The Queen's Margarine (18 page)

Carl had other ideas, in any case. ‘On second thoughts, we'll have a bottle – to drink in bed in Paris.'

Had he reckoned with the queue, she wondered? Yet, already, he had almost reached the front of it, not shoving in a discourteous way, but relying on his natural air of authority, which made people grant him precedence, as if it belonged to him of right. She tried to follow, with the lilies, which were in danger of getting squashed; their heady, honeyed scent mingling with his
Eau Sauvage
, and with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, also being served. However exquisite the bouquet might be, it was an utterly impracticable gift to lug around like this, and the delicate flowers were bound to wilt before the train reached Paris. But perhaps they were symbolical of the whole relationship – exotic and luxurious, yet fragile and short-lived.

At last, she was close enough to see into the large, glass-fronted cabinet holding the champagne, some of the bottles so huge in height and girth they seemed vulgar, like the statue. While she waited, she quickly scanned the wine list, amazed to see a Laurent-Perrier costing £900 a bottle, and a Krug Collection 1949 priced at almost £3000. She could
live
a whole three months on £3000.

Within minutes, Carl was handing over his American Express card, emerging with a bottle in his hands, although there wasn't time to ask him what it cost.

‘Shit!' he said, ushering her in front of him. ‘It's already five after twelve. We're going to have to run for it.'

They dashed full-pelt down the stairs, despite the fact that they were both impeded now; he by the bottle, she by the bouquet. Again, she cursed her shoes, but Carl adored high heels and she had bought them in his honour.

Once they reached the lower floor again, she panted in his
wake, passing shops, stalls, more cameramen, even a man in a bear-suit collecting money for charity. If New York had been High Speed 1, then this was High Speed 2. Already she was out of breath; her bag banging against her side; her ponytail thumping wildly up and down, as if spurring her on in this mad dash against the clock.

‘Passport!' he demanded, as they swooped towards the check-in, already worryingly late and confronted by a surly-looking man behind the desk. But Carl could charm a boa-constrictor and, after a few smiles and wiles on his part, they were waved through with no objections.

The next few minutes flashed by in a blur, as they were frisked, scanned, x-rayed, questioned, checked by UK Immigration, then re-checked by the French police; every official remarking (as she had done herself) that they were cutting things extremely fine – the train was already boarding.

They dashed across the Departures Hall, making for platform 5, where they were whisked by travelator back to the upper floor, to be greeted by the sight of the stupendous vaulted roof. Again, it seemed to lift her mood, as if she herself were part of that exalted arch, leaping upwards with the soaring structure until she hit the sky. Carl had to jog her arm, to return her to reality, bring her back to earth.

The escalator deposited them right on to the platform, where the sleek, streamlined, yellow-snouted train was all but ready to depart. A dapper little Frenchman in a grey and yellow uniform ushered them to their seats and, once she'd removed the offending coat, she collapsed back in relief. It was too late now for doubts or second thoughts. Besides, some euphoric part of her was still floating a hundred feet high; no longer even caring if this was folly or good sense. Her own safe and tepid existence back home was surely not so crucial that she couldn't take a chance, for once; run a crazy risk. Admittedly, euphoria could be perilous, but – what the hell – she had to
live
a little, even if she paid for it with heartache and regret.

At 12.30 precisely, the train glided out of the station, watched by a huddle of people, some of whom waved and yelled ‘goodbye!' She waved back until they'd dwindled to mere specks, experiencing
a childish glee at her five minutes of fame. Then a voice with a charming French accent announced, ‘Welcome aboard this first commercial service on Eurostar to depart from the new St Pancras. We would like to thank you for joining us on this historic occasion.'

‘Didn't I tell you?' Carl said, with a smile, stowing the lilies and champagne in the overhead luggage-rack.

Soon more champagne was in evidence as a young woman with a drinks trolley opened a bottle of Bollinger and poured it into two glasses. Pausing a moment to let the first fizz subside, she refilled both the flutes, then presented them on a little silver tray. Rowena took hers eagerly, elated to be travelling in such style and with so distinguished a companion.

Carl touched his glass to hers. ‘To my darling, unforgettable Rowena.'

Then, putting down the glass, he traced a slow and lingering circle in the centre of her palm. The gesture seemed deliciously erotic; a promise of what was to come – tonight. Though how could she wait that long? She wanted him this instant. That pressure on her palm was stirring reverberations that affected her whole body, made her dazed and dizzy, as if she were already drunk, on champagne.

‘To
us
,' she said, slipping the tip of her finger into his mouth, and feeling his teeth close dangerously around it, graze slowly up and down, and …

At that very moment, the sun broke through the clouds outside. Dazzled by the light now streaming through the window, she stared out at the sky, which had changed from lowering-grey to lenient blue. The trees were burnished gold and bronze and glinting in the sun. And the tiny bubbles frisking up from the bottom of her glass made the champagne seem alive – in fact, as tingly and exhilarated as she felt herself, inside. What had happened to this morning's murk and gloom – or, indeed, to her own irritable misgivings? The rain-clouds were still there, in fact, churning beneath the white, fluffy bank of cumulus, acting as a warning that this fine spell wouldn't last. Just as the bubbles would go flat, evaporate to nothing; the lush lilies fade and droop.

But she no longer even cared. There would be
more
champagne,
more lilies, more seductive summer skies, however brief and fleeting. And, right now, she intended to enjoy the sun and sparkle just as long as they might last.

‘Mike and I have some really exciting news.' Alison spoke with smug complacency, accompanied by a radiant smile.

‘Really?' Jane asked, already aware of what was coming. Alison's previous six pregnancies had been heralded by that same
self-satisfaction
. ‘And what's that?'

‘We're expecting another baby.'

‘Congratulations!' Jane trotted out on cue. The resources of the planet were already stretched to breaking point. Was it socially responsible to procreate on such a scale?

Alison paused to sugar her tea, appearing now a shade embarrassed. ‘And, actually, it's … twins.'

Jane froze. The very word was perilous; never failed to rouse a flood of emotions: shame, horror, guilt, disgust.

‘We're thrilled, of course, but I must admit it
was
a tremendous shock. I mean, to be pregnant at all, at my age!'

Yes, Jane thought, determined to keep her mind off twins,
forty-six
was more the time for menopause than pregnancy.
She
, thank God, had avoided both, so far, although hot flushes and night sweats couldn't be far off, since she and Alison shared exactly the same birthday – same day, same month, same year – a coincidence that had bonded them at school. As adults, though, they had grown further and further apart, and, once Alison started breeding, it had proved more or less impossible to maintain a meaningful friendship, especially when the kids were younger. Indeed, she had barely been able to finish a sentence without some baby bawling, or toddler wanting its bottom wiped, or bursting into tears over some broken toy (or promise). And she had watched the house itself gradually taken over, changing from an attractive adult realm into a rumpus-room-cum-nursery:
pram in the hall, high-chair in the dining-room, cot and bunk-beds upstairs, potties in the bathroom, toys littered on the floor. And, even now, when three of the six were teenagers, things had not improved: raucous music blaring from their rooms, adolescent tantrums, wrangles over homework, football boots and skateboards dumped anywhere and everywhere. Miraculously, this was the first time in a decade she had found all the offspring out. The two eldest had gone roller-blading, and Mike had carted the rest off to the park – deliberately, she suspected, since she had never made a secret of her own lack of maternal instincts.

Yet, even without the children's actual presence, there was no danger of forgetting them, since they had left their imprint on the fabric of the house: paintwork scuffed, carpets stained, walls scribbled on and marked, even strips torn off the wallpaper in places. And, with Alison now starting again from scratch, the assault was unlikely to stop. The thought of just the washing made her reel. The machine was always churning away, full of dirty clothes times eight – soon to be dirty clothes times ten, along with a double load of nappies.

Alison gestured to the home-made cake, which shared the kitchen table with colouring books and crayons. ‘Help yourself to another piece.'

‘Thanks, I will. It's good. But
you
haven't eaten anything.'

‘To be honest, it's hard to keep food down. I don't know why they call it “morning” sickness. Mine seems to last all day.'

Jane suppressed a shudder, hoping she'd be spared the details. As a result of her various pregnancies, Alison had suffered swollen ankles, violent indigestion, haemorrhoids, mastitis, varicose veins and even pre-eclampsia. Not to mention the labour itself: humiliating, undignified, and excruciatingly painful, according to all accounts.

Alison leaned forward and gave her arm a sympathetic pat. ‘Actually, I do feel rather awkward bringing up the subject of twins, when—'

‘It's OK,' she interrupted. ‘Not a problem.'

‘And I can't help worrying that once they're born, they may bring back sad memories.'

‘Look,' Jane said, a shade impatiently. ‘All that was years and years ago.'

‘Yes, you were only seven, weren't you?'

‘Nine.'

Alison shook her head in deep regret. ‘It must have been quite tragic.'

‘For my mother, yes.'

‘But for you, the elder sister – what a dreadful loss!'

Jane stabbed at her cake with her fork.
Gain
for her, not loss. Although, of course, she had never explained to anyone – never would, never could – the sense of sheer relief she had felt to be an only child once more; no longer forced to share her parents with two disruptive intruders, or watch those tiny tyrants drain her mother's energy, her father's time and money.

‘I know you don't like talking about it, but it might actually help to get it off your chest, Jane.'

Absolutely not. Inconceivable to admit to an earth-mother, of all people, that, as a child, she'd been
glad
those babies died. It was a cause of the deepest shame; a shame so acute at times, she felt debarred from the whole human race.

‘I've never liked to bring it up before, not all the years we've known each other.' Alison sounded nervous, although not nervous enough, unfortunately, to drop this dangerous subject. ‘But, you see, once I knew I was expecting twins myself, I've been thinking about
your
twins.'

‘They weren't mine,' Jane retorted, refusing to be associated with the unwelcome interlopers who had overshadowed a whole two years of her childhood –
and
the nine months before, when her mother's undivided attention switched from her, the existing daughter, to those unborn aliens.

‘Your sisters, though.'

‘Not really.' From the moment they arrived, premature and sickly, the entire household had revolved around them, and
she
had been pushed out; made to feel she didn't count. A high price to pay for sisters.

‘But don't you think,' Alison persisted, ‘it might have made you wary of having children of your own?'

She faked a casual laugh. ‘Good gracious, no! I'm just too selfish, that's all.'

‘Of course you're not selfish. You've always been a marvellous friend – and so generous to
my
children.'

Jane refrained from answering. Shelling out on presents hardly counted. A form of recompense. Doing good to atone for evil.

‘In fact, if anyone's selfish, it's me,' Alison remarked earnestly, ‘propagating my own genes.'

Despite her inner turmoil, Jane tried to lighten the mood. ‘But it's a religious thing for you, Alison. Remember what Sister Ignatius used to tell us? Once we left school, our duty as good Catholic women was to produce more souls for God.'

Alison had the grace to laugh. ‘Well, I've certainly done that!'

‘Do you really still believe?' Jane asked, keen to shift attention from herself.

‘Yes, actually I do. Not in all the inessentials, but as far as God and Christ and the Church are concerned, I can't see any better way of living.'

Jane continued hacking at her cake, irked by the fact that she and Alison had nothing left in common. At school, they had shared a simple childish piety, a love of horses, an interest in athletics, but nowadays they were miles apart in their beliefs, ideals and whole way of life. So why did she still bother calling round, wasting precious Saturdays with someone who upheld irrational concepts like virgin births and three persons in one God? She already knew the answer: it was for their mothers' sake. Those mothers had been close friends since early childhood and, both widowed now, had moved to the same sheltered housing complex. And each asked her daughter regularly, ‘How's Alison?' ‘How's Jane?'

‘Well, Mum will be pleased,' she said lamely, finally reducing the cake to a mass of sticky crumbs.

‘She's delighted.
My
mum told her yesterday and apparently, she's already knitting bootees!'

The silence was uncomfortable. Jane guessed they were both thinking the same thing: had the twins survived, her mother might have been knitting bootees for
their
babies, instead of Alison's. ‘I suspect she's never quite forgiven me for pursuing a career and depriving her of grandchildren.'

‘You could have had both, you know. Look at Caroline – mother of three, and a C.E.O. already!'

Caroline. Another dutiful alumna of St Joseph's Convent School for Girls. ‘Yes, and she spends her whole time trying to juggle home
and job, and risking a heart attack in the process. I saw her a couple of months ago and she looked absolutely whacked. She was fretting about some survey or other that said working mothers spent only nineteen minutes a day with their kids. And you should have heard her, laying into herself, because she reckoned
she
spent even less. I've told you, Alison, I'm too selfish for all that
breast-beating
.' People found the concept of selfishness easier to accept – and it was certainly more tactful as far as Alison was concerned. How could she admit to a mother of six –
eight
– that the very thought of pregnancy filled her with revulsion? Once pregnant, you lost all vestige of control; your body swelling inexorably as some alien life-form took up residence inside it; snaffled your food, leeched away your vitamins, prevented you from sleeping, kicked you in the ribs, and finally split you apart in its struggle to get out. She had seen it as a child; watched, appalled, while her mother's slender figure expanded and ballooned, and the once-energetic woman, who used to race her to the shops and take her swimming, skating and cycling, disappeared completely, transformed into a beached and breathless invalid.

‘I suspect you're in denial, Jane, my love. It's a basic instinct for women to want children.'

‘One that's dying out,' Jane snapped, angered by this extended conversation. ‘More and more women, these days, make a careful, considered decision to stay childless.' Her own decision had been arrived at rather earlier – somewhere between the age of nine and ten. ‘Yet it's still regarded as shameful, like admitting being gay was, twenty years ago, or Americans letting slip that they never go to church. Sometimes, when people ask me – and they still do,' she said pointedly, with a resentful glance at Alison, ‘I'm tempted just to lie and pretend I wasn't
able
to conceive. I'd get sympathy then, not blame.' She sprang to her feet, strode over to the sink, and banged her cup and plate down on the draining-board. ‘Anyway, I'd better go – I need to do some errands.'

‘I'm sorry, Jane, I've upset you.'

‘Not at all,' she muttered, although vowing to herself to avoid all future visits. In nine months' time, those twins would be a living, breathing reality, stirring memories she was too terrified to face. Yet how could she end a friendship that had lasted forty years, or
– worse – explain the breach to her mother? Alison was the daughter her mother would have liked to have had herself.

‘Don't get up. I'll see myself out.'

‘I wouldn't hear of it!' Alison gave her a hug – one of genuine affection. That was part of the trouble. Her friend's natural, inbuilt decency made her own vile nature seem all the more despicable. Would Alison continue to hug her if she could see into her mind?

Parcelling up the remainder of the cake, Alison insisted she took it home with her, then lumbered out to open the front door. ‘Oh, look!' she said, ‘here's Mike back, with the gang. You'll just have to stay a bit longer now, and say hello to them all.'

Jane let herself in to her smart, uncluttered flat with an overwhelming sense of relief. No destructive children had ever wreaked their havoc
here
. Her white walls were still immaculate, the cream carpeting unscathed, and there was not the smallest chip or crack in her elegant bone china. Her home was an oasis in comparison with Alison's, and, indeed, such perfection was essential for her basic peace of mind. To have a neat and tidy flat seemed as crucial a requirement as untainted food or unpolluted air. Every surface must be clean and clear, and no shred of flotsam and jetsam allowed to foul the tide of her ordered adult life.

Having put away the cake, she hung her jacket in the cupboard and stowed her bag on the shelf. Glancing in the mirror, she couldn't help but contrast her face and figure with Alison's. The six pregnancies had taken their toll; left her friend with saggy breasts and a flabby, protruding stomach. And the strain of bringing up six kids had etched deep frown-lines into her forehead, whereas
she
, thank God and Botox, was completely free of wrinkles. In six months' time, Alison would be vast, if her last pregnancy was anything to go by. That baby had been a ten-pounder, and, of course, twins would be still worse.

Suddenly, a plan hatched in her mind: why not ensure she was out of the country when the twins were due in September? It would be the perfect time for a holiday abroad: the resorts less crowded, the heat less intense, and the risk of encountering families with children considerably reduced. One of the perks of childlessness was freedom: freedom to go away whenever one
chose; not restricted to school holidays or child-friendly destinations. And, even more important, the freedom of travelling light. Holidays for Alison involved tons of paraphernalia, and, with two babies on the way, it would be back to carrycots and pushchairs, baby-baths and booster-seats, feeding-bottles, sterilizers and piles of disposable nappies. Not to mention all the older children's clobber: roller-blades and scooters, cricket bats and swimming gear, stacks of toys and games, clothes and shoes and picnic stuff and a veritable first-aid chest – wagonloads' of baggage that had to be transported, along with the actual tribe.

The thought of her own vacation, with one small, streamlined suitcase, was definitely appealing, especially as she hadn't been abroad since the autumn before last. In fact, she could probably take a good four weeks, since she was owed the leave left over from last year. She would need to time it carefully, of course, to ensure she was at least 2000 miles away the first weeks after the birth, when Alison would be bloated still, her colossal breasts leaking milk and padlocked to a crumpled, red-faced monster; a bawling, burping bundle of appetite and need.