The Mum Who'd Had Enough Read online

  ‘There are so many reasons,’ I tell her.

  ‘Maybe you could talk about some of them?’

  ‘Okay,’ I start, ‘there’s the fact that we’re separated, obviously. We did want another child after Flynn – very much – but that was so long ago, and after I miscarried, we decided …’ I hesitate, picturing the two of us back then. Nate was still playing with bands and driving all over the UK. Month after month, we’d be on tenterhooks until my period arrived. He bought us enormous mobile phones – so I could alert him with the good or bad news, wherever he happened to be. ‘After a year or so of that, we decided to try and forget about it,’ I continue. ‘I mean, we never used contraception – but we didn’t conceive again either.’

  Rachel smooths back her liquorice-black bob. ‘I see. So, if we could go back to the reasons why this isn’t a good situation for you now …’

  What is she talking about? I am almost forty-four! Nate and I are heading for a divorce! ‘Even if we were still together, I’m too old, and I haven’t been looking after myself properly. I know I’ve been drinking more than I should …’

  ‘Is this anything to do with Flynn?’ she asks, which stops me short.

  ‘You mean, how he’d react to having a little brother or sister?’ I glance at the clock, willing our time to be up. ‘I’m sure he’d be shocked initially,’ I venture.

  ‘I mean, are you worried that the same thing might happen that happened to Flynn?’

  Ah, she’s referring to cerebral palsy. I prickle with annoyance. ‘We’d be no more at risk than anyone else. Our consultants have always been very clear on that point—’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’ Her cheeks flush.

  ‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with that,’ I continue. ‘What I mean is, I’d want to go into a pregnancy in a positive frame of mind, really wanting the baby and doing things properly. It’s just the way I am.’

  It’s true; after we had Flynn – who was a delightful surprise – I researched, researched, researched, in the hope of giving us the best chance of having another child. Even recently, just out of interest, I read up on what a pregnant woman should and shouldn’t eat these days. Talk about information overload! I remembered that shellfish and unpasteurised cheese should be avoided – but now I learnt that fish which may contain high levels of mercury can be risky too.

  Curled up on Abby’s spare bed, I skimmed the list: swordfish, shark, king mackerel. It seems crazy that I was even reading that stuff, because even then I’d decided I wouldn’t be continuing with the pregnancy. Maybe it was just as well. While I was confident I’d never had the latter two, I had had swordfish, that night with Michelle, Brett and the others at Fletcher’s. I might as well have guzzled the contents of a thermometer, I decided.

  ‘Sinead,’ Rachel says now, ‘remember that thousands of women go about their daily lives, eating and drinking whatever they like, until they find out they’re pregnant. And, in most cases, everything is fine.’

  Really? And how would she know? ‘Yes, but I’m sure virtually every one of those women worries themselves sick too.’

  ‘Hmm. So, how far into the pregnancy are you?’

  ‘About seven weeks,’ I say flatly. ‘It was quite easy to pinpoint when I conceived, actually, seeing as it’s not exactly a regular occurrence—’

  ‘And do you have any thoughts of what you might do?’

  Any thoughts? Is she mad? I’ve been thinking of nothing else. ‘I don’t think I can go through with it,’ I murmur.

  Rachel’s greyish-blue eyes meet mine. ‘And what does Nate think about that?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet.’

  ‘You haven’t told him?’ A flicker of surprise crosses her face. Surely, in her line of work, she’s heard more alarming things than this?

  ‘I was going to tell him on Saturday night,’ I say quickly. ‘He’d booked a lovely restaurant, and I thought we could talk it over, and I could explain my reasons, and he’d – well, I knew he’d want the baby, very much. But I also hoped he might come round to understand that it wasn’t a very good idea for us.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell him?’ Rachel ventures.

  ‘Well, er – no. There was a bit of a scene …’ Her expression has settled back into its normal placid facade. ‘He thought someone in the kitchen had tried to poison us,’ I add.

  ‘Really?’ Rachel exclaims.

  I nod. ‘He seems very paranoid.’ Of course he is, I remind myself. You left him a list of his personality flaws, so what the hell do you expect?

  ‘There’s a lot to think about, isn’t there?’ she remarks.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ And you’re not helping. ‘It was a terrible night,’ I add. ‘He also asked me if I’ve been seeing someone else and, well, I have been out with an old friend a couple of times …’

  ‘I see …’ Her eyebrows shoot up. And with you being pregnant? is what her tone implies.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I just thought it was best to be honest, when Nate asked me outright. Brett’s an old college friend, that’s all. It felt so good to be with someone who listened, and cared – at least, about me being more than a wife and a mother …’ Her expression has set. Does she think I’m awful?

  I glance around the room as silence settles around us. There are just two chairs, a small low table between us, bearing a jumbo box of Kleenex, and a bookshelf housing various enlightening tomes: Be Your Own Guiding Light. Rediscovering Closeness After Infidelity. Taming the Butterfly Within. I can sense Rachel tuning into the wall clock behind her, reading it through the back of her head. You don’t get any free extras with therapy. It’s not like having a friendly hairdresser who says, ‘Pop in for a free fringe trim in between times, just to keep things in shape.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says levelly, ‘so we can talk about that more next time. But I’m afraid we’ve come to the end of our session today …’

  Well, thank Christ for that. It feels like it’s been rumbling on for weeks. I pay up, never as grateful to get out of that room. But what now? I reflect as I leave the building. I’m pregnant with Nate’s child. The single time we’ve had sex since Christmas, we somehow managed to conceive. Despite all the odds being against us, it happened. I’m still certain that going ahead with it would be a terrible idea, but now a rogue thought snags at me: what if …? After all, people have done crazier things. And numerous women have gone through a pregnancy – and raised a child – alone …

  Stepping out into the street now, I pull my phone from my pocket; I always have it on silent when I’m with Rachel. There’s a missed call from Brett. I blink at his name, wondering whether to call back or at least text him. I hesitate, then plunge it back into my pocket and decide there are more pressing issues for me to consider right now.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Nate

  On perhaps the most bizarre Saturday afternoon of my entire life, I am out shopping with Tanzie, in York, for my wife’s birthday present. I chose York as I was keen to find something special and different, and had an idea that the shops here are more of the quirky type. More than in Hesslevale, anyway – which has decent gift shops of its own. But as Sinead works in one of them, she’s probably pretty au fait with the stock in all of the others. Bradford and Leeds are fine, for practical shopping – but I wanted this to be a fun day for Tanzie too. She told me she’d never been to York before, when we figured out the details for our day.

  ‘You’ve never been to York?’ I gasped.

  ‘No,’ she said, a tad defensively. ‘Why is that so weird to you?’

  Because it’s an incredibly well-known historic city, I thought, and it happens to be within easy reach of the town where you work, and used to live; I mean, trains and buses go there. It’s hardly Bangkok. ‘It’s not weird,’ I replied. ‘Just surprising.’ Now, though, I’m glad it’s the first time she’s been here because I have never known anyone to be so openly thrilled by everything around her.

  ‘My God, it’s all so o
ld,’ she exclaims as we start to meander through the cobbled streets.

  ‘Well, yes – it’s a Roman town. It was founded something like two thousand years ago …’

  ‘And it’s still standing,’ she marvels.

  ‘I think there’s still the odd original structure,’ I say with a smile. ‘Most of what you see is medieval, although they did find a whole Viking settlement beneath what’s ground level now, with the remains of houses, fireplaces, even toilets—’

  She stops suddenly, and I swing around to see what’s grabbed her attention. ‘Look at that,’ she exclaims. ‘Oh, I love it …’ I follow her gaze towards the window of New Look. ‘That dress,’ she adds, beaming at me. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  I arrange my face into what I hope is an expression of appreciation at the skimpy silver frock. ‘It’s very striking,’ I agree.

  ‘I’m trying not to spend any money,’ she adds, ‘but, God, I’m in love with it. D’you think it’d suit me?’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ I say, silently urging her to move along. I have never been one of those men who’s comfortable hanging around women’s changing rooms and commenting helpfully. ‘They’re fine,’ I told Sinead one time when she pulled back the curtain, expecting my considered opinion on the fifth pair of jeans she’d tried on that day.

  ‘Fine?’ she shot back. ‘Well, thanks for that – I was actually going to buy these!’

  ‘Well, you should. They look great.’ But too late: she’d already flounced back into the changing room, to reappear a few minutes later with the announcement that ‘I think I’ve done enough shopping, actually.’

  Tanzie gazes at the dress some more, then shakes her head emphatically. ‘Sorry, Nate. I hardly ever come shopping so I’m a bit of a kid in a sweet shop. But we’re not here for me. We’re here for you – I mean, for Sinead. C’mon, let’s get a coffee and we can form a plan.’

  We wander some more, with Tanzie oohing and ahhing at the numerous tea shops – ‘So many to choose from!’ – finally settling on one that’s so chintzy, it’s a little like finding oneself in an elderly auntie’s front room.

  ‘So, what I was thinking,’ she says, stirring her coffee, ‘is that she works in a gift shop so she won’t want any of that bog-standard gift-shop kind of stuff.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘That’s probably a good point.’ In fact, after the debacle at Elliot’s, I am aware that I must get this just right. Luckily, Sinead and I are on speaking terms again – albeit in the form of brief, terse phone conversations – for which I am grateful.

  ‘Have you thought of anything?’ Tanzie asks.

  I take a bite of my extremely delicious Eccles cake. ‘Actually, I was thinking of something to wear. That’s partly why I asked you along. I thought maybe – as a woman – you could steer me in the right direction—’ I break off, realising how inept I must sound; plus, Sinead’s style is nothing like Tanzie’s. As she sips her coffee thoughtfully, I fill her in on the leopard skirt debacle and how I have never been terribly successful in choosing clothes for my wife.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tanzie says. ‘Her style’s quite quirky, isn’t it? Cute, a bit arty …’

  I peer at her across my fluted-edged cup. ‘Oh, have you met her? Did you pop into her shop?’

  ‘Um, not exactly,’ she says, shuffling uncomfortably. ‘I just googled it. Little Owl, I mean – there’s a picture of her on the website …’

  ‘Really?’ Admittedly, I have never taken a look myself. Christ, I really have shown no interest in her job.

  ‘Yeah. That sounds a bit weird and stalkery, doesn’t it? I’m sorry.’ She snaps off a bit of shortbread biscuit and pops it into her mouth.

  ‘No, not at all …’

  ‘And then I went to see Kayla one time,’ she continues, regaining her usual breezy tone, ‘at her friend Paige’s. Remember I told you about—’

  ‘The boiling-water-tap house? Yes.’

  ‘Well, I saw Sinead there too. I mean, I spotted her in the street.’ ‘Right,’ I say, taking this in. ‘So, er, whereabouts does Paige live?’ I ask, trying to sound casual, and not that I’m trying to squirrel out information on my wife’s movements.

  ‘In that new estate behind the old pie factory,’ Tanzie replies. ‘Aspen Grove, I think it is.’

  ‘Oh! That’s where Abby lives. What I mean is, that’s where Sinead’s living too, at the moment …’ I decide to steer our conversation back to the matter in hand. ‘So, anyway, d’you think something to wear is a good idea?’

  ‘Sure – if it’s the right kind of thing. If it’s something pretty that says, “I love you, you gorgeous, adorable woman”, and not, say, a brown jumper.’

  ‘What would a brown jumper say?’ I ask with a smile.

  ‘“I find you unsexy and dull”.’

  ‘And I don’t want that …’ I pause. ‘My friend Paolo suggested I should buy her some lingerie …’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that.’ Tanzie shakes her head emphatically.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, that would be saying, “I see you as a sexual being”. I mean, I’m sure you do, but, timing-wise it’s not quite the right message—’ She breaks off and pushes back her tinted hair, which today has assumed the darker hue of an aubergine. ‘You don’t want frumpy, and you don’t want full-on sexy either.’

  I nod. ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah …’ She chews at her lip. ‘Hang on, what’s that shop called again?’

  ‘Which one? Could you narrow it down for me a bit?’

  She munches thoughtfully on the remains of her shortbread and washes it down with her coffee. ‘Oh – you know. Cotton prints, fifties-style, kinda virginal-looking …’ Now she’s lost me completely. ‘My friend Maggie had an apron from there. You must know it, Nate. Everything has flowers on …’

  ‘Erm, Topshop?’

  ‘You don’t get aprons in Topshop!’ she sniggers. I extract my phone from my pocket, intending to identify it by googling – but then, what would I google? Tanzie glances around the cafe in which, coincidentally, every surface seems to bear a jangly floral design. Then her gaze seems to light upon something. ‘Excuse me!’ she barks, at which a woman turns around from her table. ‘See your bag? Where’s it from, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  The woman glances round at the satchel dangling from her chair. ‘Er, Cath Kidston,’ she replies.

  ‘Cath Kidston!’ Tanzie repeats triumphantly, as if she’s just nailed a crucial question at the pub quiz. ‘That’s it. Thanks.’ She turns back to me. ‘They call it modern vintage …’

  ‘Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’ I ask as a teenage waitress places our bill on a doily-lined plate on our table.

  ‘Yeah – but it’s just the thing. It’s kind of twee, but a certain kind of woman can pull it off.’ She grins, and after a brief, heated argument about who’ll pay our bill – ‘Tanzie, of course I can buy you a coffee and a biscuit!’ – we leave the cafe.

  As it turns out, Cath Kidston is just a couple of streets away. I realise pretty quickly that, while it certainly has that retro look that Sinead tends to go for, many of the items are decidedly domestic. And if I’ve learnt one lesson recently, it’s that my wife will no more appreciate a peg bag or set of tea towels than those garage forecourt flowers presented in a bucket she already owned anyway.

  Tanzie moves on to the clothing section. She herself is wearing skinny jeans, a thin sweater that has some kind of sparkle to it, and a dark blue jacket which might be real leather or possibly fake, with numerous zips and pockets. A voluminous purple suede bag is slung over her shoulder.

  We flick through rails of jumpers together, like some bizarre couple.

  ‘How about this?’ Now she is holding up dress after dress against herself, emblazoned with rabbits and teddies, some wearing spectacles. One is entirely patterned in guinea pigs.

  ‘That’s not a frock,’ I retort. ‘It’s an infestation.’

  She splutters and
replaces it on the rail. ‘Sorry, Nate. I don’t think I’m being very helpful.’

  I inhale deeply and look around. ‘You are, but I think I need to get out of here.’

  We find ourselves in a bookshop next. To my shame, I’m surprised to see Tanzie veering enthusiastically towards the biographies section. Here, she flicks through one after another, at one point shunning my offer of help and clambering onto a stool in order to reach a top shelf.

  ‘You like reading?’ I ask as she jumps back down.

  ‘God, yeah. I’m always buying books …’

  ‘Can I get you one, as a thank you for helping me out today?’

  ‘No,’ she exclaims, stuffing the book back onto the shelf, in the incorrect section, as it happens. It triggers a slight frisson of unease in me, as used to happen when anyone replaced one of my albums in the wrong place (not a problem I’ll have to live with anymore!). ‘They’re so expensive here,’ she adds. ‘A tenner, some of them.’ She shakes her head emphatically. ‘I get mine from charity shops.’

  We move on to more shops, where we peruse jewellery, handbags and fancy toiletries, the kind of things I’d imagine some women would be excited by, but perhaps not my wife. Hungry now, I moot the possibility of taking Tanzie for a late lunch. Again, she protests – ‘Can’t we just have a sandwich on a bench?’ – but the afternoon is turning cooler, and I manage to persuade her to stop off at a tapas restaurant tucked down a cobbled lane. The menu seems to baffle her.

  ‘A lot of people go for our set lunchtime selection,’ explains the helpful waiter, so that’s what we do.

  Tanzie seems to love it, her only criticism being that ‘the dishes are tiny, aren’t they? It wasn’t like this when I went to Spain.’

  ‘You’ve been to Spain?’ I ask, trying to mask my surprise.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, tucking into the patatas bravas. ‘Me and Neil took the kids. Our last holiday together. Bit of a disaster, really …’

  ‘Weren’t you getting on well then?’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ she retorts. ‘Silly bugger was too macho for sunscreen. Said he’d never needed it in his life.’ She sniggers. ‘Yeah – but that’s because he’d never been out of Yorkshire before. So he burnt from head to foot, had to be seen by the Spanish doctor …’