Now Holly wanted a cuddle. She launched herself into Clementine’s arms, and Clementine hugged her, even though she wanted to shake her, because her chin really hurt. She murmured sympathetic words of comfort and rocked Holly back and forth while she stared longingly at her cello, sitting quiet and dignified up against her pretend audition chair. No one warned you that having children reduced you right down to some smaller, rudimentary, primitive version of yourself, where your talents and your education and your achievements meant nothing.
Clementine remembered when Erika, at the age of sixteen, had casually mentioned that she never wanted children, and Clementine had felt strangely put out by this; it had taken her a while to work out the reasons for her aggravation (all her life, there had always been so many varied, complex reasons why Erika aggravated her) and she’d eventually realised it was because she wished she’d thought of saying it first. Clementine was meant to be the crazy, creative, bohemian one. Erika was the conservative one. The rule follower. The designated driver. Erika dreamed of getting enough marks to do a Bachelor of Business degree with a double major in accounting and finance. Erika dreamed of home ownership and a share portfolio and a job at one of the big six accounting firms with a fast track to partnership. Clementine’s dream was to study at the Conservatorium of Music, to play extraordinary music and experience extraordinary passion and then, sure, to settle down one day and have babies with a nice man, because didn’t everyone want that? Babies were cute. It had seemed to indicate a failure of the imagination that it had never occurred to Clementine that you could choose not to have children.
But that was the thing with Erika. She refused to be typecast. When they were seventeen, Erika had gone through a Goth stage. Erika, of all people. She’d dyed her hair black, worn black nail polish, black lipstick, studded wristbands and platform boots. ‘What?’ she’d said defensively, the first time Clementine saw her new look. Erika’s rock-star style got them into the cool clubs, where she stood at the back scowling, drinking mineral water and looking like she was thinking dark Gothic thoughts when she was probably just thinking about her homework, while Clementine got drunk and danced and kissed inappropriate boys and then cried all the way home, because, you know, life.
Now Erika wore clothes you didn’t notice or remember: plain, sensible, comfortable clothes. She had her job at one of the big accounting firms (now one of the big four, not the big six) and her neat, probably mortgage-free three-bedroom house not far from where they both grew up. And now, of course, Clementine didn’t regret her decision to have children. She loved them senseless, of course she did, it was just that sometimes she regretted their timing. It would have made sense to put off kids until they’d paid off more of the house, until her career was better established.
Sam wanted a third child, which was ludicrous, impossible. She kept changing the subject every time he brought it up. A third child would be like sliding down a snake in a game of Snakes and Ladders. He couldn’t be serious. She was hoping that eventually he’d see sense.
Sam reappeared in the doorway and held out a packet of crackers towards Holly. Holly jumped off Clementine’s knee, magically cured, at the same time as Clementine’s phone, which was sitting on one of the bookshelves, began to ring.
‘It’s Erika,’ said Clementine to Sam as she picked it up.
‘Maybe she’s cancelling,’ said Sam hopefully.
‘She never cancels,’ said Clementine. She put the phone to her ear. ‘Hi, Erika.’
‘It’s Erika,’ said Erika in that querulous way, as if Clementine had already let her down.
‘I know,’ said Clementine. ‘This new-fangled technology is amazing, it –’
‘Yes, very funny,’ interrupted Erika. ‘Look. About today. I was on my way back from the shops and I ran into Vid. You remember Vid, from next door?’
‘Of course I do. How could I forget Vid from next door,’ said Clementine. ‘The big electrician. Like Tony Soprano. We love Vid from next door.’ Erika sometimes brought out this kind of frivolity in Clementine. ‘Married to the smoking-hot Tiffany.’ She drew out the word ‘Tiff-an-y’. ‘Sam just loves Tiffany from next door.’
She looked over at Sam to see if he recognised the name. Sam used his hands to indicate Tiffany’s spectacularly memorable figure and Clementine gave him a thumbs-up. They had met Erika’s neighbours just once, at an awkward drinks party at Erika’s place last Christmas. They were maybe a decade older than Clementine and Sam but they seemed younger. They’d saved the night as far as Sam and Clementine were concerned.