She’d longed for the moment when he’d come back to her—had planned the big reunion—but once it was a reality, it didn’t go to plan.
She thought he would turn up with roses and an engagement ring, but he brought nothing but a bag of dirty clothes and stories about drunken nights. And when he’d reached to take the baby, she hadn’t been able to let go of her. She was the bargain they’d made, but Jude needed reassurance that Charlie was playing by her rules.
Jude had dry-swallowed her disappointment and tried to involve him in her new domesticity, letting him change Emma and make up her feed. But she didn’t let him hold the baby for too long. He had to earn that privilege.
“She’s asleep, Charlie,” she’d say when he reached for Emma. “Don’t want to wake her up.” She’d seen the hurt in his eyes, but she couldn’t let that sway her. She had to be careful with her daughter.
She’d held on to Emma all that first evening. Keeping the baby between her and Charlie.
He hadn’t asked about the birth when she’d told him on the phone that Emma had been born. He just wanted to know about the baby.
“Who does she look like, Jude? Has she got your beautiful eyes?”
But sitting across from her for the first time, he’d wanted to know everything. She’d told him how she’d wanted a natural birth with no doctors sticking metal instruments up her. She’d decided to give birth at home with a friend who was a doula.
He’d made a face. It was all a bit too visceral for him. He hadn’t been to any of the classes or read any of the books. Too busy being a rock star, she thought.
He’d shied away from the gory details and focused on what a doula was.
She’d explained that doulas had helped women with labor throughout history. They were often sisters or aunties. But her doula was someone she’d met through NCT classes. National Childbirth Trust, Charlie.
“Sounds cool,” he’d said.
And when he’d yawned and suggested bed, she’d made him sleep on the sofa—so he wouldn’t be disturbed by the crying.
The next morning, he’d come in with a cup of tea and sat on the bed.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, Jude,” he said. “But I am now. Okay?”
And she’d said yes, hoping he’d talk about marriage. But he’d hugged her and tried to get in under the covers. She’d pushed him away, saying Emma needed feeding.
? ? ?
For God’s sake,” he’d said after two weeks, when the tension threatened to suffocate both of them. “What’s going on here?”
He was standing by the window, looking out, not at her.
“You’ve changed, Jude,” he’d said. “You’re so uptight about everything. Paranoid. I’m not even allowed to hold my own baby. It’s like I am nothing to do with her. As if she’s just yours.”
She’d put Emma down in her carry-cot and tried to keep her voice level.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve had to do everything else on my own. I’m not sure if you are here to stay.”
He shrugged, his back still turned.
“You are treating me like a stranger. It makes me wonder if I ever had anything to do with her. Is she someone else’s? Is that it? Did you sleep with other blokes?”
She could still feel the heat in her body as he screamed the accusation at her. She’d told him she’d never slept with anyone else, that Emma was his. But he wasn’t listening anymore. The thought that he’d been betrayed had driven reason out of his head. It’s what people do in his rock star world, she told herself.
“Charlie, please listen to me. Maybe if we got married?” she’d said. “Maybe it’s because I’m not sure of your commitment. Maybe that’s what’s come between us.”
“Bollocks,” he’d said. “Marrying you wouldn’t solve anything. It’d just bind me to this nightmare situation.”
? ? ?
And he’d kissed Emma and left.
She hadn’t gone out of the house for a couple of days. Too shocked to leave the nest. But finally, she’d taken Emma to be weighed at the medical center. She didn’t want any trouble about missing appointments.
Dr. Grundy had been pleased to see her—he always was. Other patients complained about him, especially after his lunchtime session in the local pub. But she singled him out for appointments and, with a little careful flirting, had become one of his favorites. He’d told her so, holding her hands in his shaky grasp. He’d told her off for delivering Emma at home with a doula when she’d brought the baby to him the first time, but she’d cooed her explanations and he’d been putty in her hands. He’d tutted and signed all the paperwork.
After he’d weighed Emma on the last visit, Jude had told him she’d decided to go home to her parents and he’d looked disappointed. “We’ll miss you, Jude,” he’d said.
“And I’ll miss you, too, Dr. Grundy,” she’d said and kissed his papery cheek.
It had been a hard decision but she needed a new start. With Charlie gone, she’d have to support herself. She couldn’t work and look after Emma. And she didn’t want to leave her with a childminder. She needed help.
Her parents knew Emma had been born but had chosen to stay away, signaling their disapproval of their daughter’s life choices with a resounding silence. She’d go to them. They wouldn’t be able to resist their first grandchild.
Her mum and dad had given her the “more in sorrow than in anger” treatment with a dry peck on the cheek and serial tutting when she’d appeared at their door with a suitcase and Emma in her pram. Her mum had bristled all morning but Jude pretended not to notice.
Lunch was hideous. There was meat—a joint of bloody beef—and her mother shrugged as her vegetarian daughter helped herself to cauliflower. “Well, we didn’t know you were coming,” she said.
A stifling silence followed. Jude struggled to fill it, talking about the baby, her job, how lovely the garden was looking.
“So, Judith, where is the father?” her mother said as she handed her the roast potatoes.
“Gone, Mum,” Jude said, keeping it simple.
“I see,” she said. “And how long are you staying?”
“Not sure, Mum,” Jude said.
“Your baby needs stability and she’ll get little of that if you flit off again.”
“Deirdre,” her father said, a warning note in his voice. “Now is not the right time for this conversation.”
Jude gave him a tight smile of thanks.
“Well, when is the right time? She doesn’t contact us for months, gets herself pregnant and throws away a perfectly good career, and then turns up and we’re supposed to pretend nothing’s happened? For goodness’ sake, Judith. You can’t imagine how much unhappiness you’ve caused. I haven’t slept for months.”
Jude stabbed a potato with her fork.
“I was not trying to make you unhappy, Mum. I made the wrong decision. Can we leave it at that? There’s a baby to consider now. Can I have some carrots, please?”
And, trained to be polite even in the midst of a row, her mother passed the bowl with a face like thunder.
FORTY-FIVE
Kate
THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2012
She rang DI Sinclair early that morning, eager to hear the latest in the investigation before the Editor’s news conference. She hoped the officer would have something for her. She and the DI were getting on like a house on fire after their shaky start. She’d made sure of that. This was a story that could run and run, and she was going to keep him onside, whatever that took.
So she behaved herself, never straying from the official lines. It had been a happy collaboration so far; the DI was very pleased with the public response provoked by the Post’s story—mothers who’d given birth at the same time as Angela, the nurses who’d searched for Alice, even one of the officers who had investigated the case. Their chats had got cozier.
Kate now knew he had kids the same age as hers and he supported Spurs.
“Hello, Andy,” she said. “Sorry to be an early bird. How are you?”
“Been better, Kate,” he said, sounding weary.
“Sorry to hear that. Heavy night?”
“No. Not really.”
He hesitated and she let the silence force him to continue.