Afterwards, Emilia watched Bea go. She was the just kind of customer she needed. Young and vibrant, with a disposable income. What else could she do to attract people like her? Cards and wrapping paper? Women like Bea were always buying cards and wrapping paper, because they had friends galore. She made a note on a pad, and turned to her next customer.
Bea walked briskly up the high street, her heart pounding. She didn’t stop until she came to the church, where she swung into the churchyard. She strode on until she reached a bench and sat down. She put her head in her hands momentarily, then looked up. She reached over and pulled up the hood of the pushchair.
There, nestled in the folds, was the copy of Riley’s book, still in its shrink-wrap. She picked it up and sat with it in her lap, staring at it.
What the hell was happening to her? What on earth had she become? What was she doing?
It had seemed the logical thing to do at the time. She’d wanted the book and she couldn’t afford it. It had taken her two seconds to lift one off the pile and slide it into the hood of the pushchair.
A single tear trickled down one cheek. She wanted the book, yes. She wanted to sit at home and leaf through the photographs, studying them, analysing them, wondering at the skill and the talent and the artistry. She could have afforded it if she’d really wanted it. Bill wouldn’t have minded if she’d put it on their credit card.
But more than the book, she’d wanted a thrill. She’d wanted to feel alive. She’d loved the adrenalin the feat gave her. It had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in months.
Bea sat back on the bench and looked up at the sky. A few swallows were circling overhead and the breeze rustled the last of the leaves in the trees that lined the path. The church reminded her of her own wedding only three years ago. She remembered the vintage Dior dress she’d had shipped over from the States, pale blue silk taffeta, with its tight bodice and covered buttons and full skirt. She’d been a perfect bride at their perfect wedding.
They had thought they were so clever, she and Bill. Selling up their trendy warehouse flat to start a life in the countryside. They’d agreed they didn’t want to bring up their kids in London. Peasebrook had been the answer, with its brilliant commuter service, its cute shops and gorgeous houses. They had felt very pleased with themselves when they bought the gingerbread cottage in one of the back streets, with its tiny walled garden. It was idyllic; the ideal place to start a family. Bill carried on commuting to his ludicrously well-paid job as a digital guru and Bea did up the house and garden. And popped out Maud. Their friends all exclaimed in wonder and envy at how cunning and brave they had been, and came down in their droves to stay in their spare bedroom with its white floorboards and chalky walls and silk curtains and the high bed with mounds and mounds of feather-light bedding.
But now Bea thought she was going mad. She missed work. She had been exhausted when she left. As art director for a women’s magazine, she had lived on black coffee and deadlines, working right up to the wire on each issue, dealing with a crazed editor who changed her mind every two minutes and expected her to be psychic. When she left, she never wanted to lift another finger.
Now, she was psychotic with boredom. She adored Maud, of course she did, but once she’d pureed some organic carrots and free-range chicken breasts and frozen them into portion-sized blobs, and hand-washed Maud’s little cashmere cardigans in lavender-scented washing powder, and taken her for a walk in the flower-filled meadow down by the riverbank on the outskirts of Peasebrook – what more was there? Apart from cooking a Mongolian fish curry for when Bill cycled back from the train station at seven o’clock at night.
She was living the life she had depicted so many times in the magazine. She thought of all the spreads she’d done outlining bucolic bliss: girls in tea dresses and wellies pegging out washing. Wicker baskets and picnic rugs and muddy vegetables and home-made bloody jam. She had pots of it. Pots and pots and pots.
From the outside, she was living the dream. Inside, she felt bored and empty and meaningless. How on earth had she thought that full-time motherhood was going to be enough for her? She stroked Maud’s fat little hand and felt her heart shrivel with the ugliness she was feeling. She was an ungrateful cow. How could this little bundle not be enough?