The divorce was simple and clean. Five years of marriage ended with the stroke of a pen. Nicky moved away from London. Last I heard, he was living with a schoolteacher in Newcastle, a divorcée with two teenage boys—an instant family, just add water and stir.
Taking out the roast beef sandwich and soft drink, I open the plastic triangle and eat slowly, collecting the crumbs in my cupped hand. A robin hops between the spindly branches of a shrub and perches on the top of Chloe’s cairn, pivoting from side to side. I toss the crumbs onto the grass. The robin jumps down and pecks at my offering, occasionally cocking his head to look at me.
Today is Chloe’s birthday, but I mourn all of my babies—the ones I’ve lost and the ones I couldn’t save. I mourn them because somebody must take responsibility.
Before I leave the clearing, I unzip my backpack and take out the small floral crowns, trying not to crush the petals, and place one on each of the cairns, saying their names.
“I am having another baby,” I tell them, “but that doesn’t mean I will love you less.”
MEGHAN
* * *
I’ve been painting the baby’s room and putting stencils on the walls. I’m not very adventurous when it comes to home decorating. I blame my parents, who didn’t believe in allowing children freedom of expression. Trees had to be green and roses red.
I’m also trying to keep one eye on Lachlan, who has already put handprints on the door and a paintbrush in the wrong tin. It’s all good material for my blog, I think as I clean his hands in the laundry-room sink.
Lachlan isn’t exactly thrilled about me having another baby. It’s not about sibling rivalry or being usurped as the youngest. He wants someone his own age to play with—either that or a puppy.
“Why can’t the baby be four, like me?”
“Because he wouldn’t fit inside my tummy,” I explain.
“Can’t you shrink him?”
“Not really.”
“You could grow bigger.”
“I think Mummy is big enough.”
“Daddy says you’re fat.”
“He’s only teasing.” The arsehole!
Speaking of Jack, he phoned earlier, saying that he’d be home tonight instead of taking the train to Manchester. He sounded in a good mood. For months he’s been fleshing out ideas for a new TV show where big-name stars discuss the hot-button issues in sports. Jack wants to be the anchor. He’s written a pitch but is waiting for the right time to approach the “powers that be.”
“Make sure you stay up,” he said.
“Why?”
“I have news.”
I decide to make us something nice for dinner—steak, new potatoes, and an endive salad. Typical French. I’ll even open a bottle of red wine and let it breathe. I’ve been rather lazy in the kitchen since I fell pregnant. I couldn’t ever think of food for the first trimester.
I go upstairs and shower, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Turning side-on, I examine my butt and boobs, ignoring the stretch marks. Leaning toward the mirror, I notice a strange curly hair corkscrewing out of my left temple. I look more closely.
Oh my God, I have a gray hair! I take a pair of tweezers and pull out the alien strand, examining it, hoping it might be paint. No, it’s definitely gray. Another indignity. I pen a blog piece.
I found a gray hair today and freaked out a little. This particular hair was devoid of color and wiry near the tip. I’ve always been kind of smug about the fact that I didn’t have any silver (yet) when others I know have been plucking and dyeing since they were twenty-one.
Now the ravages of time are beginning to show. What next? Wrinkles? Varicose veins? Menopause? I refuse to panic. I have friends my age who are living in complete denial, refusing to contemplate turning forty, telling everyone, “Nothing to see here! Move along!”
I used to laugh at them, but now I have a gray hair. I want to put it down to the stress of pregnancy, but according to Google there is no evidence that stress causes gray hair. Nor does trauma or spending too long in the sun. The good news is that I can pluck it out without fear of three more growing in its place. The bad news is that I now have roughly ten years before gray becomes my natural color.
Yeah. Right. Over my dead body.
When I’ve posted the piece, I begin reading some of the recent comments. Most of them are nice and supportive, but occasionally I get trolled by people who don’t like my “mindless babbling” or tell me to get off my “mummy high horse.” I’ve been called a skank, a whore, a whinger, and a slut. Worse still, I’m a bad mother for putting Lachlan into child care and I’m guilty of “lording it over” women who can’t have children and I’m personally responsible for global overpopulation because I’m having a third child.
Last week someone wrote, “I love the sound you make when you shut the fuck up.” Another said, “Your husband must like waking up with fleas.” I delete the abusive comments, but I don’t touch the negative ones because apparently everybody is entitled to an opinion, even the ignorant and foul-mouthed.
*
Jack arrives home after nine. By then I’m asleep on the sofa. He bends and kisses me on the forehead.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching up and kissing him properly.
He helps me stand. I pour him a glass of wine. “How was your day?”
“Great. The best.” He sits at the kitchen bench, looking pleased with himself.
“Do I have to guess?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner.”
He can’t wait that long and tells all as I’m dressing the salad.
“I pitched the idea for the new show today. They love it—Bailey, Turnbull, the whole team got excited. They’re going to put it in the spring schedule.”
“Are you going to host?”
“I’m sure I’ll get it. I mean—it was my idea.”
I feel a pang of concern, but I don’t want to spoil Jack’s mood. “When will you know?”
“In the next few weeks.” He nuzzles my neck and gives my bottom a squeeze. I playfully push him away and tell him to wash his hands. It’s ages since I’ve heard him sound so upbeat. Maybe things are looking up. A new job, more money, and a baby—there are so many ways to move forward and only one way to stand still.
AGATHA
* * *
On Saturdays Jack gets up early and goes for a run along the river. Afterwards he takes the kids to a café in Barnes for babyccinos and muffins, meeting up with other dads who drink coffee, read newspapers, and ogle the au pairs and yummy mummies.
Gail’s is the newest place to be seen in Barnes. On weekends it is full of dads and their kids and weekend road warriors dressed in Lycra who chain racing bikes to the railings while they fuel up for the ride home.