The doorbell sounds. Why do people always ring when I’m upstairs? Navigating the lumps of Play-Doh and odd bits of Lego on the stairs, I reach the front door. This had better not be a salesman.
I turn the latch. Simon Kidd smiles at me from behind a huge bunch of roses that have lost petals on the journey.
“Hello, Megs.”
I don’t answer, but my heart feels like a taiko drum.
“I bought you these,” he says, slurring his words.
“Are you drunk?”
“I had a long lunch.”
“Jack isn’t here.”
“I know. We need to talk.”
“No! We have nothing to say to each other.”
“It’s about the baby.”
My heart lurches. I try to close the door, but he steps forward and braces his palm against it.
“You rang me and asked me whether we used a condom that night.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The condom broke.”
“What?”
“It broke. I didn’t tell you because . . . I didn’t think it was . . .” He is staring into my eyes as though hoping I might finish the statement.
I’m shocked, but won’t let him see it. “You’re right—it’s not important. Please go away.”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“What?”
“About that night.”
“Christ, Simon! It was sex. A one-night stand. Not even that. A mistake. An embarrassment.”
He looks miserable. “It was more than that for me.”
“What does that mean?”
Simon lowers his eyes, looking at the flowers, whispering, “What if the baby is mine?”
“It’s not.”
“You don’t know if it’s Jack’s.”
“Yes I do.”
“If you knew that, you wouldn’t have asked me if we used a condom.”
“It’s Jack’s baby, OK? I don’t want to mention this ever again. We agreed.”
“I need to know if it’s mine.”
“What?”
“I need to know.” Simon gives me his lost-puppy look.
I make a strange unworldly gurgle in my throat. “Why would you risk my marriage, your friendship with Jack . . . ?”
“I want . . . I want you . . .” He doesn’t finish. “I want to be a father.”
“Fine. Ask Gina to marry you. Get her knocked up. Leave me out of this.”
“You don’t understand.”
My voice is getting louder. “No! You don’t understand! This is my home. This is my family. I am having Jack’s baby. You have no right to come here and ask me these questions.”
I’m crying now—tears of frustration and anger. I want to hit Simon. I want to hurt him. But mostly I want to make him go away. He steps back and I slam the door, turning the key in the deadlock and bracing my back against the heavy wood. Sliding to the floor, I sit on the inner doormat, my shoulders shaking, frightened of what I’ve done. We don’t have extramarital affairs in my family. We don’t have one-night stands or wild flings. Braced against the cold door, my knees bunched up, I stare at the polished floorboards of the hallway.
What if Jack finds out? What if the baby is Simon’s?
I’ve been stupid, but I don’t deserve this grief. I’ve been a good wife. I love Jack. I shouldn’t be punished for one mistake.
AGATHA
* * *
I haven’t seen Meg in almost a week. She didn’t meet up with her mothers’ group this morning and hasn’t come into the supermarket. Her last blog post went up ten days ago and none of the comments have been liked or acknowledged.
I wanted to wait outside Lachlan’s preschool this afternoon, but Mr. Patel kept me back because we had a delivery. I had to take an inventory of every box because he’s convinced our suppliers are shorting us.
Finally, he lets me go. Unclipping my name tag, I take off my smock and stash it and the tag in the usual place before hurrying across Barnes Green, past the pond and the church, turning left and right through the streets until I reach Cleveland Gardens.
Meg’s car is parked outside the house. The front curtains are open, but I can’t see anyone inside. I cut through to Beverley Path and walk as far as the railway underpass before climbing the fence and following the train tracks. When I reach the right house, I crawl through the undergrowth and climb onto my favorite fallen tree. There are toys outside the playhouse, but the French doors are shut up and there’s no sign of anyone downstairs.
I contemplate calling the home phone. What would I say? I could hang up if Meg answered. At least I’d know she was there. I take out my mobile and look for the number. My thumb hovers over the green button. I glance again at the house and notice a shadow moving behind a curtain upstairs. I wait, watching, hoping she might reappear.
There she is! I feel a surge of relief. She’s healthy. Pregnant. Perfect. She’s in the kitchen, opening the fridge door, taking out ingredients. I relax and lean back against the trunk of the tree, happy again, able to breathe comfortably and dream.
My biggest flaw is my attraction to people. I find somebody new and attach myself, desperate for a friend. That’s why I’ve been so careful around Meg, watching from a distance rather than getting too close. I know her timetable, her friends, her habits, and the rhythm of her life. I know where she shops for groceries. I know her favorite coffee shops, her family GP, her hairdresser, her younger sister, and where her parents live—all the connections and intersections, the geography and topography of her life.
I think I’d make a good spy because I’m gloriously bland, as adaptable as water, able to flow into spaces and settle into cracks, becoming so smooth and still that I reflect my surroundings. I learned how to do that as a child, when I was rarely seen and less often heard. I tell people I grew up in foster care, but that’s only partially true. When it comes to my past, people get some of the truth some of the time.
My real father disappeared on the day I was born. He dropped my mother at the hospital, went home, packed his things, and cleaned out her bank account. Who says chivalry is dead?
It was just the two of us, Mum and me, until I was four. That’s when she started going to Bible studies and became a Jehovah’s Witness. I had to become one too. No more holidays, no more birthdays, no more Christmases or Easters. I didn’t mind. It didn’t matter which religion I chose to reject later, but my mother embraced it wholeheartedly because it offered her a community.
We went to weekly services at Kingdom Hall, which were called “meetings,” and sang Kingdom songs, praising Jehovah. I had scripture classes that taught me about “The Truth” and how the rest of society was morally corrupt and under the influence of Satan.
Within a year my mother married one of the elders from the church. She became a trophy wife, sailing through life in her Hermès scarf, faultlessly charming, always reaching for the next rung on the social ladder. I have no doubt that she loved my stepfather, who did tax returns from a small office above a furniture store in Leeds. She was ambitious for him, prodding and cajoling and networking until his business grew and we moved into a bigger house.