Babyville (23 page)

“What are you doing?” he asked. “I'm jealous,” he said, after she had told him. “I wish I was there too but I have to take care of some unfinished business.”

“Are you going to tell me what this unfinished business is?” she teased.

“Yes. I've been seeing someone. And now I'm not going to see her anymore. But I don't think it's fair to tell her over the phone, so I'm going to have dinner with her tonight so I can tell her.”

“Okay,” Sam said happily, not once doubting him, and not wanting to know anything more about this mysterious girl. She didn't matter, not now.

At eleven-fifteen Chris called again. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing?” she laughed. “I'm still lying in bed.”

“Sounds wonderful,” he said again. “I'll be over in fifteen minutes.”

He was. And he never left.

Sex was always amazing between them. Sam felt completely sated when she was with Chris, even after six years. It was an extraordinary physical union that they clung to, no matter what else had happened during their day. It never felt dull, or became a routine. The sensations were always as strong as they had been, even now, and it had become their way of ending the day.

Even if they argued, they still came together before going to sleep. Now, post-George, the very thought of sex was exhausting, which was perhaps one of the reasons things hadn't been going so well. Sex was never just sex for Sam and Chris: It was about closeness; intimacy; trust; and neither had felt quite the same since their sex life took a downturn.

Sam felt increasingly estranged from Chris. She thought he had no concept of what her life was like, how trapped she thought herself to be, how difficult it was to retain the Sam of old when she was knee-deep in diapers. Chris felt much the same thing, for different reasons. Each time one of them made a false move, the grudges deepened, and for the first time in their married life, they weren't rediscovering their love for one another at the end of the day.

Sam still looked at his body appreciatively, as he wandered round the bedroom with nothing on late at night, but it was usually through eyes half closed with sleep as she sank under the duvet and mumbled a goodnight.

She could appreciate his body, his physical presence, just as long as it didn't encroach upon hers. Not now, not when all she dreamed of was a decent, uninterrupted night's sleep. Not even when she was craving closeness with another adult, fighting off the urge to merge with total strangers in the street. Not even that was enough to restore her sunken libido.

Sam
shakes her head sadly and brings herself back into the present. Back into this living room, with its chocolate-brown velvet sofas and animal-print cushions, against which five women are lolling while their babies lie quietly on assorted play mats on the floor.

“God, I can't wait to get back to work,” Natalie says. “Isn't that ridiculous? I couldn't wait to leave to have a baby, and now I'm desperate to get my head around something other than HiPP organic bloody food jars.”

“Tell me about it,” Penny laughs. “So are you going back?”

Natalie shrugs. “I've got six months' maternity leave.”

“Six months!” A chorus of disbelief strikes up around the room.

“Not all of it paid,” she laughs. “But two weeks, and I'm back. You know, I really thought I'd be fantastic at this. I've waited to be a mother all my bloody life, and the truth is I wasn't planning on going back at all, but I feel like my brain has stopped. God, I adore Olivia, wouldn't change her for the world, but I can't do this full-time mother bit. I'm just not cut out for it. Penny, I think you're completely fantastic but I couldn't do what you do.”

“You mean stay at home and look after Lizzy? Natalie, I couldn't do what you do either. It's not that I don't miss work. I really do, but I've found it easier to give it up because my mother was never around when I was growing up, and I don't want Lizzy to have the same thing. I totally understand women needing to feel recognized as an individual rather than as a mother, but I've had that individual recognition, and now I'm choosing to be recognized as a mother. It's enough. I was always scared that it wouldn't be, but it is.”

Sam looks at Penny admiringly. Penny has just said exactly what she feels. Or perhaps, exactly what she wants to feel, because although she too wants to provide for George what was missing in her own childhood, she now suspects she needs the recognition too. But she's hoping that will go away.

“I have to admit, I feel guilty as hell that it isn't enough,” Natalie says, before laughing. “But not so guilty that I could stay at home with her all day. I mean, she's gorgeous, but the highlight of my week is now going to a mother and baby group. How sad is that? Anything just to have normal grown-up company.”

“Except even then you end up talking about babies,” Emily laughs.

“Well, yes,” Natalie has to concede. “But at least it's conversation.”

“What did you do, Penny?” Sam's curious.

“I worked for a bank.”

Sam pictures Penny in a high street branch of Barclay's. She looks the type. Maybe she was even manager, for despite the leftover maternity leggings and voluminous gray sweater, she might have aimed for more.

“Which bank?”

She mentions an American investment bank. “I was head of Mergers and Acquisitions there.”

Sam almost has heart failure.

Natalie, it transpires, is the marketing director of a huge pharmaceutical company. Sarah started her own internet fashion site that's so successful Sam regularly reads about it in the financial pages. Emily is a nursery-school teacher.

“I know,” Natalie laughs, seeing Sam's expression. “We're a bit of a mixed bunch, aren't we?”

“You can say that again,” Sam says, almost overwhelmed with shame for judging these people, for assuming there was no more to them than their children, and for finding fault with that. “You can definitely say that again.”

23

Chris comes home at ten
to seven, twenty minutes after Sam has put George to bed. He's late, having stopped to get more ice-cube trays for Sam. She's in the middle of a cooking frenzy, whipping up great batches of organic food for George, freezing it in ice-cube trays as soon as it's cooked.

It's a Friday night, and it's been a tough week. Before George, or BG as he has come to think of it, he would long for the weekends.

BG, Friday nights meant hitting the pub with the men who shared his workshop, fellow craftsmen and artists. He'd stay for a couple of drinks, then meet Sam for dinner. In their younger days they'd hit the West End, try out different busy, buzzy restaurants each week, occasionally following that with a club, but the last couple of years they'd tended to stick with local restaurants.

Friday nights meant a pizza, or a curry, or Chinese takeout. They'd have a long meal, unwind over a bottle of wine, flirt suggestively in the knowledge that Friday night was a sure thing, and that however late a night they had, however much energy they exerted, the best part of Saturday morning would be spent fast asleep.

BG, they'd go out for dinner a lot. Nowhere expensive, but good, local restaurants. They'd go to cafés in Highgate, or local Italian restaurants in Hampstead. Or Sam would cook. Chris would come home and the delicious smells of Sam's experimenting would hit him as he opened the front door.

There was nothing better than finding Sam in the kitchen. It made him feel loved, cherished, and truly that he'd come home, for his mother was also a cook, and her currency of love had always been food.

And he loved the fact that he considered them to be one of the happiest couples of anyone they knew. Not perfect, never perfect, but he still looked at Sam and saw the girl who'd bounded up to him at the party six years ago; the girl with the sparkling eyes and confident smile; the girl he knew, within one week, he was going to marry.

Sam was his best friend, and, even better than that, she was the best lay he'd ever had. And he was married to her! Christ. Surely life couldn't get better than that.

But that, he thinks ruefully as he puts the key in the door, was BG. Now he finds he's married to a shouting, tearful, angry witch. All his time at home is spent treading on eggshells; he's careful not to put a foot wrong, to send her off on a screaming fit, and he's more and more relieved to get out of the house for work.

The only bright spot in his home life is George. Georgenius, he thinks with a smile. That gorgeous chubby smiling bundle. Flesh of his flesh. The most perfect creation he's ever laid eyes on. Chris walks into the room and George's eyes light up.

There is no greater feeling in the world than when Chris sits on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, George asleep on his chest, a warm soft bundle of pure love.

In their rare moments of intimacy, Chris and Sam sit in bed together and grin at one another. “Can you believe how gorgeous he is?” Sam squeals, clasping her hands together in a bid to contain the emotion. “I know. He's just amazing.” Chris shakes his head, unable to believe they created such a perfect child. “Amazing,” she echoes, and they look at one another, their eyes brimming over with love for George.

Sometimes they look at one another across the cot, standing on either side, gazing down at George, arms and legs sprawled to all four corners, fast asleep. “Do you think other people love their children as much as we love George?” Sam will whisper, sure that no one in the whole world could love their son as much as she loves hers. “I'm not sure,” Chris will whisper back. “But I doubt it.”

George is perfect. But his relationship with Sam has become anything but. Chris isn't sure what's going wrong, but he knows that something definitely is. He feels neglected. Abandoned. Unwanted. He knows he shouldn't be feeling these things, that George, after all, is a priority, but nevertheless he cannot stop them. There are occasions when all it will take is a kind word, a loving look, an affectionate kiss, but instead he is faced with anger. With exasperation. With indifference.

Chris is trying his best. He has offered to get up with George, and occasionally Sam has let him, but he doesn't seem to have the same knack, and Sam invariably appears in the doorway, looking pissed off, and takes George out of his arms. If it weren't for the fact that George immediately quieted down in his mother's arms, Chris would be furious.

Apart from quieting his son, there are other things Chris is, apparently, hopeless at. He can't make a bottle in the right way (too little powder or too much); heat the bottle to the right temperature (it's either boiling or too cold); change a diaper properly (doesn't do it up tightly enough); feed him in the right way (“For God's sake, Chris, you need to be quicker than that or he'll start screaming'') or give him a bath (“And what planet are you living on?'').

And so he doesn't offer anymore, which prompts Sam to shout that she's the only one doing anything in this bloody house. It's a no-win situation.

For
once, the house smells delicious. It smells like the old days. He knows that smell, the smell of onions gently sautéing in butter. His heart lifts as he considers this unexpected surprise. Could tonight be the night when he gets the old Sam back? Will she have made a delicious dinner for him? Could they restore some of the magic they seem to have lost?

He walks into the kitchen to find Sam standing at the sink, washing up.

“Hi, darling.” He kisses the back of her neck. “George in bed?”

“You know he goes to bed at quarter to seven. Where else do you think he'd be?”

Chris decides to ignore the curt tone. He's fed up with arguing. Tonight he just wants to enjoy the evening. “Is he asleep? Can I go in and say goodnight?”

“No. Sorry. Once he's in bed you know what he's like. If he sees you he'll start screaming again when you leave. You can get him up in the morning, though.”

“Yeah. I will. Is your mother coming over tomorrow?”

“Yup,” Sam says, nodding. “She said she'd take him out for the day.”

“You mean, and leave us together? Just the two of us? Freedom?”

“I know.” Sam grins, and for a minute they have a glimpse of the old Sam and Chris, of how well they can actually get on. “Isn't it fantastic? What are we going to do?”

“I know what I'd like to do.” Chris grins, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her close, nuzzling into her neck.

“Oh, Chris.” She pushes him away in exasperation.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh, Chris'? It's been ages.”

Sam wants to argue that they had sex last week, but she knows Chris will say that for them, that's ages, and she can't be bothered to have a fight. “Okay,” she says, her heart not in it, although she figures she can always manufacture a headache or a period tomorrow morning. “Apart from that, what are we going to do?”

Chris lets her go and walks out to the hallway to hang up his coat. “What did we use to do on a Saturday BG?”

“Jesus. I can't remember! Did we actually have a life BG?”

“I'm not sure, but I know there are photos around here that prove we did.”

“So what did we do? Seriously.”

“Shopping?”

“Sometimes,” she agrees, remembering their occasional sojourns to Portobello, meandering down the road looking at antiques they couldn't possibly afford, stopping for a cappuccino and a couple of pastries on Golborne Road on the way home. Although it really wasn't that often. Not more than four times a year, come to think of it.

“Walks on the Heath?” Chris offers.

“Nope. That's definitely post–George. We used to talk about going for walks on the Heath a lot, but I'm not sure we ever actually bothered.”

“Well, Saturday mornings were never an option really. We always had a lie-in after a Friday night.”

“True.” And then Sam remembers. She remembers waking up late-morning and snuggling into Chris, covering his back with kisses to wake him. She remembers him rolling over and drawing her close with an arm heavy with sleep. They'd lie for a while like that, and then slowly Chris would open his eyes, pull her closer for a kiss.

They would have lovely, languorous sex. And afterward Chris would have a shower, she would jump in the bath, and they would drive up to All Bar One in Highgate for lunch. Puttering around the village, they'd usually find things to buy in the afternoon: books; furniture; food. Often Julia and Mark would be with them, and however badly Julia and Mark might have been getting on, the four of them always worked. They'd all known one another for so long they were like family. Anything could be said, no censoring was permitted.

With a pang Sam realizes how much she misses Julia. When Julia phoned to say she was staying in New York, all those months ago, Julia was so full of excitement and vigor, so like the Julia that Sam used to know, hadn't seen for so many years, Sam couldn't admit how upset she was, how hard her life would be without Julia.

But even she could never have envisaged quite how much her life would change with George.

“Tell you what.” Chris comes back in the kitchen and reaches for the paper. “I'll give George breakfast, you can sleep in, and when your mother's collected George I'll come back to bed for some more sleep.” He grins. “Or something, and then we'll play the rest of the day by ear.”

“God,” sighs Sam. “A lie-in. Are you sure?” I'm not getting up, she decides. I'm not going to come down to the kitchen to make sure Chris is doing it properly. To make sure George is getting enough to eat. Bugger that. I'm going to sleep, and if George decides to be fussy with his food tomorrow morning then that's Chris's problem. Not mine.

“You need to sleep, love.” The prospect of sex tomorrow morning, plus a day spent on their own, has lifted Chris's spirits. He suddenly feels both loving and loved.

“What is that smell, anyway? What are you making for dinner?”

“Oh that? That's a fish pie.”

“Mmmm. God, I haven't had that for years. It reminds me of my childhood. Have you got peas too?”

Sam makes a worried face. “Chris, it's not for you, it's for George. I mean, you can have it if you like, but it's pureed.”

Chris's heart, on a cloud but a few seconds before, starts to sink. “Oh. So what are we having?”

“Umm.” Sam thinks hard. “There's spinach and potato bake, or cauliflower cheese, or chicken casserole.”

“And are they all pureed?”

Sam shrugs apologetically. “There's always a takeaway curry.”

“Again?”

“I could eat curry every night of the week,” Sam states defensively, which isn't quite true, but given that this will be the third night this week they've ordered it, it might as well be. “Did you get the ice-cube trays?” Sam unclips the Magimix and gets ready to scoop as Chris goes to the hallway and brings in a plastic bag.

“Will six be enough?”

“Should be. Thanks, darling.” And she blows him a kiss as she starts to drop the fish-pie puree, teaspoonful by teaspoonful, into the trays.

Sam
wakes to the sound of George screaming. Somewhere she had read that a baby who wakes up smiling is a secure baby, and although there is no reason whatsoever for George to be insecure, she cannot avoid this nagging doubt when he wakes up crying, which he so often does.

Just hungry, she tells herself, rolling over as she hears Chris sigh and climb out of bed.

“Turn the monitor off,” she hisses as he's about to close the bedroom door, knowing that she'll never be able to get back to sleep if she hears George cry for much longer.

She reaches for the earplugs and jams them in, thankful for the instant peace, for although Chris has taken the monitor, the walls of this small terraced house are thin, and George's faint cries are still audible.

Lying in bed, she can already feel her body start to wake up. I will not, she wills herself. I will go back to sleep. Every bone in her body is exhausted, and she tries thinking about beaches, soothing turquoise water, hot white sand and gently rocking hammocks, but each time she does she finds herself, within a few seconds, thinking about George.

She lies there, gradually waking with each thought. I hope he's eating enough, she thinks. Did I tell Chris he can have one of the baby yogurts in the fridge? What if he's being picky and Chris thinks he's had enough, when I know he hasn't and you just have to persevere?

At twenty-eight minutes past seven she realizes there's absolutely no point in staying in bed. Now fully awake, there isn't a hope in hell of her going back to sleep. She climbs out of bed, puts on her dressing gown and curses the irony of the impossibility of getting up during the week, and the ease with which she manages it now.

Chris looks up, surprised. And guarded. He knows she's checking up on him. He and George have been having a great time. George stopped screaming the minute the bottle was plugged into his mouth, and apart from making a mountain of banana muesli (Chris poured in far too much milk, and had to keep adding more of the powder to thicken it, ending up with a bowl of banana muesli that would have happily served six starving babies), everything's been great.

George has just finished his banana muesli, and is starting on a baby yogurt Chris found in the fridge.

“I thought you were going back to sleep.” Chris turns around, defensively, enjoying this time with George because he, after all, never gets to spend time with George on his own. He's been telling George all about his work, and about the things they're going to do together when George is a bit older. He's told George about the stresses and strains of running your own cabinet-making business, and he's warned George about following in his footsteps, even though he admitted he'd be very proud.

“George and I were having a man-to-man talk,” he explains to Sam, who is relieved to see that both her boys are fine, but is, nevertheless, wide awake. She kisses George all over his face and squeezes his fat little feet. “I love those toes,” she tells him, clenching her teeth together to stop herself from biting them, so delicious is her son. “I love those toes,” she growls again as George smiles with delight.

Sam fills the kettle with fresh water, flicks it on, and puts a couple of slices of toast under the grill. “I couldn't bloody sleep, and the minute I decided I was going to stay awake I was starving. Do you want some toast?”