“I haven’t checked.”
My laptop is hidden under magazines. I open it up and wait for the wireless to find a signal. Two emails pop into my inbox. One of them is spam. The other is from Hayden. My heart trembles.
“He’s going to call me tonight,” I whisper, blinking at her in shock.
“What else does it say?” she asks excitedly.
“That’s all.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Lucy has a friend over this afternoon. Her name is Madeleine and she’s a grumpy little madam who ignores my fruit platter and asks for chocolate biscuits and crisps.
I tell her, “We don’t have those in our house,” and Madeleine looks at me as though I’m something nasty on her shoe. They’re playing outside now. I think Lachlan is getting a cold so I give him a bath and some paracetamol and let him watch the Disney Channel.
I glance at the clock. Madeleine is getting picked up at six. I want to fast-forward and have everyone in bed, so I can crawl beneath the covers and sleep. Jack is away tonight. He’s been in a good mood all week. I’d say “back to normal” but I don’t know what “normal” is anymore. No, that’s not true. I love it when Jack teases me and flirts and randomly touches me, brushing my backside, or cupping my waist, or stealing a quick snog when we pass on the stairs.
Lachlan is laughing at something. I sit next to him on the sofa and put my arm around him, sniffing his fresh-out-of-the-bath little-boy smell.
“Is Daddy coming home?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Where is he?”
“Working.”
“Is he going to be on TV?”
“Uh-huh.”
Later I make Lachlan a boiled egg for dinner and line up toast soldiers on either side of his eggcup. He’s a hungry child in all senses, desperate to grow up; a wrecker of games, a hoarder of toys, and a monopolizer of attention. Lucy appears tolerant, but recently I have noticed scratches and pinch marks on Lachlan’s arms. His favorite truck disappeared a week ago, triggering howls of outrage. Lucy watched from the corner, denying all knowledge. I found the truck beneath her bed a few days later.
Lucy and Madeleine have macaroni and cheese, which Lucy normally loves, but today she turns up her nose, mimicking Madeleine. Why do children choose the most inappropriate friends? I’ll probably write about this tonight—changing the names, of course. My blog is like a hungry beast that has to be fed with more and more content.
At university I dreamed of being a serious journalist—the next Marie Colvin or Kate Adie, reporting from the rubble-strewn streets of Baghdad or teeming refugee camps in North Africa. I don’t know when that ambition died. In truth, I have always been someone who matched expectations rather than exceeded them.
When I began writing my blog I wanted to make it edgy and funny—maybe even controversial. I thought with my background in marketing and public relations, I could influence opinions and build a brand, but in reality I spend my time writing quirky stories about my imperfect family and oh-so-happy marriage.
I read the other day that the average mummy blogger is thirty-seven, has two children, is left-leaning and socially conscious and buys eco-friendly products. That’s me! I am a cliché. My blog sums up my existence—safe, uncontentious, and shallow.
I clean up the kitchen and the bathroom before making my own dinner—leftovers from the children. Jack calls me from Old Trafford, where Manchester United are playing Tottenham at home. “It’s one of the games of the round,” he says, sounding excited. “I think the new talk show is in the bag.”
“Don’t say that. You could jinx it.”
He laughs and needs a favor. He left a business card in his other jacket. Can I find it for him?
I carry the phone upstairs and go through his wardrobe. Jack spends more money on clothes than I do. He has three Paul Smith suits and two dozen shirts. Searching through the pockets, I come across a folded sheet of paper. It’s a mobile phone number, written in longhand, but someone has placed a lipstick kiss next to the number. No name.
I keep searching the pockets until I find a business card.
“Is this the one you wanted?” I ask, reciting the number to Jack.
“Thanks, babe.”
“I found another number. It’s on a piece of paper . . . the one with a lipstick kiss. No name.”
“Oh, that,” he says, not missing a beat. “Some woman put that in my pocket in the pub. She recognized me. I think she thought I was a famous footballer.”
“And you kept her number?”
“I didn’t keep her number—I forgot it was even there. Are you jealous?”
“No.”
He starts teasing me. “You should be. She was all of twenty-five.”
“Dirty old man.”
“She wanted a job in TV.”
“Don’t they all.”
He laughs and sends hugs and kisses before hanging up. I look at the slip of paper, crumple it up, and toss it into the bin.
I don’t mind that Jack treats me like a girlfriend sometimes, because that can be exciting. We used to have date nights where we each pretended to be someone else. He’d be a pilot and I’d be a weathergirl and we’d meet in a bar where one of us would take the lead and chat the other one up. Once I pretended to be a crazed fan.
“Oh my God, you’re Jack Shaughnessy, aren’t you?”
“Ah, yeah,” he’d replied.
“You’re on TV. I love your voice. Say something sexy.”
“Like what?”
“That’s it. Ooh, I could just melt. Jack Shaughnessy, blimey. What are you doing here?”
We chatted for about twenty minutes and left arm-in-arm, a textbook pull. The bar staff were stunned.
I used to love our date nights and how Jack would write me lovely notes, leaving them in random places such as the microwave, or a coat pocket, or tucked into my Wellingtons. Dearest wife, your boobs are the best, he’d write, or: This coupon is good for one extra-special foot massage. Yes, he had an ulterior motive, but he didn’t have to be so thoughtful.
Memories like this make me feel grateful as well as angry. How dare I doubt Jack! I’m the one who broke our vow.
AGATHA
* * *
The satellite image is fuzzy and breaking up, but Hayden’s voice comes through clearly. He’s dressed in blue overalls, sitting in a small room with charts and maps on the wall. Is that a beard? Ugh!
“Can you see me?” I ask, hoping he might comment on my new dress, or the effort I’ve made on my makeup.
“Yeah,” he replies, not bothering to look at the screen. “What’s this about you being pregnant?”
“Isn’t it wonderful!”
“How did it happen?”
“You must know that, silly.”
“I mean, when did you find out?”
“I knew I was late, but my periods are generally all over the shop. Then I went and peed on the stick. Want to see it? I kept it.” I wave the stick in front of the screen. “The pink line means I’m pregnant.”
“How pregnant?”
“I’m due in early December.”
“Is it mine?”
“What?”
“The baby—is it mine?”
“Of course it is—I love you.”