A Married Man, page 3
Lucas slowly raised his brown eyes from the newspaper he’d picked up. They met mine. ‘Yes love,’ he said softly, ‘that was it. That was about the size of it. Evening meals to be taken up at the house.’
His gaze was steady, looking to hold mine, but I slid my eyes away. Down towards my tea. I took a hasty gulp. It was colder than one would wish.
Chapter Two
Ned died in childbirth. Mine, of course, not his. Not even Ned, who could turn his hand to most things, could stretch to popping out an offspring. No, it happened while I was giving birth to Max. While I was straining and sweating, swearing and cursing, pushing the child out and yelling at the medical team, because where was my wretched husband? Digging my nails hard into Maisie’s hand, shrieking, ‘Just get him here someone, please! I don’t want him to miss this! He doesn’t want to miss this!’ And all the while, being beaten up from the baby within. Riding the waves of pain with clenched teeth and eyes shut, every contraction a new agony, and still Ned wasn’t there, so – where was he? Why was he missing this? How could he miss this?
And then suddenly – suddenly it didn’t matter. Suddenly a computer beside me, the one that had been monitoring the baby’s heartbeat throughout, started beeping urgently. The pen recording the print-out slewed, did some crazy, disconnected marks, and anxious heads scrummed down in alarm. I remember urgent mutterings about the baby being distressed, about the cord being around its neck, perhaps, and a no-nonsense hand thrusting up to sort things out.
Sheer panic, now, on the faces around me. It was around his neck. Had he lost precious oxygen? Should they rush me down to theatre for a Caesarean? No, too late, he was coming, the baby was coming, the head had crowned and – oh God, just save my baby, my precious baby! And then that sheer, white pain as the head emerged. That ghastly, final push – and out he slipped, like a seal.
I leaned back weakly on the pillows, eyes wide with shock to the ceiling, the agony over. Someone scooped him up joyfully, whisking him up in the air and over my head. They paused to let me see.
‘Look, dear, you’ve got a baby boy.’
I gazed up expectantly, a weak smile forming on my lips, awaiting my precious moment, longing to hold him in my arms. I stared. My mouth fell open in horror. I couldn’t speak for a second, then –
‘Christ.’ I gasped. ‘He’s black!’
My fuddled mind whirled, struggling to take it in. But – I hadn’t, I thought desperately, I hadn’t! I’d remember a thing like that, I –
‘No dear,’ soothed the midwife quickly, ‘he’s just blue. Very dark blue in this case, but his colour’s coming back already, see? It’s lack of air, to his lungs.’
‘Oh! Oh God, I thought –’
I gazed around, surrounded as I was by Jamaican nurses. Not a white face amongst them. Four pairs of huge dark eyes regarded me over their masks.
‘Sorry,’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t mean – but is he OK?’
‘Fine,’ one chuckled, ‘just fine. A very bonny boy.’ She took off her mask and handed him to me, a huge grin splitting her face. ‘Thought you were gonna have to call him Winston, didn’t you, honey?’
They all burst into cackles of laughter, slapping their thighs and clutching one another. I grinned sheepishly, gazing down at my little bundle, who was indeed, getting pinker by the minute.
‘Just going quietly crazy,’ I murmured. ‘As I think one does after that sort of labour. After any sort of labour, come to that. And Maisie, where’s Maisie gone?’ I glanced around, suddenly feeling very euphoric. Needing to share it with someone. ‘Crikey, I’d like some sort of birthing partner round here if you don’t mind,’ I laughed.
‘Over here, my love,’ came a quiet voice from the corner. I twisted my head the other way. Maisie was indeed in the room, but behind me, in the shadows, stuffing a hanky up her sleeve, blue eyes huge and horrified.
‘No no, he’s fine Maisie, absolutely fine,’ I reassured her, one hand cradling the baby, the other reaching out to pull her in. ‘Don’t worry, he just lost a bit of air, but he’s OK!’
She nodded, coming forward, taking my hand, fighting tears. ‘I’ll go and tell Lucas then,’ she muttered. ‘He’s outside.’
‘Yes, yes – and Ned,’ I urged, as she made to go. ‘Maisie, did you get hold of Ned? Try his mobile again or –’
And that’s when I knew. As she turned back to face me. Knew something truly horrendous had happened, when her eyes met mine. Full of foreboding, full of fear.
She shook her head. ‘No, well, no I haven’t done that. But, yes. I’ll – I’ll try again.’
As I let her fingers slip through mine, a terrible fatalism rose up from my soul and stilled me. Something too horrific to contemplate had happened. Something she couldn’t tell me about, not now, not with this newborn baby in my arms. Not within minutes of his birth.
I felt numb and terrified, had already started to tremble. Half an hour later, they wheeled me into a private room and whisked Max away to the nursery. I lay there, paralysed with fear, thinking the unthinkable, so that when it happened, I was almost, ridiculously, prepared.
Maisie and Lucas came in. They sat, side by side, on those grey plastic chairs, white and harrowed, and Lucas told me. In a steady, low voice, twisting his felt hat in his hands, ashen-faced, he told me how Ned had lost control, it seemed, rushing to get here. How he’d taken a short cut from the editing suite where he worked and how, mobile phone in hand, he’d taken a bend too sharply, colliding with a lorry. No belt on, he’d gone straight through the windscreen and had died instantly.
I remember being unable to breathe for a moment and thinking, That’s how Max must have felt with that cord round his throat. I felt – suffocated. Strange, almost inappropriate thoughts whirled around my head, too. It occurred to me, for instance, quite matter-of-factly, that whilst the son was taking his first breath, the father must have been taking his last.
Memory, kindly, becomes something of a blur after that, but I do remember the trembling turning to uncontrollable shakes, and someone whisking a blanket around me, swaddling me like a small child. I remember too that Maisie kept a constant vigil; a constant grip on my hand, never letting go, and looking about ninety.
My abiding memory of that time, though, is that they wouldn’t give me Max. Maybe they thought I wouldn’t want him. That it would be too much for me. Or maybe the received psychobabble was that I’d reject him, take it out on him in some way. Eventually, though, I sat up in bed and screamed the place down. He was rushed back into my arms from down a long corridor.
Ben, four at the time, had to be told, and Lucas and Maisie did that. He came to see me. I have, in my memory bank, snapshots of that time, but absolutely no footage. I have a snap of Ben, for instance, lying on my hospital bed, and of me cuddling him and Max. Then I have another of Lucas driving us back to the flat; me holding Max in the back, one arm around Ben, white-faced, silent. There’s another, too, in the communal hall as we prepared to walk up four flights with the carry cot, Maisie opening the flat door at the top, and beside her, my sister Dee, over from Italy where she lived, their faces taut with worry.
People say to me now, ‘Oh, it must have been so much worse for you with a new baby,’ but actually, that made me cope. That, combined with an overwhelming incredulity which numbed my mental processes, slowing them almost to a halt. In those early days I didn’t recognize my life as my own. I felt detached from it; I had no thoughts, made no plans, I just existed in a bright inner glare, disoriented, as if in the aftermath of a huge explosion. I didn’t have the luxury of going to pieces, either, because I had Max and Ben to look after, and I was aware, all the time, of Maisie and Lucas hovering, wondering if we’d be all right.
My parents were my lifeline at that time, and when we weren’t in the flat, we were over there, but friends were extraordinary too. Grief has a way of sorting the men from the boys. Some steered clear ‘until she’s ready’ – and I haven’t seen much of them since – whilst one or two, like Jess, got it spot on. Not overdoing it, but nevertheless wading in when I needed her; getting drunk with me into the small hours, railing when I railed, crying when I cried.
I had grief counselling too, on a Monday night, just like an upholstery class or something, when, armed with a loo roll, I’d sob and rant at a perfectly sweet, middle-aged woman with a twitch. I even punched her walls on one occasion which sent the twitch berserk. She didn’t seem to mind, but she didn’t seem to help, either, and it was after that occasion that one of my neighbours met me on the stairs and said, ‘Well, for God’s sake, come and punch our walls instead!’ So I did.
I had five neighbours in all; Teresa, Carlo, Theo, Ray and Rozanna, and they were all, to a man or woman, spectacular. In fact, in those early days, when their walls took quite a battering, I’d swear I could look up on occasion and see Ned’s face, beaming down from the heavens; swear I could hear his delighted voice saying, ‘See? Look who I found for you, Lucy! Look at the people I surrounded you with! We made the right decision, didn’t we?’
‘The decision’, taken just before he died, had been where to live. At the time we were living in a basement flat in Fulham which was small, dark and all we could afford, but light was beginning to filter through in the form of a promotion for me at Christie’s, and the promise of an art-house film for Ned to direct at his production company in Soho. Now whilst this wasn’t necessarily going to get the money flowing, it wasn’t going to be so cloyingly stagnant, either, and since we’d recently received a ludicrously high offer for the flat and there was another baby on the way, we decided to move.
Armed with sound advice and in the wake of all our friends, we dutifully trekked south of the river, to find ‘a bit of space’. Putney, Clapham and Wandsworth beckoned, along with rows of Victorian terraced houses in tree-lined streets. One of them, a four-bedroomed semi in a quiet location, held our attention. It had a large en suite bathroom, a family bathroom, a knocked-through drawing room, a bright conservatory and an airy kitchen billowing onto a huge garden. Ned and I stood, I remember, on the back step, gazing down and admiring that garden. The lawn was bordered by neat flowerbeds, the wooden shed stood sentry at the bottom, and a vast climbing frame loomed importantly in the middle.
‘It really is one of the nicest roads around here,’ our vendor confided, sotto voce, as she stood beside us on the step. ‘And full of such lovely people.’
‘Really?’ I smiled across at her. She was a few years older than me; blonde and pretty, with neat Boden clothes, a light tan and expensive highlights.
‘Oh yes, totally like-minded.’ She flicked back her hair. ‘I mean, next door for instance, he’s with Morgan Stanley, and she’s a solicitor, and then on the other side, he was at Goldman’s – gardening leave at the moment – and she’s in advertising. Then opposite – well, four children poor thing, so complete nightmare, doesn’t work – but he’s a barrister. Tax, I think, or shipping. Anyway, the point is, you won’t be short of friends.’
‘No. No, I can see that,’ said Ned thoughtfully, his thin, intelligent face taking it all in, his eyes narrowed down the garden. ‘And there? At the back?’ He nodded to a house that vaguely overlooked.
‘The Waters. Both doctors,’ she purred happily.
‘Right. And everyone,’ he glanced up and down, over the fences, ‘has the same climbing frame?’
‘I know, isn’t it uncanny?’ She laughed. ‘We call ourselves the Tommy Tonka set. We got one, then the Waters, then the Pickthorns, and the great thing is, you know precisely when it’s drinks time, because we all raise the slides like drawbridges to stop them getting soaked with dew, and then it’s children to bed, a glass of Sancerre with a neighbour, and a lovely moan about our husbands or the au pair! Usually the au pair. We could leave it with you if you like, we need a new one.’
Ned blinked. ‘The au pair?’
‘No! The climbing frame.’
‘Ah, right. Yes.’
He met my eye which wasn’t hard, because we were both much the same height. Both five foot eight-ish. Ned, spry and wiry, with soft fair hair, and me, constantly fighting a fuller figure, and in those days, a light mouse, because Ned liked me natural.
He turned back to her, his face creasing up as it did for even the most social of smiles. ‘Well, thank you so much, Mrs Foster. We’ll be in touch if we may.’ Studiously polite, as ever.
Once outside, on the quiet pavement at the front, he gazed around at the rows of tastefully draped windows, at the terracotta pots on the doorsteps, the Neighbourhood Watch signs in every door. He sighed, thrust his hands deep in his pockets.
‘I suppose we’d better take the plunge.’
I scuffed my toe. Nodded. ‘Yep. You’re right, we should.’
‘I mean,’ he struggled, ‘it’s easy to mock, to call it suburban, and wonder why we should choose to live in a buzzing cosmopolitan city if it comes down to – you know, all professionals in a row, brolly and Telegraph under the arm … easy to say where’s the colour, the variety, and why the hell are we living in London if we’re missing out on all of that, but –’ He broke off, considered. ‘Well, for Ben, and the baby? Cricket stumps in the garden? Bikes, tents, all of that? Bit of conforming for a change? What d’you think?’
I glanced up. Smiled. ‘I agree. Time to grow up.’
I didn’t know then that there was no such thing, and we went home to Fulham, ad idem. The next morning he rang me at work.
‘Meet me in your lunch-hour,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve found something.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘A flat?’
‘A flat! But I thought –’
‘Twenty-four, Royal Avenue, SW3. Twelve-thirty. Just be there, Luce.’
And I was. Running hotfoot from work, which from South Ken, wasn’t far, down to the Fulham Road, across to the bustling King’s Road, and then left, towards the Royal Hospital and the river. My pace slowed as I approached, and I checked my A to Z in surprise. I seemed to be walking into the most perfect London square imaginable. It was broad and long, and lined with tall, white, wedding-cake houses, all with black and white chequered steps, and all with glossy black front doors and brass knockers that glinted in the sunlight. I stopped and caught my breath. The square itself had an almost Parisian feel to it, with gravel instead of grass, so I felt that at any minute, a few old men in berets might materialize and play boules. Instead, some Chelsea pensioners shuffled helpfully into frame, complete with medals and sticks, and sat on a bench in the spring sunshine. I swallowed excitedly. At one end, crowds of people thronged, but the glittering shops of the King’s Road held them in thrall, and they never peeled off past the flower-seller who marked the corner. At the other end, the Hospital Gardens formed a warm, tranquil pool of green.
A cab drew up and Ned jumped out, bright-eyed.
‘You’re mad,’ I called as he flashed me a grin, simultaneously shoving fivers at the driver. ‘What is it, anyway. A shoe-box?’
‘Practically,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and more than we can afford, but look at the location.’ He swung his arm around demonstratively.
‘I’m looking, but Ned –’
‘Come on, I’ll show you!’
Keys in hand, he dragged me protesting up the grand stone steps and into the communal hall. The door closed softly behind us. On we went, up the wide stairs, up and up, actually, until we eventually arrived, panting, at the fourth floor.
‘With small children?’ I gasped. ‘Prams? Bikes?’
‘Good exercise,’ he grinned. ‘I’d leave the pram at the bottom.’
‘Oh, would you. And the oxygen cylinders?’
‘Don’t be wet,’ he scoffed, and put the key in the door. He led me into a white, tiny hallway, which in turn, led into a corridor.
‘Down here,’ he insisted, leading the way, and since two abreast would be tricky, I followed. He turned left into a bedroom.
I looked around. Shrugged. ‘Not a bad size, I’ll give you that, and – ooh, look at that view …’
‘Uh uh, not yet, I’m saving that. In here first.’ He ushered me out, across the passage, and into another bare room.
‘Boys’ bedroom,’ he breezed. ‘Bunks here, in the corner.’
‘Boys?’ I said, hand on the small bump of my stomach. ‘How d’you know?’
‘Trust me, I’m a budding film director,’ he grinned. ‘And then back here,’ he disappeared. ‘Well, a bit of a kitchen.’
‘A bit is right. So …’ I swung back. ‘You mean we’ve finished with the bedrooms? Just the two?’
‘That’s it, cuts down on the housework. But the kitchen, Luce, look. Very neat and tidy and, um, clean …’
‘Oh bog off, Ned. Is that all you can say?’
‘And the French range, terrific! Very fancy, very à la mode, and cupboards galore!’ He swung one open. Shut his eyes and swooned. ‘Mmmm … lovely hinge action, and – no, not the window, Luce, not yet.’ He put a hand over my eyes and hustled me away, to face a pair of double doors. ‘Terribly Jane Austen, don’t you think?’ he grinned, reaching down for both handles and opening them with a flourish. ‘Ta-dah!’
I gasped. Because I had to admit, this room was a joy. Large, lofty, empty – which helped, of course – and with acres of pale wooden floor. Tall sash windows marched all the way down one side, except in the middle, where the windows went right to the floor, and issued onto a balcony. Someone had artfully left them wide open, so that the wisps of ivory muslin which passed as curtains blew in the breeze. And then of course, there was the view. I walked across as if pulled by a string and stepped out onto the balcony, gazing over the rooftops. A fair old chunk of London town looked back at me, with the King’s Road to the right, and to the left, the river and the Hospital Gardens.
