The Second Child Page 18

  ‘Rosie. I will think about what you’ve said. I know this is really difficult for you… but it is for me, as well.’ She’s not finished. ‘And I’m truly sorry about last week. I’m sorry about all of it. I want things to be better between us. I really do. I love you.’

  We never say we love each other, not in actual words. I can’t bring myself to say it back because… because… I’m not sure why I can’t. Instead I go back into the room and bend down to kiss her goodnight on the cheek. She smells of Arpège, a blast from my childhood that triggers a soft, squirmy feeling inside me. She reaches up and rests her hand on the back of my head for a second, stroking my hair, then lets me go. ‘Goodnight, darling.’

  31

  Different Pages

  PHIL

  SARAH AND I barely speak to each other after Rosie leaves. We spend the afternoon doing jobs that we’ve been putting off for weeks, me in the garden, Sarah in the house. I even wash the van. She’s cross with me, that much is obvious, but she’s reining it in. I can tell. I’ve been trying to talk more, I really have, but I just don’t feel in the mood for yet another in-depth conversation, another microanalysis about what everyone is feeling. So we avoid each other.

  In the evening James and I watch TV, an island-survival reality piece of nonsense. Sarah sits with us for the start, but soon disappears. She doesn’t return. I resist going to find her. At the ad break James asks, ‘What’s Mum doing?’ Shamed, once again, by my seventeen-year-old son, I go and find her. She’s sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of red. One glass. I let that go.

  ‘You all right?’

  She says, ‘Yes’, but her body language sends out a very different signal. I wait. It doesn’t take long. ‘I’m worried about the impact all this is having on James… and Lauren.’

  I accept the inevitable and pull up a chair. I understand why she’d worry about James, but Lauren? I can’t see how any of it is impacting on Lauren. One of the ‘benefits’ of her RTS is that she never worries, about anything. Life is what it is. ‘I think he’s doing okay. And Lauren’s doesn’t know there’s anything going on. How could she?’

  But Sarah is still fixed on James. ‘Is he, though? It’s not so long ago he was getting drunk and running away from us. We can’t just take it for granted that he’s okay. The poor sod just has to put up with it all. Christ, we keep kicking him out of his room, out of his own bed. Look at this weekend: no warning, everything being all about Rosie again. All we do is talk and worry about the girls. It’s never about him.’

  ‘Sarah, trust me – he’s fine. And I know we need to sort the house out. Like we said, when the claim is sorted and we get the money through, we can start looking for somewhere bigger, somewhere that’ll be better for all of us. We have to just tough it out in the short term.’ She doesn’t look reassured. ‘It’s not just the house and James, is it?’ She puts her hand to her cheek, an old gesture that makes her look young and vulnerable.

  She studies me. ‘You talk with such confidence about the future, about Rosie being with us, like it’s all part of the plan, but it’s taking me longer to get used to it. I can’t just snap into being the mother of three children.’

  ‘I understand that,’ I say, though in truth I’m not sure I do. Rosie is our child. I already feel like her dad.

  ‘It’s easier for you.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Rosie responds better to you. She wants you to be her dad, because she’s never really had one. There’s a gap for you to step straight into, but she already has a mum.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘You don’t.’ Maybe I don’t, but she’s overcomplicating things again, like she always does and she’s not finished. ‘And you don’t ever seem to think about Anne. You’re assuming that she’ll just roll over and accept whatever we want, whatever Rosie wants. You don’t seem to care about what she’s going through.’

  I notice the distinction she lets slip between our wants and Rosie’s. ‘I can’t see that Anne has a choice.’ The look she gives me is despairing, but I don’t want to have to think about Anne’s feeling in all this. As I’m talking, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and see the message is from Rosie. I click on it.

  Hi. TQ for letting me stay. OK with mum, not mad at me, well not TOO mad. Just thinking… r u free 8/9 August? If u r maybe we can do something for my bday? Love R xx

  I look up. Sarah’s face is stony. ‘Sorry, but it’s from Rosie.’

  ‘And a text can’t wait?’

  ‘I thought it might be important. I wanted to check it went okay with Anne.’ I can tell that this doesn’t wash with Sarah, by the deep breath she takes. I decide that mentioning birthdays at this point isn’t a good idea. Tonight is one of those occasions when the best defence is retreat. ‘Let’s leave it for now, shall we? Let the dust settle for a few days.’ Then I default to the ultimate cop-out. ‘I’ll just go and check on Lauren.’ And I leave Sarah sitting at the table with her untouched wine. The coward in me knows I’m avoiding things. Nothing is clear, but for now all I can concentrate on is that our daughter wants to be with us, and that’s what matters.

  Her birthday. I start to think about what she might want. It’ll be the first present we ever buy her.

  SARAH

  Phil escapes upstairs. In the solitude of the kitchen, with a glass of red wine, I start to unpack the emotions of the weekend. It’s so like Phil to think that the problem is the house! Mr Pragmatic. I wish it were as simple as bricks and mortar. How great would it be, if an extra bedroom was the solution to this sudden expansion of our family? Phil is so confident that we can absorb whatever gets thrown at us, but I’m no longer sure. I’m not sure of anything any more. The pressure of it all – the complexity of it – is too much, and we do have to think about Anne, she has rights and feelings in all this, whatever Phil may think. She’s as much a victim of what has happened as anyone else. Rosie can’t just pick and choose between us. I’m not going to compete with Anne for the title of ‘Mum’. That’s not how it should work.

  And if the weekend has taught me anything, it’s that I’m nervous about how to deal with Rosie. I don’t know where the limits and the edges are, precisely because she’s not our child. She seems to swing from being a composed, self-assured young woman, unreachable, by me at least, to acting like a spoilt kid. She’s not like us, she’s been shaped and influenced by Anne and Nathan and her very different lifestyle. I feel ill-equipped to deal with her. And I’m ashamed, because deep down inside me, where no one can see, there are times that I’m not even sure I like her. I know I could never love her like I love Lauren.

  32

  The Birthday Party

  SARAH

  TEN DAYS later and, despite all my reservations and objections, we find ourselves driving around St Albans at the end of a long, traffic-clogged journey. For the last leafy leg of it Phil is reduced to muttering about inadequate road signs and cursing at other drivers. We are obviously lost, but he refuses to pull over and ask someone for directions, though even I have to admit that would be quite difficult, as there are very few people around, just a lot of high, well-trimmed hedges and broad driveways. Lauren is very fed up; every time I turn round to check her she tugs at her seatbelt, clearly indicating that she wants out. ‘Soon, honey. Very soon.’ Another promise I can’t guarantee I can keep.

  I look at the loveliness of it all and I resent every glimpsed lawn and gabled roof.

  This is not how I wanted to spend Lauren’s birthday weekend, miles away from home, miles away from James and Ali and Dad. Yet here I am, courtesy of Anne’s invitation. Initially, of course, I said ‘no’ and that should’ve been the end of it, but I didn’t bargain for the pincer movement of Phil and Rosie. They’re forming quite a formidable team.

  The invitation came, out of the blue, in an email from Anne. She wrote, at length, about the misunderstanding that resulted in Rosie turning up in Leeds, and her appreciation of our forbearance. It was only after three pa
ragraphs of polite waffle that she asked if we’d like to visit them… to celebrate the girls’ birthdays, if it didn’t interfere with any plans we already had. A small house party, nothing elaborate, in the garden perhaps, if the weather was good. I read between the lines, saw the hand of Rosie in it and Anne’s reluctance, and emailed back saying, ‘Thank you, we would’ve loved to come down, but as the Saturday is Lauren’s actual birthday, we can’t.’ Phil wasn’t happy when he found out.

  ‘You should’ve talked to me before replying to her.’

  ‘But we can’t go all that way on Lauren’s birthday.’

  He was silent for a few moments, but not for long. ‘But we never do much on Lauren’s birthday anyway, and we’ve nothing booked. It might be good to make a party of it, with both of them.’

  ‘All the way down in Hertfordshire?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  I listed the reasons for him. ‘The distance; the fact that we’ve no idea how accessible Anne’s house is; the fact that you struggle to speak to her for longer than five minutes without coming out in hives; and the fact that it’s Lauren’s birthday.’

  ‘And Rosie’s birthday weekend. She’s been looking forward to us coming. She wants to show us around, show us where she plays football, her school, the places that matter to her.’ Does she now? And how would Phil know all this. He picks up on the unasked question. ‘She’s texted me a couple of times, saying how much she’s looking forward to seeing us again. And the party is to make up for her dad letting her down. He was supposed to be spending the weekend in London with her, but he cancelled at short notice.’

  ‘Which is tough and cruel, but I still don’t want to have to drag Lauren all that way… on her birthday.’ We stare mulishly at each other. Phil is the first to turn away.

  I think the subject is closed, but I’m wrong.

  That night in bed he plays his trump card. ‘Sarah, hear me out on this. I’ve been thinking about this business of going down to St Albans and I can see your reasoning, but I really think it’s important that we make the effort to go, for Lauren and Rosie. Surely we have to prove that the effort is reciprocal, that we’re prepared to put in the hard yards to make it work. We’re expected to, as part of the process.’ It’s ironic that Phil suddenly seems keen to follow the protocols that Mr Brownlee got us to agree to. His next comment really throws me. ‘Besides, they’re kinda like sisters now – more than sisters, really. I think it would be nice to be together on their birthdays. And…’

  ‘And what?’ What else could he have thought up to ensure we trek all that way to see Rosie.

  He seems nervous. When he speaks, I can see why. ‘Well… I realised something while I was in the shower.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lauren’s birthday isn’t actually on the eighth any more.’ He takes hold of my hand. ‘Think about it. She was actually born the day before. Her real birthday is the seventh; it’s Rosie whose birthday is on Saturday.’

  ‘Halle-bloody-lujah.’ Phil indicates. We drive under an arch of blousy white roses, coming to stop outside a large 1920s house. Red brick, big bay windows set either side of a solid-looking front door; neatly symmetrical, like a talented child’s drawing of the model home. It’s lovely.

  Rosie appears at the back of the van as we’re unstrapping Lauren. ‘Hi. You made it. Come in, I’ll show you round. Can I carry anything?’ She grabs a bag and tags along beside Phil as he drags Lauren backwards across the sea of pea-shingle on the drive. It’s quite a haul, but when we get to the door I’m touched to see that Anne has got hold of a ramp from somewhere, so that it’s an easy last push up into the house. Two more trips for all our stuff and we are inside.

  Anne welcomes us. She seems unfazed by her hallway being instantly transformed from a stylish, clean white space into a dumping ground for our clutter. ‘Coffee… or tea, of course, if you’d prefer?’ She slips away to make the drinks, leaving us in Rosie’s care. Once we’ve settled Lauren on a sofa in the corner of the lounge, Rosie is keen to show us around. She takes us up to her room at the very top of the house first. She has the run of the whole top floor. She has her own bathroom and a big, funky, very tidy bedroom. There’s a double bed, a wall of fitted wardrobes built into the roof space and a separate sitting area with huge floor cushions. There’s also a desk tucked away under the eaves, on which gleams a MacBook. Two big skylights let in the light. God knows what she made of having to bunk down in James’s minuscule room. Birthday cards cover most of the available surfaces. Rosie is evidently popular. I can’t help but think of the solitary row of Lauren’s cards at home on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Phil and I chorus together.

  ‘Thanks. I’m glad you could come.’

  ‘So are we.’ Phil beams at her. ‘Come on, talk us through them, then.’ I think for a moment that he means her cards, which seems oddly invasive, but what he’s referring to is her collection of football trophies that take pride of place on a set of shelves near her desk. Rosie happily obliges, giving us chapter and verse on each cup, medal and trophy. Phil, of course, is in his element asking about the different teams she’s played for and about the strength of their opposition. I lose interest after the third explanation, make my excuses and head back downstairs. The rest of the house is not what I expected, or what the exterior seemed to indicate. Anne’s tastes are not middle-of-the-road. She has a collection of artwork and ‘interesting things’ scattered throughout the house, some of it quite bizarre, including a series of grotesque face-masks that line the staircase, their bulbous eyes and stretched mouths are enough to give anyone nightmares.

  Lauren barely looks up as I enter the lounge. She’s ensconced, quite happily, gazing around at her stylish new surroundings, her picture books at her side, her iPad on her knee, well and truly at home. Someone – Anne – has put a beaker of juice on a small table within easy reach. In the lounge the furnishings are neutral, understated, but the thing that dominates the room is a huge portrait of an obscured face. It’s a disturbing image, a blur of blacks and greys, with one dark-crimson slash of red. The colours seem to shift and re-form as I look at it. Beneath it, on the mantel, is a clock that is at once brutal, but also beautiful. It looks like it’s made out of polished Meccano. Behind the bevelled glass face, the inner workings are visible, a complex construction of interlocking cogs and wheels held together by hundreds of tiny silver screws. The front has no arms, so the time is told by the position of the internal clockwork lining up against cuts on the clock face. I’m studying it as Anne comes in with the tea.

  ‘Rosie thinks it’s the ugliest thing she’s ever seen. It’s Dutch.’ She puts the tray down.

  ‘It’s striking’ is my lame response. Then, with a piece of timing that is straight out of a comedy sketch, the innards of the clock start whirring and clicking, announcing the hour in a peculiar echoey chime. We both laugh. ‘You have some really unusual things.’

  ‘It’s my vice. I used to pick things up when we travelled. Now it’s the Internet. I’m always only one click away from something else that I don’t really need. Your tea.’ She passes me a mug, fine china. ‘Thank you for coming this weekend. Rosie was delighted when you said you could. I appreciate that it’s a very long way. Was Lauren okay with the journey?’ She looks at Lauren and smiles.

  ‘She was. She slept for a good portion of it. Thank you for inviting us.’

  Anne then surprises me by choosing to sit next to Lauren. She tentatively reaches out and lightly touches her sleeve. Lauren glances at her and away. Greeting over.

  ‘Thank you for sorting out the ramp.’

  Anne smiles. ‘I was worried about how it would work with her wheelchair.’ There’s a pause as we try and re-establish common ground. It’s not easy; there are so many unspoken concerns and uncertainties between us. ‘Given that she seems content in here for the moment, would you like to come and see the sleeping arrangements?’ Anne seems incapable of sitting still. Clutching my tea, I fol
low her, aware that Phil and Rosie have still not emerged. The back of the house is even lovelier than the front; a big kitchen faces onto a sheltered back garden, which is enormous, lawned and edged with mature trees. The mystery of Phil and Rosie’s whereabouts is answered by the view through the wall of windows. They’re outside, kicking a ball to each other across the well-mown grass, a stream of banter flowing between them. Anne and I pause on our grand tour and watch them.

  ‘They’re getting on well, aren’t they?’ Anne’s tone is neutral.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, equally neutrally.

  Anne rouses herself. ‘It’s through here.’ She leads me into the next room. The effort she has made brings a lump to my throat. It’s another lovely room, which again faces onto the garden. The floor-to-ceiling windows let light pour in, but in here the shade of a large horse chestnut that’s growing close to the house softens the harshness of the sun. Waves of dappled light ripple across the room. I guess that it’s normally a study, but for our visit Anne has transformed it into a bedroom. There are two proper single beds, one lower to the ground for Lauren, both made up in pretty, matching linen and there’s a chest of drawers on top of which sits a slender glass vase of peonies. There’s also a pile of freshly laundered towels and bottled water with drinking glasses.

  ‘Will it do?’ Anne enquires anxiously. ‘I thought downstairs would be easier. I’m sorry it’s not big enough for both of you to sleep down here with her, but there’s another guest room made up upstairs. And the cloakroom is just through the door.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. Really, thank you for all the effort.’

  She waves away my thanks. ‘Well, I’ll let you settle in. I’ll sit with Lauren while you get sorted, if you like. We’re aiming for four o’clock for people to start arriving. Sorry, that makes it sound very grand, it’s only my sister and her husband and a family friend. See you when you’re ready.’ And she retreats, leaving me to feel churlish for my initial reluctance to come.