The Second Child Read online

  Phil follows me. ‘Keep an eye on your sister for a few minutes, mate.’ James nods absent-mindedly, absorbed. Phil pulls the door shut. ‘How are you holding up, really?’

  ‘Okay.’ He comes towards me and hugs me hard, pressing me into shape. ‘I’m frightened about what happens next.’ I know he doesn’t want to think about what comes next: the decisions we have to make and, more horrifying, the decisions that Anne and Rosie will get to make. The thought makes me breathless, but Phil, as always, is resolutely staying in the here and now. We hold on to each other in the stark white bathroom.

  Phil’s voice bounces off the tiles. ‘We go to dinner and stumble our way through it as best we can. We’ve done the worse bit. Nothing can be as bad as this morning. James’ll be okay. We’ll keep an eye on him. You were right, Ali being here will help.’ He strokes my arms. We have both been trying harder, been kinder to each other, ever since the scare with James. ‘And we’ll be seeing Rosie again.’ I see the brightening in his face at the thought of her. Some differences remain.

  I wasn’t thinking about James or Rosie. ‘I meant after all this meet-and-greet stuff is over and done with. When we start talking properly about what’s going to happen, what we’re actually going to do.’ At that, he lets his arms fall away and I feel the floor tilt beneath me.

  ‘Let’s just get through tonight, shall we?’ And he kisses me and leaves.

  In the shower I sponge hot water and cheap hotel shower gel across my shoulders, legs and stomach. The familiar silver-thread stretch marks pattern my belly, evidence of James and Rosie. My two birth children. Contrary to what I’ve always believed, Lauren never curled and unfurled inside me; she grew inside Anne. Lauren is her child, not mine. It was Rosie who began inside me. It’s so hard to comprehend. The complexity of it is ridiculous. I don’t see how we can go back and unravel the skeins of fourteen years of family. I stand and watch the suds swirl and drain away.

  Rosie’s self-possession in the meeting was unnerving. It was as if she was sealed off from us, by her upbringing, her confidence, her defiance and her normal fourteen-year-old teenage-ness. I’d underestimated how different she would be from Lauren, how much older she’d seem and how able. I hadn’t thought through that she’d have such independence and resistance, but I suppose we’re used to the quiet, biddable dependency of Lauren. It was a shock to be faced with what a ‘normal’ teenage daughter looked, sounded and acted like. God only knows what the reverse was like for Anne.

  I turn the water off and wrap myself in the stiff, unyielding towels. Time to go through the charade of happy, functional families once again.

  ANNE

  This time Rosie chooses the back of the car, so Callum gets to ride up front with me, though once again there’s no conversation, civil or otherwise. The satnav spouts regular instructions into the silence, steering us decisively along a vaguely familiar dual carriageway and off into a faceless retail park. Another journey that I don’t want to travel. The compulsion to deal with this is immense, but intolerable. I feel frozen. I can see everyone else struggling, but somehow they’re managing it better than me. They’re becoming themselves, starting to uncoil and relax back into something close to normal. They’re not like me, the mannequin in the room. I heard my clipped, short responses to their questions. I saw how puzzled Sarah was by my polite reserve and the way she glanced between Rosie and me. I was conscious of the barrier that I was erecting. But I know if I relax I will lose control, and I simply can’t do that. I’m dreading being with them all again.

  Unfortunately, as promised, it’s a short ride. Our destination this time is one of those pub-chain restaurants, big, mock and uninviting. The signage is plastered with huge photographs of oozing steaks and cream-piled puddings. I feel Callum stiffen in anticipation of microwaved veg and overcooked meat. Inside it’s cavernous – empty tables as far as you can see. The only other customers are an elderly couple who sit at the far side of the restaurant, silhouetted against the fake mullioned windows, silently chewing through their meals. There’s no sign of the Rudaks. The welcome lectern at the entrance is unmanned, so we hover aimlessly in the foyer until a barman spots us and shouts across, ‘Just grab a table, anywhere you like. I’ll get one of the girls out to you in a minute.’ He goes back to un-bagging change into a till. Rosie sets off across the room. She has showered and changed, as asked. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a plain white T-shirt and trainers. She must have washed her hair, because it shines under the pub lights. I see the barman catch sight of her and stare openly as she weaves through the tables. She steps through an arch and out of sight.

  ‘I’m really not sure that this “getting everyone together” again is a good idea,’ Callum says.

  ‘And how was I supposed to say “no”?’

  He shrugs. ‘It won’t help.’

  ‘Do you mean me or Rosie?’

  ‘Well, that’s my concern. The more exposure you have, the more difficult it’s going to be, for both of you, but I was thinking, primarily, of Rosie. Given how emotional you say she is at the moment, meeting her brother and the aunt, so quickly after the first encounter with Sarah and Phil’ – I notice his deferential avoidance of calling them her mum and dad – ‘well, to my mind, it’s ill-advised.’

  ‘She’s very nearly fifteen, Callum. In the current circumstances I suspect that even you might be struggling slightly. And, anyway, she wanted to meet them tonight. I could hardly refuse.’ He holds his hands up, mea culpa, but I can see that he thinks I’m being weak, bowing to Rosie’s demands. He has pointed out the risks to me, repeatedly and very firmly. He’s focusing on the end result. To him, everything not directly pertaining to an agreed final outcome is just a quagmire to be waded through as directly and quickly as possible. But then that’s Callum’s forte: negotiating a lucrative route through life’s messes, making sure that the mud doesn’t stick to him or, more importantly, to his clients. For a moment I share Rosie’s dislike of him, but not her distrust.

  Rosie reappears and beckons us over.

  Through the archway a long table has been laid for eight; there are two hand-scrawled RESERVED notes plonked at either end. Callum turns on his heel. ‘I’ll go and fetch us all a drink. Anne, a bottle of no-doubt-undrinkable red? Rosie, a cola?’

  ‘A Diet Coke.’

  The war of attrition wages on.

  PHIL

  I’m excited as well as anxious. I’m fascinated to see her again. Selfishly, I hope that Sarah will sit next to Anne, surely it’s natural that they will want to talk to each other: two mothers together, a shared experience to reconstruct and digest. James will stick close to Ali, hide behind her barricades, which means that I should be able to sit next to Rosie. Anne’s reserve and her reluctance even to look at Lauren during the meeting scratch at my conscience, but I push this into touch in favour of the anticipation of seeing Rosie again.

  Our arrival at the pub is the usual Rudak shambles. We’re late, again, flustered and apologetic. I get stuck with Callum, who massively overdoes the mine-host role, buying drinks for everyone and directing the seating places. My irritation with him mounts. At dinner I end up with Lauren to my left and Callum to my right, Ali and James form the buffer zone in the middle, and Rosie sits at the far end of the table flanked by Sarah and Anne. Instead of all the things I wanted to ask her, I hear myself making small talk about dietary preferences with a chronically bored Callum, while simultaneously trying to minimise the mess Lauren is making with her pasta. James barely looks up from his plate, eats a lot and talks mostly to Ali. Thankfully we aren’t in the open section of the restaurant; what other diners would make of the family dynamic around our table is anyone’s guess. We even look mismatched. There’s a sheen and a smartness to Anne and Callum that suits neither the venue nor us. Ali’s dyed-red, cropped hair swings back and forth between James and Sarah like a provocation.

  It’s obvious that Sarah and Anne aren’t getting much beyond the stilted niceties of earlier in the day. Anne
’s face remains closed, her responses brief. I can tell from the agitation in Sarah’s hands and her slightly raised voice that whatever conversation is taking place is an effort. Rosie sits trapped between them, concentrating on her phone. Mid-meal, Sarah catches me off-guard. ‘Do you want to swop places, and I’ll help Lauren?’ To my shame, I decide that the suave platitudes of Callum are easier to cope with than the frozen distress that seems to be immobilising Anne.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Sarah turns once again to Anne and asks her and Rosie about their home in St Albans. Somehow we make it to pudding, which only Ali and James order. Callum, who has steadily drunk most of the second bottle of wine, despite his evident disgust, decides on a Scotch to round off his stoic sojourn into pub cuisine. The arrival of James’s house-special, a Brownie Tower Stack topped off with a frenzy of whipped cream, sets Ali and James off. They start giggling like little kids. The stiff responses of Anne, Callum and Rosie seem to increase their hysteria. I know it’s the pressure getting to them both, but the laughing, snorting and digging around for extra-big chocolate chunks seems completely inappropriate.

  It’s at this moment that Lauren soils herself. The smell is unmistakable. ‘Come on, chicken, let’s go and get you changed.’

  Callum makes a show of being solicitous, moving chairs out of the way.

  Sarah rises from her seat. ‘I’ll come and help.’ A sudden silence falls as we make our departure. James flushes red, recognising where we’re heading and why. He looks down at the destroyed mess of his pudding.

  The disabled loo is, as they often are, too small for two adults, the wheelchair and Lauren, so Sarah waits outside, shouting, ‘Are you all right?’ through the door at regular intervals. We are all right, but it’s awkward. Lauren has to lie on the floor while I change her. There’s nowhere within easy reach to put the wipes, so I balance them on the loo rim and, of course, knock them into the toilet, from where I have to retrieve them. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Lauren smiles at my outburst; any energetic communication is fine with her; swearing, shouting, even crying, it’s all just part of the show.

  Sarah, with her sixth sense for me cocking things up, asks again, ‘Are you sure – you’re all right in there?’ I grunt a reply.

  With Lauren clean, I heft her up onto the toilet seat. She’s heavy. It’s a tough lift; how Sarah manages when she’s on her own with her, I don’t know. By the time I’ve managed to settle Lauren back into her chair, binned the nappy and the soggy pack of wipes and washed my hands, I’m feeling claustrophobic. I push the door open and we escape.

  Sarah is waiting. ‘Here, I’ll take her. It’s hard going, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She means the meal, but ‘hard’ fairly accurately sums up the whole day. I try to be positive. ‘Without Ali and James, it’d be worse.’

  Sarah nods and strokes Lauren’s hair. The thought of going back to the table is a grim one. Then, with her knack of reading me, Sarah offers me a gift. ‘Why, don’t you catch a breather? I’ll take her back to the table and see if I can get the bill.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I lean across Lauren and kiss Sarah quickly on the cheek with a rush of love and gratitude for how perceptive she can be. ‘I’ll only be ten minutes; I’ll just grab a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Okay; any more than ten, mind, and I’ll be sending Ali out to round you up.’ She heads back into the restaurant.

  24

  A Breath of Fresh Air

  PHIL

  OUTSIDE, IT’S a shock to realise that it’s quite a nice evening. There’s warmth in the air, as well as traffic noise and petrol fumes. There’s a small garden to the side of the pub, so I walk round and through the wonky latched gate. Compared to the restaurant, the garden is busy, a mix of post-work, swift-pint drinkers and cheap-suited girls sharing bottles of wine. The tables in the weak sun are all occupied, that British desperation to catch a few rays after a day cooped up in an office or a van. I head for the empty tables in the shade, feeling conspicuous being on my own and without a drink in my hand, but it’s a relief to be out in the fresh air. The clack of the gate a few minutes later draws my attention. Rosie steps into the garden and pauses, shielding her eyes from the sun as she scans the tables for somewhere to sit. Like a real dork, I raise my hand and wave. Whether she sees me or not, I’m not sure. Her attention is drawn to two girls gathering up their jackets and bags, ready to leave. She slips into the space left by them, immediately digs out her phone and starts scrolling through. I’m left sitting there in the shadows, watching her. I feel uncomfortable. It’s as if I’m spying.

  In pursuit of the fading sun a couple, three tables over, grab their glasses, up sticks and begin to move towards Rosie’s table. She tenses, glances up and proceeds to stretch her long legs out along the bench, a non-verbal F— off, if ever I saw one. The couple think better of it and reroute, heading out of the garden and presumably inside the pub. Rosie keeps her bubble of isolation intact. I risk it and head over. ‘Hi. Can I sit with you, just for a minute?’

  ‘Okay.’ But it’s reluctant.

  I sit opposite her. She doesn’t shift, leaving me with her profile, her face dipped down towards her phone. Finally I’ve got some time with her, but she isn’t going to make it easy for me. I don’t know where to start. The silence is filled by a couple at the next table debating whether or not to call into the supermarket on the way home.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ Her tone is challenging.

  ‘You mean, not as much as Sarah?’ This is disloyal of me, but it raises the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m not sure what to say right now.’

  Rosie relaxes, slightly. ‘It’s proper weird, isn’t it?’ She flips her phone over in her hands a few times, then puts in on the table, a concession at last.

  ‘Yeah, that’s not a bad way of describing it.’ A group of girls nearby bark with laughter at something, and in the distance a police siren rolls around and away. The garden settles back down into a scatter of alcohol-eased conversations and the sun slips a bit fur-ther. It’s really quite cool, even in the sun. Rosie’s only wearing a thin cotton T-shirt and jeans. I can see the hairs on her bare arm lift and prickle.

  ‘Am I what you expected?’ She strokes her long hair self-consciously and stares at her trainers, all her brusque certainty gone.

  ‘We weren’t expecting anything other than what we’d seen in the photos. We saw how pretty you were, but they’re just pictures.’

  ‘Yeah. People aren’t always like what they look like on the outside, are they?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. It’s going to take time for us all to get to know each other. But that’s okay.’ The silence stretches between us.

  ‘And what happens if you don’t like what I’m like on the inside?’ Her trainers are still the focus of every ounce of her concentration.

  It’s such an odd question that it stumps me. ‘I can’t see that being a problem, but either way, you’re our daughter.’ The strangeness of the word clunks in my mouth and I stagger on into a weak attempt at humour. ‘So I suppose we’ll just have to put up with you, however dark your soul is.’ Her response is a non-committal shrug. She’s slipping back inside her shell. I’m desperate to cling on to her. ‘I wonder how they’re getting on at the table. It was a bit of a grim meal, wasn’t it?’ Nothing. ‘Don’t be put off by the way Ali looks; she’s good fun when you get to know her, if you can live with her idiosyncrasies. And James is just a bit overwhelmed by it all at the moment. He doesn’t normally sit and shovel food into his face. Actually, come to think of it, that’s precisely what he does.’ I’m babbling.

  ‘Mum’s hating every minute of it.’

  ‘She looks like she’s finding it hard.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ The ferocity is back.

  ‘It’ll get easier, over time. We’re really looking forward to getting to know you… and your mum. Rosie,’ I realise it’s the first time I’ve called her by her name, ‘hang on in there. I can’t begin to imagine how awful this is f
or you, and how confusing, especially not knowing the next bit, but we wouldn’t ever do anything that you weren’t okay with. And we really don’t want to come between you and your mum.’ She doesn’t say anything, just wraps her arms around herself. ‘It’s getting cold sitting here,’ I say. ‘Do you want to go back inside?’

  ‘Not specially.’ Nearly half of the garden is in shadow now and more people are drifting inside or off home. She stays put, watching the departing drinkers. I go with my instincts and keep quiet, and the silence eases into something slightly more comfortable. One of the barmen comes out and starts collecting glasses, stacking them in a precarious tower against his chest. He reaches his limit and heads back inside. I’m just about to open my big mouth again and make a joke about Sarah’s threat to send Ali out to round me up, when Rosie swings her legs off the bench and turns round properly to face me.

  ‘I don’t even know what I’m supposed to call you?’

  ‘Whatever, you like… I answer to most things.’

  ‘Not Dad.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I know enough to realise that I need to give her time. ‘Even “dickhead” would do for now, as long as you call me something.’ And for a heart-lifting moment she grins at me.

  ‘No, that won’t work. “Dickhead” is more of a Callum kinda name.’

  25

  The Morning After

  ANNE

  THE MORNING brings another conversation with Callum. Considering the volume of alcohol he put away last night he looks remarkably fresh; he’s wearing a different well-cut suit with an immaculate white shirt, his one concession being an open neck, no tie. ‘Nothing has changed materially. You’ve met her now, filled in the blanks, so to speak, but I presume we are where we started?’ Though he phrases it as question, it’s obvious that he assumes he knows the answer. I pull my robe around me, suddenly conscious of my bare legs. I feel ambushed by him arriving before breakfast, before I’ve dressed or got myself straight. Apparently he’s waiting for an actual answer.