*
I know motherhood is hard, but I love this new gig. I don’t mind waking at 4 a.m. to feed Rory or getting hosed down while I’m changing his nappy. I don’t care that he cries so often or that he vomits on my clothes. Nothing is too big of a chore. I did three loads of washing yesterday. I folded, ironed, vacuumed, sterilized bottles, and made formula. Between times I locked myself in the bathroom and pretended to use my breast pump.
Fatherhood has changed Hayden. He’s softer and more caring. He does chores around the flat and volunteers to do the shopping, often taking Rory with him strapped in a sling against his chest. There is nothing sexier than a man with a baby. It doesn’t feminize or weaken him—it makes him look like a good provider and a role model, someone who will stick around.
The navy has given him two weeks’ paternity leave on full pay. After that he’s taking holidays, so we’ll be together until mid-January, when he’s due to rejoin his ship in Portsmouth.
I wish he could stay longer. Part of me wants to hold on to this feeling forever—the newness and excitement—but another part is fearful of exposing myself and trusting too much. I am not used to people staying with me. Normally I prepare myself for disappointment, expect rejection, or assume the worst.
I’m still cautious around Hayden’s parents. I know that Mr. Cole likes me and Mrs. Cole is a besotted grandmother who hovers around Rory, making any excuse to pick him up and show him off. She’s already planning a christening for the spring, when Hayden is next home on leave. She wants to invite aunties, uncles, and cousins. I’ve never had a big extended family that gets together at Christmas or for anniversaries, and sometimes this feels like I’ve stumbled into a Disney movie or one of those family sitcoms where the worst thing to happen is when someone burns the turkey or spikes the punch.
We’re visiting Mr. and Mrs. Cole for Sunday lunch, which is proper roast beef with all the trimmings. Yorkshire pudding. Horseradish. Baked spuds. Gravy. Hayden’s sister, Nigella, has come down from Norfolk, leaving her husband behind but bringing a strange antagonism towards me. Every time I say something about pregnancy or childbirth she makes a sniffing sound, as though she disagrees, but she doesn’t follow up with a comment.
When I try to chat with her about babies she makes a snide remark about new parents being boring because all they can talk about is their children. I pull Hayden aside in the kitchen, muttering, “What’s her story?”
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “She’s been trying to have a baby and has miscarried twice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nobody is supposed to know. Mum only just told me.”
“What about your dad?”
“Totally in the dark, so don’t say anything.”
Over lunch, Mrs. Cole asks Hayden when he’s going to make me “an honest woman.”
“Agatha is honest.”
“I mean, when are you going to marry her? A baby needs a proper name.”
“He has a name,” says Hayden.
“Not in the eyes of God,” says Mrs. Cole. “Otherwise, people might think he’s a . . .”
She doesn’t finish the statement.
“People don’t care about stuff like that anymore,” says Hayden, looking uncomfortable.
I interrupt. “If we get married too soon, people will think it’s only because of Rory. By waiting, we show them that we’re really in love.” I squeeze Hayden’s hand.
Nigella makes a gagging sound like she might throw up. I feel my hackles rising.
When the table has been cleared, we retire to the parlor. Hayden turns on the TV to watch football. The news is showing—another story about Baby Ben.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you,” says Hayden. “Agatha knows Meg Shaughnessy.”
Mrs. Cole is pouring tea. “Who?”
“Baby Ben’s mother.”
The whole family looks at me.
“We did yoga together when I was pregnant,” I explain.
“And you visited her house,” adds Hayden.
“What’s she like?” asks Mr. Cole.
“She’s really nice.”
“Her husband’s a bit handsome,” says Nigella, picking polish from her fingernails.
“They have two children—Lucy and Lachlan. They’re six and four, I think.”
“That poor woman,” says Mrs. Cole. “Is their house nice?”
“What difference does that make?” sniffs Mr. Cole.
This puts her back up. “Well, him being on TV, I expect they have a very nice house.”
“Very nice. Four bedrooms. It’s in Barnes, not far from the river,” I say. “It’s close to where I used to work.”
“Where did you work?” asks Nigella.
“In a supermarket.”
“A supermarket!” She makes it sound like a leper colony.
The TV is showing closed-circuit footage from the hospital. A grainy figure in a nurse’s uniform is walking away from the camera, turning and entering a lift. The frame freezes and the camera switches to a close-up.
“She looks like you, Agatha,” says Nigella.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“She looks nothing like her,” says Hayden defensively.
Mr. Cole leans closer from his armchair. “She does a bit.”
I feel my chest tighten, but manage to laugh. “You’re right.”
“Your hair is shorter,” says Hayden.
“I could have been wearing a wig,” I say.
“You have the same shaped face,” says Nigella.
“It wasn’t always this round. Pregnancy bloated me.”
“You’re not bloated,” says Hayden.
“No, but I could lose a few pounds.”
I sense Nigella smirking from the other sofa.
The TV is showing a picture of Meg and Jack leaving the hospital.
“So who do you think took Baby Ben?” asks Mr. Cole.
“Probably someone who couldn’t have her own baby,” I say, watching Nigella stiffen. “Sometimes when a woman miscarries or can’t get pregnant, she loses the plot.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” says Mrs. Cole.
“I’m not saying all women—just some of them. They grow bitter and jealous. I feel sorry for them.”
Nigella excuses herself and leaves the room, holding her hand over her mouth.
“Is she all right?” I ask. “Did I say something to upset her?”
MEGHAN
* * *
Dozens of reporters are milling outside the house, blocking the pavement and taking up parking spots with their broadcast vans and satellite trucks. Our rubbish bin is overflowing with their coffee cups and fast-food wrappings.
Jack has to park around the corner and we run the gauntlet of the TV cameras, flash guns, and boom microphones. Lisa-Jayne tries to force a path through the scrum, yelling at reporters to stand back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Shaughnessy have nothing to say. If you don’t get out of our way, I’ll have you arrested . . . I’m not going to ask again.”
Recording devices are thrust into my face. Questions are shouted. Someone touches my arm. I pull away as though scalded. A female reporter forces a letter into my hand. Without thinking, I take it from her.
“We can offer you more,” yells someone else.