The Stepmother (34 page)

“A stupid one-night stand?” asked Tessa, as gently as she could.

“I wish,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Tessa's body language took a dramatic turn. She reared back in her chair. “Christ, Bea, you weren't”—she swallowed—“raped?”

“No. Though I wish I'd thought of that. He might have been able to forgive me then.”

“Who?”

“Jimmy.”

“Forgive you for what?”

“Killing his unborn son.”

Tessa's eyes widened.

There. I'd said it. “The baby was his. Of course it was. I've never been with anyone else.” I paused. “Ever.”

“I don't understand,” she said. “James told me—”

“He wouldn't listen to me. He does that when you're trying to tell him something he doesn't want to hear.” She nodded. “It was easier for him to think I had slept with someone and got rid of it than to accept the truth. He didn't believe I could have done what I did. He insisted I was covering up some infidelity, so in the end it was easier to tell him what he wanted to hear. And keep the truth to myself.”

Tessa waited. Her lower lip hovered expectantly. The truth was what she was after. The bloody truth.

“If this made sense to me, I would tell you how it happened. But it doesn't. So bear with me. I haven't talked about this for a long time.” I stared into my empty mug. “What am I saying? I've never talked about it…”

 

I
WAS PREGNANT WITH
M
ADDY
within weeks of Lulu being born. We were so happy that Lulu had made it, after all the ones we'd lost, and the birth was nothing like the carnage it had been with Amber. Our love knew no bounds. Leaking breasts, floppy stomach, filthy hair, the last remnants of afterbirth staining my pants, all of this was nothing
to my husband. He loved me; it didn't matter what sort of dilapidated state I was in, and he was going to show it.

It wasn't the best sex we'd ever had, but in a strange way it meant the most. My periods never returned, but, then, I wasn't expecting them to. I was breast-feeding. I wasn't supposed to get pregnant. That particular old wives' tale is a load of shit. I was too exhausted to be tired. Too fat to put on weight. Too in love to care. Piles, varicose veins, and a hernia swiftly followed. I had trembles of panic about the state I was getting into, but everyone reassured me. You're having a third baby. Don't worry. What do you expect?

Amber started big school, Lulu learned to crawl, and I ate to survive the days and nights. The pounds piled on. By the twelfth week of my pregnancy, I had already put twenty-eight pounds on top of the weight I'd never lost after Lulu was born. Despite his initial claims of triumph, Jimmy faded from view. I was bloated, uncomfortable, and overweight, and I literally shuffled through the last trimester. I begged to be induced at thirty-eight weeks, but the doctors wouldn't do it. The only complication at Maddy's birth was the look of disappointment on Jimmy's face when they announced she was a girl. He'd denied it, but I'd seen it. When he was at home, his attention belonged to Amber. She demanded it, and since I wasn't prepared to stamp my feet and scream, she won. Lulu wasn't even walking when Maddy was born, and the long, broken nights started before they'd ever finished. But it wasn't so much Maddy keeping me up as Amber.

Adjusting to big school took longer than I had bargained for. Her nights were fretful, anxious, and dream-filled. She was now six, but Jimmy let her into our bed when I had fallen asleep feeding in Maddy's room. When I was in bed and she appeared, I took her back to her own. She would scream for Daddy, but Daddy was away more and more often, a whipping boy to some devilish talent agent. In the middle of the night, Amber hated me and I hated her right back. She didn't think much of her new sisters, either, and sometimes I had to agree with her. Maddy made barely a sound, but she was a sucky baby and needed a lot of food. I didn't get more than a couple of hours' sleep at a time for about a year. Maddy was feeding, Lulu was teething, and Amber, it felt,
enjoyed kicking me when I was down. Why is any of this important? Because when I look back, I realize that I was planting the seeds of madness that lay dormant until mother hormones woke them up again with a fourth pregnancy.

Maddy was one when I realized I wasn't returning to form. I'd gone back to my old self after Amber, but I hadn't had a chance to get into shape after Lulu. When Maddy arrived, I was sixty pounds over my normal weight. My clothes didn't fit, and everywhere I looked mothers were skipping around in tight jeans and short skirts with babies in slings. I was a frump.

I did everything. The cabbage diet, the grape diet, the grapefruit diet, the Atkins diet, the other one that isn't Atkins, with a long name, that cost a fortune. I managed for a few days, four, five at the most, then something would happen. Amber had a tantrum, Maddy was sick, or Lulu was back in urgent care with another hard-to-explain bump. And Jimmy would have to go away again, just when we were beginning to find each other, and I would reach for food. I didn't realize it was comfort eating, because I always had an excuse. Children's leftovers were my downfall. And so began a long year of yo-yoing.

As a last resort, I joined Weight Watchers secretly. Maddy started nursery, and I had time to go to the gym. I cannot tell you what it took to shift that weight, but finally I was on to something permanent. I felt a flicker of recognition when I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn't just the weight; it was me. I was on my way back. I had always liked myself. It was good to see myself again.

Jimmy said he'd have a vasectomy. Then he bailed out. I was furious. After everything I'd been through, the miscarriages, the endless pregnancies, single parenthood in every way but on paper, he wouldn't do that one simple thing for me. To me, it crystallized everything that was wrong with our relationship. I'd done everything to provide him with his precious family, while he did as he liked. I longed for him to come home, but when he was there, it was more fraught than ever. Everyone wanted him. The time he spent with the little ones was cursory, which made them uncharacteristically fractious. He would look at me and ask, “What's wrong with them?” It would have hurt me less if I'd caught him banging our next-door neighbor on the kitchen table. As usual,
Amber got his best, but even that wasn't a patch on what she was used to, so she took it out on me. I got the dog ends from him, and he got nothing in return from me.

I didn't notice I'd skipped a period, because life was hectic and time was flying by. Then I started to feel ill. I thought I had the flu and took DayQuil to survive. Finally, I worked out why the medicine wasn't working. I was horrified; it took me another three weeks to pluck up courage to do the test. Every time I went to the loo, I checked my pants, waiting for the miscarriage, but, of course, Murphy's Law, now that I wouldn't have minded Mother Nature taking her curious course, she left me be. Jimmy was away more than ever—Cannes TV festival, Edinburgh festival—having a terrible time, poor thing. I felt sicker than I ever had and cried every day. I told no one. Not even Jimmy. The solution, when it came to me, seemed perfect. We couldn't afford a fourth child, anyway. As it was, my mother was paying for the first three. She still is. One weekend I told Honor and Peter my mother was going into a hospital, left the kids with them, checked into Meadowlands, and had it taken out.

 

I
STARED AT THE GRAIN
of the wooden table. I had to stop talking to control my breathing. I might have sounded matter-of-fact as I continued my monologue to a silent, wide-eyed Tessa, but my heart was pounding. These were feelings I'd never put into cogent thoughts, and thoughts I'd never put into words. “I thought I was doing the best thing,” I said eventually. “It turned out to be the worst. As soon as the pregnancy hormones leached out of my system, I woke up to what I had done. And then that letter arrived. In my state, I'd checked a box about being informed, donating the fetus to medical research, I don't know, I still can't remember doing it. I had killed our perfect, healthy son. I was eighteen weeks pregnant. I had no idea I was as far along as that. Trouble was, you couldn't tell bump from bulge since my weight had fluctuated. A hole opened up…”

I'd thought that another child would kill me. But not having one was a slow death by guilt and self-loathing. The soul of that child sat heavily on my shoulders and accompanied me wherever I went. The eating that I had finally brought under control spiraled rapidly out of
control again. Within six months, I had put on what had taken two and a half years to lose. I know now I should have tried harder, but at the time, the words had lodged in my throat, creating a dam, and though I could hear my own silent screech, like a hideous tinnitus, Jimmy heard nothing. The loneliness ate me up, but I wouldn't let Jimmy touch me. I repulsed myself and hated him. How could I make love to him knowing what I knew? How could I make love to him and risk another child? I wouldn't have had another abortion, ever, ever, ever, but how could I explain that to the ghost of the child I had killed? Jimmy was adamant. He didn't want a vasectomy, and in the end, it wasn't necessary. We had stopped touching each other, and slowly our marriage turned to dust.

“When Jimmy confessed he'd seen the letter, it was easy to let him believe the baby was the product of a foolish, drunken one-night stand.”

“And he believed you?” asked Tessa incredulously.

“It was easier for him to think I'd slept with someone else than aborted an eighteen-week-old fetus for no reason.”

“But you're not the type to have an affair,” she said. “You're devoted to your family.”

“Anyone is the type, Tessa. In the right circumstances.”

“Didn't he want to know who, when, where?”

“No. Jimmy's not like that.”

I watched Tessa struggle with the implausibility of my story. How could I have let my husband believe I'd slept with another man, when I could have told him the truth? Because the truth was not acceptable for the modern woman. I couldn't cope. I had failed. At the time, I wasn't able to admit that to myself. So I left.

I put my head into my hands. I was exhausted.

It was Tessa who broke the silence. “Why did you keep the letter?”

Interesting question. “I don't know.”

“Did you want to be caught?”

“Maybe. If Jimmy punished me, maybe I wouldn't have to go on punishing myself.”

“
Punish.
Listen to yourself. You didn't need to be punished. What you went through was horrific.” Tessa reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. I don't know what I was expecting—the su
perior smile of the victor, a disapproving snarl, a blank, unforgiving stare? Instead, she squeezed my hand. “It's not your fault.”

We looked at each other, her hand on mine. The clock went on ticking. I couldn't speak.

“James has to take some responsibility.”

I pulled my hand away. “James…I don't think I'll ever get used to that.”

Tessa didn't say anything.

“He doesn't know. Tessa, imagine what it would do to him. Do you have any idea how often the abortion debate comes up? Premature babies surviving younger and younger. Some only days older than—” my voice faltered. “No, he'd hate me.”

“He could never hate you, Bea.”

“I killed his son.”

“Because he'd deserted you, left you alone with three kids. No wonder you couldn't cope.”

“Why couldn't I cope? It's pathetic.”

“Because it's fucking tough.”

“Whose side are you on?” I asked.

She paused. “I don't know. Your children's, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

She looked as if my answer had amazed her. It had certainly amazed me. “And that's why I'm going to say something now that I don't think you want to hear.”

I braced myself.

“Bea, you
have
to stop drinking. And I mean completely.”

“Oh, God…” I moaned. “I don't want to go back to eating again.”

“But alcohol is such a depressant, not to say personality-altering.”

“So is being fat.”

“Get help, then. I know it's easy for me to say stop. I can have one drink and go to bed. I can also get pissed and have a laugh, then not drink for a few days. I can open a packet of Minstrels, have four, and leave the rest. I don't have that addictive thing. God knows, I have others—”

“I thought you were perfect.” I smiled at her.

“I thought
you
were,” she replied. “The impossible act to follow.”

“I wouldn't try to do that.”

“There's always smack,” she said.

“Leave that for the grand finale. I suggest prescription drugs to start with.”

“Good thinking,” laughed Tessa. “I tell you, there have been moments in the last few weeks when we've had the girls where I've longed to get my hands on some Valium.”

“So you're not perfect.”

“No. Deeply flawed. Like everyone.”

“You look perfect.”

“Bea, no one thinks they look perfect. I've got a huge nose.”

“Actually, I'd noticed that.”

“Thanks!”

Weird. Here I was, giggling with the woman I assumed I'd hate. But why would I hate her? Unless Jimmy had had a major personality alteration, he was not the silly, vain, bimbo type. I wasn't like that. And he'd loved me.

“Seriously,” I asked, “what are your flaws?”

Tessa thought about this. “I cling to people and make their lives my own.”

“I guess I'd have to agree with that, since you're about to marry my husband and live with my children.”

The mood changed suddenly. It was my fault. But that's honesty for you. It isn't always hard to swallow, but she'd been dishing it out for a wee while now.