.”
“But I was only complimenting him on the show,” she whispered furiously over the Mozart.
“You are a woman of a certain age, with no ring on your finger, and he is male and therefore in your sights as a potential sperm donor. He was simply marking out the battle lines.”
Claudia sat back against the pew. From time to time I saw her shake her head a fraction as she digested my words and his.
“But I wasn’t being remotely flirty.”
I shrugged. “You spoke.” Claudia went back to shaking her head. At one point she gave my hand a quick squeeze.
“You are very brave, Tessa,” she said, staring straight ahead.
I squeezed her hand back before letting go. Coming from the bravest woman I know that was a compliment I would take.
There are a million little reasons why you love the friends you have. When Al came to join us in the pew, he slid in next to me so I was sandwiched between him and his wife. He flung his arm over my shoulder, leaned forward and shook hands with the other two men. Claudia slid a fraction away from me so that even Al’s fingers weren’t touching her. Al wouldn’t even have noticed, but I did. And so did the comedian with the girlfriend because when we all started talking again, he happily engaged with me; he looked me in the eye, he looked at Al, but he never once glanced Claudia’s way. She lent me her buffer. It wasn’t for long. Who belonged to whom would materialize quickly enough, but for the moment I was not the social pariah, something to be feared, I was just a reasonably good-looking woman with enough social skills to make a professional comedian laugh. I did not care one bit that he graced me with his attentions, but I observed wryly how he ignored my friend. The whole episode lasted a few minutes but I learned a lot.
We sang hymns, listened to readings, heard from the Gospel. It was a major production. Then we processed back up the aisle to the stone font where water was rather unceremoniously poured from a couple of two-liter Sainsbury’s bottles into a glass bowl. The vicar went down in my estimation at that point. It’s hard to imagine that the waters of the River Jordan are flowing out of green plastic bottles, though he asked us to. The twins did not make a sound. They slept through the whole thing. Neither even grimaced when the cold water was ladled over their scalps. Since I had barely seen those boys do anything other than cry, it was amazing how easy it was to adore them when they were asleep and I felt a warm outpouring of love for them which, I am ashamed to say, I hadn’t experienced before.
Helen stood before the assorted throng as ravishing as she’d looked the day Claudia, Al and I had met her in Vietnam. I thought again what extraordinary potential Helen had had back then. Potential that was still untapped. Maybe the twins would be the making of her. Maybe she needed something to love to make her whole. Maybe Neil was a means to an end and the means were worth it.
“Do you turn to Christ as Savior?” The vicar was looking directly at me. Taken aback, I mumbled my response, conscious that if I did not believe one iota of this then I would be able to hold the vicar’s stare and stand mute.
“Do you submit to Christ?” he asked, still looking at me.
Is it just me, or are these questions getting harder? “Submit” is not a word that forms easily on my lips.
“I submit to life,” I quickly replied, swallowing the fourth word. I should have swotted up on these questions.
“Do you come to Christ, the way, the truth and the life?”
Oh dear, I could feel the rumblings of schoolgirl giggles. The involuntary flicker of muscles at the side of my mouth. Claudia knew me well enough not to look at me, but I saw Al smirk behind his video camera. I think we were fourteen when we were thrown out of the school carol concert for exploding with laughter during “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem… Absurd, I know, but it was impossible to stop laughing. I pretended to cough. The vicar looked away. He’d probably seen enough.
The catatonic babies were passed in front of the four godparents and we all made a sign of the cross over their untroubled brows. Mine was more a kiss than a cross, but the love I felt for them was beginning to feel real. After that it was easier as the service became more of a group affair and the attention was no longer on us four. We took our seats for one final hymn and the Lord’s Prayer. I had always liked the Lord’s Prayer; it made sense to me and I used to say it with gusto. But then they changed the words which I was gutted about because I’d believed them when they said it was in the words that the Lord had taught us. Well, how could it be if they’d changed them? I may have only been thirteen, but I knew when I’d been conned. I started to wonder what other liberties my religion had been taking in the name of the Lord. I’d been meaning to ask a priest for years. Maybe today would be the day.
Suddenly four trumpeters appeared. Claudia, Al and I stifled more giggles, silently agreeing that the pudding was now definitely being over-egged. One more “Thanks be to God” and, to the tune of “Oh When the Saints,” we heirs of the promise of the spirit of peace were free to go and get drunk.
Outside in the sunshine, everyone was smiling. There was a lot of milling about and calls for photos. We lined up along the cemetery wall and smiled into a dozen lenses. Still the twins slept, even through the trumpeting, which I thought was odd. Everyone said how incredibly good they were being. I watched Marguerite, Helen’s mother, approach the newly baptized twins and noticed that even Helen’s nemesis could not dim my friend’s dazzling smile. Helen was protected by layers of christening gowns, delicious baby smells and the love of her friends. Yes, I thought, giving Neil a kiss on the cheek. Maybe the means was worth it. Not for me, but for Helen. I was happy for her. I was happy for A1 and Claudia who were now entwined in each other. I glanced at my watch. Yes, I was happy, happy, happy—now, surely, it was time for a drink?
No one was making any obvious moves towards the gate, so I loitered and smiled some more.
“Tessa King,” said an accented voice I knew too well. “Are you alone?”
No, I’m standing here with my imaginary friend, what does it look like? But then Marguerite knew that. She is brutally aware of the power of words. It is her forte.
“Marguerite,” I said, smiling as I turned. “You must be very proud of your daughter today. She looks absolutely ravishing. Honestly, I think she gets more and more stunning as she gets older, and to think she only just gave birth.”
Marguerite matched my smile but I knew the scoreboard read one-all. Marguerite never appeared to pride herself in her daughter’s beauty. She never prided herself in anything Helen did. We all knew the interior design course Helen had started would come to nothing, but at least she had tried to turn her hand at something. Helen was fantastically cultured. Jetting between her warring parents, she had had the chance to visit every major art gallery in the world, most historical sites of both the modern and ancient world, and had picked up an amazing eye for beautiful things. Her house in Notting Hill was a testament to that taste. But Marguerite had slammed interior design as the playground for dizzy, rich blondes. Helen never recovered and left the course halfway through.
I studied my friend’s mother, so different from my own. Her long grey hair was plaited down her back. She wore Nicole Farhi grey cashmere trousers and matching wrap secured in place by a hunk of amber. The collar of a crisp white shirt framed her long neck. She was and always had been the epitome of elegance. Marguerite wore Farhi. It was like a signature thing with her, along with the short, rouge-noir-coated nails. She also wore heavy, dark eye makeup and could still get away with it. She was Helen, without the Chinese gene. There were many things I knew about this woman—she was vain, she was selfish, she could type 110 words a minute, she liquidized most of her food and she should never, ever have bred.
“I don’t really understand the need for all of this,” said Marguerite, her accent still carried a hint of her Alpine youth. “Of course, it’s wonderful that she has managed to have children, but did we really need the trumpeters?” She smiled conspiratorially.
I resisted the urge for a little bitch. “Nothing wrong in wanting to show off your achievements,” I said, looking over at the bundles of lace.
“Tessa, do you really think having a baby is an achievement? Anyone can do that.”
I looked over at Al and Claudia. He was standing behind her, his chin resting gently on her head, his arms wrapped around her, their four hands resting on her belly.
“Not everyone.”
Marguerite was watching Neil take slaps on the back from other small white men in dodgy suits. “You know what I’m saying. The baby bit is easy for most people. Let’s see how they do as parents. Perhaps it’s not as easy as she thinks.”
That was probably the first time I’d heard Marguerite refer to her own mothering skills, however obliquely.
“She has Rose to help her,” I replied, not letting her off that easily.
“Rose. Of course. But you know, having too much help is something she should be wary of.” She looked back at me. “You have to learn to cope by yourself in the early days or you may never be able to. I was surrounded by my ex-husband’s family, jabbering away at me in Chinese, grabbing Helen all the time; I had no idea what to do.”
Was I supposed to feel sorry for her now? No way. Not after all the years of mental torture I’d witnessed. “I think twins are a bit different. I barely see her as it is, and that’s with help. She’s completely ensconced in babyville.”
“She wanted a girl, you know. Can you imagine why?” Marguerite sucked in her cheeks. I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to go there.
“Poor girl got twin boys instead. What are we going to do with boys? They are so primeval. They have to be exercised like dogs.”
“She loves those boys,” I said.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course,” I replied, without even thinking about the question. “Don’t you? They’re your grandsons.”
She scowled. “Why do you always make everything so personal. It’s very dull.”
“Oh dear, Marguerite.” I smiled jovially, teasingly, but I was trying to claw back some ground. “Finding the notion of granny a little hard to take on board?”
“Tessa, you know you are more intelligent than that, please don’t play dumb for me. My point, which you are choosing to miss, is that maybe you only see what you want to see, what you expect to see. Helen has a husband and children, ergo she must be happy. Am I right?”
I wanted to stick my tongue out at her, but that would make it three-one to her. She looked over at her grandsons. “I don’t think life is really as simple as that,” she said. “Of course, I am pleased to have grandsons. But you are asking me to jump for joy because my daughter has managed to do what women are programmed to do. These are babies we are talking about. Babies are not very interesting, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Except to their mothers,” I said, digging again.
“There are no guarantees for that, Tessa.”
Clearly.
Marguerite went on. “What if you discover you have a child but you don’t possess the martyr gene required to enable you to give up most of yourself to the upbringing of your child at exactly the point in your life when you are in position to take the benefits of your own upbringing and do something of note? Are we lemmings? Can we not break the pre-programming? Are we not allowed to be individuals? It’s absolutely ridiculous.”
Marguerite was right about one thing. I did make it personal. I wished I didn’t, because then I could enjoy some of these debates, but I knew she was just justifying her abysmal mothering, when what she should really be saying was sorry. I think that’s all it would have taken. I don’t think Helen asked for much more.
“Great women and good mothering don’t go hand in hand,” stated Marguerite.
So that’s your excuse, I thought to myself. But I’m not as brave as I look, so kept mum.
“You and I both know that Helen didn’t have many other options left to her. What else was she going to do?”
Actually, your daughter had a great deal of potential, if only she’d been better directed.
“It figures,” I said.
“What figures?” she replied.
“All the mothers of my friends with children have told me that they love their grandchildren as much as they did their own, if not more.” I paused. “Obviously it works the other way around.”
“I know that there is a part of you that agrees with me, Tessa, whether you care to admit it or not, otherwise you wouldn’t still be single. Unless you’re another of those desperate women waiting for a man to come and take care of them?”
She thought she’d cornered me, but she was wrong.
“I think it’s more about taking care of each other.”
“Christ, Tessa, if you want something to care for, buy a pot plant. But whatever you do, don’t be a lemming. It would be such a waste.”
Marguerite left me strangely fascinated in the moss-covered stone wall. I picked at the soft green plant until she was safely back with the congregation. I knew she was mean, but sometimes I forgot that what made her such a dangerous opponent was her intelligence. With that final unwanted compliment, she’d taken the round. Now I definitely knew that I needed a drink.
The basement of Helen and Neil’s house resembled Carluccio’s deli by the time we arrived, and I was quickly soothed by fabulous chargrilled vegetables, streaks of Parma ham and a fishbowl of Gavi di Gavi. I hadn’t moved away from the buffet table when I was joined by David, my co-godparent, the one with the spittle on his jacket and the plastic train in his pocket.
“It’s Tessa, right?” he asked. I had a mouthful, so I nodded the affirmative.
“So how do you know Helen and Neil?” he asked, helping himself to food and putting it straight in his mouth. I quickly swallowed. I wanted to make this absolutely clear. “Helen is my friend, I’ve known her since I was eighteen,” I replied.
“Neil?”
“Only met him after they got engaged.”
“It was quite quick, wasn’t it?”
Four months. You’re telling me. “When you know, you know, or so they say.”
David shrugged. “So you and Helen were at school together?”
“Actually, we met in Vietnam.”
“Vietnam? I thought Helen was half-Chinese.”
“She is. We were all backpacking.”
“Helen backpacked?”
“Well, not exactly, but it wasn’t Louis Vuitton either.” He still looked unconvinced. If only they knew what she’d been like. Was still like. Underneath all the gilding. “Don’t be fooled by the Gaggenhau kitchen and Manolos. Helen was the original wild child.”
Since Helen was busy doing a convincing impersonation of Bree from Desperate Housewives, my fellow godparent did not believe me, but I really wanted him to know the Helen I knew.
“Honestly, when I first met her she was trapped in a hammock, laughing her head off because she couldn’t get out. Lysergic acid had a lot to do with it.” David smiled. I went on. “Needless to say, we all developed a mammoth crush on her, and spent the rest of the trip a happy foursome, mesmerized by the sunsets, and sampling much of the local produce.”
“By which you mean, that not sold in the market.”
“You didn’t hear this from me.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was one of the best times of my life,” I said, truthfully. I looked over at Helen and felt a pang of nostalgia. One of, or the best time, I wondered. Was that it? Was that what I was forever trying to recreate? China Beach. LSD. Freedom. All underlined by the raw pain of a broken heart that made me feel so alive? I looked around the room. Helen had moved on. That was clear enough. So had Al and Claudia. Friends once, so much more now. Just me, then. Standing alone on China Beach, always waiting for the sun to set? I looked up, lost in my own thoughts, to see Helen standing next to us.
“What are you two looking so conspiratorial about?” she said with a smile.
“Tessa here is filling me in on a few missing details about you.”
“Oh?” Helen looked at me.
“He’s exaggerating,” I said, obviously poking David in the ribs.
“What was she telling you about? Because I can top any story about me with one about her…”
“Well, there’s a challenge,” said David. “China Beach.”
I thought Helen might lose her cool, but to my relief her smile broke into a laugh.
“That’s probably all true, the bits Tessa can remember, anyway,” said Helen. “But ask old innocent here about hitching a lift on the back of a Honda Eagle in the red-light district of Aix-en-Provence and driving topless through the countryside with a saxophone player…”
I pointed at Helen. “I wasn’t alone.”
“Nor was I on China Beach.”
She turned to David. “Or when I got stuck in a mountain bar drinking schnapps and had to ski home with the pisteurs by torchlight…”
She rubbed her chin. “Or when I got chatting to a pilot and hitched a ride in his plane…”
Helen put her finger on her temple. “Or when I was in transit in Bali, on my way home from backpacking around Australia, and decided to stay after seeing a certain world-champion surfer walk towards Customs…”
“Or when I—”
“All right,” I laughed. “You win. I’m a reprobate too.”
“They say youth is wasted on the young,” said Helen. She shook her head. “But not in our case, hey, Tessa?” She kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“Sounds like you two had a bloody riot.”
“The benefits of being an heiress and a perennial student.” Helen winked at me.
“What have you studied?” David asked Helen.
“Not me. Brains over here.” Helen linked her arm through mine. “Tessa was at university, then law school. It was great for me because she got lots of holidays.”
“Lots of bloody work,” I retorted.
“That’s the amazing thing about you, you’ve always managed to do both so convincingly.” Helen turned to David. “So, David, have you ever been to Vietnam?”
He shook his head, smiling dumbly. I recognized the expression. I’d come across it a million times over. My fellow godparent had just developed a crush on the mother of his charges.
She touched him on the arm. “Well, you must. Take the kids, it’s so easy over there. And the food…” She closed her eyes a moment, reminiscing again. “We had the best time.”
I smiled too. Because we had.
“When I die, I think I’d like my ashes to be scattered on China Beach.”
“Helen! A wholly inappropriate topic of conversation at your sons’ christening!”
“It’s important,” she insisted, her expression quite serious. “You never know what’s around the corner.”
I shook my head. “China Beach will probably be like the Gold Coast by the time you pop your clogs, all casinos and girly bars.”
“OK then, any beach would do.”
“My wife comes from ridiculous aristocratic stock,” said David. “The family all hate each other, but when they die they’re all put in this huge vault whether they want to be interred or not. Personally, I like the idea of being scattered on a beach. Will I be able to? Not unless I get divorced, which I’m not planning on doing, or our kids don’t get their slice of the pie.”
“You’re joking?”
He laughed. “Some old madman made it a stipulation of the money.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
Helen smiled and made her excuses like the professional hostess that she was. We watched her flow effortlessly into another group of guests and work her magic on them. “That’s the first time I’ve really chatted to Helen,” said David. “She’s so different from what I expected.”
“Told you.”
“You just wouldn’t know it,” said David, staring after her.
“That’s because you’re a friend of Neil’s.” It came out sounding more detrimental than it was meant to. “I mean, you know, there are some things you don’t tell your husband, I guess…”
David looked back at me.
“You’re not his mystery brother, are you? God, I’m always doing things like this.”
“I didn’t know Neil had a brother.”
“No one does, that’s why he’s a mystery.”
Neil walked past with a bottle of champagne in his hand. I tried to silence David, but it was too late. I knew why Neil didn’t see his family, Helen had told me. He was embarrassed by them.
“Hey, Neil,” said David. “Is your brother here?”
“God, no,” said Neil, without stopping, though I swear I saw him bristle. “He and I are not alike. Trust me, you wouldn’t like him.”
But I’d love him. My thoughts obviously registered on my face because David smiled at me again.
“What?”
“You don’t approve of your friend’s choice of husband, do you?”
I grimaced. “No, I mean, yes…Of course I do. She’s really happy…”
“Oh, don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. To be honest, I don’t really know the bloke that well.”
“Huh?”
He leaned a bit closer. “I work at the BBC. We’ve done some things together a few times but I wouldn’t describe us as proper mates.”
“Why did he ask you to be godfather, then?” I asked, probably being a bit slow on the uptake.
David looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, we’re not doing too badly. We think they’re hoping for good gifts.”
I shook my head. “They’re pretty well off themselves, I don’t think that’s it. What do you do at the BBC?”
“Head of comedy.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Ah, indeed.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“How can you say no?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. Just when I was beginning to feel warm, happy feelings for Neil, I was reminded just how awful he was. Of all the men in the world Helen could have married, why on earth did she marry him?
“Don’t worry,” said David. “My wife is great, Al and Claudia seem really nice; we’ll just have to stick together and get horribly drunk at all their birthday parties and take it in turns to forget Christmas.”
“What about godfather number two—are we not going to be getting pissed with him?” I whispered.
“Not unless you want to spend all day talking about Michael Kramer.”
“I suspected as much.”
A woman leaned over David’s shoulder. “Hello. I don’t need to ask who you’re bitching about, do I?”
“Tessa, my wife, Ann.”
I took an involuntary step back. I didn’t want this woman to think that I was after her husband. “It’s all right,” said David. “Tessa thinks Neil is a pig too.”
I hid my face in my hands.
“David, you’re supposed to be shining the light of Jesus on the world, not slagging off your host.”
“As you can tell, Ann is a much nicer person than me,” said David.
“So nice that I came all the way over here to tell you that Sam has crapped everywhere.”
This was the moment that wife reminded husband of his familial duties and cut him from my web.
“Nice,” said David. “Excuse me, Tessa, it’s my turn.”
“Oh no you don’t. I’d prefer to get elbow-deep in baby crap than have to listen to Michael Kramer wang on about himself because he thinks I’m going to repeat everything to you and therefore you’ll give him a job.”
“Sorry.” David looked genuinely apologetic.
“I’m used to it, I just get bored when they think they’re hoodwinking me.” She turned to me. “Sorry, don’t mean to sound like a sour spare part, but it is very annoying when people only talk to you because of what your husband does.” She squared her shoulders. I liked her. “Right, I’m off.”
David said, “Where’s Luke?” He turned back to me. “Our three-year-old.”
“Trying to peel open the twins’ eyelids. I figure there are enough staff in the house to stop anything disastrous happening.” Ann took a glass of champagne from the bar. “More booze, I think. See you later,” she said, smiling at me. “I’ll be the one smelling of poo. Maybe that will ward off all ambitious comics.”
“It will definitely work on Neil,” I said.
“Not a nappy-changer?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, I hope he’s hot shit in the sack,” she said as she walked off, thankfully leaving me no need to respond. Neil was not a fantastic father and, from what Helen had told me, he was not a fantastic lover. Was he a good husband? Well, I couldn’t prove anything, but…I didn’t want to think about that. Think happy thoughts. I excused myself from David and went in search of my godsons.
I found Claudia with the twins.
“Is it normal for babies to sleep this long?” she asked me as I approached. “Shouldn’t they be fed at some point?”
“Presumably they were well fed before the service.” I glanced at my watch. It was nearly three o’clock. “Helen probably cheated and gave them meat and two veg for the first time in their lives. I remember when Billy weaned Cora, the first time she had chicken I think she slept for six hours. Her body simply shut down in order to digest the stuff.”
“You are going to be invaluable when our baby is born,” said Claudia. I sat down next to her and lifted a sleeping baby on to my lap. We had one each.
“Any idea which one is which?” I asked.
“None,” said Claudia.
The baby on my lap stretched. “It’s real,” I exclaimed, leaning over him. Sleepily, the baby opened one eye and looked at me.
“Hello, little one,” I said. “You’ve missed all the excitement.”
He yawned with one eye open, then slowly opened the other. He was still very floppy from his deep sleep but managed a gummy grin when I smiled at him. As if by magic the baby on Claudia’s lap also started to come to life. Claudia and I purred and stroked our little parcels and were rewarded with more sleepy smiles by our captive audience. I caught Helen looking over at us. She looked worried. I wanted to put her mind at rest that her little boys were fine.
“They’ve just woken up,” I mouthed, so as not to scare the babies. Helen broke away from the people she’d been talking to and hurried over. She was not smiling.
“They’re fine,” I reassured her. “The drugs have just worn off, that’s all.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”
“I’m not being serious,” I said quickly. I was just continuing the fun.
“That is a bloody stupid thing to say, Tessa.” Helen took the baby I was holding and called to the nanny to take the other. It felt to me like the child was being removed from me. He arched his back and started fussing like he had the day I’d been at their house the previous week.
“They were fine,” I said, trying to reassure Helen and make the awkwardness of the situation disappear. It didn’t work. I made it worse.
“And now they’re not,” she said. Implying it was my fault, or was I being paranoid? People had started to notice that the stars of the show, who had hitherto been largely absent, were awake. A crowd started to gather. I watched Helen’s entire physical presence change as people approached, asking to hold them. The twins started to fuss more and the one in the nanny’s arm started crying.
“Hungry,” said Helen loudly, backing away from everyone. “Won’t be long.” I watched her bolt from the room. I knew of women who got psychotically protective over their newborns, but this was ridiculous. Did Helen think I was going to contaminate her children in some way?
The following evening, back at home, in my wonderfully disgusting tracksuit, with my aching feet and liver being soothed by a pot of chamomile tea and some homemade brownies (yes, I bake), I rang Ben. I told him about my run-in with the Wicked Witch of the West, the dishy vicar and the fact that the godfather barely knew Neil and Helen.
“…then she just switched. I was holding the baby and when she saw, she just swept down and snatched it off me.”
“I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “I was kinda hoping you’d be there.”
“We got the stiff invite, but Sasha’s mate was down for the weekend, you know, Carmen and her husband…”
I did and I didn’t. That was sort of “their world” and I didn’t really belong. Except for me, all of Ben and Sasha’s friends are married. Sasha used to throw big dinners for them all; she’d ask me and a random banker from the City, but she got busier and said I didn’t appreciate her efforts, so she gave up.
“It was good until Sash and I made arses of ourselves singing a duet. Oh my God, you’ll never guess who we ran into. Guess, you’ll never guess—”
“Give me a clue,” I said.
“Blew his finger off trying to make a bomb.”
“No. That nutter, Kevin, Trevor—”
“Keith.”
I screamed. “Keith Jackson, of course! Where were you? Is he still missing a finger?”
“He’s a serious hot shot.”
“At karaoke?”
“I didn’t hear him sing.”
“Idiot. I meant did you meet him at the karaoke bar?”
“No. He’s the bloody head of ICI or something, I don’t think people like that go to karaoke bars.”
“Wow, Keith Jackson.”
“We went to a new hip restaurant first and frittered away money on expensive water. He was there too with a foxy blonde.”
“Keith Jackson and a foxy blonde?”
“I’m telling you, he’s done well for himself. He came up to our table because he recognized me. Couldn’t believe we were all still friends. He wants to meet up. I think he quite liked the idea of seeing you again.”
“Perleease. Does he still look the same?”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks. I’m not coming…” We chatted on, through the Antiques Road-show, and the news. Eventually my ear got too hot and itchy to continue talking, so I called it a night.
“Don’t worry about Helen,” said Ben. “She’s just hormonal, remember that, and don’t take it personally.”
“See you at the launch.”
“Love ya,” said Ben and ended the call.
I should have heeded Ben’s words. Instead, I lay in bed and rolled the Helen thing over and over in my head. We were fine going over old ground, but when it came to her husband and children I made her defensive and nervy. She had snatched the child out of my arms—couldn’t get more personal than that. Finally I came to the sad conclusion that she had gone through the portal and wasn’t coming back. Her children were more important than our friendship, naturally, but did that mean there was no room for our friendship at all? And if that was the case with Helen, would it be the case with Claudia and Al? Would I lose them all? I punched my pillow a couple of times; for some reason I simply couldn’t get comfortable. Normally on a Sunday night I panicked if my dry-cleaning wasn’t hanging in the wardrobe and I wasn’t in bed by nine-thirty, but I suddenly remembered that I wouldn’t be in my clean pressed suit on the tube at eight the following morning; I could sleep all day if I wished. So I pushed myself out of bed, went to the kitchen, made myself some food and lay on the sofa channel-surfing until I found a stupid movie to watch. It was two-thirty when I finally fell asleep.