Babyville (28 page)

“Maybe you're just a control freak,” Chris laughs.

“Ah yes.” Dan gives a knowing look. “Funny you should say that.”

“What's that play called?” Sam laughs. “
I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change.
That's what we do, isn't it?”

“That's just what you two do,” Chris says. “I don't think everyone does that.”

“Nah, mate.” Dan shakes his head. “All women do do that. They pretend to be sweet and innocent when you meet them, then they turn into these madwomen once you've married them.”

“Charming,” Jill laughs. “Remind me to leave you at home the next time we go out for dinner.” She raises an eyebrow. “They always says you should look at someone's friends before you marry them, that you can always tell a person by the company they keep, and I'm sure you can tell a lot about a man by his mother. Maybe I should have thought a bit harder back then.”

Dan starts to look pissed off, and Jill backs down. “Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean it, my darling, I was just winding you up.” She kisses him on the cheek and he visibly unclenches, while Sam feels like she's about to cry at this display of familiarity.

“I'm just going to the loo,” she says, standing up from the table and almost running to the loo. She stands in front of the mirror for what feels like an age, looking at herself, her mind completely blank, and then the thoughts come flooding in.

What are you thinking of? He's a happily married man. Why didn't he push her away when she tried to kiss him? But she is his wife, for God's sake. It doesn't mean he's not thinking about you. It doesn't mean he didn't want you to kiss him. Look how much you have in common. Think about his thigh touching yours. Think how he maneuvered it so he was sitting next to you in the cinema. Yes. He definitely feels the same way about you too.

She walks back to the table calmly, a smile on her face, her serenity restored.

If
I don't see any red cars for the next twenty seconds, Dan loves me.

If I avoid all the cracks in the pavement up to the next roadside, Dan and I are meant to be together.

If George sleeps for at least one and a half hours, Dan is sitting there thinking about me too.

This
is beginning to get ridiculous.

For the last three days all Sam has thought about is Dan. She wakes up in the morning to George's crying, picks him up and puts him in his high chair in a daze, thinking about Dan.

She dreamily spoons Weetabix into his mouth, and all over his face, thinking about Dan.

She pushes George up and down the hills on the Heath, all the while fantasizing about her future with Dan.

Sam is more certain now than she was before. She saw the way he smiled at her, the way he focused on her so intensely when she was talking. Jill and Chris had ended up talking animatedly about interiors with Jill giving Chris some ideas about marketing and PR, and Sam had ended up, as she knew she would, with Dan.

Dan had stared deep into her eyes and softly—out of the others' earshot—asked her question after question about herself. He had asked her about her childhood, her mother, her tearaway teenage years. He had asked about her work, her aims, her fears. And most of all he had asked about Chris. About how they had met, what she had thought, whether she had made the right choice.

His questions had been far more intimate than you might expect from someone whom you had met just twice. And the way in which he asked them, the way he concentrated on Sam until everything else in the room disappeared, had flattered, excited, and exhausted her. Particularly the questions about her marriage.

She felt he was trying to find out everything about her, to see into her very soul. And why would he be doing that unless he too knew that she was the love of his life? But she had to play it carefully. She couldn't tell him her marriage was in ruins, not while Chris was there, and not yet, but she could infer through short sentences, resigned shrugs, an unwillingness to answer.

She couldn't blame Chris, couldn't say a bad word against him, couldn't, above all, show herself in a bad light, but what she wanted to do most was pose those very same questions to Dan, take her cue from him. If he had said his marriage was over, she would have agreed and said the same thing. If he had said he loved Jill but was no longer in love with her, she would have said she felt the same way. If he had said he was thinking of leaving her, Sam would have said she was thinking of doing exactly the same thing.

But every time she tried to ask him a question, he'd come out with another, and it was only as they were about to go home that she realized she knew as little about him at the end of the evening as she did at the beginning.

And he knew practically everything about her.

That had to be, she thinks, smiling, throwing Huggies into her shopping trolley as George gurgles happily in the baby seat, because he loves me. She looks up and knows that he definitely loves her if she reaches the end of the aisle before the old woman in the red raincoat who's shuffling her way to the bottom. She's about to break into a speedwalk when she sees how ridiculous she's being.

He loves her.

She doesn't have to play these games anymore.

28

“Hi. Sam?” George is sitting
in his high chair attempting to lean forward as Sam tries to maneuver the tray on to give him lunch.

“Hang on, hang on,” she cries as she drops the phone briefly to adjust the shoulder straps. “Come on, Chicken. Be a good boy and eat Mummy's delicious homemade fishcakes. Yum yum. Mmmm. Delicious.” She spoons it into his mouth at the same time as she picks up the receiver.

“I'm so sorry,” she says into the mouthpiece, speed-spooning more crumbled-up fishcake into George's mouth, which is open and waiting like a tiny little black bird's. “Hello?”

“So are your fishcakes delicious, then?”

“They're going down a treat,” she says, trying to place the voice, which is so familiar. “Who is it that wants to know?”

“I can't believe you don't know when we only spoke yesterday.”

Yesterday? Yesterday was Sunday. She tries to think whether she spoke to anyone yesterday, but no. Her mind is blank.

“Yesterday?”

“Sam! It's Dan.”

She drops the spoon, which luckily makes no noise whatsoever, being, as it is, made of orange and turquoise rubber, and George lets out a wail of disapproval, anxious for the next mouthful.

“Dan, how are you?” She thinks of using her Caramac bunny voice, but too late. It would sound ridiculous now, and she curses herself for being so unprepared, for Dan having to listen to her being, well, mumsy, rather than a voluptuous sex siren. But then again, he called her. Her wishes finally came true and he called.

“I'm extremely well. Is this a bad time to call?”

As if there could ever possibly be a bad time for Dan to call.

“Not at all.”

“Look, I really hope you don't find this presumptuous, but it's Jill's birthday next Friday and one of the ideas I thought of for a present was a painting, or drawing, of our house because she loves it, and even though I know you're a graphic designer, I thought you might know someone who does this sort of thing.”

“I could do it.” The words are out before she even has a chance to think about them.

“You could?” Relief and joy in his voice. She knew it! Sam knew it was just an excuse to see her again! “I wanted to ask you but I was sure you'd say no. God, Sam. That's fantastic. It's incredibly short notice, though, her birthday's in two weeks. Could you do it by then?”

“No problem. The only thing I've been doing recently is looking after George.”

“Come, come. Now I know you're lying. What about making those delicious homemade fishcakes? They must have kept you busy.”

She laughs. “Ah yes. I'd forgotten about those. See how exciting my life is? Looking after babies and cooking.”

“Jill only pretends to cook. She has four recipes that she does to perfection, and that's it. All I can say is your husband must be a very lucky man.”

Sam blossoms with pride. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Now that,” he laughs, “is something you definitely shouldn't be saying to a man like me.”

A warm flush appears on her face. This is serious flirtation. This is something in which she hasn't indulged for years. Not since long before Chris. And more to the point, she's flirting with Dan! Or rather, he's flirting with her.

Which is not the same thing at all.

She tries to think of something equally flirtatious, or witty, or leading, but finds herself at a loss for words. This is all happening far more quickly than she had expected, and although she's delirious with joy, she's also unprepared, and changes tack to bring the conversation back on to a more comfortable level for her.

“So what should I do about the house? Do you have any photographs I can work from?”

“I've got some from earlier in the year. How about I drop them round to you later today? Are you in?”

Oh God. Her hair needs washing. The house needs tidying. She needs to do a shop. George needs a walk.

“I'm here all afternoon. Later would be better for me.”

“How about four? I could come for tea.”

Sam cannot wipe the smile from her face. “Four sounds lovely. If you're sure.” Insecurity threatens to strike.

“Sure I'm sure. I'll bring the pictures as long as you provide the homemade crumpets.”

“Oh ha ha. You'll be lucky if you get a couple of stale Farley's Rusks.”

“Don't worry about it. That's pretty much what I get at home. See you later.” And he's gone.

Her
doorbell rings at 1:45
P.M.
Bugger. She's in the bath, face pack on, deep conditioner soaking into her split ends, while George sleeps soundly in his room. She clambers out of the bath, grabs a towel and runs downstairs, dripping water on to the mat as she opens the door.

To find Maeve standing on the doorstep with Poppy.

“Ah.” Maeve smiles regretfully. “Clearly not the best time to come over, then?”

Any other time and Sam would be over the moon, but not today. Not when George could wake up at any given moment and she's using this time while he's asleep to get ready.

And she knows Dan was only joking about the homemade crumpets, but she does want to show him how it is possible to be sexy, gorgeous, a wonderful mother, and a fabulous wife as well. She is planning on whipping up a quick banana bread after she's thoroughly spring-cleaned the house.

“Oh God,” Sam moans. “I'd so love to ask you in but I've got a meeting this afternoon and I've got to get ready before George wakes up. Are you okay, though?”

“We're great,” Maeve smiles. “Poppy's delicious and I'm bored, and we were passing so I thought I'd pop in, but don't worry. Another time.” She turns to leave.

“No. Wait.” Sam does a quick mental calculation. If Dan comes at four, they'd exchange photos immediately, and then chat, and then . . . oh Christ. What if something happens? No, she decides instantly. The most that will happen today is a kiss, and even as she thinks about a potential kiss, her loins turn to liquid. I will not sleep with him, not in this house, and not yet, she tells herself firmly. Just a kiss. And five o'clock is George's teatime and six o'clock is George's bathtime so whatever happens he will have left by then but that still doesn't leave me time to see Maeve.

But should I even be seeing Maeve, she wonders. Maeve doesn't know about the Julia connection, but she's so nice! She could be my new best friend! Oh God. What shall I do?

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“Same as usual,” Maeve says. “Wandering the streets, accosting any nice-looking mother who could be my friend. Why?”

Sam laughs. “Come over tomorrow for a coffee. Nine-thirty?”

Maeve makes a face. “My little angel has a nap until around ten. Bugger. It's so awkward having to fit everything around naptime.”

“Don't worry. How about ten-thirty?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

By
3:34
P.M.
Sam is ready. The house is gleaming, every surface polished to perfection, a bowl of roses on the kitchen table.

She is wearing new jeans and a long blue sweater to cover the pregnancy padding around her hips and thighs that is finally starting to disappear now that her newfound crush has shrunk her appetite to almost nothing.

Her makeup is subtle and discreet, and only visible if you look very, very closely.

A vanilla-scented candle has been burning on the radiator shelf in the hallway, the kitchen smells deliciously of banana bread, and the living-room table has been polished with lavender beeswax furniture polish.

Sam has used every trick of the trade—bar putting cinnamon sticks in the oven, and even that was considered—to make her home welcoming, to reinvent herself as the perfect picture of domesticity.

If an estate agent tried to sell the house this afternoon, there would probably be a bidding war.

She rocks quietly back and forth in the glider rocker in George's room, watching him bang a musical toy, barely even registering the—usually intensely irritating—toy's recorded voice with an American twang: Puppy. Kitten. Hello, Baby.

At 3:55
P.M.
the phone rings. It's Dan.

“I'm so sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly apologetic, but sounding very rushed. “Something's come up and I've got to go out on a job. I'm out for the rest of the day so I'll drop them through the letterbox this evening on my way back, is that okay?”

“Of course,” she says brightly, successfully covering the disappointment, the instant desolation she feels. “Absolutely fine. Don't worry about a thing.”

She puts the phone down and wills back the tears. This is ridiculous. This is not because he doesn't love her, it is something beyond his control. He'll call tomorrow. He'll find another excuse, because Sam does, after all, recognize that it is just an excuse. He didn't have to come over at all, she muses, starting to brighten slightly. He could have sent the photos in the post, or dropped them in one evening when Chris is here. He invited himself for tea to spend time with me. This was unavoidable, she tells herself, gazing at George. He'll think of something else.

She has to find something else to think about as well. He is taking up space, rent-free, in her head, and despite enjoying his presence there most of the time, she is also finding it exhausting. She decides that this afternoon she will have a break from him, from thoughts of him.

She calls Maeve.

 “What
a lovely surprise. I was bored stupid today.” Maeve pushes the buggy into the hallway and lifts Poppy out, walking down to the kitchen with the confidence all new mothers share when they are in the presence of their own. They treat one another's houses as their own, open cupboard doors and help themselves to bibs, and bottles, and baby wipes. They adopt a familiarity in the homes of strangers in a way that never fails to shock their husbands on the rare occasions those husbands are around to witness.

“So rude!” their husbands have been known to hiss, when new mothers attempt to bring their entire families, husbands included, together for tea on Sundays. “Can you believe she just opened all our cupboards? Couldn't she have asked? Didn't anyone ever teach her manners?”

And new mothers will shrug, for they understand in a way they know their husbands never will.

So Maeve enters Sam's kitchen, followed by Sam, exclaims with pleasure on seeing a reclining chair still shoved in the corner, and expertly straps Poppy in the chair, dangling a toy bar (on the floor next to the chair) above to keep her quiet and amused.

“Can I get you anything?” Sam says, putting the kettle on. “Does Poppy need anything? I've got masses of formula. George was so allergic I had to try every brand on the market, so whatever you want, I've got.”

Maeve raises an eyebrow. “Aptamil?”

“Got it.”

“Soya milk?”

“Got it.”

“Ah ha. How about . . . Nanny?”

“Of course I've got Nanny. Goat's milk formula was the only thing my poor little lactose-intolerant baby would drink.”

Maeve makes a face. “How do you know he's lactose intolerant?”

“He'd come out in this terrible eczema with everything else.”

“Okay,” she says, shrugging.

“Why?”

“I don't understand why none of our generation was lactose intolerant, and suddenly every other child today is either lactose intolerant or allergic or something.”

Sam misses Maeve's point, Maeve firmly believing that lactose intolerance is merely the result of a neurotic mother. “I think they must use far more additives now,” Sam says. “God knows I wish they wouldn't, I'd love to be able to give George normal formula.”

“It's like all that bloody organic stuff,” Maeve continues, now on a roll. “We never had organic food, did we? And what harm has it done us? None. I can't see what on earth is the point in spending three times as much on organic food.”

“Oh God,” groans Sam. “You know what? I bloody agree with you, but look,” and she opens her fridge door and beckons Maeve over to have a look. Organic milk. Organic cheese. Organic bread. Organic vegetables. “Isn't that ridiculous? I think exactly the same thing, but I've done it because everyone else does it.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Maeve can feel herself creasing up with embarrassment. She had no idea Sam would be one of those women, Sam looked so . . . normal. “I shouldn't have said anything. Me and my big mouth.”

“You should have said something, because you're right. So what do you want to drink?” Sam opens the cupboard door, and turns back for an answer when none is forthcoming.

Maeve is standing in front of the freezer, the door wide open, looking confused and slightly shocked.

“Sam, I know this might be a stupid question, but why do you have three billion ice-cube trays stacked in your freezer?”

Sam starts to laugh. “Not for ice. I read a brilliant article that said you had to freeze the food you make for the babies in ice-cube trays. It's amazing. Every time I cook I just empty out two or three. It's so easy.”

“But Sam,” Maeve says, trying very hard not to smile, but she can't quite help it, “you're supposed to turn them out into freezer bags when they're frozen, not keep buying more ice-cube trays.”

“You're joking.” Sam is mortified as she looks at the trays and trays of frozen baby food, stacked up until there isn't a millimeter of extra space. “No one told me that.”

“Oh God. I'm sorry,” Maeve starts to laugh. “I'm only laughing because I would have done exactly the same thing but I've seen someone do it. You must have spent thousands on those bloody ice trays.”

Sam grins, starting to see the ridiculousness of what she's done. “Not thousands. Hundreds maybe. God, I'm stupid. I can't believe I didn't think of that.”

“So I'm not the only one whose brain has shrunk to nothing since giving birth?”

“Clearly not. I just thought I'd hidden it reasonably well. So. Drink. What'll you have?” She walks back to the cupboard. “Chamomile? Apple and rosehip? Peppermint?” She looks at Maeve's aghast face and starts to laugh. “Joke,” she says, having almost forgotten about Dan. “Tea or coffee?”

“I would say tea but I don't trust you and I need some caffeine so you'd better make it coffee. Strong. Two spoonfuls and milky.”