28
“Hi. Sam?” George is sitting in his high chair attempting to lean forward as Sam tries to maneuver the tray on to give him lunch.
“Hang on, hang on,” she cries as she drops the phone briefly to adjust the shoulder straps. “Come on, Chicken. Be a good boy and eat Mummy's delicious homemade fishcakes. Yum yum. Mmmm. Delicious.” She spoons it into his mouth at the same time as she picks up the receiver.
“I'm so sorry,” she says into the mouthpiece, speed-spooning more crumbled-up fishcake into George's mouth, which is open and waiting like a tiny little black bird's. “Hello?”
“So are your fishcakes delicious, then?”
“They're going down a treat,” she says, trying to place the voice, which is so familiar. “Who is it that wants to know?”
“I can't believe you don't know when we only spoke yesterday.”
Yesterday? Yesterday was Sunday. She tries to think whether she spoke to anyone yesterday, but no. Her mind is blank.
“Yesterday?”
“Sam! It's Dan.”
She drops the spoon, which luckily makes no noise whatsoever, being, as it is, made of orange and turquoise rubber, and George lets out a wail of disapproval, anxious for the next mouthful.
“Dan, how are you?” She thinks of using her Caramac bunny voice, but too late. It would sound ridiculous now, and she curses herself for being so unprepared, for Dan having to listen to her being, well, mumsy, rather than a voluptuous sex siren. But then again, he called her. Her wishes finally came true and he called.
“I'm extremely well. Is this a bad time to call?”
As if there could ever possibly be a bad time for Dan to call.
“Not at all.”
“Look, I really hope you don't find this presumptuous, but it's Jill's birthday next Friday and one of the ideas I thought of for a present was a painting, or drawing, of our house because she loves it, and even though I know you're a graphic designer, I thought you might know someone who does this sort of thing.”
“I could do it.” The words are out before she even has a chance to think about them.
“You could?” Relief and joy in his voice. She knew it! Sam knew it was just an excuse to see her again! “I wanted to ask you but I was sure you'd say no. God, Sam. That's fantastic. It's incredibly short notice, though, her birthday's in two weeks. Could you do it by then?”
“No problem. The only thing I've been doing recently is looking after George.”
“Come, come. Now I know you're lying. What about making those delicious homemade fishcakes? They must have kept you busy.”
She laughs. “Ah yes. I'd forgotten about those. See how exciting my life is? Looking after babies and cooking.”
“Jill only pretends to cook. She has four recipes that she does to perfection, and that's it. All I can say is your husband must be a very lucky man.”
Sam blossoms with pride. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Now that,” he laughs, “is something you definitely shouldn't be saying to a man like me.”
A warm flush appears on her face. This is serious flirtation. This is something in which she hasn't indulged for years. Not since long before Chris. And more to the point, she's flirting with Dan! Or rather, he's flirting with her.
Which is not the same thing at all.
She tries to think of something equally flirtatious, or witty, or leading, but finds herself at a loss for words. This is all happening far more quickly than she had expected, and although she's delirious with joy, she's also unprepared, and changes tack to bring the conversation back on to a more comfortable level for her.
“So what should I do about the house? Do you have any photographs I can work from?”
“I've got some from earlier in the year. How about I drop them round to you later today? Are you in?”
Oh God. Her hair needs washing. The house needs tidying. She needs to do a shop. George needs a walk.
“I'm here all afternoon. Later would be better for me.”
“How about four? I could come for tea.”
Sam cannot wipe the smile from her face. “Four sounds lovely. If you're sure.” Insecurity threatens to strike.
“Sure I'm sure. I'll bring the pictures as long as you provide the homemade crumpets.”
“Oh ha ha. You'll be lucky if you get a couple of stale Farley's Rusks.”
“Don't worry about it. That's pretty much what I get at home. See you later.” And he's gone.
Her doorbell rings at 1:45 P.M. Bugger. She's in the bath, face pack on, deep conditioner soaking into her split ends, while George sleeps soundly in his room. She clambers out of the bath, grabs a towel and runs downstairs, dripping water on to the mat as she opens the door.
To find Maeve standing on the doorstep with Poppy.
“Ah.” Maeve smiles regretfully. “Clearly not the best time to come over, then?”
Any other time and Sam would be over the moon, but not today. Not when George could wake up at any given moment and she's using this time while he's asleep to get ready.
And she knows Dan was only joking about the homemade crumpets, but she does want to show him how it is possible to be sexy, gorgeous, a wonderful mother, and a fabulous wife as well. She is planning on whipping up a quick banana bread after she's thoroughly spring-cleaned the house.
“Oh God,” Sam moans. “I'd so love to ask you in but I've got a meeting this afternoon and I've got to get ready before George wakes up. Are you okay, though?”
“We're great,” Maeve smiles. “Poppy's delicious and I'm bored, and we were passing so I thought I'd pop in, but don't worry. Another time.” She turns to leave.
“No. Wait.” Sam does a quick mental calculation. If Dan comes at four, they'd exchange photos immediately, and then chat, and then . . . oh Christ. What if something happens? No, she decides instantly. The most that will happen today is a kiss, and even as she thinks about a potential kiss, her loins turn to liquid. I will not sleep with him, not in this house, and not yet, she tells herself firmly. Just a kiss. And five o'clock is George's teatime and six o'clock is George's bathtime so whatever happens he will have left by then but that still doesn't leave me time to see Maeve.
But should I even be seeing Maeve, she wonders. Maeve doesn't know about the Julia connection, but she's so nice! She could be my new best friend! Oh God. What shall I do?
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
“Same as usual,” Maeve says. “Wandering the streets, accosting any nice-looking mother who could be my friend. Why?”
Sam laughs. “Come over tomorrow for a coffee. Nine-thirty?”
Maeve makes a face. “My little angel has a nap until around ten. Bugger. It's so awkward having to fit everything around naptime.”
“Don't worry. How about ten-thirty?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
By 3:34 P.M. Sam is ready. The house is gleaming, every surface polished to perfection, a bowl of roses on the kitchen table.
She is wearing new jeans and a long blue sweater to cover the pregnancy padding around her hips and thighs that is finally starting to disappear now that her newfound crush has shrunk her appetite to almost nothing.
Her makeup is subtle and discreet, and only visible if you look very, very closely.
A vanilla-scented candle has been burning on the radiator shelf in the hallway, the kitchen smells deliciously of banana bread, and the living-room table has been polished with lavender beeswax furniture polish.
Sam has used every trick of the trade—bar putting cinnamon sticks in the oven, and even that was considered—to make her home welcoming, to reinvent herself as the perfect picture of domesticity.
If an estate agent tried to sell the house this afternoon, there would probably be a bidding war.
She rocks quietly back and forth in the glider rocker in George's room, watching him bang a musical toy, barely even registering the—usually intensely irritating—toy's recorded voice with an American twang: Puppy. Kitten. Hello, Baby.
At 3:55 P.M. the phone rings. It's Dan.
“I'm so sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly apologetic, but sounding very rushed. “Something's come up and I've got to go out on a job. I'm out for the rest of the day so I'll drop them through the letterbox this evening on my way back, is that okay?”
“Of course,” she says brightly, successfully covering the disappointment, the instant desolation she feels. “Absolutely fine. Don't worry about a thing.”
She puts the phone down and wills back the tears. This is ridiculous. This is not because he doesn't love her, it is something beyond his control. He'll call tomorrow. He'll find another excuse, because Sam does, after all, recognize that it is just an excuse. He didn't have to come over at all, she muses, starting to brighten slightly. He could have sent the photos in the post, or dropped them in one evening when Chris is here. He invited himself for tea to spend time with me. This was unavoidable, she tells herself, gazing at George. He'll think of something else.
She has to find something else to think about as well. He is taking up space, rent-free, in her head, and despite enjoying his presence there most of the time, she is also finding it exhausting. She decides that this afternoon she will have a break from him, from thoughts of him.
She calls Maeve.
“What a lovely surprise. I was bored stupid today.” Maeve pushes the buggy into the hallway and lifts Poppy out, walking down to the kitchen with the confidence all new mothers share when they are in the presence of their own. They treat one another's houses as their own, open cupboard doors and help themselves to bibs, and bottles, and baby wipes. They adopt a familiarity in the homes of strangers in a way that never fails to shock their husbands on the rare occasions those husbands are around to witness.
“So rude!” their husbands have been known to hiss, when new mothers attempt to bring their entire families, husbands included, together for tea on Sundays. “Can you believe she just opened all our cupboards? Couldn't she have asked? Didn't anyone ever teach her manners?”
And new mothers will shrug, for they understand in a way they know their husbands never will.
So Maeve enters Sam's kitchen, followed by Sam, exclaims with pleasure on seeing a reclining chair still shoved in the corner, and expertly straps Poppy in the chair, dangling a toy bar (on the floor next to the chair) above to keep her quiet and amused.
“Can I get you anything?” Sam says, putting the kettle on. “Does Poppy need anything? I've got masses of formula. George was so allergic I had to try every brand on the market, so whatever you want, I've got.”
Maeve raises an eyebrow. “Aptamil?”
“Got it.”
“Soya milk?”
“Got it.”
“Ah ha. How about . . . Nanny?”
“Of course I've got Nanny. Goat's milk formula was the only thing my poor little lactose-intolerant baby would drink.”
Maeve makes a face. “How do you know he's lactose intolerant?”
“He'd come out in this terrible eczema with everything else.”
“Okay,” she says, shrugging.
“Why?”
“I don't understand why none of our generation was lactose intolerant, and suddenly every other child today is either lactose intolerant or allergic or something.”
Sam misses Maeve's point, Maeve firmly believing that lactose intolerance is merely the result of a neurotic mother. “I think they must use far more additives now,” Sam says. “God knows I wish they wouldn't, I'd love to be able to give George normal formula.”
“It's like all that bloody organic stuff,” Maeve continues, now on a roll. “We never had organic food, did we? And what harm has it done us? None. I can't see what on earth is the point in spending three times as much on organic food.”
“Oh God,” groans Sam. “You know what? I bloody agree with you, but look,” and she opens her fridge door and beckons Maeve over to have a look. Organic milk. Organic cheese. Organic bread. Organic vegetables. “Isn't that ridiculous? I think exactly the same thing, but I've done it because everyone else does it.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Maeve can feel herself creasing up with embarrassment. She had no idea Sam would be one of those women, Sam looked so . . . normal. “I shouldn't have said anything. Me and my big mouth.”
“You should have said something, because you're right. So what do you want to drink?” Sam opens the cupboard door, and turns back for an answer when none is forthcoming.
Maeve is standing in front of the freezer, the door wide open, looking confused and slightly shocked.
“Sam, I know this might be a stupid question, but why do you have three billion ice-cube trays stacked in your freezer?”
Sam starts to laugh. “Not for ice. I read a brilliant article that said you had to freeze the food you make for the babies in ice-cube trays. It's amazing. Every time I cook I just empty out two or three. It's so easy.”
“But Sam,” Maeve says, trying very hard not to smile, but she can't quite help it, “you're supposed to turn them out into freezer bags when they're frozen, not keep buying more ice-cube trays.”
“You're joking.” Sam is mortified as she looks at the trays and trays of frozen baby food, stacked up until there isn't a millimeter of extra space. “No one told me that.”
“Oh God. I'm sorry,” Maeve starts to laugh. “I'm only laughing because I would have done exactly the same thing but I've seen someone do it. You must have spent thousands on those bloody ice trays.”
Sam grins, starting to see the ridiculousness of what she's done. “Not thousands. Hundreds maybe. God, I'm stupid. I can't believe I didn't think of that.”
“So I'm not the only one whose brain has shrunk to nothing since giving birth?”
“Clearly not. I just thought I'd hidden it reasonably well. So. Drink. What'll you have?” She walks back to the cupboard. “Chamomile? Apple and rosehip? Peppermint?” She looks at Maeve's aghast face and starts to laugh. “Joke,” she says, having almost forgotten about Dan. “Tea or coffee?”
“I would say tea but I don't trust you and I need some caffeine so you'd better make it coffee. Strong. Two spoonfuls and milky.”
“Two spoonfuls? Are you sure?”
“Yup. Catching up on the last months when I wasn't allowed to drink any. So . . .” Maeve looks around the kitchen. “This is just as gorgeous as I suspected, but far more to the point, I thought you said you didn't have any help.”
“I don't.”
“You have to be joking. I feel slightly ill. How in the hell do you manage to keep this place looking so perfect by yourself? Nobody does that.” She peers at Sam closely. “Are you some kind of Stepford Wife or something?”
“Trust me,” Sam laughs. “The furthest thing. I was having this meeting . . .” She realizes she can withhold the truth but can't lie completely, not to a new friend. “This friend of ours has secretly asked me to draw a picture of his house for his wife's birthday, and I was so ashamed of this house looking like a bomb's hit it that I had a massive blitz this afternoon. If it makes you feel any better, I swear this house never ever looks like this.”
“Okay. That makes me feel a bit better. So you draw, then?”
“I was a graphic designer.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm a mother who was supposed to have gone back to her job after three months but I'd been unhappy with the company for years, and I just couldn't face it. So now I'm a full-time mother who isn't earning anything, who needs to find some kind of work to keep her sane, but who in the meantime resents her husband for not being able to provide for her in the way she'd like. I'm a mother who will probably have to think of something pretty damn sharpish.”
“No beating around the bush with you, then,” Maeve laughs. “If it's any consolation, I understand.”
“Are you going back to work?”
“I'm supposed to. And before Poppy I thought I would definitely go back, I thought I'd stagnate if I wasn't in the work environment, but I don't know whether I can leave her now. That bloody three-month deadline's looming, and I can't believe I'm going to say this, but the truth is I find being a mother strangely fulfilling.” She sighs. “I spent years building up my career, and just as I was getting somewhere I got pregnant. I thought Poppy would be a temporary blip, but I simply don't miss the adrenaline of work, and I really think I'm happy at home, with Poppy.
“I worked in television,” Maeve adds, as an afterthought.
“I know.” Their eyes meet, and Sam realizes she must now confess. “Oh God. Please swear to me you won't run away if I tell you how I know.”
“I swear to God I'll take at least ten minutes to run away, given that I have to get Poppy's snowsuit back on and get her strapped into the buggy again.” She's joking, but curious. How could Sam possibly know she worked in television?
Sam groans. She likes Maeve so much. Feels so comfortable with her. Knows that they have the potential to be such good friends. She also knows Maeve may very well cut her off before they've even started.
“You know your boyfriend?”
“Mark. Yes. Extremely well.”
“You know his ex-girlfriend?”
“Julia. Yes. Not so well.” Her voice is slowing down with recognition.
“Julia's my, um. How shall I say this . . .” Sam is pained. “. . . She's my best friend.”
“Ah.” Maeve sits back in her chair. “Does that mean that you have a huge problem with me and you hate me madly and in fact the only reason you invited me over is so you can pinch a hair out of my head while I'm not looking and make a voodoo doll once I've gone?”
Sam laughs, despite herself. “I thought maybe you'd have a huge problem with me,” she says. “Because I do still talk to Julia. A lot. And I just don't want things to be awkward.”
Maeve thinks for a while before speaking. “As I understand it, Julia and Mark were incredibly unhappy for many years, and both of them mistakenly thought a baby would heal their relationship?”
Sam nods.
“And now that Julia is living in New York she is in fact having a high old time, out with different men every night, hitting the hot spots and making Sex and the City look like The Waltons.”
Sam nods.
“And while I know it must have been difficult for her when she first heard about Mark and me, and Poppy”—Sam is about to nod but she quickly restrains herself, not wanting to be disloyal to Julia—“I would imagine that she probably doesn't feel very much about it now. Unless of course I'm barking up the wrong tree entirely.”
“No. I'd say you'd just about summed it up.”
“So are you planning on phoning Julia and telling her everything about me?”
“Well, no. I wasn't actually. I don't know what I'm going to tell Julia about you.”
Maeve reaches forward and places a hand on Sam's, her voice suddenly filled with rich, deep sincerity. “So why don't we just see each other for a while and see how it goes?”
Sam smiles, relief flooding through her. “But this isn't a relationship?” she says warningly.
“Definitely not.” Maeve smiles. “We're just seeing each other. No one has to know. Oh, and one other thing. No PDAs.”
“PDAs?”
“Public Displays of Affection.”
“That, my friend,” Sam says, extending a hand and shaking Maeve's firmly through their shared smiles, “is a deal.”
An hour later they're still at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings. Sam jumps up and goes to the door, to find Dan standing on the doorstep.
As her heart jumps into her mouth, Dan grins his sexy grin, apologizes, and explains he went on a job to interview an American rock star who's in town performing, but the rock star had an unfortunate experience with one of the tabloid journalists scheduled just before him, and subsequently put a stop to all other interviews.
“Who were you doing it for?” Sam is so impressed she can hardly breathe.
“Telegraph. I just spoke to the editor. I'm going to do a piece on celebrity tantrums instead. Ironic, naturally.”
“Naturally.''
“When the stories fall through, the freelance hack gets to play. So here I am.”
“To play?” She can't help herself, and even as she stands in the front door, one hand on her hip in a suggestive pose, one eyebrow raised, she remembers that Maeve is in the kitchen, and instantly wishes she'd go, wishes Maeve were anywhere else but here.
“What's that delicious smell?” Dan doesn't rise to the bait, and Sam is surprised, disappointed, but then she remembers how she hadn't risen to the bait in their phone conversation earlier, and she knows he is just getting back at her.
She forgives him.
“Homemade banana bread.” She smiles as she steps back to let him in. “I've got a friend here. Come in and meet her.”
Maeve eyes Dan up and down with caution. She knows men like this. Has slept with men like this many, many times. He is flirtatious and dangerous, and she is (much to Sam's relief) cool as she says hello, and quiet as she sits at the table and watches how Sam changes when this man's around.
He is, she reflects, as he stretches long legs out in front of him and leans back in his chair while Sam fusses around him, a man who is comfortable in his skin. Too comfortable, perhaps. He expects everyone to love him, and Maeve has never been good at loving men like that. Sleeping with them, yes. Loving them, no.
But he is, without question, dangerously attractive.
And Sam has, without question, fallen hook, line, and sinker.
No wonder she had made such an effort with the house, had baked banana bread.
It was all for Dan.
Dan finishes his banana bread, lavishes praise on Sam, who almost melts into his arms, and turns on Maeve, firing charming, disarming questions at her. Asking her who she is, where she lives, what she does, how old is Poppy, what kind of birth.
At this point Maeve, who is uncomfortable enough in this situation anyway, notices that Sam too is dismayed by Dan's attention to her. I will not get involved in this game, she thinks, standing up to leave.
She shakes Dan's hand with a forced smile, and gives Sam a hug. She knows Sam is in dangerous territory with this one. She knows Sam is blinded by his attractiveness, cannot see how harmful he could be, how she could be risking everything for a fling with this man.
But, more than that, she can see he doesn't feel the same way about Sam. Sam is in love, and he is not. He is loving the attention, loving encouraging Sam, but for him it's all a game, and the most he'll commit to is a sordid little affair.
Does Maeve know Sam well enough to tell her? And if she does, what on earth is she going to say?