30
The one saving grace was that Chris didn't hear.
At least, that was what Sam told herself. Repeatedly.
The rest of the evening was, unsurprisingly, something of a disaster. Jill and Dan came back downstairs to find everyone, bar Chris, pale and shaky. Sam couldn't even look at them, and within a few minutes had retired to bed, claiming to have a sudden migraine, where she lay curled in the fetal position, shame and humiliation engulfing her to the point where she was unable to do anything except moan.
Jill realized very quickly what had happened. She had walked into the kitchen to ask Maeve if Sam was okay and spied the monitor, still switched off, on the window shelf. She visibly paled as she turned to Maeve and asked in a thin voice, “The monitor . . . ?” She had intended to say more, but Maeve's steely gaze stopped her.
“Yes,” Maeve said, “the monitor.” She stared her down, and Jill quietly turned and whispered something to Dan. A few minutes later they said good-bye to Maeve and Mark, unable to look them in the eye, collected a very tired and unhappy Lily, and left.
The only one who didn't have a clue about what was going on was Chris.
“What's happened?” he said, immediately after Jill and Dan left. “Did I do something wrong? Or was it you, Mark? Did you piss them off? Scare them away?” He had fallen into the easy banter he and Mark once shared, but his grin elicited nothing from Mark, just a shrug and a shake of the head.
Mark and Maeve left shortly afterward.
Chris cleared up in silence, taking a cup of tea and three Nurofen Plus up to Sam when he had finished. He hesitated outside their bedroom door, listening to her moaning, then padded in and sat next to her on the bed.
“How do you feel?” he said, stroking her back. “Is it really that bad?”
“It's terrible,” she groaned.
And burst into tears.
Chris rubbed her back gently, his hand moving in slow rhythmic circles until her sobs reduced to uneven hiccups. She was so filled with shame she could hardly bear to look at him.
As for Chris, he was aware that something had happened. He might have been thick-skinned, but he was not thick. He had, despite what everyone thought, noticed the way Sam shone when Dan was around, and was aware that she had been harboring a secret teenage crush. But he believed in his marriage, believed in Sam, and knew it would pass.
He also knew that something must have happened. He could guess, but he didn't want to go down that route, didn't want to think about what might have taken place. It was enough to see that that night would almost certainly mark the end of her crush. That it, whatever it was, had passed. Abruptly and definitively.
It was over.
And that was the only thing that mattered to Chris.
Sam doesn't sleep much that night. For a change. Instead of lying there fantasizing about Dan, she hears his voice, his patronizing tone, over and over. Trying to push it out of her head, she forces herself to focus on other things, but his voice keeps slipping in.
The poor cow's having multiple orgasms whenever she looks at me.
Oh God. Oh God. Sam cringes, physically, at the humiliation, at how wrong she'd been, how stupid for ever thinking it was anything more than Dan leading her on.
And, worse, he'd seen her for who she really was. She thought she'd been sexy, and curvaceous, and gorgeous, and he thought she was ridiculous.
The poor cow.
He'd seen the person she was terrified others would see: the fat, suburban wife. A laughingstock. She knew what he was thinking: She was a joke, a nothing, an object of ridicule.
Pathetic.
This is, she thinks, the worst night of my life. I will never be able to live this down. I will never be able to see Maeve and Mark again. I will never get over this.
At 4:34 A.M. Chris starts snoring gently. Sam sits up in bed and watches him, watches his body moving gently as he snores, his back softly rising and falling, and she waits for the hatred to come.
She had lain awake these past few months, waiting for him to snore. Had waited for him to justify her irritation, her rage. Had lain in bed hissing at him to shut up and hating him for not being the man she was supposed to have married.
Tonight she waits for those feelings to rise up through her throat, like bile, and is astonished to find none there. It's Chris, she thinks, tears welling up in her eyes. Look at his body; that back I know so well I could map out every mole with my eyes closed. Look at that hair, that thick shaggy hair I would recognize in a sea of a million people. The familiarity of him, the safeness of the man she knows almost as well as she knows herself, is suddenly overwhelming, and she finds her throat closing with emotion.
Oh my God, she thinks, shaking her head in amazement. What was I thinking? What have I done?
“Chris?” she whispers, reaching out to touch him.
“Sorry,” Chris mumbles, rolling onto his side, so used to being prodded and hissed at in the early hours of the morning that he now does this automatically.
Sam smiles even as the tears start rolling down her cheek, and spoons in behind him, tucking her knees in tightly behind his legs, wrapping her arm around his chest.
“Mmm,” Chris murmurs, drifting out of sleep just for a second.
“I love you,” she whispers, smiling, as the horrors of the evening gradually start to leave the room. She clutches him tighter, holding onto him, knowing that he truly is her rock, will always look after her, will always rescue her.
My husband, she thinks, burying her nose in his hair and inhaling deeply, thanking God he didn't hear, didn't know.
Father of my child.
The man I love.
Maeve turns up three days later. She's waited what she considers to be an appropriate time, given that Sam hasn't returned her calls, and she wants to make sure she sees Sam before Christmas.
“I was going to ring first,” she says, unzipping Poppy's snowsuit, “but I figured you'd probably think of an excuse for me not to come over and I was worried about, well . . . you know. How you'd be . . .” Maeve looks uncomfortable, but Sam laughs as she holds the door open.
“I'm fine,” she says. “Coffee?”
Maeve follows her down the hallway, concerned about the act Sam is putting on. After all, Maeve was there that night. She heard. She can only imagine the humiliation Sam must be feeling.
Sam busies herself with the coffee while Maeve transfers Poppy to the bouncer, only turning to look at Sam when Poppy is strapped in and quiet. “Sam? Are you okay? Really? I mean, I heard the other night too. It was horrific, and I would be mortified if it happened to me, and I don't mind, you know, I understand, I'm just worried about you.”
Sam sits down at the table with two mugs of coffee and a wry grin. “I can't even think about it,” she admits, “because every time I do I feel absolutely sick.”
“I've got to tell you I think the guy's a total f*ckwit. I always did, you know. That time we met here I thought he was an arse, and you could see he was totally leading you on—”
“Stop!” Sam puts her hand up, because the one thing she can't cope with hearing again is how Dan led poor pathetic Sam on.
“I didn't mean that,” Maeve says earnestly. “I meant, he fancied you! He so obviously fancied you.”
“He didn't,” Sam sighs, reaching over and squeezing Maeve's arm. “I know he didn't, and it's okay, you don't have to say it to make me feel better. I think the worst thing is I feel so completely stupid. I've spent these last few weeks obsessing about him, thinking that I was married to the wrong man and that Dan would give me my happy ever after, and it was just a stupid teenage crush that I took way too far, and . . .” She looks at Maeve with a pleading expression in her eyes. “And I'm married, for f*ck's sake. I'm not supposed to be having crushes. What the f*ck is that all about?”
“How the f*ck do I know?” Maeve shrugs, and they both laugh.
“I thought about it for hours that night,” Sam says wearily. “And you know, when I got married to Chris, I thought I'd never ever look at another man again. And I didn't. For six years I haven't been the slightest bit interested. But I suppose I felt so fat and unattractive, and dull, and Dan seemed to be interested in me, and the fact that anyone could be interested in me went straight to my head, and I blew it up out of all proportion.”
“Plus,” Maeve adds gently, “being married, or, as in my case, having a live-in partner, doesn't mean you stop fancying people.”
“Really? You mean you fancy people too? Even though you've got Mark?”
“Not all the time, but I've certainly entertained the odd fantasy. It's about choice, though, isn't it? Weighing up what I've got and what I stand to lose. I never thought I'd choose a partner and a child over wild sex and wicked men, but now that I've got Mark and Poppy, I wouldn't let anything jeopardize that.”
Sam nods thoughtfully. “You're right. I only realized it that night. It took Dan to make me really appreciate what I have. You're so right. I should have left it as a fantasy instead of blowing it up into a potential reality.”
“You couldn't help it. He led you on. You were feeling shitty about yourself and he preyed on that.”
“He did, didn't he?”
“Yeah. The f*cker really did.”
Sam sighs. “I've been so stupid.”
“So what about Chris, then? Now's probably not the best time to say this but I thought he was lovely.”
“He is lovely.” Sam smiles. “I think I'd forgotten how lovely he is until about four-thirty Monday morning. Oh God.” She makes a face. “I think Julia was right.”
“Right about what?”
“She said a while ago that she thought maybe I was suffering from postpartum depression, and even though I don't think I've had it badly, I swear to God I've felt as if I've been living in a fog for the last few months. I hated my life, I hated my marriage, I hated Chris. The only thing I didn't hate was George, he was the only good and perfect thing, but I was convinced my marriage was over, that everything would be fine if I wasn't with Chris.”
“And that's changed now?”
“I feel as if I've turned a corner. That huge humiliation”—she shudders again at the memory—“well. It made me question everything. I suppose it's exactly as you just described, but in my case it wasn't weighing up what I stood to lose, it was reassessing and realizing how thankful and grateful I should be.”
“You managed to switch the hatred off overnight?” Maeve is slightly incredulous but curious nonetheless. Sam does appear to have a glow that Maeve has never seen before.
“I know. It sounds crazy. But it's as if it's all gone. All that resentment. That anger toward Chris. It wasn't about Chris, it was about me, and I'm not even sure it was about me. Actually I think it was probably chemical. And maybe it hasn't gone away, maybe this is just a temporary reprieve, but it feels so good to love Chris again, to wake up in the morning and feel happy, positive.”
“I never realized,” Maeve says. “I wish you'd told me.”
“I didn't tell anyone. I didn't know. It went on for so long it felt normal. I forgot that life could be different.”
Maeve grins. “So if truth be told, you have to thank Dan for patching up your marriage and restoring you to sanity. If I were you I'd send him a card. Hell, why not flowers?”
“F*ck off,” Sam laughs.
“F*ck off yourself,” Maeve shoots back, placing her hands over Poppy's ears. “And do you mind not swearing in front of the children?”
Chris has got his wife back. His life back. He comes home now to find a smiling Sam, the Sam he always loved. She's attentive, affectionate, glowing, and this time he knows it's not because of anyone outside their marriage.
Unless of course you count Maeve. Maeve, who has filled Julia's shoes in more ways than she knows.
Sam was determined not to phone Julia, her pride too strong, her self-righteousness too marked. One week went by. Then two. Then suddenly it had been nearly two months and Sam was desperate. She missed her. She had Maeve, but Julia knew everything about her, Julia had shared her history, her past. It just wasn't the same. She had tried to phone, had picked up and started to dial many times, but pride always stopped her from making the connection, from making amends.
One evening she sat and looked through old photos, photos of her and Julia, photos stretching back over the years, and, swallowing her pride, she picked up the phone and rang.
“I've behaved appallingly,” she said contritely. “You were right and I was wrong, and you have to forgive me because I miss you and I don't want to lose you.”
“I miss you too,” Julia said, and they both smiled through their tears. “Anyway,” Julia continued, “I know what an old battleaxe you are but you always see sense in the end.”
They talked for a long time. Sam told her about Chris, about emerging from the tunnel into the light, and Julia did not sound the least bit surprised.
“Okay, okay,” mumbled Sam. “I know you were right about that one too, but that's enough about me, what's going on with you? How's your wild and wicked love life?”
“Actually,” Julia said sheepishly, “not too wild and wicked.”
Sam gasped. “You haven't met someone, have you?”
“Not someone. Jack. It's on again.”
“Oh,” Sam said dully. “For how long this time?”
“No, no. It's different this time. We're seeing one another exclusively.”
“Oh God, you sound so American. I take it that's his expression?”
“Of course,” Julia laughed. “But it's . . . nice.”
“Nice is good. We like nice.”
“Yes. Funnily enough, we do,” Julia said dreamily.
“Okay,” Sam took a deep breath. “Seeing as you're in such a good space, there's something I have to tell you, too.”
“What?” Julia asked sharply, anxiously.
“You know Maeve?”
“As in, redhead Maeve? Mark's girlfriend? Mother of Mark's child?”
“Yup.”
“What about her?”
“I'm kind of friendlyish with her.”
“And?”
“And I just felt uncomfortable about it. I wanted to let you know.”
“Oh for heaven's sake. I thought you were going to tell me something terrible. Why would you feel uncomfortable about it? I met her once, ages ago, and she's lovely. I can totally see why you'd be friends with her.”
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. “I just didn't want you to feel usurped or anything.”
“Usurped? Just how friendly are you? I hope she's not your New Best Friend?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sam says, figuring she's said enough for one day. “She's just someone I meet for the occasional coffee. That's all.”
“Well, that's okay, then.”
It's not necessary to tell Julia the whole truth. Unnecessary to tell her that Maeve has, in fact, become Sam's confidante, soulmate, sister. That Maeve has, unbeknown to her, helped drag Sam out of her well of self-pity.
The four of them—Maeve, Poppy, Sam, and George—have become inseparable. They have braved One O'Clock Clubs, Gymboree, Tumble Tots, and Baby Gyms, and have started to find other women just like them.
For Maeve's birthday Sam took a secret snap of Poppy, and presented Maeve with a delicate and beautiful drawing of her little girl, beautifully encased in a simple wooden frame Sam had hand-painted with tiny butterflies and bows.
Maeve had shown it to everyone, and Sam had started doing them for other people, initially for fun, for something to do while George was asleep, but Maeve had berated her for not being more businesslike, and had sat Sam down and worked out a price.
Fifty-five pounds!
Sam had gasped at the expense. No one would ever pay that, she had said, but she was wrong, and the commissions were coming in thick and fast.
“I told you you'd never have to go back to an office again,” Maeve said, when Sam moaned that she was swamped with pictures of babies. But Sam was loving it, and was making money, and was able to work from the kitchen table while George crawled around at her feet.
“Happy birthday, darling.” Chris kisses Sam on the lips as Maeve and Mark cheer.
“Happy birthday!” they echo, clinking champagne glasses and leaning over the table to kiss Sam on the cheek. They have dressed up and gone out. Properly out. Not local pizza and pasta, but the Belvedere in Holland Park. A restaurant for special occasions. A restaurant in which to feel special.
And indeed they do feel special. Sam in her knee-length chiffon skirt and camisole top, a pair of perfect diamond studs in her ear—a birthday present from Chris—and Maeve in a tight, tailored dark pink suit, her red hair drawn back in a glamorous chignon.
Sam sips her champagne and smiles. “Thirty-four. A whole year since my last birthday. Feels more like ten.”
“I'm not surprised. Look at what's happened in that year,” Chris says.
“Georgenius!” Sam and Chris say at the same time, their voices filled with love and affection.
“Amazing.” Sam shakes her head. “Amazing how your life can change so much in a year.”
“Just think,” Chris says. “This time last year you were—what—eight months pregnant? The size of a small whale—”
“F*ck off.” She hits him, only able to smile because she has now lost all her pregnancy weight and, much to her delight (but not Chris's), has even smaller breasts than when she started.
“Okay, okay. The size of a small dolphin?”
“Better.” She grins.
“The size of a small dolphin, swigging Gaviscon like it was champagne . . .”
“Touché.” She raises her glass.
“. . . with no idea whether the baby was going to be a boy or girl.”
“Life Before George.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I can't believe we ever had a life before George. What a year.”
“I know the feeling.” Maeve smiles as Mark puts his arm round her and kisses her on the temple. “Life Before Children. A distant dream.”
“But I wouldn't change it for the world. Wouldn't change my life for anything.”
“Not even Chris?” Mark says, with a grin.
“Especially not Chris.” She smiles, turning and planting a huge kiss on his lips as he grins. “I love you,” she whispers in his ear, pulling away.
“I love you too,” he whispers back.
“Bugger.” Sam reaches down and rummages in her bag as her mobile phone rings and other diners look at her disapprovingly. She has to keep it on, she wants to explain, because she has a baby at home, and needs to be contactable at all times in case of emergencies, but of course she can't tell the restaurant, and of course she can't find the phone.
“Shit.” She tips the bag upside down and empties the contents onto the floor, reaching down and flipping open the mobile, too quickly to see whether her home number flashes up.
“Hello?” She holds her breath for a second, praying it's not the baby-sitter, praying nothing's wrong.
“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Sa-am, Happy birthday to you. I'm so sorry I didn't call you earlier,” Julia trills. “I was out shooting all morning. How are you? Have I disturbed you? Are you in some desperately swish restaurant about to be lynched for having a mobile switched on?”
“No,” Sam laughs. “Well, yes. Ish. Hang on a sec, I'll go outside.” She scrapes back her chair, shrugs an apology to the table, and walks quickly outside.
It's a beautiful spring night. Only April but it's warm, and the tulips and daffodils are out in the park, summer almost there.
“Can you believe it?” Julia laughs down the phone. “Can you believe how much has happened since last year?”
“I know. We were just talking about it.”
“I'm so sorry I'm not there with you, and I have got you a present that I meant to post last week but I didn't so I'm posting it this afternoon, but there's something else, another kind of present. Well, not actually a present but something I have to ask you.” Uncharacteristically, Julia sounds nervous.
“I can't promise I'll say yes, but you can ask anything you want.”
“Okay.” Julia takes a deep breath. “Will you be godmother?”
“What?”
“Will you be godmother?” she says again, the bubbles of excitement rising up in her voice.
“You mean . . . you're not . . . are you saying . . . ?” Sam doesn't want to say it, because surely she's misunderstanding, surely it's not possible.
“I am! I'm pregnant! Can you believe it!”
“Jack?”
“Of course Jack!”
“But how?”
“I have absolutely no idea. I thought I'd picked up some terrible stomach bug because I kept throwing up, and eventually I went to see the doctor and when he said he thought I might be pregnant I told him that was ridiculous, not to mention impossible.”
“I don't understand.”
“Neither do I, and neither does the doctor. Apparently, though, this often happens. The stress of wanting to conceive can stop conception happening, and he says he's seen loads of women like me, who conceive as soon as they stop thinking about it.”
“So how many weeks?”
“Six. I'm not supposed to tell anyone until twelve, but if I can't tell my best friend, who can I tell?”
“Oh my God!” Sam starts to shriek. “This is the best birthday present I've ever had in my life.”
“So will you?” Julia laughs.
“Will I what?”
“Will you be godmother?”
“Of course I'll be godmother!” she shouts as the tears come. “I'll be the best godmother the world has ever seen!”