Babyville (27 page)

She could have told Bella, but Bella and Julia are now practically joined at the hip, and the problem with threesomes is that, no matter how good everyone's intentions, one invariably ends up being left out, and unfortunately, thanks to geography, that someone appears to be Sam. She's not about to go confiding in Bella when there's a very strong chance Bella will blurt everything out to Julia. Secrets, have, in any case, never been Bella's strong point.

“Did you tell her you knew who she was?”

“Oh God,” Sam groaned. “It was just awful. I wanted to tell her because she was so nice, but I just sort of went a bit white and speechless, and when she wanted to know what was the matter I told her I just had a hot flush.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked if I was pregnant again.”

“And what did you say?”

 “I said
unlikely unless it was the Immaculate Conception.”

Chris takes Sam's hand and looks into her eyes with his most seductive smile. “There was the other night, so that's not strictly true. And we can always have a repeat performance now if you'd like.”

“Don't be silly.” She shakes his hand off as if he were a naughty child. “The point is that I feel terrible. What am I going to say to Julia?”

“Why do you have to say anything to Julia?” Chris's voice is harder now, he was hurt by her rebuff, her constant rejection of him.

“Julia's my best friend.”

“But this is just some woman you met at a coffee shop,” he says irritably. “I don't understand why you're in such a state about it. What is the big deal?”

Sam sighs. “The big deal, Chris, is that I liked her. I thought we could be friends.”

“You still can be.”

“But what do I tell Julia?”

“Why tell Julia anything?”

“Because she's my best friend.”

Chris can no longer hide the exasperation in his voice. “What are you so scared of? For God's sake, Sam! You've been banging on for months about how lonely you are and how boring it is looking after a baby all day and how much you miss Julia because now you haven't got a best friend and you never realized before how much you need a best friend, and now you finally meet someone who could potentially be a new friend, and you're not going to pursue it because you're frightened of what your old best friend might say? How old are you? Six?

“And maybe, just maybe,” he continues, fed up with containing his frustration, “you're happy being on your own. Maybe you've been bored and lonely because it's easier to feel sorry for yourself when your life is dull, and it's easy to make other people feel sorry for you. Far easier than making the effort to get up, go out and meet people.”

“You bastard,” she hisses. “You have absolutely no idea what my life is like. You have no idea because you get to leave every day. You're not the one who's expected to do all the housework, and look after George, and cook, and have a life at the same time. How dare you accuse me of being a . . . a victim”—she spits the word out—“when you haven't stood in my shoes. How dare you.” She's so angry she's almost in tears. Angry and humiliated. Because of course she knows he's right.

“Victim,” Chris ponders, just before he walks out to go and read the papers in the other room, to try to calm down, to pretend that his marriage is so much better than it is. “Interesting choice of word. And more interesting that you said it yourself. It certainly gives you something to think about.” He walks out the door just as an Emma Bridgewater mug comes flying toward his head, crashing into the doorframe with a huge bang and an explosion of blue and white china.

“Mmm, clever,” he says calmly, no expression in his eyes as he looks directly at Sam, who's now standing in the kitchen weeping, unable to believe what she has just done. “And that's going to make both of us feel so much better.” With sarcasm dripping from his voice, he closes the door.

Sam
doesn't say anything to Chris that night. She goes upstairs, runs a bath, and thinks about how lucky she is to have found Dan, how unbearable this would be had she not met her destiny.

When she was eleven years old, lonely, misunderstood, preparing to enter the dark years from twelve to eighteen, she invented an imaginary friend. She knew it was ridiculous for someone her age. This was, after all, the stuff of five-year-olds, but somehow it soothed her to think that there was someone out there who really loved her, who would reassure her even as her parents shouted at her and told her she was not enough.

Her imaginary friend—Jed was his name—was the love she had always waited for. He was a cross between Sting and Adam Ant. He wore drainpipe jeans and DMs, had short spiky hair, and hated her parents almost as much as she did.

She felt completely safe and utterly protected when Jed was around. She wove elaborate fantasies, so vivid that sometimes she thought they were real, involving Jed's love for her, and her love for Jed.

Lying in the bath, locked in an unhappy marriage, only able to cope by switching off, it never occurs to her that twenty-two years later she's doing exactly the same thing.

Although, she would snort indignantly, how could it possibly be the same when Dan is real? Dan's not an imaginary friend. He's the man she was supposed to have met six years ago, the man she was supposed to have married. Look at the way he made her feel just by touching her thigh with his. Look at the way he's occupying her every waking thought.

This has to be the real thing.

27

As the week progresses
ever closer to Sunday night, the more Sam dwells on the notion that she and Chris would have been far better off as friends.

That was always the problem with their relationship, Sam now realizes. Despite having had amazing sex in the past (although it's becoming increasingly hard to remember that now), the reason why she knew so quickly Chris was the man she was going to marry—or at least the reason why she thought she knew—was because she felt so comfortable with him.

She had felt, from the first, that she could say anything to Chris. She could tell him her deepest darkest secrets and he would understand. She remembers back to the first night they met, going to the hotel and talking for hours, and she remembers how much they had both talked, how there was suddenly so much to say neither could get the words out quickly enough.

The truth is, she sees now, by the end of that first evening, Chris had felt like someone she had known her entire life. And nothing had changed in that respect. Sure, they were going through a bad patch and weren't getting on as well as they used to, didn't seem to understand one another as they once had, but basically they were still friends, and it's only now, now that she's had a taste of passion, that she understands what she gave up.

She gave up excitement.

She gave up the evenings of sitting in waiting for the phone to ring, which, while horrific most of the time, gave rise to addictive euphoric highs on the rare occasions when the man of the moment would actually ring.

She gave up the challenge.

And Chris was never a challenge. Chris was just your typical boy-next-door. Pleasant-looking, easygoing, GSOH, or, good sense of humor, as they say in the personal ads. He never had the qualities that Dan has. He wasn't sexy and seductive, dark and dangerous. She thinks about Dan and shivers.

Feeling as if you've known someone your entire life isn't a reason to marry them, she thinks ruefully. She should have known. She should have listened to Bella, who said she'd only settle down when she met the knight in shining armor who would sweep her off her feet.

Look at Bella now, she thinks. She may be still single at thirty-four, but isn't she having a great life? She's at different bars and parties every night. Chatting up dark and dangerous men, men like Dan, and having wild sex in strange bedrooms. Even Julia's now doing much the same thing. Why had she settled for boring married life? When had she bought into the suburban horror of marriage and domesticity?

She would, if she could, change everything in her life. Except for George. George who only has to look at her to melt her heart. Giving George a huge smile, she picks him up for a cuddle, only to have him yowl in anger at being removed from his current favorite toy—the Hoover nozzle. She squeezes him for a few seconds before putting him back on the floor, where he gratefully falls on the hose.

And that, she knows, is why she hasn't done anything yet.

George.

That's why she hasn't been able to sit down with Chris and talk about wanting a separation, wanting to have some space.

As convinced as she is that she has married the wrong man, Sam cannot just walk away, not when Chris adores George as much as she, not when Chris gets him up in the morning on the weekends, and sings the “I Love You” song from Barney before taking him downstairs and giving him breakfast. Not when Chris's eyes light up when Sam regales him with something George has done during the day.

How could she take George away from Chris? And how would it affect George, to come from a divorced home? She doesn't want him to be ferried back and forth, doesn't want him to spend half his summer with her and half with Chris. She wants George to have the best possible upbringing she can give him, and that means being with Mummy and Daddy. Together.

That's why she can't say anything. Not yet. Even though she knows that a child is not a reason to stay together. That having parents who stay together in a household of bitterness and resentment is surely worse than living in two separate households that are filled with love and laughter.

George is not a reason to stay together, but she can't bring herself to do anything about it yet. Once upon a time she used to say, “This too shall pass” when she felt unhappy, or depressed, or without hope, but it's been eight months now and it hasn't passed yet. A part of her is still optimistic, a part of her still thinks that maybe it will all be okay, but of course that was before Dan reawakened those feelings in her.

If she's honest, those feelings had been stirred by Mr. Brennan, her obstetrician, but that was only a ridiculous crush, almost an obligatory crush if your obstetrician happens to be, well, male, really. She never fantasized about Mr. Brennan, not long, drawn-out, elaborate fantasies that were always firmly based in reality, and that therefore could possibly come true. Her fantasies about Mr. Brennan were nothing like her fantasies about Dan.

Sam is aware that had she not met Dan she could well have spent the rest of her life with Chris. After all, she couldn't have missed what she didn't know. She would have bumbled along quite happily, maybe even having more children, and would never know the meaning of true passion.

But now that she's met Dan, there's only one thing of which she's absolutely certain: It's just a matter of time.

 “You're
looking very nice for the cinema.” Chris's surprise was obvious when Sam walked down the stairs.

Patricia popped her head around the doorway from the kitchen where she was giving George his bottle, and raised her eyebrows with a smile. “Darling, is that makeup? How lovely to see you looking human again.” Sam snarled at her, then tottered down the hallway to get her bag.

“Mum, he should go down no later than seven. No later, okay? Don't keep him up to play with him or he'll get overtired and all hell will break loose.”

“Darling, I have done this before, you know. Don't worry. Just go and have a nice time.”

“Okay, but if he wakes up, he shouldn't wake up, he normally sleeps through doesn't he?” She looks at Chris for confirmation. “But if he does you can give him some milk, there's a bottle in the fridge. Actually, just give him some water. Oh God. Milk or water. I don't want him to be sick, but I think he's going through a growth spurt and seems to be very hungry at the moment. Maybe you should give him some more milk now—”

“Just go,” Patricia tutted. “He will be fine. I will be fine. I'm a mother too, so stop worrying. I didn't exactly do a bad job with you, did I?”

“Debatable, really,” Chris muttered under his breath as Patricia shot him a look.

“Okay, we're going,” Sam said, swooping down to cover George with kisses. “Good-bye, monkey, Mummy loves you, be a good boy. Sleep tight.”

“Come on,” Chris murmured, looking at his watch. “We're going to be late.”

And
now, sitting in the darkened cinema, Sam is acutely conscious, once again, of Dan's thigh resting gently against hers.

She had felt sick about seeing him again, had been terrified that she would turn into a sixteen-year-old girl and be unable to look him in the eye, and had walked over to greet them feeling horribly self-conscious.

Jill had given her a kiss and a warm squeeze, and she had turned to Dan expecting the same, but he had put his arms around her and given her a huge hug, and said “Hello, gorgeous” in her ear. She could have stayed there all night. He was so big, and tall, and strong, and wrapped in his arms she felt like a tiny little girl in the arms of her savior. Reluctantly she had pulled away and turned quickly to Jill, aware that she might be suspecting something, and wanting to put her mind to rest, not wanting her to know. Not yet.

“Are we late?” Sam had said with a smile, hoping that she was conveying the fact they had rushed, hence her breathlessness.

“Not at all. We were early.” Jill linked her arm through hers as she led the way into the foyer. “It's lovely to see you.”

Dan had done the popcorn run. Sam loves popcorn, but had declined, not wanting him to think she was greedy, and when Dan returned with three large tubs for Jill, Chris, and himself, he had whispered conspiratorially that she could share his, and she felt honored and special, basking in the spotlight of his attention.

She walked down the narrow corridor first, not knowing who was immediately behind her, but praying it was Dan. Please God, she had prayed. If this is meant to be, if Dan and I are destined to be together, please let him sit next to me. Please give me a sign that he feels the same way.

She squeezed past various legs to reach her seat, and felt a surge of joy when she turned to find Dan immediately behind her. Thank you, God, she had said. Now I know.

She sits pretending to be mesmerized by Tom Hanks's performance in the film, unable to think of anything except Dan's thigh brushing hers, unable to do anything other than time her forays into his popcorn bucket to coincide with his so their hands meet and they turn to one another and smile an apology into one another's eyes. Except those glances, those intimate smiles say so much more than an apology. She is almost holding her breath, waiting for him to do something, to show her how he feels. Each time she reaches for the popcorn, she expects him to gently stroke her hand, even rub a finger, and when he doesn't she knows that he is just as insecure as her.

She considers doing it to him, but knows this is too early, and even though she is absolutely sure of his attraction to her—why else would he have hugged her so warmly—she is not sure that he has thought it through in quite the same way. It's not that she has any doubt of his feelings, it's just that she suspects he isn't in precisely the same place, not yet.

It is only a matter of time.

 “Wasn't
that the most extraordinary film you've ever seen?” Jill is breathless, excited, cannot wait to talk about the film.

“It was an incredible piece of cinema,” Chris agrees. “So realistic, it reminded me of
Titanic.
The realism and the hugeness. What did you think, Sam?”

“I thought”—she rolls her eyes—“it was the most boring film I've ever seen. Maybe if it had lasted an hour and a half I would have enjoyed it more, because there were moments that really worked for me, but three hours? Please. It was all I could do to stay awake.”

“I couldn't agree more,” laughs Dan. “The slowest film I think I've ever had the misfortune to see.”

“Well, you two obviously have no taste,” Jill says, smiling, as Sam feels a glow of warmth at her and Dan being referred to as “you two.''

They drive separately to the restaurant, Sam and Chris in silence as Sam looks out the window with a smile on her face and thinks about Dan. Chris glances at her from time to time, wondering if she's okay, wondering why she seems so distracted, but she is definitely happier tonight, and he doesn't want to risk her wrath by putting a foot wrong.

They sit down and order a Chablis for Jill and Chris, and a Bordeaux for Dan and Sam, who is more and more excited at finding she has so much in common with Dan, so much more, it would seem, than Jill appears to have.

“Thank God we've found you!” Jill says when Sam expresses her preference for red. “Dan always moans if he has to drink white and we either get a bottle of each and leave half, which is such a bloody waste, or we have nasty house wine by the glass.”

“I don't even remember the last time we went out,” Sam says, sending a covert message to Dan, letting him know that their marriage is not as good as it may appear, “let alone the last time we drank wine.”

“And whose fault is that?” The words and the expression are innocent, but Chris is fed up with being blamed for everything. Luckily Sam's good humor is such she does not rise to the bait.

“It's probably my fault. I've been so tired since George that I'm terrified a glass of wine will just knock me out completely.”

“Careful, then,” Dan says, smiling, moving her glass away. “We don't want you falling asleep at the table.”

“Don't be silly!” Sam laughs, hitting him playfully. “I've got loads of energy tonight, no chance of me falling asleep.”

“Good,” Jill says. “Because we're all going to enjoy this evening, particularly if you hardly go out. It took me months to trust Lily with anyone, and when I decided that actually I now felt that we had to start having a life again and not everyone who turned up for an interview would potentially harm my child, we couldn't find anyone. Have you got a regular baby-sitter?”

“We have Sam's mother,” Chris interjects, “who's about as irregular as you can get. Tonight is probably the, what? Third? Fourth time she's baby-sat?”

“My mother is in fact the anti-mother,” Sam says ruefully. “Everyone told us she'd be different as a grandmother and would completely fall in love with her grandchild, but eight months on and we're still waiting for that to happen.”

“Dan's mother sounds exactly the same,” Jill says. “It's such a bloody cliché, but all she's interested in is her bloody tennis.”

“With my mother it's bridge.” Sam shrugs in recognition.

Jill continues. “She probably sees Lily once every couple of weeks, and then she'll ring up and make all these ridiculous inferences that I'm a bad daughter-in-law and the only reason she doesn't spend time with Lily is because I'm so busy and she doesn't want to interrupt.” Her voice rises as she becomes agitated talking about it.

“Come on, Jill. Calm down.” Dan sees she's getting herself worked up into a state.

“I'm sorry, but I just get so angry. Bloody mothers-in-law. Nothing that I ever seem to do makes her happy. I suppose one of these days I'll just have to accept it.”

“You know it's nothing to do with you,” Dan says. “She's simply an unhappy woman and that's the way it is. She's never going to change.”

“That's exactly what I keep trying to tell Sam,” Chris says. “But Sam keeps trying to please her, or hoping that one morning she's going to wake up and suddenly be this wonderful warm, gray-hair-in-a-bun grandmother type, and it's never going to happen.”

“Must be a female thing. I know I try to change everyone, or at least hope they're going to change.”