Home Truths (24 page)

Fen was desperate to come across Al without having to search him out; she didn't want to have to stand there, staring from clique to clique, strangers glancing back disinterested. She'd envisaged simply waltzing in, calm, confident and eye-catching, for Al's eyes to alight in delight before she saw him. It appeared, however, that he had yet to arrive. Fen scanned the crowd again. No. No Al. She might not be able to remember precisely how he looked but she was quite sure that no one here just now was him.

‘Fen? Hi!’

Oh here he is. Of course. I remember now.

‘Sorry I'm late. Drink?’

He hasn't said ‘Wow’ or anything. What shall I have? What's the time?

‘Just a glass of white for me,’ said Fen.

‘Do you want to grab that table over there – with the two leather cubes?’ Al said.

Fen sat a little gingerly on a leather cube, which looked more stable than it felt, but was probably more stable than
she thought. She wondered how many people toppled off them on a nightly basis, once balance was compromised by a couple of drinks. She'd be having just the one glass, she wouldn't be wobbling anywhere. She wouldn't even teeter. She had an image to maintain. And a baby to get home to.

She looked over to the bar. She'd define Al as ‘cute’ – a term men detested but women understood. She hadn't remembered just how lanky, how boyish, he was. His jeans hung a little baggy, his hair was becomingly unkempt, his skin soft and young. Fresh-faced and cute. He was an attractive package and she really
really
mustn't assess him as such.

‘Sauvignon, madam,’ he announced, beer slicking over his fingers from his glass as he sat down. Fen saw that he wore chunky Mexican silver rings on two of his fingers and one of his thumbs. She didn't like jewellery on men; she didn't like thumb rings at all.

‘Cheers,’ said Fen, diverting her gaze as she sipped. Revolting wine. Not cold enough. Never mind. Maintain eye contact, slide him a coy smile and ask what He's been up to.

‘Oh, this and that,’ he replied. ‘Busy at work. Moving house.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Now? In Camden. We've just taken on a house, five of us plus the occasional surplus body kipping on the sofa. It's good – It's a laugh.’

It sounded slightly unsavoury to Fen and she conjured an image of batik wall hangings, dog-eared posters of Jim Morrison, a chaotic fridge, forgotten washing-up and contrasting music reverberating from each room. She shuddered at her thought of what the bathroom might be like.

‘It's not studenty,’ Al was saying, as if sensing Fen's reservations. ‘we're all a bit obsessed with cleaning, actually. It's a gorgeous house – all polished floors and high ceilings. It
belongs to Jed's parents. They're collectors. Anyway, what have you been up to? How's your kid?’

Fen detested children being referred to as kids. ‘She's wonderful,’ she smiled suddenly missing Cosima terribly. What was she meant to say now? What had she been up to? Was Al really remotely interested in her daily grind of cleaning and tidying, of wiping bottoms and shovelling organic mush into a little mouth, of stocking the fridge and socializing with people to keep herself from going mad? She doubted it. And she was hardly likely to tell him all about the Mother, the Uncle, their Affair and her Half Sister. In an instant Fen assessed that for this afternoon to work, for it to have the function she hoped for, truth and veracity were not essential. ‘I've been bloody busy,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I'm planning to go back to work.’

You are?

No.

‘Work?’ asked Al. ‘What do you do?’

Fen reckoned ‘archivist’ sounded dull but ‘art historian’ sounded pompous. ‘I lecture,’ she embellished, ‘in art.’

‘Wow! Where?’

‘Oh, the Tate usually,’ she said with nonchalance, ‘the Courtauld.’ Partly true. She'd studied at the Courtauld and had frequently given talks as a student to people visiting the Institute's collection.

‘What do you lecture about?’ Al seemed impressed and genuinely interested.

‘The European
Rappel à l'Ordre
of the post-war years,’ Fen announced elaborately, simply repeating the title of one of her undergraduate courses, ‘and Fetherstone too.’

‘Who's Fetherstone?’ Al asked, endearingly sheepish.

‘A student of Rodin. Late nineteenth, early twentieth
century,’ Fen discoursed. ‘Famous – or notorious – for his exquisite feel for form, his intensely erotic subject matter.’

‘Cool!’ Al marvelled, his pupils dilating as he hung on Fen's words and gazed at her lips. ‘I'll have to come along to a lecture, then.’ Fen tossed her head and laughed and told herself to go easy with the exaggeration and embellishment. Instead, she turned to questioning him, flattering him, expressing great interest in all he said. And she took to touching his arm at times when he made her laugh. And laughed in excess of the cause. And licked her lips becomingly every time she sipped her wine. And lowered her eyes at opportune moments. And pouted now and then.

‘Do you have to get back?’ Al asked her eventually. ‘To your kid?’

‘Yes,’ said Fen, with a shrug.

‘Who's looking after her? Do you have a nanny?’

‘No,’ said Fen, ‘my sister is.’

Al drained his beer glass. ‘Is it tough? Being a single parent?’

Something Fen couldn't pinpoint, and hadn't the time to analyse, made her not jump to Matt's defence. It occurred to her only then that Al had never asked about the father of her child. But there again, she didn't wear a wedding ring and She'd never mentioned Cosima's father. Why wouldn't he suppose she was a single mother? Fundamentally, why would a mother in a relationship take up an invitation for afternoon wine, flirting and flattery in a bar? She wondered what to do. To whom did she have the greater duty to set the record straight – Al? Matt? Herself? Cosima?

But can't I just play a while longer? I'm not ready to go home. It's fun, liberating. It's just harmless acting. It's not like I'm telling lies. Or doing anything wrong.

‘No, It's not tough,’ Fen finally answered Al. ‘I'm very close with my sisters. I have two.’

Al nodded. ‘Shall we meet again?’ he said.

Fen looked at him. It was all appealing and a little dangerous and all the more tempting for it. ‘But I'm a frumpy old mum!’ she protested with a winsome pout and a flutter of her eyelashes. ‘I'm almost thirty-four!’

Al shrugged. His eyes sparkled. ‘I think You're cool,’ he said. ‘I think It's sexy that You're a mum.’

‘I'll call you – when I'm not so madly busy,’ Fen all but purred, standing, leaning to kiss him on the cheek and making sure her lips just caught the side of his mouth in the process.

Al didn't say anything in response. But his eyes followed her as she left the bar.

He's looking at my bottom, she thought, unsure whether to enhance her wiggle or screen it with her handbag. He gave her a wry, desirous smile when she turned to wave before she sashayed away.

No one has called me sexy for ages. I can't even tell if I actually fancy Al – but I am turned on by the fact that he fancies me.

With a spring to her step, a sexy sway to her stride, she grinned her way along the King's Road, tossing her head and tempering her smile into a pout every now and then. She felt like pouting, she felt coquettish. Someone found her sexy. How thrilling! She enjoyed catching sight of herself in the shop windows. Oh look, here's Whistles. And look at that divine dress.

Did she dare?

Yes she did.

She didn't have to spend money to waste time, or spend time to waste money. She could just try something on, take window-shopping one logical stage further. Flushed with anticipation, Fen headed to the changing cubicles.

She was crestfallen. How stupid had she been? It was as if her trip away from home to an area far from her stamping ground, her shrug from responsibilities, had falsely invested her self-image with extra inches in height and fewer pounds in weight.

Nothing bloody fitted.

She denounced herself for being too round of figure and too square of image. She felt she looked ridiculous. The confines of the clothing made her feel saggy and squidgy and unrefined. And so she stood; horror-stuck in the cubicle, clammy and depressed, confronting all the bumps she could see and a fair few she imagined.

‘I'm fine!’ she all but yelled to the sales assistant hovering.

What Fen couldn't see was that if she tried a larger size, just one size up, She'd look wonderful. She couldn't see that the dress suited a fuller figure anyway. Designers Don't want bagginess in a forties-style tea dress; the cut craves curves and the material needs undulations to flow to its best advantage. But Fen was defiant that once a size 10, always a size 10. And if she didn't fit a size 10, she simply wouldn't be able to have the bloody dress.

If nurturing a foetus required padding to the hips, surely running around after a baby should take it off again? If hormones had encouraged her ribcage to expand during pregnancy, then why hadn't hormones shrunk it back to normal after the birth? Ten and a half sodding months after the birth. Standing there, she scowled at her reflection, rounding her shoulders and relaxing her belly to compound her fears and loathe herself more. She felt resentful and out of sorts and dreaded leaving the changing room, the sparkle of the shop, the clear light of day.

I'm not sure it should be the fit of frock that makes you loathe yourself, Fen.

Seeds Not Sown

‘Give us a hug,’ Pip cooed and clucked. She scooped up her niece and pretended to gobble her cheeks. The baby giggled. Pip gobbled some more. ‘You are scrumptious,’ she said, ‘but we'd better think of something to do before I eat you up.’ Pip and the baby regarded one another, as if considering various options. ‘I know,’ said Pip, ‘how about we pop over to Auntie June and save her the journey here?’ Cosima didn't appear to object. ‘She left a message to say Tom had left his cricket stuff there, which he'll need for tomorrow.’

For June and Pip, Zac had swiftly ceased to become part of their equation. June didn't think of Pip as the wife of her ex who was the father of her child; Pip had no issue with June being the woman with whom Zac had a baby. Not for June or Pip the dropping-off of Tom with cordiality. Sharing Tom was easy because the women liked each other; to some extent, Tom was both central and yet oddly irrelevant to their friendship.

June cooed over Cosima, marvelled at how much the baby had grown, in much the same way as Pip fussed over June's bump. ‘It's not so much a bump,’ Pip said, ‘It's a perfect medicine ball. So neat!’

‘I'm enormous,’ June remonstrated, ‘and I still have eight weeks to go.’

‘You're gorgeous,’ said Pip wistfully.

‘I think I'm practically due on Cosima's first birthday,’ June said.

‘Well, We'll cancel the clown if needs be,’ Pip said, ‘and relocate the party to the labour ward.’

‘Or I could just set up my birthing pool in Fen's back bedroom,’ June said.

‘Are you going for a water birth?’ Pip asked.

‘You must be joking,’ June said. ‘I'm going private this time so I can have all the fancy drugs available. I Don't do pain.’

‘Listen to you,’ Pip chided in jest.

‘Believe me,’ June said, ‘Tom's birth was a nightmare. This time, I Don't want plinky plinky music, whale song and yoga – I just want drugs.’

Pip glanced from June's bulge to Cosima and back again.

I wonder what sort of birth I'd go for?

‘Do you ever think about it?’ June asked.

‘About?’ Pip busied herself fussing over Cosima.

‘About having a baby,’ June said.

‘Zac loves having just Tom,’ Pip said.

‘But That's not what I meant,’ June persisted.

Pip wasn't sure if she wanted to answer fully or not. ‘Sometimes,’ she said. June said nothing. ‘Recently?’

June clapped her hands and grinned. ‘And?’

‘Zac loves having just Tom,’ Pip reiterated.

‘Have you asked Zac?’ June asked.

Pip shrugged. ‘Sort of,’ she said. June looked confused. ‘I think he thought I was joking. And then I think he thought I was drunk. And ultimately I think he thinks I'm barking.’

‘Well, he sounds complacent,’ said June. ‘You should keep the pressure on – you'll make a great mum.’

‘I hate confrontation,’ Pip said, ‘and anyway, It's probably just a hormonal thing.’

‘You know what,’ said June, ‘You're right It's probably hormonal but I for one think it'll be a shame if you let it pass.’

Pip wanted to cry. This was the first She'd said out in the open and it was being met with such tender but unswerving support it was rather overwhelming. ‘The thing is,’ she said tentatively, ‘since the woman who is my mother barged back in, I've had something of a confidence crisis. Am I fit to be a mother? Say there's some rogue part of our DNA that dictates otherwise.’

‘Rubbish, Pip,’ June said, not intending to sound so sharp but she was beginning to feel a little tired. ‘Look at Fen – She's a fabulous mum. Your mother – literally – has nothing to do with you. I think you should go for it. And I think when that stuffy old accountant comes home all hassled from work tonight, you meet him in an outrageous negligee and you demand that he impregnate you with his finest.’

Pip looked utterly disconcerted.

‘Believe me,’ June continued, ‘and It's not because I'm an over-heating, hyper-hormoned pregnant woman. Well, perhaps it is – but That's no bad thing. But what I want to say is this – that urge to breed is one you
must
heed. Breeding is your
raison d'être
, Pip, It's your right.’

Pip pushed Cosima's buggy along Hampstead High Street. It was a glorious day and She'd toyed with the notion of taking the picnic blanket and lolling about on the Heath. But what swung it for the High Street were the shops. The shops provided one thing that the Heath didn't. Windows. And reflections. And every shop she passed boasted back an image of Pip pushing a buggy. It was visible proof, as if it was needed, that it suited her. She proudly told the first admirer
that Cosima was her niece. But when the sales assistant in BabyGap cooed over Cosima and asked Pip how old her daughter was, Pip told her ten months and agreed with the assistant that she was quite the most beautiful baby girl in the world.