25
No one knows about failing to realize your potential better than Chris. Sam may think that he's quite happy puttering along, laboring over walnut-inlaid console tables that take weeks to make, and selling them for, effectively, peanuts, but Chris knows exactly what he's doing.
Chris knows about the big time. He knows about pricing yourself into a higher market, about lucrative deals with some of the larger stores, about taking on a team and producing greater numbers in less time.
Over the years he's watched most of his contemporaries do exactly that. One of them quit cabinetmaking to manufacture solid beech tables—sleek, modern, functional with just the tiniest hint of farmhouse nostalgia—that are as ugly as sin as far as Chris is concerned, but are currently to be found in every branch of Habitat up and down the country. If Chris weren't such a furniture snob, Sam would have snapped up one of those tables in the January sale last year.
Chris always knew he had the talent. He pays more attention to detail than almost all of his contemporaries, his furniture is more beautiful than all of theirs put together, yet he is still the least successful. And, up until very recently, that was the way he liked it.
Because Chris knows the price to pay for success. He knows that arriving at the workshop at nine in the morning and leaving at six-thirty at the very latest are not exactly practical when you're aiming to hit the big time. He knows that you can forget all about Saturday mornings in bed with your beautiful wife when you're aiming to hit the big time.
When you're aiming to hit the big time, the big time must be the only thing that matters. The big time becomes your wife, your mother, and your child, with very little room for anything else.
He's seen it happen to countless people. They start off like him, loving every minute of their hard work, grieving when a piece of furniture is sold, taking a day or so to get over the feeling of losing a limb. But when fame and fortune beckon, there is no room for passion. There is no time for lovingly stroking smooth burnished mahogany legs. There is no place for the true craft of making furniture you love.
And there is no room for family.
Chris loves his family. He loves his mother, his father, his two brothers (he's the middle child without the desperate need to be noticed, to be loved, that so often afflicts middle children), and most of all he loves Sam and George.
But even before George came along Chris made a decision to put Sam first. He made a decision to have breakfast with her every day, and to be home by seven every night.
He made a decision to keep his workload down so he could still take pleasure in following his passion, and not spend all his spare time worrying about how he was going to fulfill orders.
Chris sighs as he picks up some cotton wadding, carefully dropping just two small drops of linseed oil on the outside, before moving it smoothly, sensually, in a figure of eight on the lid of a large cherry chest. Up and down. Around and around, French polishing until the rich, glowing beauty of the wood emerges. He loves this work.
But he loves spending time with his family more.
Although now he's not so sure. Gradually he's been accepting more orders, pushing himself to the very limits of his capabilities. Gradually he's found he's had to work longer and longer hours in order to meet the demand for his furniture. Gradually he's coming round to the idea of a spread in World of Interiors. Hell. Other people would kill for an opportunity like that.
And gradually he's starting to realize that there's no place like home. Not when home has become an arena for fighting. For shouting. For raised voices. When he feels as if, as he has already told Sam, he is constantly walking on eggshells in his own house. When he seems to be able to say or do nothing right, and when everything he does say or do elicits a frosty stare from his wife or an exasperated sigh.
He tries to be a good husband, a good father, but increasingly of late he is beginning to see that he is neither of those things. He cannot be a good husband or Sam would not treat him with such contempt, and surely he cannot be a good father or she would not step in and remove George at every opportunity.
He had thought, for a while, that this was normal. That this happened to all new parents once they had brought the baby home. He had excused it on the grounds of hormones. Ironic only because everyone had said how lucky he was that Sam had had such a lovely pregnancy, had been so happy, and blooming, and in love with life.
He had thought perhaps that he was paying for that now, but still he had known it would pass.
“For God's sake, Chris. The diaper's much too loose,” Sam would say witheringly as she elbowed him out of the way and stepped up to the changing table to redo, amid much sighing, his handiwork.
“For God's sake, Chris, the water's much too hot.” Sam would elbow him out of the way in the kitchen, plunging the bottle into the freezer amid much sighing.
He had mutely moved out of the way, leaving the room after assuming he was more of a hindrance than a help, and then, a few minutes later, while reading the papers in the living room, would be subjected to Sam shouting that he never did anything to help.
And it was getting worse.
Not the shouting. That, if anything, had subsided somewhat, but the atmosphere in the house was thick with acrimony and resentment. The more time Chris spent at home these days, the worse he felt.
Most of the time he lived his life under a cloud of sadness. He looked at Sam and couldn't understand what had happened to her. To them. He looked at George, at this wonderful, miraculous creature, and knew that their shared delight in his presence, in every move he made, should have been drawing them closer together, not pushing them further apart.
The only place he can still breathe freely, still relax, is in his workshop, and as for the bonuses of his newfound workaholism—the magazine interest, the increased orders, the nonstop phone calls—quite frankly that's something he could well do without.
“Hello, love.” Chris manages to fill his voice with warmth as Jill Marsh, an old and favorite client, smiles encouragingly across the desk at him. “We've all been invited to Jill and Dan's for tea next Sunday. Lily's only a few months older than George, and Jill thought the babies could play and we could see the dining table in its proper home.”
Sam has never met Jill Marsh, has only heard about her from Chris. She knows they are roughly the same age, but that Jill lives very happily off her husband's income (something big in journalism). She knows that Jill dabbles in interior design when she feels guilty about not working, and lives in Highgate in a Gothic house that has been regularly featured in Homes and Gardens.
She also knows that Chris and Jill have always been friends. Jill likes to tell people that she discovered Chris, a statement ruined only by the fact that Chris is nowhere near where he could be had he not sacrificed his career for his family. But Jill has been more influential than most of his other clients put together, and he has Jill to thank for many of the more recent commissions.
Jill has always wanted to meet Sam. Sam has always wanted to meet Jill, but somehow something always got in the way, and when their pregnancies overlapped, Chris had passed messages between the two of them, offering advice and anecdotes.
Once they had even spoken on the phone, and Sam had known that she would like Jill, that they had the potential to be friends. It was just before Sam was due, and Jill had laughed and said there was no point putting anything in the diary for months, but that Sam should call when they were up to socializing and they would get together.
Seven and a half months on and Sam still isn't ready for socializing, but Chris is. Anything to inject some normality back into their relationship, to recapture something of their life of old.
Chris is only just starting to realize the effects of their baby-imposed isolation. He is only just starting to realize how destructive it is to spend every single night of the week watching television, then going to bed. How soul-destroying to spend every evening with a partner who doesn't appear to like you very much.
Chris misses having a social life. He misses being able to pop out to the cinema at a moment's notice. And while he wouldn't change George for the world, he knows that something has to change, and the only thing he can think of right now is to try to force Sam out into the real world.
The more she isolates herself, the more withdrawn and sullen she becomes, and the only moments of brightness are when she is reminded of her old life: when Julia phones and he hears Sam's laughter pierce the air and roll down the stairs, unnaturally sharp and bright now that he so rarely hears it. When she forgets to hate him, and decides, for those brief pockets of time, that Chris is still the man she married, the man she loves.
And today Jill walked into his office, Jill who doesn't seem to have changed at all, who is the mother of fourteen-month-old Lily, who is as warm, and funny, and as charming as she has always been.
She is a breath of fresh air.
“Okay.” Sam accepts the invitation when she is unable to think of a suitable excuse. She is reluctant not because she no longer wishes to meet Jill, but because she feels so inadequate. Seven and a half months on, pregnancy is beginning to sound like rather a lame excuse for the excess twenty pounds. Half her hair has disappeared down the drain, much to her shock and disgust, but she has refused to get it cut, hanging on to her long curls as a memento of the girl she was before George, the girl she plans to be again.
She puts the phone down wondering whether it is possible to lose ten to fifteen pounds in just over a week, and whether she is likely to squeeze into a size 12 at Warehouse (very generously cut, don't you know), or whether she could breathe new life into her maternity leggings that are starting to wear dangerously thin on the inner thighs.
Chris puts the phone down and tells Jill the good news. She claps her hands together, excited.
“I'm dying to meet Sam. I can't believe we've been hearing about one another for all these years, and now you're all finally coming over. And I'm going to meet that delicious little George. Tell me, do you love him more than anything?”
Chris's eyes light up for the first time that day as he thinks about George, and it is only then that Jill really notices the difference, notices how flat he is the rest of the time.
“Are you okay, Chris?”
“Sure.” They have a professional relationship, potentially the beginnings of a real friendship, but there's no way he knows Jill well enough to confide in her. Until now perhaps. “Tell me something,” he says, unable to stop himself, looking at her with interest, because Jill's daughter is only six months older than George, and yet she looks fantastic, looks exactly as she always has done, only better. Softer. “How do you manage to look so fantastic when you have a baby, how do you manage to cope so well, to still be exactly the same person you were before?''
“Why?” Jill asks gently. Flattered, but concerned. Chris just shrugs and smiles. “The first few months were impossible,” she says slowly, trying to judge from Chris's expression what tone of voice to use, what to say to make him feel better. His interest is piqued, and she continues in what she hopes is the right vein, because it is not something she admits to everyone. “I was exhausted. Depressed. Lonely. Resentful.”
“How did you pull yourself out of it?” Chris interrupts, wanting to hear all the answers now, wanting an instant panacea to his own unhappiness, his own depression, loneliness, and resentment.
Jill shrugs. “I couldn't even pinpoint when it actually happened. I think slowly, after about eight or nine months, things just started to get better. I found that I wasn't so tired, I wasn't so angry, and because I felt more human I started to go out and make the effort again. It helped that Lily started sleeping around then, but also I reached a point where I couldn't do it all by myself. I got part-time help, and for two and a half days a week I was given my life back. I adore Lily. She is the most wonderful thing in my life, but I needed something for me.”
“That's what I've been trying to tell Sam,” Chris says sadly.
“She's going through the same thing?”
“Exactly the same thing. She's not the same person I married but she's got this thing about being the perfect mother, and won't have help. Not that we can afford it anyway,” he snorts.
“Well, all that could change if that magazine feature comes off.”
“I know, but it's more than that. She's just changed so much. She never smiles anymore, never seems happy. Were you like that? Does that change?”
“I wouldn't say I was unhappy, but adjusting to being a mother definitely took months. I wish I could tell you that one day something happened that proved to be the turning point, but actually there was nothing as definitive or dramatic as that. I just woke up one morning and felt light. I felt as if I'd been in a bit of a fog, and suddenly it was gone, and I had energy again, and joy, and every day since then has been getting better and better.”
Chris sighs. “I wish that would happen to Sam.”
“Does she have friends in a similar situation?” Jill asks gently.
“No. That's part of the problem. She's at home all day with George, and when she's not at home she's on the Heath, but wherever she is she's pretty much by herself. She's got this problem with mother and baby groups—”
“I have to say I understand that!” laughs Jill.
“But meanwhile she doesn't see anyone. Both her best friends now live in New York, and I know she is so lonely, so desperate for friends with babies of a similar age, but won't do anything to find them.”
“Maybe she can't.” Jill shrugs. “Maybe she's slightly depressed and she needs to come out the other side. It will pass, though. I promise you it will pass.”
“Will it?”
“Yes. And even if it doesn't, you're all coming to us next Sunday, and I know that Sam and I will get on, and we'll be friends.”
“Can I just ask one more thing?” Chris says, giving her a grateful smile. “Did it affect Dan? That fog you mentioned. Did it ever seriously affect your marriage?”
Jill pauses, unsure at this point what Chris wants to hear, but she has to tell the truth, and he'll be relieved, surely, to hear it. “No. I would say it was a definite rocky patch, but at no point did I ever think about walking out.” She smiles reassuringly, expecting Chris to be relieved. Surely she had said exactly what he needed to hear.
“And what about Dan?” Chris says, anxiety still etched upon his face. “Did he?”
“Are you sure I look okay?” Sam whispers again to Chris as they stand on the doorstep of Jill and Dan's house. She pulls her black tunic cardigan (Marks & Sparks—thank God for those tunics that hide a multitude of sins) down over her bottom and tries to pull it together at the front to no avail, so she wraps her blanket coat tightly around to disguise her weight.
Chris hoists George onto his hip as the front door opens, and a little girl stands there looking expectantly up at them. Behind her Dan smiles as he moves her gently out of the way and beckons them in.
“Chris, lovely to see you!” They have met a few times before. “This is Lily. You must be Sam. And the handsome George. Come in, come in. Welcome.” Sam extends a hand, but Dan leans down and kisses her on the cheek, putting an arm around her shoulders to guide her down the hallway.
And Sam feels something unexpected as he rests his hand on her shoulder. Something she hasn't felt for a very long time. A flush on her cheeks and a stirring in her loins that is immediately exciting. Ridiculous, she tells herself. A man who is reasonably attractive is attentive and kind, and resting his arm on my shoulder in what can only be a warm, hostlike manner, and I'm on my way to my first orgasm of the year.
“Sam!” Jill appears from the kitchen and embraces Sam warmly. Sam returns the embrace with gusto, for while she wants to hate Jill, wants to hate her for being slim, and happy, and glamorous, for having a beautiful home and a sexy husband, she finds she can't.
“It is so, so lovely to meet you. Did you find it okay? Come in and sit down while I put the kettle on. Did you notice your husband's handiwork in the hallway?” Jill bubbles away as Sam tries to keep up.
“And in here. Look. Isn't he clever? Aren't you lucky? Now I have to tell you, for someone with a seven and a half?” Sam nods. “Seven-and-a-half-month-old baby, you're looking gorgeous. How on earth do you do it?”
From anyone else, Sam might have questioned this statement. Would almost certainly have assumed it was sarcastic, but Jill has been there, and Jill knows what she needs to hear when she is still feeling fat and exhausted, and there is nothing but sincerity in her voice, and even as she speaks she sees Sam slowly unfurl.
“You are joking!” Sam laughs, but her smile is genuine. “I'm huge. Look! Enormous!”
“You're not,” Jill says. “You're gorgeous.”
“What about you? Lily's fourteen months and you look like you've just stepped off a catwalk.”
“I knew I'd like you, Sam!” Jill gives Sam's arm a squeeze and goes off to the kitchen to get tea ready.
“What shall I do with George?” Chris puts George on the floor, where he sits rather like a small chubby beanbag, slumped forward examining the pattern on the Persian rug. He falls on to one side and rolls over, moving his face closer to the pattern before slowly lowering his open mouth to try to eat a particularly appetizing red swirl.
“Oh George,” Sam says, scooping him up and covering him with kisses, “you cheeky little monkey,” and Chris smiles as he watches them. He can see that Jill has instantly put Sam at ease, and seeing her like this reminds him of the good times.
“Chris!” Jill calls from the kitchen. “Come and see the table. It's in here.”
Sam perches on the edge of the sofa as Dan walks back into the room. She pulls in her stomach, then lets it out, thinking how ridiculous she is being. She is a married woman, not to mention a mother, not to mention overweight.
She pulls her stomach in again.
Dan collapses next to her on the sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table, and she is instantly very aware of his proximity. His right leg is casually brushing her ample thigh, but he hasn't seemed to notice.
It is all she can think of.
“Lily is the light of my life,” he sighs, stretching lazily and resting one arm along the back of the sofa, “but what I wouldn't give to have a holiday right now.”
“God, tell me about it,” Sam says, in a voice that sounds, even to her, self-conscious. Go away, she is thinking. I cannot cope with such a dangerously attractive man so close to me who is making me think unsafe thoughts. Don't go, she is thinking. Stay to remind me of this feeling, to remind me that it is still possible, that I am not too old and boring to feel passion.
“Okay.” Dan smiles, taking her words literally as she turns to look at him. “Right now I would like to be lying on a hammock strung between a couple of palm trees on a deserted island in the Caribbean.”
“Glass of rum punch brought out to you by a besuited waiter?” Sam smiles, enjoying skipping small talk, enjoying the false intimacy this line of conversation is creating.
“Good idea!” he laughs. “What about you?”
“White sand. Turquoise water. Hot, hot, hot. I would be in a bikini, having lost all my pregnancy weight finally”—she didn't mean to say that, but she needed him to know she didn't always look like this—“and I would be lying in the surf to cool down.”
“If that's pregnancy weight you should keep it,” Dan says, and even though she knows he's just being nice, a part of her hopes it's more, hopes he might be flirting with her. “It suits you.”
She flushes.
“And what are you two up to?” Jill walks into the living room, carrying a tray of tea, biscuits, and cakes, none of which, Sam suddenly decides, she will be eating.
“Nothing much.” Dan stretches again as Sam tries to will the heat out of her cheeks. “Just sharing fantasies. You wouldn't be interested.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything at all.