Dear Thing (27 page)

If I hadn’t been in love with Ben, who knows what it might have been like with Jarvis? If I’m honest with myself, I chose him because he seemed to be the opposite of Ben. I was comparing him with Ben every moment from the start, and it made me blind. I certainly never saw how he felt about me. I never understood how his leaving me meant that he loved me.

If I hadn’t always been comparing, if I’d seen him for who he was, could I have fallen in love with him? Could we have stayed together, raised Posie together?

Would I have loved Posie more before she was born?

You would think that love for your children would be the easiest of all. But I didn’t love Posie when she was inside me. Not the way that I love you. I have lots of excuses – I was trying to work on my thesis, I was worried about my future, I hardly had any money – but in the end, nothing can excuse my failure. I tried my best to ignore the fact that she was happening. I didn’t suffer for her like I have with you: I didn’t puke, I didn’t bleed, I didn’t have to get up every five minutes at night to use the toilet. But I didn’t marvel, either. I took each stage in my pregnancy as a matter of fact, as a natural process of reproduction that was happening to me and that I would get through. Even the birth was easy and quick. I felt some pain and then it was time to push, and she slipped out, eyes open. She looked wise already.

That was when I fell in love with her. Not before.

If I’d been in love with her before she was born, the way I’m in love with you, would I have found it easier to be a mother? All those sleepless nights; all the mistakes and messes and days over and over again that were the same. Everyone says that motherhood is so easy and instinctive. It will be that
way for the woman who wants to be your mother. For your real mother.

It wasn’t for me. Maybe if I’d loved Posie more, maybe if I’d let myself love her father, it would have been easier.

You are my child who was meant to be. Made half of me and half of the man I have somehow, against all my better interests, decided to love. Your father has protected you, wondered at you. Your mother has dreamed about you, will find the cure for her own pain in you.

You will never be mine, dear Thing.

NO MATTER HOW
many times she told herself that she was having a baby, even though it was in another woman’s body, Claire always felt her spirits plummet whenever her period started. It wasn’t just that it reminded her of her miscarriage, or the embryos that didn’t take. It was that the whole thing was so pathetic, her body cycling hopelessly, going on preparing itself for a child that would never come. It was a mess with no purpose, another month of plugging, mopping, washing, throwing away, all because her womb didn’t know that she was a failure.

Parents’ evening, too. The timing couldn’t be worse. Still, at least she was prepared. She was always prepared.

From inside the cubicle she could hear the door to the staff toilet open and someone enter. Two someones, mid-conversation. Their voices were quiet, but easily loud enough for Claire to hear.

‘I don’t know if I could use another woman’s body that way. Do you think they’re paying her?’

‘They must be. Why would anyone do it, otherwise?’

It was Georgette and Bonnie, who’d replaced Lacey. Claire
paused, wanting to call out, instead staying still and listening.

‘How much, do you think?’

The tap went on. She could hear lipsticks being uncapped, hair being brushed.

‘I’d be terrified the entire time. Do you remember that case in the papers, Baby T or M or something? When the surrogate mother wouldn’t let the adoptive parents have the child? Whatever happened with that?’

‘I don’t know. You’re right, it would be frightening.’

‘Did you notice that she’s gained weight? Do you think she’s got sympathetic false pregnancy or whatever that’s called? Or do you think it’s the stress?’

‘Poor Claire. Do you need the loo, or will you have a cup of tea first?’

‘What have we got, five minutes? I’m seeing the Macleans first. I think I’m going to need a whisky, let alone a cup of tea.’

Poor Claire. Poor Claire hiding in the lavatory, listening to herself as the subject of gossip. Poor Claire, barren and sad and worried and scared, defined by this period, defined by her failure. She flushed the toilet and stepped out.

Georgette and Bonnie were at the row of sinks. Bonnie spotted her in the mirror and she had the good grace to blush.

‘We’re not paying her,’ said Claire. ‘It’s illegal to do so in this country, but I wouldn’t anyway. She volunteered. And I’m not afraid she’s going to keep the baby. I’m more afraid it’s not going to be born, to be honest. That’s mostly what keeps me awake at night. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’

The two women averted their eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Bonnie.

‘I’m happy to answer questions. Or just to talk. Preferably somewhere other than in a toilet.’

They didn’t say anything. Claire washed her hands and left the staff loo, feeling their eyes on her.

Was this never going to end? What about when she had the baby, when it was legally, emotionally, unassailably hers? Would she be walking around with a pram hearing whispers about where the baby came from? Would she have to fall silent when other mothers chatted about their pregnancies? Would she still feel that her and Ben’s world wasn’t quite right because nothing had gone as they’d planned?

It will all be all right once the baby comes
, she thought, and put her hand into her bag to touch the envelope she used to carry the most recent scan photo around. Even the touch of the paper calmed her. A bit. But now, of course, she felt guilty about flying off the handle.

Some ambassador for alternative birth methods she was. People were going to look at her even more strangely now. She not only couldn’t have a child, she lurked in toilets and eavesdropped on other people’s conversations.

Claire’s hands were shaking. She rang Ben but it went straight to voicemail. She tried not to think that he might have turned off his phone on purpose because he didn’t want to go through it any more.

Parents’ evening was set up in the Hall, the high-ceilinged high-windowed space that used to be the nuns’ refectory and now hosted assembly every day. Small tables had been lined up, each with a name card on it, with one chair behind and two chairs in front. Claire found hers and sat down, folding her hands together and glancing over the schedule on her desk. She had a dozen appointments, all of them with the parents of perfectly pleasant students, the keen ones and
the conscientious ones who made appointments with every teacher. Thankfully, she’d be able to do them all on autopilot. The parents would be happy, the children would be happy, everyone could go home for the exeat and relax.

She wished she had a glass of water.

She opened her folder of reports and notes and began putting them in appointment order. Without looking, she could sense Georgette and Bonnie looking at her from across the room. She schooled her face to look calm.

‘Oh, thank God for small favours, you’re here.’

Claire looked up. A couple stood in front of her. He was tall and wide-shouldered, wearing a well-tailored suit and a patterned silk tie. His dark hair was greying at the temples. She was younger, very pretty, with the kind of glossy, tumbled hair that only came out of an hour’s professional blow-dry. She wore high heels and a fitted blue dress which emphasized her baby bump.

‘Hello,’ Claire said, rising to her feet and extending a hand that still, to her dismay, trembled. ‘Are you …’ She glanced down. They weren’t Mr and Mrs Hanley; she’d been teaching all the Hanleys for years now and Mrs Hanley’s sister used to play first violin in the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra.

‘Martin Gore-Thomas,’ he said, shaking her hand and flashing white teeth. ‘We don’t have an appointment, but Maximilian was insistent we see you. Wouldn’t stop harping on about it. Ernest Doughty said you were here anyway, so we might as well pop down before we left.’

‘You’re Max’s parents.’ She glanced at Mrs Gore-Thomas’s baby bump. So Max had been right.

‘We’ve only a few minutes,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve a dinner in London.’

And is Max going to it, too?
Claire thought.
Or are you leaving him at home with his guitar?

‘Please, sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ve only a few minutes myself. I’m meant to have an appointment with the Hanleys right now. But Max is an extraordinary student, and I’m pleased to talk with you about him.’

‘Can’t sit – no time, I’m afraid. The M4 is horrific this time of day.’

Max’s stepmother had taken out her mobile phone and was scrolling through something.

‘Well,’ Claire began, ‘as I’m sure you’re aware, Max isn’t actually one of my students—’

‘What do you teach, then?’

‘Music.’

‘Ahh, charming. No, we paid for Max to take lessons in the hols, of course, but there’s no question of him studying music as a subject. No offence to you, but he’ll need a proper education rather than messing around on the guitar at all hours. Children his age always want to be pop stars, don’t they?’ Martin Gore-Thomas laughed.

‘Actually,’ said Claire, ‘that’s why I wrote to you at the beginning of the year. We’re very willing to allow Max to do music as an extra GCSE on top of his current studies. It’s not too late for him to start; I can help him with some catch-up sessions. He’s also expressed an interest in taking it on as an extra AS level in a couple of years.’

Max’s stepmother sniggered. Claire thought she was laughing at the suggestion, but then saw that she was reading something on her phone. She nudged her husband and showed him the screen, and he chuckled.

‘Max is very talented,’ said Claire, ‘and he’s shown that he’s capable of the extra work.’

Mr Gore-Thomas glanced at her as if he’d forgotten what she was talking about. He gave her another of his wide smiles. ‘No, no, it’s a lovely idea, but as I said, it’s out of the question. Max needs to concentrate on real subjects. He’s no intellectual, as I’m sure you know. He has to work hard to get decent results, and the guitar will be a distraction. He’d only find some new fad anyway. Boy doesn’t have an attention span longer than five minutes.’

‘I think he’s demonstrated that he does have the ability to focus, Mr Gore-Thomas. His compositions took an enormous effort.’

He chuckled again. ‘Compositions. That’s kind of you, Mrs—’

‘Lawrence.’

‘Lawrence. Look, I can understand what you’re saying, but in my experience every teacher thinks their subject is the most important, which logically can’t be true. A boy like Max needs to think about his exams if he’s ever going to get anywhere in life. He needs to find a bit of ambition instead of indulging fantasies of instant fame. You and I know that’s not realistic, don’t we?’

‘Martin,’ said Mrs Gore-Thomas, gazing at the door. ‘It’s half past.’

‘Already? Time flies. Thank you so much for chatting with us, Mrs Lawrence, I’ve enjoyed—’

‘Have you even heard Max’s music? Have you asked him to play it for you?’

It came out quite loudly. Mrs Gore-Thomas sighed.

‘Max is a talented composer,’ Claire said, ‘certainly with the most talent I’ve come across in someone his age. He doesn’t want to be a pop star. He wants to be a musician. And even
if he weren’t so talented, Mr Gore-Thomas, music makes Max happy.’

Mr Gore-Thomas had half-turned to the door, half-extended his hand for a goodbye shake. Now he paused. For the first time, he appeared to actually look at Claire.

‘Are you implying that I don’t know what’s best for my own son?’

‘I’m saying that if you took the time to listen to Max’s music, if you took the time to listen to
him
—’

‘Martin, we’re going to be late.’

‘Why do you even have children if you’re not going to pay attention to them?’

It burst out of her. She saw Mrs Gore-Thomas’s eyes widen, and Mr Gore-Thomas’s expression grow stern. Behind them, the Hanleys waited politely for their turn, their faces astonished.

The sight should have stopped her, but it didn’t. She turned to Mrs Gore-Thomas. ‘What are you going to do with this new baby once it’s not a stylish bump any more? Once it’s a real person who makes demands on you? Are you going to shove this one off onto nannies and au pairs and into boarding school, too?’

Max’s father had raised himself to his full height. ‘I think it’s time to discuss this with Mrs Greasley,’ he said, putting his arm around his speechless wife and steering her towards the door.

‘Why don’t you discuss it with your son?’ Claire called after them, across the silent room. ‘Or will you be going straight to your dinner party without him?’

The carpet in Veronica Greasley’s office was woven in a pattern of geometric lines. It looked almost like a maze in
a children’s puzzle book. The kind that appeared to be a logical progression of paths that you could travel quite happily along with your pencil, until the path abruptly ended and you were lost.

Claire looked down at it. She traced the small bit of path in front of her with the toe of her shoe, like a child.

‘Mr and Mrs Gore-Thomas were very upset,’ said Veronica. ‘They say they’ll be writing a very strong letter of complaint.’

‘It was totally unprofessional,’ Claire said. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘I’m afraid that the Gore-Thomases will insist that we follow a formal disciplinary procedure. We don’t like to have to do it here, but …’ Veronica raised her hands as if it were out of her control.

‘I know,’ said Claire miserably. Her anger of half an hour ago had all deserted her now, as had the power it had given her. She felt empty, silent, grey.

‘But I wanted to have a word with you myself tonight, before we initiated any of this. Can you give me your side of the story, Claire?’

Veronica’s voice was kind, and Claire raised her head. ‘I know I shouldn’t have said it. But to be honest, Veronica, I don’t think what I said was inaccurate. I don’t think Max’s parents do listen to him. I don’t think they spend any time with him. He’s a very unhappy boy. Music seems to be his only escape.’