He was a musician, feckless but beautiful, and she’d fallen for him like a ton of bricks despite warnings from friends that she would get hurt. She was a sucker for a pretty face, she told them. And anyway, she was lonely.
She’d thought London—and publishing—would be full of exciting, clever, creative men, and at first glance, they were, in their King’s Road uniforms. But it turned out being hip was a facade. Beneath the sharp jackets and drainpipe trousers, they were still children of the postwar era, tied to the apron strings of their mumsy-mums at home. Turned out they were looking for a woman to make the bed as well as jump into it, and she wasn’t interested.
She’d kept the sexual wolf from the door with one-night stands and willing men friends before she met Charlie. He was only five years younger than her, but he seemed to come from a completely different era—and he definitely was not looking for a mother figure. He was living in a squat in Brighton and she’d met him at a pop concert in Hyde Park. The Rolling Stones just after Brian Jones died. She’d been queuing for a drink and there he was, long hair, lopsided smile, beautiful hands, and, if she was honest, not that interested in her. Definitely a challenge and, so, irresistible. She had to have him.
She’d become obsessed with him. Spending money on him, paying his fares up to London, dressing him like a mannequin, taking him to the theater, lending him books by Mailer and Updike, and hanging on his every drawled word.
Of course, Charlie was, as predicted, unfaithful. All the time. It went with the territory of musicians, apparently. Didn’t mean anything, he said. So, girls and groupies. But Jude stuck to him like glue.
“He makes me laugh, he makes me feel good,” she’d told friends. “He’s fun and I love him.”
And she did love him. He was the first man since Will at university who’d made her feel alive.
But she didn’t take him home to meet her parents. She didn’t need their disapproval to sour her happiness. She’d tell them when she was ready. When everything was settled.
Because she’d decided to marry Charlie whatever it took. Her biological clock was ticking and she needed to bind him to her—that was all. He needed to appreciate what he’d got in Jude.
She knew Charlie thought marriage was square—“It’s what old people do. We’re free spirits, Jude,” he’d said, but, after a year, she decided to force the issue. Get pregnant. Forget the shame. He’d marry her.
She’d dropped her contraceptive pills down the sink each morning, and when she missed a period, she told him he was going to be a father. He looked as if he was about to cry.
“Pregnant? How can you be? You said you were on the pill,” he’d said.
She’d lied easily, telling him that she must have forgotten to take one or had an upset stomach. And she’d told him she was happy about the pregnancy. She’d hoped he would be, too. But it wasn’t that simple for Charlie.
He’d looked as if he was about to bolt for the door, saying he wasn’t sure if he was ready. He’d even suggested that she could get rid of the baby.
She’d burned with indignation at the thought and shrieked: “Absolutely not. I’m keeping this baby.”
For the hundredth time, Jude wondered what her life would have been if she’d followed Charlie’s suggestion. If she’d got rid of her baby then. If she hadn’t talked him round, telling him he’d make the most brilliant father and kissing him into submission.
Too late for all that what-if, she told herself. She’d won the initial battle with Charlie and had to live with the consequences.
He’d taken a while to get used to the idea, but there were days when he stroked her stomach and joined in her chatter about names and the future. But he went away more and more. On tour, he said. She wasn’t sure if he was lying but decided she didn’t want to know. He always came back to her, and she was convinced he’d settle down when the baby was born.
FORTY-THREE
Emma
THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2012
I feel stronger this morning. Better than I’ve felt for weeks. I don’t know why, but I reach for the phone and ring Jude to tell her.
“Hello, Jude,” I say.
“Oh, I am honored,” she says. “You sound good.”
She doesn’t.
“Is everything okay with you?” I say. I don’t really want to hear about her problems. I don’t want to lose my high.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “So, why are you so chirpy?”
“I just feel happy today,” I say. I don’t mean to, but I find myself going straight to the news that has lifted my mood.
“You know that baby I told you about, buried in Howard Street? It’s been identified as a little girl who went missing forty years ago,” I say. “Alice something . . .”
“Irving. Alice Irving,” Jude says. “Yes, I heard on the news. She went missing before we lived there.”
“Oh, do you remember the case? I couldn’t believe it when I heard it on the radio.” I’m sounding manic. I try a deep breath.
“Nor me. Unbelievable,” she says, but there’s no mania in her voice. No emotion at all.
“So it can’t have been the drug addicts,” I say.
“It looks unlikely,” she says. “It happened so long ago, I expect they will never find out the truth.”
“Oh no, the police have got new methods now, Jude. They’ve managed to match the DNA after all this time, haven’t they?”
“Well, so they say,” Jude says. “Why are you so pleased about it?”
“I’m not,” I say. “Just interested.” Jude clearly isn’t, as she changes the subject. To Will, naturally. She is obsessed all over again. And I feel my mood dip.
“I haven’t heard back from him,” she says. “Do you think I should ring him?”
“No.” It’s the wrong thing to say and Jude’s voice hardens.
“Well, I’m going to. I don’t know why I asked you, really. You only think of your own feelings. You have got a husband, a job, colleagues, friends. Who have I got? A daughter who I barely see. I need someone in my life. I’m lonely, Emma.”
It is a big admission from my mother and I try to be sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, Jude. I didn’t know you felt like that. I would ring you more often but we always seem to end up arguing. Don’t you see any old colleagues from work or friends?”
“They’re all busy with their own families—or dead. I’m getting to that age where it seems as if practically everyone I know is dying. I wonder when it will be my turn.”
“Why? Are you feeling ill?”
“No, just old today. But don’t you worry about me.”
And I feel a flicker of intense irritation. She is manipulating me. I know it, she knows it, but I can’t stop it happening.
“What about joining a club or evening class?” I say, desperately grasping for ways to draw her out of her gloom.
“Not interested,” Jude says. “Why would I want to do basket weaving or line dancing? I need someone to talk to and make me laugh. And take care of me.”
“But surely there is someone better than Will Burnside.”
“There isn’t. I’ve looked,” she says. “And Will was the love of my life. You know that. Anyway, you haven’t done any better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, marrying someone old enough to be your father—what a cliché.”
I don’t rise to it. I hunker down to absorb the blows. And that makes it worse. Jude has always hated my silences. She’s got the bit between her teeth now, dragging up all her past hurts and accusations. “You’ll end up as his carer,” she shrieks at one point. And I realize we’ll never get past her disappointment in me.
“Look, I’ve got to go, Jude. Sorry I’ve upset you again. I’ll call you again soon.”
I let the line go dead before I put the phone down.
FORTY-FOUR
Jude
THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2012
She sat looking at the phone for a minute, finishing her last rant in her head.
“I should never have had you,” she said. “You’ve been trouble from the start.”
It had all begun to go wrong when Charlie came home from the tour. She’d stood at the door with Emma in her arms to greet him.