23
Chris comes home at ten to seven, twenty minutes after Sam has put George to bed. He's late, having stopped to get more ice-cube trays for Sam. She's in the middle of a cooking frenzy, whipping up great batches of organic food for George, freezing it in ice-cube trays as soon as it's cooked.
It's a Friday night, and it's been a tough week. Before George, or BG as he has come to think of it, he would long for the weekends.
BG, Friday nights meant hitting the pub with the men who shared his workshop, fellow craftsmen and artists. He'd stay for a couple of drinks, then meet Sam for dinner. In their younger days they'd hit the West End, try out different busy, buzzy restaurants each week, occasionally following that with a club, but the last couple of years they'd tended to stick with local restaurants.
Friday nights meant a pizza, or a curry, or Chinese takeout. They'd have a long meal, unwind over a bottle of wine, flirt suggestively in the knowledge that Friday night was a sure thing, and that however late a night they had, however much energy they exerted, the best part of Saturday morning would be spent fast asleep.
BG, they'd go out for dinner a lot. Nowhere expensive, but good, local restaurants. They'd go to cafés in Highgate, or local Italian restaurants in Hampstead. Or Sam would cook. Chris would come home and the delicious smells of Sam's experimenting would hit him as he opened the front door.
There was nothing better than finding Sam in the kitchen. It made him feel loved, cherished, and truly that he'd come home, for his mother was also a cook, and her currency of love had always been food.
And he loved the fact that he considered them to be one of the happiest couples of anyone they knew. Not perfect, never perfect, but he still looked at Sam and saw the girl who'd bounded up to him at the party six years ago; the girl with the sparkling eyes and confident smile; the girl he knew, within one week, he was going to marry.
Sam was his best friend, and, even better than that, she was the best lay he'd ever had. And he was married to her! Christ. Surely life couldn't get better than that.
But that, he thinks ruefully as he puts the key in the door, was BG. Now he finds he's married to a shouting, tearful, angry witch. All his time at home is spent treading on eggshells; he's careful not to put a foot wrong, to send her off on a screaming fit, and he's more and more relieved to get out of the house for work.
The only bright spot in his home life is George. Georgenius, he thinks with a smile. That gorgeous chubby smiling bundle. Flesh of his flesh. The most perfect creation he's ever laid eyes on. Chris walks into the room and George's eyes light up.
There is no greater feeling in the world than when Chris sits on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, George asleep on his chest, a warm soft bundle of pure love.
In their rare moments of intimacy, Chris and Sam sit in bed together and grin at one another. “Can you believe how gorgeous he is?” Sam squeals, clasping her hands together in a bid to contain the emotion. “I know. He's just amazing.” Chris shakes his head, unable to believe they created such a perfect child. “Amazing,” she echoes, and they look at one another, their eyes brimming over with love for George.
Sometimes they look at one another across the cot, standing on either side, gazing down at George, arms and legs sprawled to all four corners, fast asleep. “Do you think other people love their children as much as we love George?” Sam will whisper, sure that no one in the whole world could love their son as much as she loves hers. “I'm not sure,” Chris will whisper back. “But I doubt it.”
George is perfect. But his relationship with Sam has become anything but. Chris isn't sure what's going wrong, but he knows that something definitely is. He feels neglected. Abandoned. Unwanted. He knows he shouldn't be feeling these things, that George, after all, is a priority, but nevertheless he cannot stop them. There are occasions when all it will take is a kind word, a loving look, an affectionate kiss, but instead he is faced with anger. With exasperation. With indifference.
Chris is trying his best. He has offered to get up with George, and occasionally Sam has let him, but he doesn't seem to have the same knack, and Sam invariably appears in the doorway, looking pissed off, and takes George out of his arms. If it weren't for the fact that George immediately quieted down in his mother's arms, Chris would be furious.
Apart from quieting his son, there are other things Chris is, apparently, hopeless at. He can't make a bottle in the right way (too little powder or too much); heat the bottle to the right temperature (it's either boiling or too cold); change a diaper properly (doesn't do it up tightly enough); feed him in the right way (“For God's sake, Chris, you need to be quicker than that or he'll start screaming'') or give him a bath (“And what planet are you living on?'').
And so he doesn't offer anymore, which prompts Sam to shout that she's the only one doing anything in this bloody house. It's a no-win situation.
For once, the house smells delicious. It smells like the old days. He knows that smell, the smell of onions gently sautéing in butter. His heart lifts as he considers this unexpected surprise. Could tonight be the night when he gets the old Sam back? Will she have made a delicious dinner for him? Could they restore some of the magic they seem to have lost?
He walks into the kitchen to find Sam standing at the sink, washing up.
“Hi, darling.” He kisses the back of her neck. “George in bed?”
“You know he goes to bed at quarter to seven. Where else do you think he'd be?”
Chris decides to ignore the curt tone. He's fed up with arguing. Tonight he just wants to enjoy the evening. “Is he asleep? Can I go in and say goodnight?”
“No. Sorry. Once he's in bed you know what he's like. If he sees you he'll start screaming again when you leave. You can get him up in the morning, though.”
“Yeah. I will. Is your mother coming over tomorrow?”
“Yup,” Sam says, nodding. “She said she'd take him out for the day.”
“You mean, and leave us together? Just the two of us? Freedom?”
“I know.” Sam grins, and for a minute they have a glimpse of the old Sam and Chris, of how well they can actually get on. “Isn't it fantastic? What are we going to do?”
“I know what I'd like to do.” Chris grins, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her close, nuzzling into her neck.
“Oh, Chris.” She pushes him away in exasperation.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, Chris'? It's been ages.”
Sam wants to argue that they had sex last week, but she knows Chris will say that for them, that's ages, and she can't be bothered to have a fight. “Okay,” she says, her heart not in it, although she figures she can always manufacture a headache or a period tomorrow morning. “Apart from that, what are we going to do?”
Chris lets her go and walks out to the hallway to hang up his coat. “What did we use to do on a Saturday BG?”
“Jesus. I can't remember! Did we actually have a life BG?”
“I'm not sure, but I know there are photos around here that prove we did.”
“So what did we do? Seriously.”
“Shopping?”
“Sometimes,” she agrees, remembering their occasional sojourns to Portobello, meandering down the road looking at antiques they couldn't possibly afford, stopping for a cappuccino and a couple of pastries on Golborne Road on the way home. Although it really wasn't that often. Not more than four times a year, come to think of it.
“Walks on the Heath?” Chris offers.
“Nope. That's definitely post–George. We used to talk about going for walks on the Heath a lot, but I'm not sure we ever actually bothered.”
“Well, Saturday mornings were never an option really. We always had a lie-in after a Friday night.”
“True.” And then Sam remembers. She remembers waking up late-morning and snuggling into Chris, covering his back with kisses to wake him. She remembers him rolling over and drawing her close with an arm heavy with sleep. They'd lie for a while like that, and then slowly Chris would open his eyes, pull her closer for a kiss.
They would have lovely, languorous sex. And afterward Chris would have a shower, she would jump in the bath, and they would drive up to All Bar One in Highgate for lunch. Puttering around the village, they'd usually find things to buy in the afternoon: books; furniture; food. Often Julia and Mark would be with them, and however badly Julia and Mark might have been getting on, the four of them always worked. They'd all known one another for so long they were like family. Anything could be said, no censoring was permitted.
With a pang Sam realizes how much she misses Julia. When Julia phoned to say she was staying in New York, all those months ago, Julia was so full of excitement and vigor, so like the Julia that Sam used to know, hadn't seen for so many years, Sam couldn't admit how upset she was, how hard her life would be without Julia.
But even she could never have envisaged quite how much her life would change with George.
“Tell you what.” Chris comes back in the kitchen and reaches for the paper. “I'll give George breakfast, you can sleep in, and when your mother's collected George I'll come back to bed for some more sleep.” He grins. “Or something, and then we'll play the rest of the day by ear.”
“God,” sighs Sam. “A lie-in. Are you sure?” I'm not getting up, she decides. I'm not going to come down to the kitchen to make sure Chris is doing it properly. To make sure George is getting enough to eat. Bugger that. I'm going to sleep, and if George decides to be fussy with his food tomorrow morning then that's Chris's problem. Not mine.
“You need to sleep, love.” The prospect of sex tomorrow morning, plus a day spent on their own, has lifted Chris's spirits. He suddenly feels both loving and loved.
“What is that smell, anyway? What are you making for dinner?”
“Oh that? That's a fish pie.”
“Mmmm. God, I haven't had that for years. It reminds me of my childhood. Have you got peas too?”
Sam makes a worried face. “Chris, it's not for you, it's for George. I mean, you can have it if you like, but it's pureed.”
Chris's heart, on a cloud but a few seconds before, starts to sink. “Oh. So what are we having?”
“Umm.” Sam thinks hard. “There's spinach and potato bake, or cauliflower cheese, or chicken casserole.”
“And are they all pureed?”
Sam shrugs apologetically. “There's always a takeaway curry.”
“Again?”
“I could eat curry every night of the week,” Sam states defensively, which isn't quite true, but given that this will be the third night this week they've ordered it, it might as well be. “Did you get the ice-cube trays?” Sam unclips the Magimix and gets ready to scoop as Chris goes to the hallway and brings in a plastic bag.
“Will six be enough?”
“Should be. Thanks, darling.” And she blows him a kiss as she starts to drop the fish-pie puree, teaspoonful by teaspoonful, into the trays.
Sam wakes to the sound of George screaming. Somewhere she had read that a baby who wakes up smiling is a secure baby, and although there is no reason whatsoever for George to be insecure, she cannot avoid this nagging doubt when he wakes up crying, which he so often does.
Just hungry, she tells herself, rolling over as she hears Chris sigh and climb out of bed.
“Turn the monitor off,” she hisses as he's about to close the bedroom door, knowing that she'll never be able to get back to sleep if she hears George cry for much longer.
She reaches for the earplugs and jams them in, thankful for the instant peace, for although Chris has taken the monitor, the walls of this small terraced house are thin, and George's faint cries are still audible.
Lying in bed, she can already feel her body start to wake up. I will not, she wills herself. I will go back to sleep. Every bone in her body is exhausted, and she tries thinking about beaches, soothing turquoise water, hot white sand and gently rocking hammocks, but each time she does she finds herself, within a few seconds, thinking about George.
She lies there, gradually waking with each thought. I hope he's eating enough, she thinks. Did I tell Chris he can have one of the baby yogurts in the fridge? What if he's being picky and Chris thinks he's had enough, when I know he hasn't and you just have to persevere?
At twenty-eight minutes past seven she realizes there's absolutely no point in staying in bed. Now fully awake, there isn't a hope in hell of her going back to sleep. She climbs out of bed, puts on her dressing gown and curses the irony of the impossibility of getting up during the week, and the ease with which she manages it now.
Chris looks up, surprised. And guarded. He knows she's checking up on him. He and George have been having a great time. George stopped screaming the minute the bottle was plugged into his mouth, and apart from making a mountain of banana muesli (Chris poured in far too much milk, and had to keep adding more of the powder to thicken it, ending up with a bowl of banana muesli that would have happily served six starving babies), everything's been great.
George has just finished his banana muesli, and is starting on a baby yogurt Chris found in the fridge.
“I thought you were going back to sleep.” Chris turns around, defensively, enjoying this time with George because he, after all, never gets to spend time with George on his own. He's been telling George all about his work, and about the things they're going to do together when George is a bit older. He's told George about the stresses and strains of running your own cabinet-making business, and he's warned George about following in his footsteps, even though he admitted he'd be very proud.
“George and I were having a man-to-man talk,” he explains to Sam, who is relieved to see that both her boys are fine, but is, nevertheless, wide awake. She kisses George all over his face and squeezes his fat little feet. “I love those toes,” she tells him, clenching her teeth together to stop herself from biting them, so delicious is her son. “I love those toes,” she growls again as George smiles with delight.
Sam fills the kettle with fresh water, flicks it on, and puts a couple of slices of toast under the grill. “I couldn't bloody sleep, and the minute I decided I was going to stay awake I was starving. Do you want some toast?”
“No. I'm fine. What time is your mum coming?”
“She said nine.” Sam butters the toast and sits down at the table. “Can you believe this bloody weather?” The rain drums hard against the window.
“November in London. What a pleasure.” His tone may be derisive, but he is used to spending every November, every winter, in England. His business may be getting busier, but he cannot see it stretching to exotic holidays for a very long time to come.
“I've just been lying in bed thinking of beaches. That's what I could do with now. Some sun. A proper holiday. It's been years.”
“We went to Torquay in the spring,” Chris says defensively. “Hardly years ago.”
“No,” she concedes vaguely. “It just feels like years ago. Do you think we'll ever have a proper holiday again?”
“Not unless we can leave George with your mother or bring someone along to help.”
“Well the first is definitely out of the question. You know my mother, she'd have heart failure if she thought she'd have to have George overnight, let alone for the duration of a whole holiday.”
“Yeah, I know. I can't believe she's taking George for the day,” Chris agrees. “Do you think she realizes that she'll actually have to feed him? You'd better demonstrate how a bottle is warmed up, just in case she breaks a nail in the process and sues you.”
“Oh, come on.” Sam gets defensive, for while it's perfectly reasonable for her to criticize her mother as being the mother from hell, it's not acceptable for Chris to do the same. Chris ought to just support Sam by agreeing with her when she's in mother-hating mode, and keeping quiet the rest of the time. “My mother's not that bad.”
Chris decides to keep quiet.
“Anyway,” Sam moves on, “when you said bring someone along to help, what did you mean?”
“I meant like a nanny or something. Au pair.”
“But we talked about this before George was born. I don't want to have help. I want to do this by myself. I can understand women handing their children over to be brought up by someone else if they have to work, but as long as I'm at home I need to be there for him, and I don't want anyone else involved.”
“I know, I know.” Chris is tired of this argument, still unable to understand her resistance. “The first five years are the formative ones,” he parrots. “And your mother wasn't around and you're not going to do the same to your child. It's just that I thought you might have changed your mind now you've had him.”
“What? Suddenly decide I can't be bothered to bring up my own child and hire a nanny?”
“No, I didn't mean that. I thought maybe you'd consider having some help, maybe someone who can look after him a couple of days a week, just to give you a break. You could go out for lunch with friends. Have a massage. Go shopping. Whatever you want. Simply get away from it all for a while, recharge your batteries, make yourself feel like a human being again. You're the one always accusing me of being able to get away from it. You always say you're the one who feels trapped, but it doesn't have to be like that, Sam. You don't have to spend every minute of every day with George.”
Chris takes a deep breath and continues. “And before you say anything, most of the women you know have their mothers around to help them. I'm not about to start criticizing your mother, but she's not exactly the most maternal of women, and although you've tried to hide it I know how devastated you are by her lack of interest. The fact is she's too caught up in her own life, and too selfish, to be of any real help with George. So you can't compare yourself to other women because you haven't got any help at all.
“All I'm saying is that you don't have to feel guilty about not doing everything yourself. George isn't going to suffer, and he isn't going to grow up like you and resent his mother for being completely disinterested in his life, because you're not.”
He speaks slowly, impressing the point. “You are not your mother, Sam. You never have been. If you had been anything like her I would never have fallen in love with you in the first place.” This manages to raise a small smile on Sam's face. “The point is, it's okay to admit you can't do it all yourself. It's okay to show some vulnerability and ask for help. And Sam, you need some time off. For you, for me and for us. For our marriage.”
Chris tails off, shocked at the amount he's just said, more shocked at the calmness with which he managed to deliver it. Sam too is shocked, and if she's honest, the thought of handing George over for a couple of days a week sounds like bliss. In fact Sam has never been more tempted by anything in her life.
But she has made a commitment to George. And, more importantly, she has made a commitment to herself. She is going to be the best mother in the whole wide world. And the one thing she is absolutely sure of is that the best mother in the whole wide world would never farm her children out.
Not even for two days a week.