The Godmother (13 page)

“They were fine,” I said, trying to reassure Helen and make the awkwardness of the situation disappear. It didn't work. I made it worse.

“And now they're not,” she said. Implying it was my fault, or was I being paranoid? People had started to notice that the stars of the show, who had hitherto been largely absent, were awake. A crowd started to gather. I watched Helen's entire physical presence change as people approached, asking to hold them. The twins started to fuss more and the one in the nanny's arm started crying.

“Hungry,” said Helen loudly, backing away from everyone. “Won't be long.” I watched her bolt from the room. I knew of women who got psychotically protective over their newborns, but this was ridiculous. Did Helen think I was going to contaminate her children in some way?

The following evening, back at home, in my wonderfully disgusting tracksuit, with my aching feet and liver being soothed by a pot of chamomile tea and
some homemade brownies (yes, I bake), I rang Ben. I told him about my run-in with the Wicked Witch of the West, the dishy vicar and the fact that the godfather barely knew Neil and Helen.

“…then she just switched. I was holding the baby and when she saw, she just swept down and snatched it off me.”

“I'm sure you're just exaggerating.”

“I'm not,” I insisted. “I was kinda hoping you'd be there.”

“We got the stiff invite, but Sasha's mate was down for the weekend, you know, Carmen and her husband…”

I did and I didn't. That was sort of “their world” and I didn't really belong. Except for me, all of Ben and Sasha's friends are married. Sasha used to throw big dinners for them all; she'd ask me and a random banker from the City, but she got busier and said I didn't appreciate her efforts, so she gave up.

“It was good until Sash and I made arses of ourselves singing a duet. Oh my God, you'll never guess who we ran into. Guess, you'll never guess—”

“Give me a clue,” I said.

“Blew his finger off trying to make a bomb.”

“No. That nutter, Kevin, Trevor—”

“Keith.”

I screamed. “Keith Jackson, of course! Where were you? Is he still missing a finger?”

“He's a serious hot shot.”

“At karaoke?”

“I didn't hear him sing.”

“Idiot. I meant did you meet him at the karaoke bar?”

“No. He's the bloody head of ICI or something, I don't think people like that go to karaoke bars.”

“Wow, Keith Jackson.”

“We went to a new hip restaurant first and frittered away money on expensive water. He was there too with a foxy blonde.”

“Keith Jackson and a foxy blonde?”

“I'm telling you, he's done well for himself. He came up to our table because he recognized me. Couldn't believe we were all still friends. He wants to meet up. I think he quite liked the idea of seeing you again.”

“Perleease. Does he still look the same?”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks. I'm not coming…” We chatted on, through the
Antiques Road-show,
and the news. Eventually my ear got too hot and itchy to continue talking, so I called it a night.

“Don't worry about Helen,” said Ben. “She's just hormonal, remember that, and don't take it personally.”

“See you at the launch.”

“Love ya,” said Ben and ended the call.

I should have heeded Ben's words. Instead, I lay in bed and rolled the Helen thing over and over in my head. We were fine going over old ground, but when it came to her husband and children I made her defensive and nervy. She had snatched the child out of my arms—couldn't get more personal than that. Finally I came to the sad conclusion that she had gone through the portal and wasn't coming back. Her children were more important than our friendship, naturally, but did that mean there was no room for our friendship at all? And if that was the case with Helen, would it be the case with Claudia and Al? Would I lose them all? I punched my pillow a couple of times; for some reason I simply couldn't get comfortable. Normally on a Sunday night I panicked if my dry-cleaning wasn't hanging in the wardrobe and I wasn't in bed by nine-thirty, but I suddenly remembered that I wouldn't be in my clean pressed suit on the tube at eight the following morning; I could sleep all day if I wished. So I pushed myself out of bed, went to the kitchen, made myself some food and lay on the sofa channel-surfing until I found a stupid movie to watch. It was two-thirty when I finally fell asleep.

I always relished the opportunity of going to Claudia's house. Her staircase held a permanent exhibition of my life. Every time I saw those seven-by-ten-inch photos, I was amazed all over again at how fresh the memories are, how open the wounds, and what fun we had. They go up the stairs in chronological order. I first appear on the third step. I was seven years old. Claudia reckoned she'd run out of stairs at forty. She'll run out of wall space entirely if the baby is born. When, I mean. I meant when. Her collection of photographs is almost identical to mine, except mine are in a huge sports bag under my bed.

In fact, Claudia's house was a testament of the time she'd had while trying to have a baby and the courses she'd taken while trying not to obsess about it. None of them worked. Her drawings were of children, her sculpture was fetal, her cushion covers were pastel and her knitting only came in one size. What it did mean was that her small cottage south of the river had a very cozy, bric-a-brac feel. The only thing missing was a baby. Since I had nothing to do that week, I had happily agreed to help Claudia finally decorate the nursery in a non-toxic paint. Al was on his way to Singapore to look at building a new hotel. Claudia had drawn the outline of bunting three-quarters up the wall. All I had to do was follow her color scheme.

I waited for her on the third step, staring at our seven-year-old selves, earnestly holding hands and frowning at the sun. I swear we hadn't changed much. She still had shiny dark hair, I still had frizzy blond hair (though now much assisted since I had started going grey). She still had blue eyes; I still had brown, except when I cheated and wore colored contact lenses. We were still physically diametrically opposed. I was always considerably taller than her. I'm straight. She's curvy. Her skin is like porcelain; mine is pock-marked (that's an
exaggeration, of course—I have two small scars from the personality-defining spots I had during my teens, but they feel like pockmarks to me). Her nose is like a button; mine is like a beak. My legs are long; hers still go down to the ground without changing shape. Many times we've swapped body parts and reckoned that, between us, we could achieve perfection. Although I always thought there should be more of her and she always thought the opposite. We had a drunken fight about it once. Girls are silly sometimes.

The picture a couple of steps up was of us lined up with our uniformed classmates at school in Camden. Ben and Al were in it too. It was a historical picture, because it was the term that Al joined our threesome. Ben and Al had met when Ben's mother had briefly lived in North Yorkshire. Some quirk of fate meant that, for completely different reasons, Al's family upped and moved south. One day there was lanky Al, sitting at his desk looking nervous. He didn't stay the new boy for very long: Ben remembered him immediately, their friendship took off where it had been left, with Ben's sudden departure, and our threesome became four. Al brought the countryside into our urban world. In Regent's Park we ploughed fields and herded cows. Our games were as real to us as the zoo was. We were a very happy foursome.

Claudia came up the stairs behind me with coffee for me and something herbal for her.

“That's my favorite,” said Claudia, pointing to the only one that I too have framed. It was taken after our O levels and we were about to be ripped apart by evil parents with differing views on further education. We took a train and buckets of cider to the south coast. We were huddled on a pebble beach, the sun setting, drunk, happy and free. A passer-by took the photo. Ben and Al have their arms wrapped around me and Claudia. We are all laughing at something Al said, and not paying the photographer any attention. It is a great shot; the pebbles have turned magenta and the sky behind us is a deep purple. I envy our youth and often wish I was back on that beach. It was all so platonic, so innocent, untroubled. Al and Claudia didn't become a “real” couple until nearly a decade later. She always teased me that if anything were to happen it would be between Ben and me. Man, did she get that one wrong.

“What was it that Al said, to make us laugh like that?”

“I can't remember,” Claudia replied.

Ben didn't do his A levels. His mother needed him to start earning money so she wouldn't have to rely on lovers any more. At sixteen he was still bewitched by her carefree ways. Only later did he realize they'd been neither caring nor free. So he got a job in a post-production company as a runner. It was there that he met Mary. Mary was two years older than us and worked on reception. It was a ridiculously serious relationship. On the weekends, when Claudia, Al and I were reconvening to puke up on Southern Comfort and lemonade, Ben was playing house. He and Mary had dinner parties with avocado vinaigrette to start with. Mary was nice enough, but she was old even for her older years. I think it happened because Ben didn't have a normal family. There was never any food in Ben's house. In Mary's there was every foodstuff you could imagine, as well as a mother, a father, a friendly sibling and a dog. They even had sex once a week like an old married couple. Ben was only seventeen; we all thought it was hilarious. Well, Al and Claudia did. I was a bit pissed off.

“I lost him during the Mary years,” I said, looking at another photo of me, Al and Claudia in Camden market, without Ben.

“We all did,” said Claudia.

“That's what I meant.”

My parents had a bit of money by then—two incomes, one child, and so they thought it was time to go private. I didn't want to go but I have to admit that I got better A levels than if I'd stayed. I needed to be forced to focus because we were messing about too much. Being a new girl in a new school, costing my folks an arm and a leg, did that. I worked hard during the week, then met up with Claudia and Al during the weekends. (And Ben, when he was allowed off the leash.) I found the richer kids hard to understand—they took the piss in class, some barely turned up; they didn't seem to care one iota about the exams, or anything else for that matter. It was quite an eye-opener for me and I ran back to where I felt comfortable. With my old mates. It wasn't that I was intimidated, though I think my parents thought that; it was that I was disappointed. These were bright kids, brighter than me, and so advantaged, but they mocked education, I guess because it was a tool they thought they didn't need. It is a testament to that time that I walked away from college with straight As but no friends. I know my parents were right to split us up—my career, my independence, my gorgeous flat are basically thanks
to those As—but I sometimes wish they hadn't. “What about this one?” said Claudia, pointing to one of Ben in hospital with his leg in traction. Al was leaning affectionately across him. I nodded. What about that one? It was the summer after our A levels. The summer we were supposed to go to Vietnam, the four of us. Ben had wangled time off because he'd got himself a better job starting the following September. Things were waning with Mary by that time, thank God, and we all hoped their relationship wouldn't stand up to the time apart. But there was no time apart. Ben broke his leg a week before we were due to fly. I was with him when it happened. I stared back at Ben's leg and his unsmiling face. A lot of my life lies in that break. But that's another story.

Claudia pulled on my sleeve. I followed her upstairs where she presented me with one of Al's old shirts. I dutifully put it on. I'd half expected a smock with my name on it.

I started on the green flags. Claudia went for pillar-box red. We tuned into Magic FM on the radio, opened the window and sang into our paintbrushes when any favorites came on.

“How long is Al going to be in Singapore?” I asked over the din of Claudia getting carried away with Shakespeare's Sisters' “Stay.”

“Months. Typical, isn't it? But it's a huge building project and we'll be needing the extra money. The plan is he works on this contract while I'm pregnant, then can take a bit of time out after the baby is born.” Claudia smiled. I felt the fear in my chest tighten.

“Do you remember how Ben used to sneak away from Mary and meet us in Ed's Easy Diner?”

Claudia put down her paintbrush. “Please, Tessa, let me talk about it,” she said softly. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“Sorry.” She was right, of course, but I felt so afraid for her. I think that part of the reason why I had been so happy carrying on my life as I had was because I knew that I didn't feel the same desperate need to have a child that Claudia did. Although that was changing, I still wanted it more for Claudia than for myself.

“I do remember Ed's. Mostly the cheesy fries—what I wouldn't do for some of those now,” said Claudia. There was a look of longing on her face. I put an arm around her. “You really are pregnant, aren't you?”

She smiled at me. She was so happy. “I'm inventing cravings, just so I can have them. I'm wearing maternity clothes even though I don't need to. I'm pathetic. Al went out and bought me ice cream before he went this morning.”

“You be very careful, Claudia Ward. The extra calories required to fuel a pregnancy equates to one yoghurt a day. Not a tub of Ben and Jerry's.”

Claudia dipped her brush into the paint pot and moved back to the wall. “How do you know this stuff?”

“Osmosis,” I replied.

“It's weird.”

“Not really. Everyone I know has had, or is having, babies. I'm a walking encyclopedia of this stuff. Cracked nipples? Use Kamillosan—also a very good lip gloss. Cradle cap? Olive oil. Talcum powder is now a no-no, the fine particles get on to their lungs. Pacifiers are now encouraged. I don't want to know any of this stuff, I certainly don't need it, but, bless 'em, they tell me anyway, and, for some reason that I will never understand, think that what they're telling me is gripping.”

“I'm doing it too, aren't I?”

“I don't mind it from you,” I said. “Maybe I'm being a tad defensive. I guess I file it away in the hope that it will become gripping some day.”

“Oh Tessa, it will. You've just got to meet somebody.”

“Haven't you heard? It's not about meeting somebody any more.”

“Huh?”

“No, it's that I've put my career ahead of my biological clock. Apparently there is now some machine that all career women like me can pee on to find out how many eggs we have left. Just in case I go to a meeting one day and miss my opportunity to have a baby.”

“I'm lost.”

I leaned against a dry piece of wall. I was lost too, to be honest. The article had enraged me. “All this time, I thought I was working to pay off my mortgage, the bills, feed and water myself, since no one else is going to do it for me. Turns out I've been selfishly pursuing a career instead. I
have
to work. I'm not not having kids because of my job, I'm not having kids because I haven't met anyone to have kids with. Now if they invent a machine that I can pee on and a blue telephone number of my ideal partner appears on a stick, then I'll purchase.”

“You don't need a machine, you'll meet someone soon. No one knows what's round the corner.”

“How many corners, Claudia? Because I feel like I've turned them all.” This conversation depressed me. I was better at not thinking about all of this. “I meet people all the time. It never works out. I don't know why.”

“Hmm,” said Claudia.

“Why, what do you think I'm doing wrong?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation?” she asked, a more serious tone creeping into her voice.

“Yes. I need all the help I can get. Claudia, I want this to be me soon. I really do. Tell me, what am I doing wrong?”

Claudia put her brush down. I did the same.

“I don't think you're doing anything wrong,” said Claudia, turning the radio down.

“But…?”

“But, then again, you don't really let anyone close enough to you for you to have to do something wrong. You don't blow it. But you don't grab hold of it either. I've seen boys drift away from you because you give them nothing to hold on to.”

I picked up my paintbrush again.

“That's yellow,” said Claudia.

“Sorry.” I put it down again.

“Do you disagree?”

I exhaled loudly. “I feel like I'm out there grabbing at things. I know last year wasn't great, but that was understandable. I shagged a guy two weeks ago, if that helps.”

“That doesn't count, you're never going to see him again.”

“It's not my fault I like the bad ones.”

“Whose fault is it then? And anyway, that's bollocks because you don't just like the bad ones.”

I ducked the question. “I met a nice bloke last weekend. It got quite heated on the dance floor but then I had to go and make sure Caspar didn't drown in his own vomit.”

“But you didn't really need to look after Caspar, you could have called Fran.”

“I couldn't.”

“Yes, you could have. You chose not to.”

“He needed my help—trust me, dobbing Caspar in to his parents would have been worse, and anyway, he didn't ask for my number.”

“You should have given him yours.”

“Not possible. Remember how that bloke was with you at the christening?” Claudia nodded. “He snubbed you just for saying hello. You just can't go around looking like you're interested these days. People write you off as a stalker if you so much as mention a number…” I paused for dramatic effect. But thinking about it, what I was saying was real. It was tough out there. Whether it was being done to me, or I was doing it to myself, I couldn't tell, but I was beginning to feel like a failure just for thinking that maybe I wanted a husband and some kids. Was it so bad to want what everyone else had? Why did I have to do everything for myself when everyone else was getting help? When was someone going to look after me? I picked up a stick and stirred some paint absent-mindedly. I didn't like these conversations. “I've been hurt. I guess I've got more barriers up now.”