It’s six o’clock on Monday morning when Louis wakes me up. Foggy-headed, I heave myself out of bed, leaving Matthew snoring, and tiptoe out of the room.
My little boy is almost nine months old. I haven’t returned to work. I’m not ready. Besides, when I looked into childcare costs it made little financial sense to rush back to my job. I settle him down in the sitting room with a bottle of formula and sing our song quietly, ‘Meet me in St Louis, Louis’. I gave up breastfeeding after a few weeks. I tried, but Louis cried so much, and then I became frantic with worry that either I didn’t have enough for him or that my milk wasn’t good enough. Was the alcohol in my blood affecting him? I had to stop; it was causing too much stress for both of us. I’m much happier now feeding him from a bottle. That way I’m in control and know how much milk he’s taking. I’m a good mother, I tell myself. There’s no need to feel guilty; lots of mothers don’t breastfeed. I love him, deeply. That’s what counts.
His birth is a blur.
I don’t remember getting to the hospital, but I do recall the relief of seeing Hugo. Aunt Viv had flown back from LA to visit the family a month before for Christmas, and had forced the two of us to meet. ‘What do I have to do? Knock your heads together! I lost my brother, Polly. You have a chance to make things right with Hugo.’
As Louis gulps down the bottled milk, I remember the pain, the agony of pushing and nothing happening. I hated Matthew with a passion. He had done this to my body and the miserable sod couldn’t even be bothered to show up! He’s more interested in doing up houses than me. When I’d called Matt to say the baby was on its way, his phone went to voicemail. He was in Brighton, visiting some rundown warehouse that was up for sale. Immediately I’d called Hugo. He was the only person I wanted to see.
Hours later and still no baby, I was wheeled down to theatre, papers flung in my face. I couldn’t focus on the small type; it was some three to four sides of single lines, way too much information for someone half-drunk and about to give birth. Hugo told me to sign it; it’s a consent form. I didn’t really care if I died; just get me out of this pain. I’d managed to laugh at chubby Hugo alongside me, dressed in his scrubs and plastic blue shoes. ‘I could give George Clooney a run for his money,’ he was saying, feeling for my hand. He knew I’d been drinking, I could tell, but he didn’t say a word. I’d murmured to one of the nurses that I’d been out for an early Christmas drink, that’s all.
Nine months after the birth, Hugo is renting a flat off Baker Street, close to the BBC and is still dating Rosie. ‘We love Uncle Hugo, don’t we?’ I say to Louis, rocking him in my arms. In his free time he’s been writing a blog about being blind. He’s decided he wants to raise awareness. ‘Not every blind person needs a white stick or a guide dog. I want people to understand what it means.’ It made me think back to Matt saying, ‘You can’t even see the action!’ Why didn’t I break up from him there and then?
Janey is still working at her film location company and is single again. She and I have become even closer than before. I could not have done without her support. Often she comes round in the evenings, where inevitably we stay up too late drinking and putting the world to rights. ‘Why did we open another bottle?’ she groans the following morning. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Polly. At least I only have myself to look after.’
Aunt Viv has left her American film-making boyfriend. She has moved back to London for good. The news came as a shock to me. She’d seemed, on email, so happy in LA, but now she claims the relationship had run its course. She was tired of being an extension of his life and besides none of Gareth’s films were being made. ‘I miss tea and scones. I even miss the rain and snow in spring. My travelling days are over. I want to settle down close to my family, to you and Hugo. I want to get to know Louis.’
She rents a tiny flat close to Primrose Hill. She’s met a Frenchman called Jean.
My mother visits occasionally. She’s enjoying spending time with Louis, but our relationship is strained. She tolerates Matthew, just as Hugo does, but every now and then she can’t help herself. ‘I’ve never seen that man wash up or change a nappy,’ she says. ‘What does that man do all day? When is he going to sell this wretched house in Wandsworth so the two of you can buy your own place? I’m worried he’s going to end up saddled with debt. You are going to buy somewhere soon, aren’t you, Polly? Or at least rent somewhere with more space,’ she says, gesturing to the washing drying on plastic racks in the cramped sitting room.
The Wandsworth project is finally on the market. It has taken a lot longer than predicted to finish. Six to nine months stretched to almost a year. During that time Mum and Dad were ringing regularly, banging on about the credit crunch. When I tentatively questioned him about why it was taking so long he became aggressive. He told me they’d discovered dry rot under the bath. It had spread like a virus and this setback had cost him a fortune. When I mentioned Mum’s concerns he dismissed her as a boring old nag and became defensive about the economy. Even though it’s on the market now, I’m nervous about how much cash he has haemorrhaged into this one property when we need the money ourselves, but he’s convinced he’ll get the money back with interest. ‘There are plenty of rich people out there with cash to splash: this place will be snapped up.’
Matt interrupts my thoughts when he enters the room. ‘You look pretty awful,’ is the first thing he says to me, turning on the television.
‘You wouldn’t look so great if you had to get up three times in the night.’
Matt opens the fridge, takes out the milk and drinks it straight out of the bottle. He spits it into the sink. ‘Bloody hell, Polly, it’s off.’
‘Well, I asked you to get some more on your way home last night.’
‘I’ve got a full-on day today, I’m trying to get this house sold for us and …’
‘We’re live from Canary Wharf on a dramatic day for the financial markets,’ says the news reporter.
‘You say full-on, but what are you actually doing, Matt? It’s up for sale, there’s nothing …’
‘Quiet,’ he snaps.
‘The financial news overnight was grim,’ the reporter continues. ‘Lehman Brothers, the fourth-largest US investment bank, has filed for bankruptcy.’
‘My day is pretty full-on too,’ I continue. ‘Having a baby to look after isn’t exactly a picnic.’
‘Shut up, Polly!’
‘… Merrill Lynch has agreed to be taken over by Bank of America …’
‘I mean, you could at least come home to bath Louis. You don’t have to go to the gym every night …’
‘POLLY!’ Matt is closer to the television now, waving his arm aggressively in my direction.
‘… Insurer AIG is trying to raise funds to save itself from collapse … the effect on the markets has been predictable: stocks have tumbled in value, and banking shares have been hardest hit.’
‘Oh,’ I say, finally shutting up and looking at Matt. He’s staring at the screen, the colour draining from his face.
‘The big question is,’ the reporter asks, ‘what went wrong and, crucially, who might be next?’
I jiggle Louis in my arms. ‘Matt, what does this mean?’
‘This is unbelievable,’ he mutters.
‘We can still sell the house, can’t we?’ I ask, fear lodging in my stomach. Louis wrestles in my arms. ‘It won’t affect your deal, will it?’
Matt turns the television off. ‘Of course it will! If we’re about to enter a recession people are going to be cautious, aren’t they! I’ve borrowed up to my eyeballs and if I can’t get even close to the asking price I’m screwed, Polly!’
Louis starts to cry.
‘I swear,’ he says, walking past us, ‘I don’t want to see you or hear that baby cry until I have my fucking coffee.’ He storms out of the kitchen. I shudder when I hear the door slam. I have no idea if he’s coming back. I stare at the headline band at the bottom of the television screen. ‘BREAKING NEWS,’ it flashes. ‘Lehman Brothers has crashed.’
*
Three weeks later, and I’m drying Louis after a bath. I’m so relieved to get to 6 p.m. because it’s bath-time and bed. After a quick dunk, I dress Louis in his pyjamas and read him a story, rushing to get to the end, before retreating as fast as I can into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. Our landlord called today. Matt promised he’d paid this month’s rent, but he hasn’t. He wants to be paid by the end of the week. Mum keeps on calling too, sounding increasingly desperate as she asks what the news is on the house. I stare blankly ahead. Janey is coming over later. What am I going to cook her? I open the fridge and stare at the empty shelves. I could give her … I pick up the jar … Louis’s pureed parsnip. Takeaway it is.
Janey arrives an hour later, with a bottle of wine. ‘I’ve had a shit day,’ she says on my doorstep. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask, inviting her inside.
She gestures that her head’s been cut off. ‘Given the axe. Made redundant.’
‘Oh, Janey. Oh, I’m so sorry. Let’s open this.’ I shake the bottle at her. ‘Quick.’
She follows me into the kitchen, the sink filled with pots and pans. She notices me chucking the empty bottle that I’d polished off earlier, into the black binliner. Sensing she’s shocked by the mess, I say, ‘Sorry, hectic day.’
‘Here, let me help.’
‘No! Honestly it’s not normally like this,’ I lie, pushing her away from the sink. ‘Anyway, tell me about your job.’
‘My ex-job you mean. We were all warned. Every single one of us was holding on to our chairs. It was like the gallows, Polly. In some ways it’s a relief, but what am I going to do? Oh, God,’ she groans, taking the wine gratefully.
‘You’ll find another job. Something better will turn up.’
She shrugs. ‘How’s your day been? I hope better than mine.’
I want to scream, ‘The same as the day before! Louis and I went to the park. We fed the ducks. I called a few friends to see if they were around for lunch, but everyone was busy so I came home, opened a bottle of wine and fell asleep in front of the television. ‘OK,’ is what I end up saying, not able to own up to the loneliness. ‘We went to the park.’
‘Any news on you know what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘It’s a disaster,’ I tell Janey. ‘I don’t have much left in my savings now. I don’t know how we’re going to pay the bills and the rent.’
‘Could you go back to work? I thought that was always the plan?’ she says tentatively.
‘Have you seen how much childcare costs?’
‘I’ll get a new job,’ I say, ‘when he goes to nursery.’
‘What about Matthew? Where is he?’
‘Who knows? He won’t answer my calls; he’s not interested in Louis.’
It’s a relief I can talk to Janey about Matt. I can’t be honest with anyone else, but with my best friend I don’t need to wear a mask all the time.
‘That’s not good enough. What happens if you can’t sell the bloody house?’
I refill our glasses. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’ I pick up the takeaway menus. ‘What do you fancy? Thai or Indian?’
*
‘Oh come on, stay,’ I plead with Janey after supper, opening another bottle of wine. ‘It’s only 10.30.’ I plonk myself back down on the sofa and refill our glasses.
‘I’m shattered, need an early night.’ She gets up. I push her back down.
‘Just one more! Come on, you can’t go yet.’
‘I don’t want any more. And you need to stop too,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘I’ve lost my job, Polly, and you’re … well you’re in a mess. This …’ she picks up the bottle of wine, shakes it at me, ‘isn’t always the answer.’
‘Yes it is. It solves everything,’ I slur.
‘I’m tired. I don’t want a hangover tomorrow. I need to work out what I’m going to do next and how I’m going to pay my bills, and so do you.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? You don’t listen. Nothing is fine,’ she says. ‘You and Matt can’t carry on like this. He’s useless, Polly, and you’re not coping and … look at this place. It’s a tip.’
The words are whirring around me.
‘I love going out, I love partying,’ she says, ‘you know that, but sometimes we have to take some responsibility for ourselves …’ She gets up, gathers her coat. ‘You’re drinking way too much.’ She stares at me, waiting for a response.
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
We hear Louis cry.
‘No, it’s not,’ she snaps back.
Slowly I stir myself off the sofa and stagger across the room. ‘Go then, I’ll see to him. Enjoy your early night.’
Janey grabs me by the arm. ‘Polly, where are you?’ She shakes me. ‘Where’s the old Polly? I know how hard things are but you’re seriously worrying me.’
She follows me into Louis’s bedroom. Clumsily I lift my son out of his cot and rock him from side to side. ‘Is Matt treating you OK? If things are really bad you need to talk to him. Is this why you’re drinking so much?’
I shrug. ‘I wanted one more, no big deal. If you need to go, just go.’
‘Fine.’ Janey kisses Louis goodbye. When I hear the front door shut I begin to cry, holding Louis close.
*
I hear noise. Half-asleep I feel for the light switch and see Matt, crashed out beside me, fully dressed. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Out,’ he murmurs.
‘Clearly. Where?’
‘Just out.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘Well it’s all you’re getting.’
‘I’ve been trying to call you all day.’
Matt rolls on to his other side, his back facing me. ‘Not now, Polly.’
‘Yes, now. I’m worried.’
He stands up, walks out of the room. Next I hear the bathroom tap water running.
I stand at the door, watching him splash his face with water.
‘Go back to bed,’ he says.
‘Is there any news on the house?’
‘You know there isn’t.’ He grips the edge of the sink, his head bowed.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything because you don’t talk to me. If we’re in trouble …’
‘Don’t push me, Polly.’
‘I have to know! We have a son! Why can’t you sell that house? What’s going on?’ Why, why, why?
He turns to me.
‘OK, if you want to know, I missed a couple of payments … I can’t pay the mortgage and the bank’s decided to call in the debt. Happy now?’
*
‘Well, that’s really going to help,’ he says when he finds me in the kitchen draining the last of the wine.
I feel sick with worry. All I want is to pull the duvet over my head; escape this life. ‘We’ll be homeless, you’ll be made bankrupt …’ I say. ‘It’s all one big giant mess. I should have listened to my friends, to Hugo, to Mum …’
‘Oh shut up, Polly!’ He grabs the bottle from me. ‘Who the fuck are you to criticise? Call yourself a mother? You’re nothing but a drunk.’
But I’m not listening. I’m far away. ‘We’ll be homeless …’
‘Shut up!’
‘… out on the street.’
I feel the force of his hand against my cheek.
The sting of his slap.
‘Oh, Polly, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you,’ he’s saying repeatedly, words I’d longed to hear when we first met, but now, never have I felt so desolate and alone.