The Bridesmaid Pact (7 page)

‘So long as you don’t give us all paper plates with Cinderella on them,’ I said. Doris looked a little shamefaced. ‘You haven’t?’

‘Well, they were half price in Wilkinson’s,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t resist. But that’s not the only option, we could have Beauty and the Beast ones instead.’

‘You are totally off your trolley,’ I said laughing, looking at my friend with affection. But I couldn’t help wondering if underneath her laughter, she was hiding something from me.

Doris

I heard Darren’s key in the door with relief. It was the Friday after I’d seen Sarah, and I’d had a really hard day with Woody, who’d started throwing up in the night and pretty much carried on the whole day. In between clearing up vomit, I’d spent most of the day with him clinging to my shoulder like a limpet. Woody wasn’t normally clingy and it was horrible seeing his smiley face so miserable and wan. It was the first time since he’d been born that he’d been ill, and I didn’t know what to do. If Mum were only a bit more with it, I could have got her advice, but when I expressed concern that Woody wasn’t getting enough fluids, she just said vaguely, ‘Oh, all babies get sick. But they bounce back. He’ll be better tomorrow, you’ll see.’

By mid-afternoon when it was apparent that Woody wasn’t able to tolerate any food or drink at all, I rang Sarah, who calmly prescribed small sips of water, and Dioralyte, but suggested taking him to the doctor if it got any worse. I knew she was right, but ever since Dad got ill I’d had a pathological hatred of the medical profession. I wouldn’t take him unless I absolutely had to. Luckily, Woody, clearly exhausted by his day’s activities, took that moment to decide
to crash out. At least if he was sleeping he wasn’t being sick, so we cuddled up on the sofa together and I watched crap TV and waited for Darren to get in. I was shattered. I couldn’t believe that one little person could create so much work and worry. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything hurting him, and I hated seeing him so ill.

‘Hi,’ said Darren as he came through the door, as ever having performed his daily ritual of hand washing (to get rid of all those nasty germs from travelling by tube, you understand). ‘How is he?’ I’d been keeping Darren posted as to Woody’s condition, and he’d managed to sneak away from work early. Like me, Darren had melted the minute that Woody had come into his life, and we were both like a pair of pathetically anxious clucking hens around him.

‘He seems OK at the moment,’ I said. ‘He’s been asleep for ages though and he feels a bit hot.’

‘When did you last give him Calpol?’ said Darren.

‘Just before he went to sleep,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure how effective it’s been, he’s thrown up nearly every dose I’ve given him today.’

Woody stirred in my arms, and gave a slight moan, before wriggling awake. He looked blearily up at his dad.

‘Here, let me take him,’ said Darren, picking up our son and holding him close.

‘I think you’ll want this,’ I said, proffering a muslin.

Too late, Woody had chucked up all over Darren’s back.

‘Oh shit, shit,’ said Darren. ‘He’s contaminated me.’

‘Darren, he’s probably contaminated me,’ I said laughing. ‘I’ve been clearing this up most of the day. Just wait there and I’ll sort you both out.’

Five minutes later, having persuaded Darren that it really wasn’t going to be necessary to burn his jacket, and cleaned
both of them up, I took a decision. Woody was no better. Much as I hated it, I was going to have to take him to see the doctor.

The waiting room was crowded. It was nearly the end of surgery hours and there were still plenty of people to see. The doctor’s receptionist had squeezed us in as a favour and I felt slightly stupid that I hadn’t taken Woody before. He lay pale and listless in my arms. He clearly wasn’t well. I should have done something sooner.

When Woody’s name was finally called, I felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. Maybe the doctor would take one look at him and say there was nothing to worry about. Darren squeezed my hand as we went in.

‘He’ll be OK,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ said Dr Linley, as we sat down. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘Woody keeps being sick,’ I explained, ‘he can’t keep anything down, and now he’s gone all listless and floppy.’

‘Right, and this has been going on how long?’ she said, as she proceeded to examine him.

‘Since last night,’ I said. ‘I just thought it was a bug and he’d get over it. But it seems to be getting worse.’

Right on cue, Woody threw up again. Poor little mite, it wasn’t even as if he had much to throw up.

Darren was, as usual, prepared with antibacterial spray, wipes and plastic gloves and went into clean-up mode, while the doctor was explaining that Woody might need to go into hospital to have some fluids.

Hospital? My baby in hospital? That had simply never occurred to me. The last time I’d been in our local hospital had been to see Dad all connected up to drips and wires.
I’d vowed I never wanted to set foot in there again, which is why I had elected to have Woody at home.

‘Oh,’ was all I could manage to say, feeling helpless, while Darren took charge and asked all the right questions, like how serious was it, and how long did she think he’d stay there. It was as if I was cocooned in a great bubble of silence, I could barely register what the doctor was saying, while Darren picked Woody out of my arms, and motioned me to get up.

‘I’ll ring ahead for you,’ I heard, as if in a dream, and she pressed an envelope into my hand, and said, ‘Take this with you.’

I felt dizzy and sick. I still couldn’t take it in. My baby was going to hospital.

‘Are you all right, Doris?’ Dr Linley asked. ‘No falls, recently?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, ‘just thinking about Woody for now.’

‘Right, of course,’ she said. ‘Was everything OK with Mr Mason?’

Darren shot me a look, but I shushed him. ‘Fine,’ I said, not about to admit that I hadn’t made the follow-up appointment yet.

‘Great,’ said Dr Linley. She tickled Woody’s chin. ‘Don’t you worry about this little one, he’ll be right as rain in no time.’

The journey to St Mary’s seemed endless. I’d done this journey so many times to go and see Dad, but I’d forgotten how long it took. We were lucky to have a satellite hospital of one of the major London hospitals so close by. Everyone said so. The treatment there was second to none, but all I could associate with it was heartache, and loss. I so didn’t want to take my baby there.

I was pleasantly surprised by the speed with which we got through the triage system and into the paediatric clinic, where a friendly nurse was waiting with toys and a cot to lie Woody down in. It was a far cry from the noisy chaos of A & E that I remembered from the numerous trips in with Dad. Woody was quickly assessed and a drip was set up. No one seemed to be too fussed or worried about him, so I started to breathe again. Darren too, I think. Though he’d gone into full Darren-taking-charge mode, I knew he was covering up how anxious he was feeling. Woody, clearly exhausted by his day, dropped off to sleep, while we waited for a bed to come available on the children’s ward.

Once the jolly nurse was sure he’d settled down, she disappeared to deal with the numerous other small patients streaming through the doors.

‘I do hope their hygiene procedures are properly in place,’ said Darren. ‘I’d hate Woody coming out of here with something worse.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you see all those anti bacterial hand spray things all over the place? Everyone’s so excited about MRSA these days, I’m sure he’ll be perfectly fine.’ And I was. Once I’d got here, I’d relaxed, Woody was going to be looked after and get better. It wasn’t like with Dad. The friendly nurse had explained that Woody was just dehydrated. By morning he would be right as rain.

Darren got up and wandered around the room. He’s never very good at sitting still and hospitals make him as nervous as they do me. We’d seen too much of them in the last few years.

‘Why didn’t you tell Dr Linley the truth?’ he said. ‘You still haven’t booked that appointment with Mr Mason, have you?’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘I promise, I will. But not now. There’s just so much to do for the wedding. I’ll think about it after then.’

‘But Dorrie, you heard what he said the first time,’ said Darren, ‘they need to monitor you.’

‘And what will that do?’ I said. ‘It’s not going to stop the inevitable, is it?’

‘Dorrie, nothing is inevitable,’ said Darren. ‘And we can get through anything together, you know that.’

He came over and put his arms around me, and I put my head on his shoulder. I badly wanted to believe that and I know he
did
believe that, but I just couldn’t.

‘Look, Darren…’ I took a deep breath. I knew what I was going to say was going to hurt him, but it had to be said. ‘You don’t have to go through with this, you know.’

‘With what?’ Darren looked puzzled. Oh his sweet, sweet dimness, couldn’t he see what I was trying to say?

‘With the wedding,’ I said. ‘We don’t know what’s going to happen, do we? You don’t know what you’re taking on. It might be better if we didn’t commit ourselves…’

My voice trailed away. I’d been dreaming of my wedding since I was a little girl, and from the minute I’d met Darren, I’d known he was the one, and yet here I was giving him a Get Out of Jail Free card.

‘Doris Bradley, you are a daft cow sometimes,’ said Darren, kissing the top of my head. ‘I’m already committed, can’t you see that? Besides, I don’t want Woody being a little bastard
all
his life.’ (I’d been so dismayed when I’d found out that despite my best laid plans, my longed for baby was coming before my even more longed for wedding. Darren had teased me ever since about him being our little bastard.)

‘Are you really sure?’ I said, staring into his beautiful blue eyes for reassurance.

‘Really,’ said Darren.

‘But we don’t know what’s going to happen,’ I said.

‘Yeah, well, it’s like the guy says at the end of
Blade Runner
,’ said Darren. ‘None of us know how much time they’ve got, do they? Come on, enjoy the moment, and let the future take care of itself.’

The jolly nurse returned at that moment to let us know there was a bed available upstairs, and the next hour or so was a blur of getting Woody settled in and checked over. Darren went home to get us some things. Stupidly, I hadn’t thought as far as the fact that one of us would need to stay the night. By the time he’d come back, Woody was gurgling happily in his cot.

‘He’s looking better already, isn’t he?’ Darren said, giving Woody a tickle under the chin.

‘Much,’ I said. ‘It’s such a relief.’

We sat quietly in the semi-darkness watching our son settle down to sleep, sitting close and still, sharing the easing of worry. I held Darren’s hand and leant against his shoulder. I just wished my own gnawing anxiety would ebb away so easily.

Caz

‘So how did it go then?’ Charlie was setting up his equipment when I arrived at the top floor of a warehouse near London Bridge. It belonged to a famous architect who let it out for photo shoots and boasted great views of the river, as well as a bright lofty space, making it a favourite location for most of the people we tended to work with. No one else had arrived yet. I always liked to get there before the client, to give myself time to chat to Charlie or whoever the photographer was, to see what they had in mind so I could make up the punters accordingly.

It was the first time I’d seen Charlie properly since before Dorrie’s hen weekend. I’d texted him to say it had been fine, but hadn’t spoken to him in any depth. Nadia, his girlfriend, kept him on a tight rein, and I had a feeling she didn’t like me. I can’t say I can blame her. I’d probably be wary of me too, and I’m sure my reputation has preceded me. She couldn’t know that I’d changed, or wanted to change, at any rate. Besides, Charlie was safe from me. He was like my big brother and agony uncle rolled into one – and we had the heterosexual equivalent of a fag-hag relationship. Nothing more than that.

‘It was OK,’ I said. ‘Do you want some coffee?’

The architect was never much in evidence when he was letting his flat out, but he always supplied coffee for us, which was pretty decent.

‘That’d be great,’ said Charlie. ‘You look dreadful. Heavy session was it?’

I pulled a face. I knew I looked a fright. Just as well I had got in early, I could spend some time repairing the cracks. No one wants to be made up by someone who looks ugly as sin.

‘I didn’t get much sleep,’ I said.

Charlie gave me a quick sympathetic look, but he knows better than to probe. It was true. I had had a bad night. But it wasn’t through drink.

Mum had rung for the first time in a long time. Pissed, of course. She hadn’t been aggressive though, which was new. But she
had
been whiny, miserable and self-pitying.

‘Caroline, when are you going to come and see me?’ she’d whined. ‘You never see me any more.’

This was true; my ludicrously expensive therapist had suggested I take a back seat, and not rush round to deal with every calamity. ‘You aren’t responsible for your mother’s actions,’ she kept telling me, and I was trying to believe her, but it was so hard to change the habit of a lifetime.

‘Mum, have you been drinking?’ I said wearily.

‘Only a small one,’ she said with that defensive tone which meant she’d probably drunk a whole bottle of vodka. ‘You never let me have any fun, do you?’

‘Mum,’ I said, speaking slowly as if to a small child, ‘I’ve told you, I’ll come and see you when you’ve stopped drinking.’ This too was the advice of my therapist who said we’d become co-dependent.

‘But Caroline, I’ve got no one else but you,’ she said.
Whose fault is that?
I wanted to say, but couldn’t face the self-pitying response that would follow.

‘I’m going now, Mum,’ I said, knowing it was best to be cold, otherwise I’d be round there like a shot, as I had been so many, many times before, never doing any good, never changing anything.

‘Caroline, I’m scared,’ said Mum. Her voice sounded small and childlike. I just couldn’t take it any more and cut the connection. I left the phone off the hook, turned my mobile off and went to bed. Let her ring me if she wanted to.

Then, of course, I’d spent the whole night fretting and wondering whether I should have gone round or done something, even though I know whatever I do won’t make any difference. Mum pushed her own self-destruct button long ago. I can’t be responsible for that, or her. I’d ring her later to check that she hadn’t done anything stupid and leave it at that.

‘So go on, then,’ Charlie said, stirring his coffee. ‘Give me the lowdown. Did Sarah speak to you?’

I pulled a face as I sipped my drink.

‘She wasn’t at all happy to see me,’ I said, ‘but at least it wasn’t pistols at dawn.’

‘See, I told you,’ said Charlie. ‘I knew you should have gone.’

‘Thank you, Charlie the oracle,’ I said. ‘No, it was fine. Doris was great. Beth’s prepared to put up with me. Sarah will probably never forgive me as long as I live, but hey, two out of three ain’t bad.’

‘You never know,’ said Charlie, ‘she might come round eventually. Never say die and all that.’

‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Sarah’s stubborn as hell, and she has
every right to hate me. But so long as I’m seeing Doris and Beth again, I think I can live.’

‘Hmmphh,’ Charlie snorted. He knows me far too well and was the only person I’d ever confided in about how much I missed my old friends. Everyone else I knew thought I was a hard nut who existed in an isolated bubble. But then that was an image I’d gone to great lengths to perfect. I shouldn’t have listened to Simon & Garfunkel so much when I was young. A rock mightn’t feel any pain, but it doesn’t feel much joy either.

Footsteps on the stairs proclaimed the arrival of Gemma, the PR girl, and soon we were caught up in a whirl of activity, as I got everything ready for the model to arrive. Chloe Andrews was fashionably late of course, which meant I had less time to get her ready and Charlie had less time to shoot, but we’d worked together long enough, and I was familiar enough with the stylist, Kerry, for things to go reasonably smoothly, but it was pretty full on for the best part of the day. It got to five thirty and I realized I hadn’t rung Mum. I was going to ring her on the way out but then Charlie and Kerry prevailed on me to come to the pub with them, and I thought, it’s Friday, why the hell not? When Charlie went home to Nadia, Kerry and I made a bit of a session of it.

It was gone midnight when I stumbled in. The answer-phone was flashing. There were several messages on it, with an increasing level of panic in them.

‘If you get this, it’s your Auntie Nora. Your mum’s had a turn and she’s in hospital.’ Oh shit.

‘Caroline, where are you? I’ve left at least three messages on your mobile. Ring me now.’ Beep.

‘Auntie Nora again. Best you ring the hospital direct.’ Beep.

‘When you get this, come straight away.’

Shit, shit, shit. I knew I should have rung Mum. I knew I should have gone to see her. Guilt and anger collided in a vicious gut-twisting punch in my stomach. My heart was pounding, and my head was thumping, I felt so bloody angry that Mum could do this to me again, and yet at the same time make me feel like I was somehow responsible.

I rang the number of the ward that Auntie Nora had given me. A softly spoken nurse answered the phone.

‘Yes, Mrs Riley is here. You’re her daughter? We’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said tersely. ‘I’ve only just got the messages. How is my mother?’

I was expecting her to say ‘raving’ or ‘wasting our time’ or any of the usual responses I got when Mum ended up in hospital, as she did periodically.

‘I’m afraid your mother is very poorly,’ was the response. ‘I think it’s best that you come right away.’

My heart went into freefall. When Auntie Nora’s husband, Paddy, had gone into hospital when I was eighteen, they kept saying he was ‘poorly’. He was dead in three days. What if ‘poorly’ was nurse code for ‘on death row’? But Mum couldn’t
die.
That was ridiculous. She had spent the best part of my life lurching from crisis to crisis of her own making, but somehow she always pulled through. The thought of her not being here at all was too weird to contemplate.

All the way to the hospital, I kept telling myself I was imagining things. It
was late, I’d had a busy day, I was feeling guilty for not having taken Mum
more seriously the night before, everything was going to be fine.

Everything is going to be fine.
That had been the mantra
of my childhood, to get through the days and the weeks and the years till I could grow up and escape her. I didn’t believe it then and I didn’t believe it now. After all, despite my best efforts I’d never managed to escape her entirely.

I sat staring out of the cab window as the dark streets of London fled away from me. I had thought to escape my home and the little family I had by living a bright, shining life in the city, and yet, here I was again, coming back to the place I knew best. Eventually the taxi driver deposited me outside A & E at St Mary’s, the hospital I’d been to so many times before. I went in and went hesitantly to the desk. I knew the form. I’d done this often enough, but I always felt ill at ease – as if the fact that Mum was here, again, somehow pronounced badly on me as a daughter. Maybe if I were a better daughter…

‘I believe…I think my mother’s here – Mrs Patricia Riley?’ I said.

The woman consulted her notes.

‘Yes, let’s see. She was brought in with a head trauma. They’ve stabilized her and she’s been transferred to ICU.’

She gave me directions and I wandered through the vast labyrinth of the hospital in a daze. It was mainly empty and silent, and I walked down echoing corridors which looked suited more to a horror film than anything else. I kept expecting Jack Nicholson to leap out and tell me ‘Daddy’s home’ any minute.

Eventually I found my way to the right place. Auntie Nora was hovering outside. She looked furious.

‘Where have you been?’ she hissed. ‘I’ve been ringing you all evening.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was out and had my phone switched off. What the hell happened?’

‘Your mother had one of her little “episodes”,’ said Auntie Nora. One of the things I hate most about my family is the way no one will ever talk straight about Mum’s problems.

‘You mean she was drunk,’ I said baldly.

‘Don’t talk about your mother like that,’ said Auntie Nora, ‘it’s disrespectful.’

I could have argued with her, but I was too tired and frantic.

‘So what happened?’

‘It seems she had a fall,’ said Auntie Nora.

‘She didn’t ring you, then?’ I said.

A flash of something – guilt? – whipped across Auntie Nora’s face.

‘No, unfortunately, she didn’t. I went to see her this afternoon, and couldn’t get in. I rang and there was no answer, so I called an ambulance. They broke into her house and found her at the bottom of the stairs.’

Oh god. How long had she been lying there? I should have gone round. I
should
have gone round.

‘Can I see her?’ I said.

‘The doctors were with her a minute ago,’ said Auntie Nora. ‘We’d better wait and see what they say.’

We sat waiting for interminable minutes while the second hand passed slowly on the clock, and we drank indifferent coffee from Styrofoam cups. I thought with a pang how only that morning I’d been laughing over coffee with Charlie. Had Mum already been lying there and I hadn’t known? Would it have made any difference to her if I had done?

Eventually a crumpled-looking doctor came out. He looked about fifteen, but I guess he must have been a registrar or something because the nurses all seemed to be showing him due deference.

‘Are you Mrs Riley’s family?’ he asked.

‘I’m her daughter and this is her sister,’ I said. ‘How is she?’

‘It’s not looking good, I’m afraid,’ the doctor said. ‘She’s sustained a nasty head injury, and we suspect trauma to the brain. She’s still unconscious, but even if she does come round, the likelihood is that she’ll be brain damaged. I think you have to prepare yourself for the worst.’

I was stunned. I couldn’t take it in. Mum was only sixty-two. She couldn’t possibly be about to die on me.

‘Can we see her now?’ I asked.

‘I think it’s better if you take it one at a time,’ he said. ‘She shouldn’t be disturbed.’

‘I’ll go and get us another coffee,’ said Auntie Nora in a rare and uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness. She patted me on the arm and left me to my own devices. In anyone else, I might have detected a snivel, but Auntie Nora wasn’t the snivelling kind.

I went into the side room where Mum lay wired up to machines. A livid purple and yellow bruise spread from her forehead down her face. She looked like she’d been beaten up.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, any feelings of anger and guilt dissipating instantly into pity and regret. Even now my relationship with her was so bloody complicated. I wanted to hate her, and somehow seeing her lying there, so pitifully pathetic, I couldn’t. I sat down beside her and took her hand.

‘Hang on in there,’ I said. ‘You have to get better. We need you to get better.’

Somewhere deep inside of me a little flame of hope had insisted on burning brightly. Maybe this would be the
incident that persuaded Mum to stop drinking – if she got through it of course. I suppressed the thought that the time she’d set fire to her flat, the times she’d hit me, the time she broke her leg while on a bender, none of those things had ever done the trick, because I so wanted to believe it was going to be different.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said. ‘I should have been there last night. I know I’ve let you down. But you have to believe me, I wanted to be a good daughter to you.’

Mum stirred suddenly and opened her eyes and stared at me in a slightly unfocused way.

‘Caroline?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

‘I’m here, Mum.’ I gripped her hand tightly and squeezed it hard, tears pricking my eyes. ‘You’ve had a nasty fall, but everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.’

She mumbled something that sounded like ‘ruined everything’ but I couldn’t be sure.

She shut her eyes again, as if the effort had been too much for her.

‘Don’t say that,’ I said, the tears spilling over now. ‘Please don’t say that.’

She opened her eyes briefly to give me a look filled with such hatred that I felt quite shaken.

‘Mum,’ I said urgently, ‘say something, please.’

I don’t know what I wanted, approval perhaps? But I didn’t get it. Mum didn’t say anything more and gradually her breathing slowed, till it was barely discernible. Suddenly a beeping from one of the monitors caused the staff to spring into action. Within sections a crash team were in the room, and I was being ushered out. No one seemed to be shouting or rushing, they all moved in an unhurried but focused manner, and I found myself outside the room
in moments. It was all over in a few brutal seconds. I was shocked at the speed of it. Auntie Nora returned with her cups of coffee to find me leaning against a wall crying as I had never cried before. My mother had died hating me. Now I really was alone in the world.