After Ever After (13 page)

I’d run back into his arms and kissed him while I’d laughed until eventually we’d made our way to his flat.

It was only when we had entered his apartment building that I’d begun to feel nervous.

We’d watched each other silently in the lift, and I’d wondered if, half hoped that, he might kiss me then, but he hadn’t, only kept his eyes on me until the lift bell chimed and the doors slid open. He’d led me down a short hallway, opened his flat door and then stood back to let me enter. For all his chivalry, I instinctively knew that this was how he preferred all of his guests to see his home for the first time: empty of the clutter of people, even him. It was a beautiful home, designed down to the last detail to reflect its exterior modernism, and best of all the far wall seemed to be made up almost entirely of glass which looked on to a broad terrace that looked out over the river.

‘Wow,’ I’d said as I walked in and a succession of spotlights illuminated the room.

‘Oh well, you know,’ he’d said, shrugging, a smile of pride belying his offhand tone. He’d crossed to his open-plan kitchen area and begun to work a large and impressive coffee machine. I’d walked to the glass wall and sighed.

‘You must never get annoyed living in a place like this.’ I’d thought of my own tiny flat, as insipid and as instant as my supermarket own-brand coffee.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. The bird next door insists on sunbathing totally nude. Drives me mad,’ he’d said as he made me coffee. I’d stared at him with open mouth for a beat before I’d realised that he was joking.

‘You’re joking,’ I’d said, shaking my head.

‘Of course I am. It doesn’t annoy me at all.’

I’d laughed and threatened to throw a cushion at him. ‘You’re still joking! You are joking, aren’t you?’

He’d grinned and wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close to his chest, and I’d tipped my chin upwards hoping now for that first kiss. He’d regarded me for a moment and then seemed to let out a held breath before releasing me apologetically.

‘I’m joking.’ He’d gestured to a large empty terrace.

‘Do you want to go outside?’ he’d asked. I’d looked at it, plant free and bare save for a shiny table and chair set. ‘Coffee’ll be five minutes and I can bring it out to you.’

I’d shaken my head, not wanting to spend time out on the terrace for the same reason he hadn’t wanted to go to a café.

‘Nope, I don’t think I do. Do you mind if we stay in here?’ He’d shaken his head and I’d followed him over to a pair of long toffee-coloured suede sofas, positioned at right angles around a large white rug.

‘You must never spill anything,’ I’d said for the sake of something to say. I’d sat down first and hoped that he would sit down next to me, but instead he’d taken the opposite end of the other sofa, leaning right back into it to look at me.

A few moments of silence had passed before he’d said, ‘It’s you, it really is you.’ His voice had been soft with awe, yes, definitely awe. I remember it so well because it was the first time in my life I had ever elicited that response from someone, except when I’d tried to explain the circumstances of my mother’s death, that is, and that’s a different kind of awe altogether, awe mixed with lurid fascination. But then, in Fergus’s eyes it was just awe and maybe even wonderment. I remember feeling as if I might be made of gold.

I couldn’t think of anything to say to him and I’d bowed my head and stirred my coffee.

Several seconds had passed, and I’d felt his gaze on me before I’d found the courage to look up again.

‘Let’s talk,’ he’d said suddenly with cheerful bravado. ‘Tell me, tell me all about you – from birth to present.’

I’d paused, considered giving him the whole truth, and then decided that I’d hold back on that version, at least for a little while. I had the pre-edited first-timer version of my childhood down pat by then. Something about growing up, about my dad and me and art college, and then the secretarial course that was only ever meant to be a stopgap, about Dora and Camille, a holiday I’d once had in New York, the only interesting place I had ever been, and how much I wanted a puppy.

‘What about your mum?’ he’d asked. ‘You don’t mention her much.’

‘Mum died. I was quite young. I … I was quite young,’ I’d said and he’d let it go. And he’d told me about Simon Shaw getting caught with a hard-on at the back of class at school, and how he’d always wanted to work with computers from the first moment he’d set eyes on his Sinclair C-60, about his mum and how much he loved Dublin, and a moon dance he’d once been to in New Zealand. We’d laughed and talked some more and laughed. We were hoarse and still sofas apart when the sun rose. I had been desperate to kiss him.

‘This is like one of those films, like
Truly, Madly, Deeply
, when they talk all night and don’t make love until the next morning.’ I’d felt the blush in my cheeks that my heavy-handed hint had instigated.

‘Yeah, sort of,’ he’d agreed, still watching me. He’d gone to the wall then to turn off the spotlights so that the full impact of the sunrise filled the room. I’d held my breath as he’d returned, but he’d returned to his position on the opposite sofa. He’d looked at his hands for a long time and swallowed.

‘Would you do something for me, Kitty?’ he’d said, voice tight. ‘You might find it a little strange.’ Butterflies had hatched in the pit of my stomach and I’d prepared for the inevitable catch.

‘What?’ I’d asked tremulously.

‘Well, I … there’s nothing I want more than to be over there kissing you, right now, all over. There’s been nothing I’ve wanted more all night, well, except for one thing. Now you’re finally here, I just want to look at you.’

I’d nodded and shrugged my shoulders,

‘And?’

‘Will you let me watch you just a little bit longer?’

I’d opened my mouth to speak, but he’d interrupted. ‘Will you take off your dress?’

My mouth had shut and I’d looked away for a moment into the dawn, enjoying the tremble of excitement that ran from the tips of my ears to my toes. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so instead I’d stood up, reaching behind me to unzip my dress. I’d thanked fate for putting a run in my last pair of tights and forcing me into hold-ups instead that morning, and let the dress fall about my ankles. I’d held my breath and looked at the fabric pooled at my feet for a long moment before lifting my chin. I’d seen Fergus swallow and bitten my lip. He hadn’t seemed to be disappointed.

‘The bra,’ he’d ordered softly, holding my gaze. An imaginary chill had raised gooseflesh on my arms, and with a sense of showmanship that I didn’t know I had I’d turned my back to him before unhooking my bra, sliding it off my shoulders and placing it on the sofa. I’d watched myself for a surreal moment as if I were someone else, half naked in a stranger’s flat, before I’d turned back to him and let my hands fall away to my sides.

Agonising seconds had passed as his eyes travelled the length of my body before he’d sprung out of the sofa and taken me in his arms.

‘I just can’t wait for the rest,’ he’d said, his warm hands running the length of my back and over my bottom before finally he’d kissed me.

Once our lips had met, any of the last barriers there may have been between us were swept away. He’d lifted me into his arms, making me feel as light as a feather, and lain me on the rug, kissing each inch of my face. His hands were in my hair, his mouth on my breasts, and I’d had to struggle to undress him. When at last we were both naked, we’d lain lips to lips, breast to breast, hip to hip, feeling the luxurious length of our bodies against each other.

‘I’m a little nervous,’ I’d whispered, although I’d discovered that I wasn’t just as I’d said it.

‘Don’t be,’ he’d told me, brushing my hair back from my face. ‘I’m nervous enough for us both.’ He’d smiled at me then, the smile of a stranger, yes, but one that was instantly full of love – love which I was certain I could reciprocate. I’d closed my eyes as he’d kissed me and I’d let myself slip into what I was sure was the first moment of the rest of my life.

And I was right, wasn’t I?

I stop abruptly outside the doors of the town hall, waiting for the heat of the memory to cool on my cheeks. Another mother bustles past me with a cheery smile.

‘Coming in?’ she enquires pleasantly.

‘In a minute,’ I say, kicking myself for my own stupidity. Come on, Kitty Kelly! If you can give birth you can deal with a bunch of mothers and babies, for God’s sake. They’re not some power-mad totalitarian regime that’s going to brainwash you into comparing soap powder.

‘Come on, Ella,’ I say with determination, and Ella sticks out her legs and waggles them in encouragement. ‘We’re going in.’

‘Well, I don’t care what you say, I’m sticking to Persil – that own-brand brought Lucas up all over, non-biological or not non-biological. Sugar, Katherine?’ Claudia holds out a mug to me. ‘What do you use?’

It has basically been ‘the horror, the horror’ since I walked in through the door. I was immediately swept upon and divested of my coat, Ella’s personal details and the circumstances of her birth (Oh no, you pooooor thing. Don’t even
talk
to me about stitches) within about five minutes. But Ella’s eyes lit up at the sight of a tub full of plastic balls to roll about in and displayed social skills far superior to mine by lunging into them with wholehearted delight and biting another baby’s bottom in a companionable sort of way. I blink at Claudia.

‘Um, call me Kitty. I use …’ I desperately try to picture the words on the side of the packet under the sink, but fail … ‘Persil too. Definitely the best.’

Claudia nods at me sagely and I look around the rest of the group, all about my age, I suppose, hovering around the thirty mark. There is Susan Dunne, who was evidently blonde before the birth of her first child but now eight months on is black with a blonde trim; Kelly Grant, who must have been thin all her life until now and is still in denial about her maternity weight gain, judging by the straining zip on her jeans and the perilously tight buttons on her blouse – still thinner than me, mind you; Angela Harding, clearly a disciple of The Book – she’s been fussing about getting her baby home for her forty-five minute nap at three-fifteen precisely since she walked in; and Clare Brown, a pretty girl, a bit younger than the rest of us, pleasantly plump with golden hair and green eyes. The group’s only single mother.

‘It happened on holiday.’ She is telling me her birth story. ‘One minute I was thinking that my back ached a lot and the next minute I’d had a baby!’

I stare at her, my mouth wide open.

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ I ask, aghast, all soap powder perils forgotten.

‘No! She didn’t!’ the whole group choruses like a Greek theatre group. They obviously like this story. Clare settles cheerfully into a bean bag, tipping her son up by his heels and shaking him until he’s hysterical and as red as a beetroot.

‘No idea,’ she tells me, eyes glowing with a perverse kind of pride. ‘I mean, I’ve always been, you know, “roomy” and all, and I kept on getting periods …’

‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s so unfair!’ I tell everyone else.

‘I know!’ Claudia chips in, her middle-class eyes round with the ‘Take a Break’ of it all.

‘So then I’m in the hospital in Florida and this nurse goes to me,’ Clare adopts a perfect accent, ‘“Honey, be prepared for a shock.” I thought “fuck it, it’s cancer or something”, and she goes, “You’re going to be a mommy.” I nearly died. Ten hours later this little chap arrived and it’s been bedlam ever since.’ Her son, Ted, climbs up her legs and bites her thigh.

‘Oh, you bugger,’ she says with a smile, and Claudia and Susan exchange a raised eyebrow. I warm to Clare. I don’t quite know how to put it, but she’s like me. She’s, well, she’s council.

‘What about the dad?’ I say, clearly broaching a subject which the other members have chosen never to bring up. They all lean forward slightly, utterly failing to feign disinterest.

‘Bastard denied Ted was his.’ She contemplates her gorgeously blond baby. ‘I tell you, if you put them side by side it’s like peas in a pod. Went to court, did the whole paternity test thing, proved it was his and he is supposed to pay me a measly twenty-five quid a week. Never seen a penny of it. Wanker.’

She picks up Ted and hugs him. ‘We don’t need his money, do we, sweetheart,’ she says with determination. ‘I’m training to be a childminder, so once I’m registered we’ll be all right.’

‘Well, good for you,’ I say warmly. Ella fixes her gaze on me and lunges in my general direction but the more she scrabbles on the floor the further away she gets.

‘She can’t go forward,’ I say anxiously to Clare. ‘Is she normal?’

Clare laughs.

‘This one couldn’t go forward for a month, in fact he went sideways. Did his head in, it did. The more he wanted something the further away from it he got, it was hilarious!’

I relax as I laugh along with her and wonder if I should go and scoop Ella up or let her get on with it.

Claudia hands me a shortbread biscuit. She’s had two kids now and has appointed herself the group oracle.

‘There
are
more of us, Katherine. But not everyone comes every week.’ She says this like it should be a hanging offence. ‘We all take turns in bringing biscuits and cakes,
some
of us bake, some of us …’ she looks at the Tesco’s own-brand packet of biscuits … ‘don’t. Now, as you’re new, we’ll give you a couple of weeks before it’s your turn, okay?’

I smile at her through clenched teeth.

‘Okay,’ I say. My stomach tightens and my phobia about baking and home-making in general kicks in. I wonder just how bad it would look if I grabbed Ella and made a bolt for the door. Okay, so I’d lose the buggy and we’d have to leave town, but it might be worth it. I take a deep breath and watch Ella, who is lying on her back, arms akimbo, laughing her head off at the ceiling. I look at the ceiling but its comedy value eludes me.

‘Calista! Get out of there at once!’

As Claudia retreats to marshal her daughter out of the waste bin, Clare rolls her eyes and raises an eyebrow in Claudia’s direction. ‘She reckons she’s Miriam Stoppard and Delia Smith all rolled into one, that one. I bought the biscuits this week. I’m the only one here whose hubby isn’t on £70K plus a year and can’t be arsed to arse about with
dough
.’