Love Is a Secret (3 page)

4

LISA

08.40

This little bear can make your dreams come true by Christmas!

‘
So
sweet! Do you hear that, Rose? One wish! But we need more than that, don’t we, to make you the prettiest girl in the world? Especially if we’re going to Paris!’

Lisa turned her belly stud three times to the right for luck and drew her knees up to her chest, clasping them with her arms because it was more comfortable that way. Eyes closed. Ready.

‘I wish . . . that you’ll have strawberry-blonde hair, like, that I can tint with pink streaks when you’re older so everyone looks at us and says, “I can see you’re mother and daughter!” I wish that you’ll sleep well at night because we both need our beauty sleep. I wish that you’ll be clever as well as beautiful because I want you to do better at school than me. I wish you’ll always love me. I wish you’ll be happy. And I wish you’ll be healthy . . .’

She shivered at the thought of her baby being damaged like those poor kids at the centre. Touch wood. Quick. Maybe she shouldn’t sit so near the screen. She ought to get one of those computer guards that were meant to deflect the rays but they cost enough.

Just send him to six friends and then make a wish.

Six? Blimey, that was a lot. Real friends stayed with you when something bad happened. Real friends didn’t betray you.

She could send it to Mum, but she probably wouldn’t reply. Lisa stroked her stomach lovingly. ‘She won’t be much of a nan, I’m afraid, love.’

There was Dad, but he might try to get some money out of her. True, he didn’t know where she lived but it might be possible to track down someone’s real address from their email.

Her heart quickened. She really mustn’t worry herself – it might send bad vibes to the baby. Nasty thoughts could do that. It said so on
What Mums Know
.

It also said you should avoid germs if you were expecting.

She was a bit worried about this keyboard, even though she’d cleaned it carefully. Wonder who’d had it before? She’d had a real stroke of luck, finding it on the tip like that. It had taken her three trips to get it all home and each time she’d been convinced that someone would nick the rest before she’d got back.

But they hadn’t. Even better, it had all fitted together. Lisa hadn’t thought she’d be able to do it but it hadn’t been that difficult in the end. A bit like an electronic jigsaw, really. The hardest part was getting online but the man at the other end of the helpline had been really nice when she’d told him she was pregnant. His own wife had just given birth so he’d been ever so patient.

Lisa rubbed her hands with a baby wipe from the tub she kept by the computer. Nice smell. The kind that made you want to sniff it again. Summery. Babies’ bottoms. Soft, brand-new skin, crying out to be kissed.

There had to be
someone
she could send the bear to.

Impatiently, she scrolled down her address book. The billing department for her internet provider. That could be one. And eBay, although she’d had to cut back after the last letter from her credit card company. Maybe even Donald Duck – couldn’t be his real name – who kept sending attachments that her virus system promptly quarantined.

Definitely not the doctor. She wasn’t going back there again.

Send.

Now all she had to do was wait for her wish to come true. Superstitious, her mum used to call her. But she had reason to be, didn’t she?

Lisa continued to scroll down the page. She’d discovered
What Mums Know
through a magazine article that someone had pinned on the noticeboard at work. Some websites were boring or downright silly but this one had some good stuff on it. Like this:

WHAT MUMS KNOW - THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

Misfortunes are opportunities wrapped in parcels.

Made her feel a whole lot better, that did. Lisa stroked her stomach tenderly. Sometimes she felt the baby – it
had
to be a girl – was trying to tell her something. ‘OK, Rose. Why not? We’ll log on. See what everyone else is doing, like.’

Enter username.
Expectent Mum
. She was pleased with herself for having thought of that. It summed it up nicely. And the great thing about usernames was that it was all totally anonymous so you could say exactly what you wanted.

Was there a message after yesterday’s chat about epidurals? Yes! Earth Mother had replied!

From Earth Mother to Expectent Mum: If you don’t want an epidural, put it in writing and give it to your consultant on your next antenatal visit. If they still give you one, you might be able to sue them.

Well, she never knew that! Earth Mother was
so
nice. Always asking if she was eating the right food – no one else had told her about soft cheese and pâté.

Lisa leaned back on her chair and stretched to get rid of the pins and needles in her toes. Sometimes you could sit for so long at the computer that you forgot how to move. But it was worth it. It was like having a whole load of instant friends who were always there for you. It would be even better when she had her baby. Then she would always have someone to love her.

Lisa felt a warm glow run through her. ‘You know what?’ She addressed her stomach. ‘I feel lucky today, Rose. Just like my horoscope said. And something tells me that we might just win that prize draw to Paris . . .’

EMAIL FROM LISA SMITH

Hi mum. Am sending you this so you can make a wish. R u ok? Sory about our arguement. Pleese write.

MESSAGE TO MR MARK SUMMERS

Dear Mr Summers, you have just performed an illegal operation.

EMAIL FROM ANNABEL CRAWFORD

Hi Mum and Dad,

Thailand is AMAZING! We’ve met so many incredible people. Only prob is that I’m running out of money. Any chance of a top-up?

WELCOME TO WHAT MUMS KNOW

JOIN OUR DISCUSSIONS ON:

Disciplining your kids. What’s the best way?

More of your news and views on epidurals.

Dating agencies: can single mums trust them?

Can you rewire a dead marriage?

TIP FROM MELINDA OF SOUTHSEA

Make a hand-puppet out of an old sock and get the puppet to ‘talk’ to your kids. It encourages them to do chores like clean teeth.

THOUGHT TO KEEP YOU SANE FROM MAD MUM

All things must pass. Good and bad.

CHUCKLE CORNER FROM ALI OF SLOUGH

Q: Are you sexually active?

A: No, I just lie there!

5

‘More tea?’

Roger dabbed his mouth with kitchen roll, then carried his cereal bowl to the sink and carefully tipped the contents down the waste-disposal unit. ‘No, thanks.’

He was so polite, thought Caroline, despairingly. Just like her, hovering with the teapot like a fifties housewife. Briefly, she caught sight of herself in the glass of the oven door. Funny how her image always seemed to belong to a stranger. The woman with shoulder-length blonde hair was more attractive than she felt inside. But the fear and uncertainty on her face, apparent in the oven’s tinted glass, were hers, all right.

The fear forced her to put on her makeup before Roger got up, while the uncertainty made her uncomfortable about her small breasts, which had never recovered from feeding three children all those years ago. It was about then that Roger had stopped cupping his hands round them . . . Why, oh, why, hadn’t she seen the warning signs?

Carefully, she began to unload the dishwasher, her back to him.
It was so much easier to talk without eye contact. Besides, she knew what he looked like. The mole on his neck, just below the collar. The upper lip that tightened when she said something that
annoyed him. The thin line of black hair that ran down the centre of his chest, parting slightly above his navel. Had
that woman
run her tongue down it? Had he dug his nails into
her
skin with
excitement as he had once with Caroline?

‘Got anything interesting on today?’ she asked nervously.

He was putting something into his briefcase and didn’t bother to look up. ‘Another meeting with Harris. That man’s impossible.’

‘Where?’

‘Kingston.’

Kingston. Nowhere near Wembley. Unless he chose to go there when she wasn’t aware of it and, God knows, he’d done that in the past.

‘What about you?’

His coldness made her want to scream. Instead, she slid back the dishwasher drawer – too roughly: it stuck and she gave it a push to free it. ‘Busy. It’s conference day.’

‘Don’t do that. You’ll break it.’ He shoved past her. ‘Look, all
you have to do is ease it gently on to the runners. Don’t be so impatient.’

‘There’s no need to snap.’

‘I’m not.’ He clicked his briefcase shut. ‘Right. Better go or I’ll miss the train.’

She glanced at the kitchen clock. She hadn’t even got Georgie
up yet. Just as well it was the holidays. She leaned towards him for a kiss. After his affair, they had begun to kiss properly again but now, almost through unspoken mutual agreement, they were
back to cheeks. He smelt faintly of lemon.

‘New aftershave?’ It came out like an accusation.

‘Yes.’ He looked steadily at her, unsmiling. ‘The one my mother gave me for my birthday. I’m off now. Bye.’

Why did he always make her feel as though it was
her
fault she
was suspicious? And now she’d annoyed him – it was obvious from the way he’d said goodbye, and the way he strode down the path towards the gate. No turning back to wave. A tall, dark,
good-looking man with a bulging briefcase, who seemed younger than his mid-forties in a soft grey pinstriped suit, as befitted an accountant. Very suitable, her mother had decreed after meeting
him. Dependable.

The memory made her chest tighten as she raced up the stairs.

She could hear the tell-tale series of pings that indicated her daughter was on Facebook. ‘Georgie! Will you get
off
that? You’re going to be late and, besides, you can talk to your friends later.’

‘I’ve got to check something, Mum. Have you got my kit ready?’

She had. Neatly pressed for the summer sports club, run by the school in the holidays, it was in Georgie’s Adidas bag in the hall, next to her own dark-brown leather briefcase.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Seeing if there are any tickets left for The Wattevers.’ Georgie’s face was puckered in concentration and Caroline’s heart leaped with love. It was worth putting up with all this awful stuff from Roger just to keep the children happy. They couldn’t bear it, she was certain, if he went.

‘Do you know that if you get picked to go on stage, they shave your hair?’

She shuddered at the thought of her daughter’s beautiful hair being hacked at by some scissor-happy pop star. ‘Then you’re definitely not going. What about parental approval?’

‘It’s cool, Mum. You get to play their bass guitar too. Yes.
Yes!
There
are
some tickets. Can you get them for me, now, online?’

‘Not now. There isn’t time. Maybe later.’

‘
Mum!
’

‘Downstairs, please.’

Since when had parents pleaded with kids?

Reluctantly Georgie followed Caroline into the kitchen and sat down to breakfast, tearing at it with her knife and fork.

‘There’s no need to stab your bacon. It’s already dead.’

‘You’re so sad, Mum.’

‘That’s not very kind,’ said Caroline, hurt. Like many modern parents, she’d encouraged the children to speak their minds and this was the result. Roger had often remarked that she had only herself to blame. ‘More toast?’

‘All right.’

‘
Please.
’

‘Please.’

Georgie was always hungry but she never put on weight, although she tried desperately – in her bid to become more of a heavyweight so she could be picked for the under-13 girls’ rugby team next term.

‘Don’t turn on the television. I’ve got the radio on.’

‘It’s the holidays, Mum. Chill.’

Caroline silenced Chris Evans mid-sentence. She didn’t want an argument on a work day – life was hectic enough already.

‘Can I have some cereal?’

‘You’ve just had a cooked breakfast.’

‘So? It all goes down the same way. That’s what Ben says about girls.’

Caroline continued unloading the dishwasher, wishing she’d done it the night before. So much to do. So little time. ‘You don’t want to believe everything he says.’

‘Really?’ Georgie frowned. ‘Well, what do you think of this? You know that party Ben went to on Saturday night? He met some girl there and after he’d finished snogging her she said he’d kissed her ages ago at another party, and he couldn’t even remember her.’

Caroline tried to remember the last time she’d been snogged. Probably at Ben’s age. ‘Well, if it was true, it wasn’t very nice of
him to forget.’

Georgie shovelled a final slice of toast, thickly coated with peanut butter, into her mouth. ‘That’s what I thought. God, I feel stuffed. I won’t be able to run now. Mr Crapper makes us jog three times round the pitch even when we’ve got our periods.’

If she was that poor man, she’d definitely change her name.

‘Don’t say God and don’t talk with your mouth full. And buck up or I’m going to miss the train.’

No point in waking Ben, who was still sleeping after finishing
his A levels last month. He planned to wallow in post-traumatic sleep for an indefinite period of time, he’d informed his parents, during a rare sentence directed at them. Yes, he’d find a summer job (‘Stop nagging, Dad’) but not just yet.

‘Ready?’

Georgie nodded as Caroline dabbed at the milk stain on her daughter’s previously pristine white T-shirt. ‘Run and clean your teeth, then.’

‘Did them before breakfast.’

‘Then you need to do them again.’

‘
Mum
, there isn’t time.’

She was right. But a good mother (a not-so-stressed mother?) would insist. ‘Upstairs now, pronto.’

A quick flick round the sink with a grubby dishcloth. Dash upstairs to drop a kiss on comatose Ben’s cheek. Leave note for Mrs B, who was coming in, thank heavens, to sort out this mess. No time for the loo. Still a bit chilly today but not enough to wear tights. Besides, if she couldn’t go barelegged in August, when could she? And her longish skirt covered most of her legs anyway.

Once upon a time, in another life, Roger had told her she had a great pair of legs . . .

‘Who are you playing today?’ she asked Georgie, as they walked
briskly down Broomfield Road towards the station.

‘Greenway Seniors. We’re going to crucify them.’

‘
Georgie!
I’ve told you before, that’s an inappropriate word.’

‘Sorry,’ said Georgie, happily. ‘But I’m a teenager. I’m allowed
to say whatever I like. Ben says so.’

‘Well, I’m perimenopausal so maybe I can say what I like too.’

Georgie gave her one of her ‘You’re crazy, Mum’ looks. ‘Periwhat?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re weird, Mum. There’s Kirsty. Got to go. See you tonight.’

No kiss, and not even a wave when, five minutes later, Caroline was standing on the opposite platform where she could see her daughter chatting to her friends and steadily ignoring her. Her own train usually came first. Here it was. On time for a change.

She picked up her briefcase and got in. The beauty of living at this end of the line was that there was usually a seat. She gazed at Georgie through the window and her daughter glanced up with the glimmer of a smile.

‘Be careful,’ Caroline mouthed through the glass. She still couldn’t help saying that to all of her children, even though, one by one, they were growing up and leaving.
Be careful
. It was like a mantra, a lifebelt in an uncertain world. So much might go wrong for them – they might be run over, bullied at school, pushed into drugs . . . find themselves without a father.

Caroline opened her laptop and groaned. The screen had frozen. Resigned, she turned it off and rebooted. If only, she mused, as the train passed terraced houses, an empty playground and a parade of shops, it was possible to do the same for her marriage . . .

An hour later, Caroline flashed her ID card at the security desk and got into the lift. Fourth floor. First set of swing doors on the left. Large open-plan office, studded with pale beech desks at which your knees virtually knocked your neighbour’s. Screens already on. Coffee-machine bubbling. Diana’s door firmly shut, which meant she was writing the Editor’s Letter.

‘Hi,’ said Zelda, spinning round on her chair. ‘Hope you got more sleep than I did. Aurora was up all bloody night. How the hell am I going to cope when number two arrives?’

Caroline dumped her case by her desk and helped herself to a
glass of water. ‘You’ll manage. Just don’t think too much about it in advance or you’ll panic.’

‘How did you cope with three?’

She hadn’t – or what had happened wouldn’t have. She could have been a nice stay-at-home mum and concentrated on keeping her husband happy. ‘I think I’d have gone mad if I hadn’t worked. I needed something to think about apart from the children. But there are times, to be honest, when I feel it’s awfully selfish.’

‘Nice one.’

‘What?’

Zelda was tapping away at the keyboard without looking up at her screen. ‘
Are you a selfish mum?
We could put it up for conference.’

It wasn’t bad, Caroline conceded. She and Zelda worked well as a team, which Diana, always astute, had spotted when Caroline had asked to go part-time and Zelda had got pregnant with Aurora. It had been Diana who had persuaded the powers-that-be that Zelda and Caroline should job-share. The result was that between them they edited the Parenting and Health pages for
Beautiful You
magazine. Caroline worked Mondays and Tuesdays, Zelda worked Wednesdays and Fridays, and they both came in on Thursdays for conference when the whole team thrashed out ideas for the next issue.

‘Ready, everyone?’ Diana put her head round the door of her
office.

‘Bloody hell! She’s early,’ muttered Zelda.

Caroline tried Roger’s mobile. No reply. Zelda lived in Kingston. She’d know. ‘Your mum’s in Wembley, isn’t she?’

‘Yup. Why?’

‘How long does it take you to get there?’

‘Half an hour, maybe. Forty minutes. Come on – everyone else has gone in. Got your notes?’

She had. Organisation might not be her forte at home but work was different.

‘Caroline, switch off your phone
now
. We’ve got to go in!’