‘Actually, Min,’ I say, turning the invitation face down. ‘I’m not that nice.’
Chapter 3
Caz
Angie is already jammed in our usual corner at the bar of the Chelsea Potter when I arrive. The pub is packed, with people spilling out onto the street, and it takes me several minutes to elbow my way to her side. ‘That better be a double,’ I say grimly, as she hands me a gin and tonic.
She raises a pierced eyebrow as I drain it in a single gulp. ‘Tough day?’
‘Tough week, and it’s still only Thursday.’ I slide onto the stool she’s saved me and put my mobile on the bar in case Andy calls. ‘You’re not going to believe this. Tina Murdoch’s going to be my liaison on the Univest account.’
Angie whistles. ‘You’re kidding. How the fuck did she pull that off?’
‘Her career’s soared since she left us and joined Univest.’ I signal to the barman for another drink, twisting my long blonde hair up away from my face and securing it with a silver clip. ‘What I can’t get over is why Patrick’s agreed to it. After she sabotaged us on the Tetrotek ad campaign, you’d think he wouldn’t let her within a hundred metres of the building.’
Angie reaches for a bowl of pistachios. ‘If he’s on board, you’re stuck with it. Think you can work with her?’
‘Not so far. She’s nixed every idea I’ve presented, and already gone over my head to Patrick to complain. She’s insisting on bringing in a PR consultant from outside. I almost hope he takes me off the campaign and gives it to someone else.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘No, I don’t.’ I scowl at my drink. ‘I’m not going to let Tina win, but if this goes on, one of us is going to end up in a body bag.’
Tina Murdoch, my bête noire. Last time we worked together, she almost got me fired. The irony is, she’s the one who gave me my big break in advertising, promoting me to a major campaign when I was only in my first year at Whitefish. She saw herself as my mentor, and made a big show of supporting the ‘sisterhood’ and helping young women up the ladder. Then she introduced me to Andy at an RSPCA fundraiser whose campaign Whitefish had worked on – although Andy doesn’t remember that first meeting. But when Andy and I officially became an item, my relationship with Tina instantly went south. I suspect she had her eyes on him herself, but whatever it was that chapped her ass, she’s had it in for me ever since.
I haven’t even worked up a campaign pitch for Univest yet, let alone presented it, but Tina’s insisting on a written promotional plan, copy platform details, and a full budget breakdown per territory and media format, all by the end of the month. It’s impossible, and she knows it. Nolan, our Creative Director, is threatening to quit, and the rest of the creatives are on the verge of revolting. Although, as Andy dryly pointed out last night when I’d finished ranting, they’re pretty revolting at the best of times.
Angie clinks her glass to mine. ‘Fuck it. It’s nearly Friday.’
‘Yeah. Fuck it.’
She cracks open another pistachio, and tosses the shells back in the bowl. ‘You in town this weekend? There’s a great band playing at Borderline on Saturday night.’
I grimace. ‘Can’t. We’re in Brighton.’
‘Shit, again?’
‘It’s our weekend with the kids.’
‘Can’t they come up here? My sister would babysit for the night.’
‘Louise won’t let them.’ I reach across the counter for the bowl of pistachios. ‘She says they’re too young to travel up on the train on their own. It’s ridiculous. Bella’s sixteen. At her age, I was hitching to Crete.’ I sigh. ‘Mind you, there’s barely enough room to swing a cat in our flat, never mind find room for three kids. Kit has to bunk in with Tolly, and Bella ends up on the sofa with her shit all over the place. At least in Brighton, they have their own bedrooms.’
‘Christ. I don’t know how you put up with it.’
‘I don’t have a lot of choice. They’re Andy’s kids.’
Angie shoots me a look, her funky eyebrows almost disappearing into her turquoise-tipped black hair. We’ve been BFFs since our primary school days in Dagenham, and she knows me better than anyone, including Andy. We drifted apart a bit during our uni years, when I was at Bristol and she was studying fashion at St Martins, but we’ve been joined at the hip ever since I moved back to London. We couldn’t be more different; I’m ambitious and driven, whereas Angie never thinks beyond the next round of drinks. Her idea of a manicure is to hack at her nails with a Stanley knife. But she knew my mother before her accident; she understands where I’ve come from, and what I’ve had to do to get to where I am. Apart from Andy and Kit, she’s my only real family.
Angie knows kids were never part of my plan, never mind three of them. But Louise played a blinder when she got herself knocked up with Tolly. She nearly pulled it off, too.
‘Talk of the devil,’ I groan, as my mobile lights up. ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’
‘What does she want?’
‘God knows.’ My tone is light, but I feel the familiar knot of tension in my stomach. ‘It’s a bit early for her usual rant. She must have hit wine o’clock ahead of schedule.’
‘Ignore her, Caz. Let it go to voicemail.’
I’m tempted, but then the familiar guilt kicks in. Once the other woman, always the other woman. It doesn’t matter how unreasonable Louise is, or that she was the reason Andy ended their marriage, not me. Somehow, I’ll always owe her.
‘She’ll only keep calling. It’s better to let her get it out of her system. Watch my bag for me, would you?’ I push myself off my stool and head to the back of the pub, near the loos, where it’s a little quieter. ‘Hello, Louise.’
‘This is the third time I’ve called,’ Louise says sharply. ‘You need to keep your phone on. You never know what might happen.’
The band around my chest tightens. Breathe, I tell myself. ‘My phone was on—’
‘Well, never mind that now. I don’t have time to teach you how to be a good mother. I’m sure you’ve forgotten, but it’s Bella’s play on Saturday. She asked me to call and make sure Andrew is coming.’
Shit. It’d totally slipped my mind. ‘Of course we haven’t forgotten,’ I fib. ‘We’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘It’s at seven. You’ll need to get there earlier if you want good seats.’
‘Fine. We’ll be there in plenty of time.’
‘Min and I are planning to take them to The Coal Shed to celebrate afterwards,’ Louise adds. ‘A special treat, since this is her first big role.’
So much for being broke. The Coal Shed is one of the most expensive restaurants in Brighton. Louise is always nagging Andy to increase her child support, even though she works full-time herself. She seems to think we’re rolling in it. The only reason we can afford two homes is because I already had the Fulham flat long before Andy and I met. We’d never be able to afford it now. And our house in Brighton is mortgaged up to the hilt. Andy earns a good salary as INN’s Early Evening News anchor, but it’s not the silly money Louise seems to think it is. We’re talking cable, after all. What with maintenance and child support and private school fees, she takes nearly two-thirds of everything Andy earns.
It suddenly occurs to me that this is Andy’s weekend with the children anyway. I’d love nothing better than a weekend alone with Andy and Kit, but my husband would be really upset, and he’d blame me. ‘Sorry, but it’s our weekend, Louise,’ I say politely. ‘I think Andy’s already made plans to take them out to dinner.’
‘Well, he can change them, can’t he?’
‘He hasn’t seen them for two weeks,’ I point out. ‘He wants to spend some time with them.’
‘What do you care? They’re not even your children,’ Louise cries, all pretence at civility evaporating. ‘Bella is my daughter. I should be the one to take her out to dinner on her big night! She’d be spending it with both her parents if it wasn’t for you.’
‘Louise, please—’
‘I’ll call Andrew. I should have phoned him in the first place. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s the organ grinder I need to speak to, not his monkey.’
‘You do that,’ I snap, ending the call.
My stomach churns, and I taste acid at the back of my throat. It’s bad enough having to deal with Tina at work, but at least I can keep her out of my bedroom. There’s no escaping Andy’s ex-wife.
It’s been more than four years since they split up, but Louise shows no signs of moving on. If anything, she’s getting worse. The sniping, the mind games, the way she poisons Bella and Tolly against me, constantly guilt-tripping Andy – she just has to snap her fingers, and he comes running. And then there are the phone calls. Sometimes she’s sobbing down the line, begging me to let him ‘come home’ to her; other times she yells abuse until I’m the one in tears when I finally hang up the phone. She’s smart enough only to call me when she knows Andy’s at work, or away on an assignment. She knows I can’t say anything to him, or I’ll look like a jealous bitch.
And what makes it so much worse is that she’s nice as pie to my face. The other day, Andy even commented on how well we got on. After everything she did to him, to us, he still has no idea what she’s really like.
To my surprise, my eyes suddenly blur. I’m so tired of the constant fighting, the running battles over money and the children. If I’d had any idea what it was going to be like, I’d have thought twice before I ever agreed to marry Andy.
No, I wouldn’t. I’d walk over hot coals for my husband. Louise is a bitch, but I’m not going to let her get to me. I’m just tired, that’s all.
Gathering my bag from the barstool, I fish out a twenty from my wallet and put it on the bar. ‘I’m so sorry, Angie. I’m going to have to go. Louise is on the warpath, and I’d totally forgotten Bella has this play on Saturday. I’m going to have to work tonight instead, or I’ll never get everything done by Monday.’
‘Hey, not a problem.’ Angie shrugs. ‘I get it. Let’s pick up next week, yeah?’
I kiss her cheek. ‘You are a total star.’
‘I know.’ She grins. ‘That cute girl by the window in green? She’s been giving me the eye since I got here. You’re doing me a favour.’
She blows me a kiss, and I squeeze my way through the throng of people and out onto the pavement. My phone rings again before I’ve even gone ten paces.
‘Andy, I’m sorry,’ I sigh. ‘I shouldn’t have hung up on Louise. It’s just, it was so noisy in the pub, and I thought it’d be easier if—’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Heading towards the tube station. I should be home in half an hour—’
‘You were supposed to pick up Kit at five,’ Andy says tersely.
I stop still in the street. ‘You said you were getting him.’
‘I said I’d try,’ he snaps. ‘We agreed you’d collect him unless you heard otherwise, remember? And I left you a voicemail telling you I couldn’t make it. Don’t you check your messages?’
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry—’
‘I just had a call from his child-minder when I was in the middle of taping an interview, and we’re going to have to redo the whole thing. Greta says she reminded you this morning? He needed to be collected on time so she could get away to her evening class.’
‘Is he still with her?’
‘I’ve asked Lily to go round and pick him up. She’ll keep him next door with the twins until you get home.’
I feel like the worst mother in the world as I flag down a cab. ‘I really am sorry, Andy. I should’ve checked my phone. I honestly thought you were—’
‘It’s not me you need to apologise to. Greta says she can’t have him back if we’re not going to pick him up on time.’ I hear someone in the background calling his name. ‘Look, I’ve got to go and redo my interview. You’ll have to sort it out with Greta. And if she won’t take him anymore, you’ll just have to find someone else.’
Climbing into the back of the cab, I give the driver our address, staring out of the window as we head back down the King’s Road. Andy didn’t say this would never have happened on Louise’s watch, no matter how chaotic her week, but he didn’t need to. We both know that’s what he was thinking.
Chapter 4
Louise
‘You reminded Dad about tomorrow, right?’ Bella asks.
I set Tolly’s plate of spaghetti hoops in front of him, and whip Bella’s cheese on toast out from under the grill. Until I get paid at the end of the month, it’s this or baked beans. ‘I told you, darling. Dad’s out on a story all day, his phone went straight to voicemail, but I texted him and left a message with his secretary.’
Bella flops into a kitchen chair, the long black sleeves of her sweater trailing across her plate as she pokes suspiciously at her dinner. I don’t blame her for being wary: no cheese is meant to be this yellow. ‘Have we got any Worcestershire?’
I pass her the bottle. ‘You need to call Caz and tell her to remind him,’ she adds, smothering her food with sauce. ‘He’ll forget otherwise.’
‘I spoke to her yesterday, and reminded her. Dad’s not going to forget, darling.’
‘And she definitely said they were coming?’
‘She promised they’d be there.’
Bella shoots me a look. ‘You were nice to her, weren’t you, Mum?’
I hesitate. I’m civil to Andrew’s second wife when I have to be, but Andrew and I always make arrangements for the children’s weekend visits ourselves. Voluntarily picking up the phone, asking Caz to make sure my daughter’s father didn’t forget her school play, stirred dark feelings I thought I’d put behind me. I may not have been quite as civil to her as I should have been.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Can you call her again now? Just to make sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ I unplug my phone from its charger on the counter. ‘Make sure Tolly eats the sausages as well as the hoops. I’ll be back in a minute.’
I go outside and walk down to the vegetable garden, where I can be certain I won’t be overheard, and pace up and down between the broad beans, my mobile in my hand. Every time I call Caz, it feels like another surrender, the yielding of yet more precious family terrain. Asking her for her co-operation legitimises her role in the parenting of my children. But Bella needs her father to be at the play. Our divorce came at the worst possible time for her, when she was on the cusp of adolescence; every relationship she has with a man going forward will follow the template set by the one she has with Andrew. I don’t want her to grow up attention-seeking and needy because he failed her.
My fingernails dig half-moons into my palms. This woman didn’t even know my daughter for the first twelve years of her life. She broke up my son’s family before he’d even said his first word. And yet now she has a legitimate claim on them, a half-share of their precious, swift-flowing childhoods. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ve lost my husband to this woman, but the thought of her mothering my children cuts straight through to my soft underbelly.
I pull up her number, but to my relief, the call goes to voicemail, and I hang up without leaving a message. I’m still seething over the fact that Caz will be the one celebrating Bella’s big night with her, and I remind myself firmly that this isn’t about me. Andrew will be there for Bella, which is all that really matters.
When I go back inside, Bella has disappeared upstairs, leaving her plate of untouched cheese on toast on the table. Tolly is crawling around on the floor, trying to feed his sausages to Bagpuss.
‘Leave him alone,’ I scold, rescuing the cat and depositing him on the ancient, hair-covered sofa by the back door. ‘He’ll be sick if he eats those.’
‘I’ll be sick if I eat them,’ Tolly says.
‘They’re hot dogs, not sausages. You like hot dogs.’
‘No, I don’t. They look like willies.’
‘Bartholomew!’
Tolly giggles, covering his mouth with dimpled hands that have yet to lose the fat of babyhood, his brown eyes dancing with mischief. I try to hold my stern expression, but it’s impossible. Tolly scrambles to his feet and launches himself at me full throttle, and we tumble back onto the sofa, laughing, as Bagpuss leaps out of the way. My little boy snuggles into my lap and I stroke his wild mop of russet curls, filled with overwhelming love for my son. Tolly, my unexpected, glorious autumn baby, squeaking in under the wire just before I turned forty.
I’d never expected to have another child after the problems I had with my first pregnancy. I’d had two miscarriages before Bella was conceived, and then my waters broke at just thirty-five weeks. After seventy-two hours of stop-start contractions and drugs and exhortations to push, to pant, to breathe, to give it one more try, I was finally rushed into theatre for the emergency C-section I should have had two days earlier. Bella was absolutely fine, a healthy six pounds two ounces; after her initial check-up, she didn’t even have to go to the NICU. But I’d lost a lot of blood, and all that pushing and trying had all but torn me inside out. No more babies, the obstetrician warned. Not that it was likely to happen anyway.
I had a healthy, beautiful baby girl in my arms, and whenever I felt a lingering sadness at the rabble of children I’d never have, I only had to look into her deep blue eyes to be overwhelmed with gratitude for what I did have.
And then, five years ago, I skipped a period. I didn’t pay it too much attention at the time; the Post was undergoing some major restructuring – for which read redundancies – as it attempted, like every other legacy media institution, to compete with online news sources, and what with everything else that was going on in my life, my stress levels were through the roof. But then I’d missed another cycle, and suddenly I couldn’t stand the smell of eggs. My silhouette went from Olive Oyl to Jessica Rabbit overnight. I had been thrown a miraculous lifeline, just at the moment I thought I’d drown.
I’d known from the beginning the odds of a successful pregnancy were stacked against me. My age and previous history didn’t bode well, and then I started spotting at ten weeks. My obstetrician insisted I give up work, and rest as much as possible. Leaving the Post had been a risk, even for just a few months, with so many jobs being cut and hungry young freelancers willing to work for half the pay and no benefits; but I didn’t hesitate. All that mattered was my baby. And somehow I managed to keep Tolly safe. I reached my second trimester, and then my third. Everything looked good. The baby seemed healthy, all my scans and tests came back normal. I got to thirty-five weeks, then thirty-six, and thirty-seven.
At thirty-eight weeks, I was dropping Bella off at school when I collapsed in the middle of the playground. Had it not been for the quick thinking of another parent, a doctor who recognised the signs of pre-eclampsia, both Tolly and I would almost certainly have died.
There’s very little I remember about the next ten days. I have a few hazy memories of the ambulance ride to hospital, of sirens and lights and Andrew, white-faced, rushing along the corridor as they wheeled me into theatre, gripping my hand so hard I thought he’d break my fingers. Tolly had been hastily delivered via Caesarean, safe and well, but they’d struggled to stabilise me as my blood pressure soared and my blood refused to clot properly. At one point, as my organs started to shut down, the doctors told my parents and Andrew to prepare for the worst. He even brought Bella in to say goodbye. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her, a twelve-year-old child, facing the loss of her mother.
Andrew’s face was the first thing I saw when I regained consciousness. He was fast asleep in the chair next to me, his head pillowed on his wadded-up jacket, still holding my hand as if he had never let go. He looked drawn and grey and ten years older than when I had last seen him.
He opened his eyes as I stirred. ‘Louise?’
If I had ever had any doubt that he loved me, it vanished then. I had only ever seen him cry twice before: at the death of his mother, and the birth of our daughter. ‘Don’t try to speak,’ he’d said anxiously, leaping up and pouring me a cup of water from the jug beside my bed and holding it to my lips. ‘They had to intubate you. Your throat will feel sore for a while.’
‘The baby—’
‘He’s fine. At home with Min. She’s been looking after him while I’ve been here with you.’ He sat on the bed next to me and took my hand again, mindful of the IV line taped to the back of it. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said thickly. ‘Oh, God, Lou, don’t ever do that to me again. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you. I love you so much.’
The room had suddenly filled with medics, checking charts and monitors and IV bags, making adjustments and tapping away on iPads, frowning in concentration. I’d leaned back against the pillows while they’d bustled around me, smiling exhaustedly as Andrew kissed the back of my fingers. Our son was safe. Our children wouldn’t have to face growing up without a mother. Our family had survived, and we’d be stronger than ever because of what we’d been through together. Everything was going to be OK.
A week later, Andrew left me.
Chapter 5
Caz
My right heel snaps as I step off the escalator at Sloane Square. I pitch forward, arms windmilling as I try to keep my balance. ‘Goddammit!’
The tide of commuters shows no mercy. I hobble to the side before I’m mown down, leaning one palm against the wall and hingeing my knee behind me to check my heel. It’s totally fucked. Even if there was a heel-bar nearby, which there isn’t, and I had time to wait for them to fix it, which I don’t, the heel hasn’t come unglued, it’s completely snapped in two. There’s no way it can be repaired. These are my sensible M&S granny shoes, the ones I can actually walk in. Now I’m going to have to spend the rest of the day teetering around in the four-inch stilettos I keep at work for date nights with Andy.
I hitch my bag back onto my shoulder and stumble unevenly down the King’s Road. I haven’t even had my first coffee and my day has already gone to shit. First the invitation, plopping onto our doormat this morning like a giant embossed turd, and now this. Bloody Celia Roberts. She probably jinxed me with some kind of voodoo spell over the invite involving chicken feathers and the blood of virgins.
AJ is waiting anxiously for me in reception. He falls into step with me as I swipe my card through the chrome barrier and head towards the elevators. ‘Where have you been?’
Grumpily, I jab the lift button. ‘Jesus. It’s not even eight. Where’s the fire?’
‘Patrick’s doing his best to contain it. You’ll see when you get to the conference room.’
‘AJ, I’m not in the mood for games.’
‘Tina Murdoch’s here.’
I look up sharply. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. The client meeting’s not till next week.’
‘Tina brought it forward.’ He peers down at my shoe. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Don’t you read Vogue? Uneven heels are going to be huge next season. You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull to get these.’
‘Seriously?’
I love AJ, though he’s never been the brightest crayon in the box. But he seems particularly distracted this morning, and I suddenly notice his eyes are suspiciously red. ‘You all right?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine,’ he says quickly.
‘AJ—’
‘Wayne and I had a bit of a row. It’s nothing, really. Lover’s tiff. Come on, we’d better get a move on. Patrick’s waiting.’
Upstairs, the office has the deserted air of the Marie Celeste. Everyone is already gathered in the glassed-in conference room on the other side of the atrium. Patrick spots me as I change my shoes at my desk, and gesticulates for me to come and join them. I hate open-plan offices.
