‘I’ll tell you later,’ I whisper as her daughter Sophie, who arrived in stripy pyjamas, white fluffy dressing gown and bunny slippers, pounds upstairs to find Emily.
I pour her a glass of red wine and get Robert a bottled beer and we lean against the kitchen island dipping Kettle Chips into a tub of taramasalata while Tom and Robert go through his application at the table. They’re soon done and move on to the subject of football, Tom leaning back, his arms locked behind his head, Robert hunched over the form, lazily scratching one arm.
I roll my eyes at Amber and she scoops up a handful of crisps.
‘So?’ she says. ‘How was beautiful Bognor?’
‘Chilly.’
I can feel myself going pink. I’ve kept the truth from her and I’m not even sure why. A mixture of shame and schoolgirlish excitement at having a big scary secret, I suppose. Honestly, sometimes I make myself cringe. ‘I haven’t shown you the new curtains in Josh’s room, have I?’
Her glance is questioning. ‘No, dearest, I don’t think you have.’
We go up to the children’s floor and Amber dutifully admires them, commenting on the neatness of my stitching. They have blue and white vertical stripes with boats painted on top. I sit on the single bed while Josh breathes noisily beside me in his cot.
‘So what’s the great mystery?’
I rub my nose and look away, smooth and fold a muslin square. I shouldn’t tell her, but I can’t help myself.
‘You have to swear you won’t say anything to anyone. Not even Robert.’
‘OK. I swear. Vicky, what is it? You’re starting to worry me.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. You’re not pregnant, are you?’
I glance at my nine-month-old son. ‘No, I am not. I’ve done … well, nearly done … something really stupid.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve, um …’ I feel her eyes on my profile. ‘There’s this man.’
She squeals and claps her hand over her mouth. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re having an affair.’
‘I’m not. But I very nearly did. That’s where I was today. With him.’
‘You didn’t go and see your mum?’
I shake my head.
‘Bloody hell, Vicky.’
‘I know. But I … we … both realized how much we were risking. Amber, I love Tom. I really do.’ I cover my face with my hands and groan. ‘I must have been mad.’
‘You didn’t do anything?’
I sigh heavily. ‘Nope.’
That isn’t exactly true. We kissed and talked when we could and exchanged texts when we couldn’t. But that doesn’t count as ‘doing’.
I get up abruptly and lean over Josh’s cot. He is so adorable when he’s asleep. He snuffles and I touch his head gently, stroking his hair with the edge of my thumb.
‘So come on – spill. Who made the first move? How far did you go?’
‘Far enough, OK. But not actually … you know.’
‘No penetrative sex then?’
We morph into two idiotic, giggling schoolgirls.
‘Will you shut up! No there was not. There was kissing and a bit of fumbling, followed by total panic on my part and confusion on his.’ I stop laughing and say more soberly, ‘It wasn’t one of my finer moments. I am so, so thankful nothing happened.’
Amber’s face is alive with curiosity. ‘Who is it?’
‘I am not telling you!’
‘Well, I’ll guess then. Does he live around here?’
She thinks I’m not serious. ‘No comment.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘Amber, please. Honestly, it’s over and I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s embarrassing enough as it is.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘It’s not that. I don’t want anyone to know.’
‘Even me?’ There’s a pause, and then she says, ‘How long has it been going on?’
I know what she actually means is, How long have you been lying to me? I hang my head and take a deep breath. ‘It was nothing at first. Just eye-contact stuff, nothing I’d even admit to myself. It was months before either of us acknowledged it.’ My mouth feels dry. ‘Three months ago.’
She sighs and then shrugs.
‘I’m sorry.’
Hours later, I crawl into bed, close my eyes and sink into sleep.
I dream violently, of coming home to find half the neighbourhood crowding my hallway and the stairs. I push my way through them, laden down with bags of groceries, and they pull at my arms and shoulders and try to hold me back. But there’s ice cream and frozen peas in the bag so I have to go in and I shout at them to get out of the way. When I finally burst into the kitchen, Tom is kneeling over Josh, blood spreading across the stone floor.
I wake with a start of horror, disorientated and scared. Josh is crying and I press my mouth into the pillow so that Tom can’t hear my heavy breathing. I used to think my violent dreams were to do with pregnancy hormones but, unlike with the girls, they haven’t stopped since Josh’s birth. They leave me profoundly disturbed, heart pumping.
I pull the pillow over my head and clamp my crooked arm on top of it. I can’t do this any more. I can hear him through the pillow; feel his upset turn to anger. His cries vibrate through my body and I close myself up, tucking my thighs into my stomach, hunching my shoulders, willing myself not to give in to instinct; reminding myself that, if I go up and hold him, comfort him, hug his little body to mine, he’ll have no reason to stop.
I fell pregnant during my last term at Bristol University in the post-exam haze when life was all about picnics and balls; unworried, lazy days. Tom and I and our friends had been full of plans, buoyed up by euphoria, careless, young and na?ve. Then term ended, along with that part of our lives. We went to India for three months but my brain only engaged with the clues, including morning sickness, which I convinced myself was Delhi Belly, about a week after we returned.
I was about to start teacher training, and Tom had been planning to spend a year in South America; he had already lined up a job in Buenos Aires. But that night, sitting on a bench in Brockwell Park, autumn leaves drifting at our feet, the moon a white ball in the sky above us, we decided to get married. We were twenty-one years old. Emily was born when I was twenty-two, Polly, the only planned baby, when I was twenty-four. Josh, the surprise, arrived six months before my twenty-eighth birthday. He’s a cranky little soul, and it was a shock to the system, but I adore him.
The radio alarm goes off. Tom rolls over and gives me a sleepy smile. Time to get up.
3
Monday, 4 January 2010