The Mummyfesto (41 page)

It was all fairly gentle at first. We made our opening speeches. The Tory MP tried to distance himself from the Lib Dems, Laura, the Lib Dem woman, tried to distance herself from the Tories, the Labour guy claimed it wasn’t his party who had caused the recession and the Green woman banged on about needing a sustainable public transport system. All standard political fare really.

And then the middle-aged man near the back stood up and asked whether, in light of recent newspaper revelations, I was a fit candidate to represent the Calder Valley.

There was an awkward silence for a moment. The Green candidate looked down at her hands. The Labour guy shuffled his feet.

It was Laura who started talking. ‘Personally, I don’t think the children of parliamentary candidates should be subjected to this type of press intrusion.’

I started nodding, thinking she was going to be supportive.

And then she carried on. ‘However, I do feel that people who put themselves forward as parliamentary candidates, particularly those standing on a family-friendly ticket, should be honest with the electorate about their own drug use. And to hear someone who used to smoke marijuana
herself, talk about the dangers of drug-taking, is nothing if not hypocritical.’

A hush descended on the room. I stared at Laura. She didn’t even have the guts to look me in the eye. I was aware that everyone was looking at me. Waiting for a response. And yet all I could think was ‘How the hell did she know that?’

Because I knew there were only two people it could have come from. David or Will. I looked down into the audience and found Will. I could see the veins on his neck bulging. The colour rushing to his cheeks. He looked me in the eye and slowly shook his head. And I knew he was telling the truth.

‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ said Will, afterwards as we made our way quickly down the steps of the town hall and away from the staring faces, ‘not even any of my mates.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘So who told her?’

I didn’t answer.

‘You don’t think?’

‘I don’t know what to think right now, Will.’

‘Jeez, this is a mess.’ I looked at him, my sixteen-year-old son, pronouncing on the shambles that my life had become. It would have been funny had it not been so painful.

‘Did I do OK? Apart from being outed as a pot-smoking student, I mean.’

Will managed a smile.

‘You were good. Made her look bad for mentioning it. And you wiped the floor with them on the other stuff. Shame it doesn’t really matter now.’

I looked at him. For a moment I had forgotten about pulling out.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I guess it is.’

The house was quiet when we got back. Esme was asleep. Charlotte was still shut in her room with Ed Sheeran. David was in his study. I was going to wait until after Will had gone to bed to talk to him. But Will clearly had other ideas. He opened the study door without knocking and went it. I had no choice but to follow.

‘What did you tell that Lib Dem woman about Mum?’

David looked up from his desk. He appeared genuinely startled.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Don’t play dumb,’ said Will, ‘it doesn’t suit you.’ His jaw was set. He was jabbing his finger in the air. I had never seen him so wound up before. ‘You did it to make her look bad, didn’t you? To make sure she pulled out. All because you can’t cope with her being more successful than you.’

David stood up. His eyes were dark. Darker than I’d ever seen them before. And they were boring into Will.

‘I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you’d better be very careful, young man. I have not done anything to harm your mother’s campaign. I think you’ve made a very good job of that yourself.’

Will lunged towards David. I managed to get in between them, to pull Will away.

‘Stop it,’ I shouted. ‘Stop it both of you.’

David was visibly shaken. Will still hadn’t taken his eyes off him. It was like that game they used to play when he was younger, when Will dared him to see who would blink first. I could see the perspiration forming on David’s top lip. The study was far too small for three of us.

‘Look, I have no idea what went on tonight, but I can tell you that I have said and done nothing which would harm your mother’s campaign. I don’t know what you think of me, Will, clearly not very much, but I can tell you that I would not do that. I would not stoop that low.’

I looked him in the eye. He was telling the truth. I felt awful for having doubted him. For putting the very idea in Will’s head. Maybe the tabloids had been digging dirt again. Maybe someone knew someone who used to know me back then – one of the psychology students at St Andrews.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning to David. ‘I’m really sorry. Everything got a bit heated in there tonight.’

‘You said no one else knew,’ said Will, turning on me. ‘That the only people who knew were me and Dad. And I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘I’m not accusing you, Will.’

‘You must be if you’re saying it wasn’t him.’

‘Would someone mind telling me exactly what we’re talking about?’ asked David.

‘Laura said it was hypocritical of me to talk about the dangers of drugs when I had smoked dope at uni.’

David stared at me, his brow furrowed slightly and then the colour dropped out of his face.

‘You said you didn’t say anything,’ I said.

David shook his head slowly. ‘I didn’t. Not now. Not during the campaign.’

‘When did you say something?’

He sighed deeply. ‘Years ago. twelve or thirteen years ago.’

‘Why would you have told her that about me years ago?’

‘It came up one day,’ he said, ‘when we were talking.’

‘But you don’t just drop that sort of thing in a conversation, do you? Not personal stuff about your wife to some woman you hardly know.’

David hung his head.

‘Oh Christ,’ I said, realising straightaway.

‘What?’ said Will. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Will, can you give us five minutes please? There’s something we need to talk about.’ Will tutted and shook his head, the sense of rage and frustration still palpable after he had left the room. I waited a moment, trying to compose myself. I wanted to sound strong when I spoke. Stronger than I was feeling, anyway. I also wanted David to have to sweat it out for a bit.

‘How long did it last?’ I asked finally.

‘Just over a year.’

I nodded, trying to give no indication of how deeply the knife was cutting. ‘Did you love her?’

David was still staring at the floor. ‘No, not really. Not
like I …’ his voice trailed off. He held his head in his hands.

‘Why then?’ I asked.

‘Does anyone ever know why?’

‘I don’t know, David. I’ve never done it myself.’

He sighed. Took a long time before answering. ‘I was lonely. You were always busy with the children. I missed having proper adult time with you.’

‘Sex, you mean?’

‘No. Not sex. Talking. Talking politics or art or music. Anything other than whether Will had just done a poo or whether I could remember if you’d made puréed butternut squash or sweet potato for Charlotte the previous night.’

His words slapped me around the face leaving me with red marks on my cheeks.

‘Having two children under three wasn’t easy, you know. It wasn’t really conducive to intellectual debates.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘I broke it off myself. I couldn’t deal with the guilt.’

‘She’s clearly never forgiven you. Or forgiven me for winning you back without even realising it, maybe.’

David looked up at me for the first time. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d even remembered what I said, let alone that she would be bitter and twisted enough to use it against you.’

‘And the affair?’ I asked. ‘Are you sorry for that?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. I wouldn’t have ended it otherwise.’

‘But you never thought to tell me.’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought it was better you didn’t know.’

‘Better for whom? You or me?’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’

‘Were there others?’ I asked. He shook his head.

‘No.’

I believed him. Whether I forgave him, of course, was another matter. All those years I’d lived in an empty marriage because I didn’t want to hurt David or the children. All the times I’d wondered about the other life I could have had. The one where I didn’t lie awake at night aching for the touch of someone who was my soulmate. Who was there for me, emotionally and physically.

‘I’m going to need some time to think,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes of course.’

‘Perhaps you could sleep on the sofa tonight.’ I realised as soon as I said it that I was doing that thing again. Being, as Will would put it, ‘fucking reasonable’.

‘Sure,’ David said. ‘I’ll go and get the spare bedding.’ He was heading back downstairs with it a few minutes later when Will came out of the kitchen. I’d thought he was angry earlier. But that was nothing compared to this. He looked at the bedding and at me then back to David.

‘You cheated on her didn’t you?’

‘Will, really. This has nothing to do with you,’ said David.

‘Well that’s where you’re wrong. Because if you were cheating on Mum you were cheating on the rest of us too.
Mum might be too nice to tell you what she thinks of you, but I’m not.’

‘Will, leave it,’ I said.

‘No, I won’t leave it. Because someone has to tell him that you do not treat people like that. You do not walk all over them, say sorry, kip on the sofa for a couple of nights and expect everything to be OK.’

He turned to David. His finger started jabbing again. ‘She deserves so much better than you. She really fucking does.’

He pushed past David and ran upstairs to his room, slamming the door behind him. Somewhere in the explosion of emotions which had just taken place inside of me was a strand of pure maternal pride.

When I came downstairs the next morning there was a note on the kitchen table. I knew as soon as I saw it that I didn’t need to check the lounge. He would be gone.

I unfolded the piece of paper and read it.

‘Will’s right, you know. You do deserve better. You all do. I’m very sorry. I’ll stop by this evening, about seven, to pick up some clothes. I’d appreciate it if the children weren’t there. I don’t want a big scene.’

So that was it. He wouldn’t be home at 6.01 in the evening any more. And I was to stop being Mrs Banks. I stood for a moment, trying to work out how I felt about that, and then filled the kettle to make a cup of tea.

I sat at his bedside and watched Oscar breathe. Every breath as precious as his first. I could still remember it. Holding him in my arms for the first time. Kneeling in the birthing pool as the midwife passed him to me. Cradling his warm body. Marvelling at his tiny fingers and toes. Grinning at Rob who, unlike with Zach’s birth, was not still in shock at the length of the umbilical cord.

‘He’s perfect,’ Rob said. ‘Absolutely perfect.’ Except of course he hadn’t been. Although we’d had no way of knowing that then. I often tried to recall, after we’d got the diagnosis, whether he hadn’t kicked in my womb as much as Zach had. Whether they’d been anything in those first few months which could have alerted us to the fact that there was something wrong. Because that was the cruellest thing about this disease. The fact that it allowed you to have your perfect baby. To build those dreams for
the future. To be lulled into thinking that you would hold your child’s hand as he took his first tentative steps, like other parents do. And go on to see them walk and skip and run like other children do. And only then, when it had allowed you to relax entirely, safe in the knowledge that your child was ticking off their early milestones, did it reach in and wrench those hopes and dreams from you. Turning some invisible wheel on your child’s back, so that their progress slowed. Slowed to the point of stopping entirely. Regressing even. And you were suddenly confronted with the stark realisation that there would be no first steps. Because your child wasn’t normal after all. It had just taken nine months for you to find out.

Rob put two plastic cups of tea on the bedside table and sat back down next to me. He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said anything much at all in the past four days. I’d tried to talk, to break through the shutters which had come down. But I didn’t want to push too hard because I suspected he had put them down for a reason. Because it was the only way he could get through this.