The Art of Baking Blind (23 page)

‘Who, me?'

‘Yes, you. Just look at what you've achieved.'

Claire gives a laugh, embarrassed and incredulous.

‘Like what?'

‘Bringing up a child on your own. From what – eighteen? Such a young age.'

‘I just had to get on with it. That's life, isn't it? And I had my mum's support.'

‘But not your partner's, from what you said?'

‘Well, no. He was worse than useless.' She wonders whether she should open up to Vicki. ‘Still sniffing around a bit, to be honest. Don't know if I should give it another go.'

‘Oh, Claire, you mustn't.' Vicki looks horrified. ‘I know it's none of my business but I really wouldn't. I always think you have to leave bad mistakes behind and not be held back by them. Just try to move on. Onwards and upwards. Not that I'm very good at it, myself.'

For a moment, she looks sad as if remembering a particular incident. Then she gives herself a little shake and looks kindly at Claire.

‘Going back to what I said about you achieving so much, I don't think I could have coped with being a teenage mum. Well, no, I know I couldn't. I was still a child myself: far too emotionally needy, far too angry with my own mum, far too immature to have been responsible for anyone but me.'

Claire looks at her in surprise. The conversation has taken a shift, and Vicki sounds as if she might be speaking from experience.

For a moment, she looks as if she is about to launch into a confession. Then she smiles.

‘We'd better get back. They'll be starting without us.'

And the moment is gone.

 

 

Kathleen

She is back in James Caruthers' consulting rooms, George beside her, as the gynaecologist details his treatment plan.

The day before she had undergone yet another internal examination under general anaesthetic and this time the doctor had inserted metal dilators inside her to assess what he persists in calling the competence of her cervix. She suspects she is incompetent.

Thankfully, he comes straight to the point.

‘As we suspected, there was no resistance before insertion of a Hagar 8 dilator and that leads me to diagnose incompetence of the cervix.'

‘And that means, doctor?' George, a man who fought as a teenager in the war and commands silence in the boardroom, looks petrified at the diagnosis.

‘It means Mrs Eaden's cervix is abnormally weak. It dilates – opens up – before the baby reaches full term which accounts for the habitual abortion.'

She wishes he would not keep using that term.

‘Is there anything I can do?' Her voice is controlled though her insides plummet.

‘Well, yes. A fairly modern, and, because of its novelty, somewhat controversial technique: the McDonald suture.'

The doctor looks more animated than she has ever seen. ‘We can insert a stitch at the neck of the cervix, seven or eight weeks into the next pregnancy and then remove it once baby has reached an age at which it can be born – at around thirty-six weeks.'

‘And will it work?' She surprises herself with her scepticism but this third loss has made her harder, as if the kernel of hope she had managed to nurture throughout this last pregnancy has shrivelled and turned into dust.

He raises his hands, palms up.

‘Mrs Eaden, obstetrics and gynaecology is a tricky business and this procedure is fairly new. But I am confident that with this, enforced bed rest and the other measures we have discussed – weekly progesterone injections and, ahem, the ban on sexual intercourse – we will give any future baby the very best chance of life.'

23

If you bake as assiduously as me, you may need to exercise. A slab of cake can be offset by a leisurely walk or a swim at a gentle pace.

It is a less picturesque night than their earlier meeting. Cloud half obscures the moon and snuffs out the weaker stars though Venus shines bright. The two figures, sleek in running garb, have no idea they are being observed as they set out from the front entrance of Bradley Hall for their ten-K run, just before six thirty. Bouncing lightly on the forecourt before they sprint off, both runners are studies in self-absorption. It would not occur to them that they are being spied on from separate rooms in the house.

They begin by heading off as before, down the stately drive sweeping away from the mansion, and then around the perimeter of the grounds, running clockwise this time, towards a more substantial wood. The terrain becomes harder, the twigs and bark of a forest floor mingling with rotten leaves, obscuring the odd tree root.

‘It's too uneven to run through this,' Dan decides, leading them back out again. ‘Let's head back to the grass.'

Running over softer ground, there is an automatic spring to their step, though the grass is uneven and tufty, kept down by a flock of sheep and periodically smeared with dried cow pats.

‘This feels like proper cross-country.'

‘Bet you excelled at that, as a girl.'

Karen shakes her head, recalling the concrete of her urban school playground, the shards of glass glinting on the tarmac, the fetid litter bins, the graffiti on the walls. A playground where she learned to trade herself for cigarettes, and use the cigarettes to stave off hunger.

‘Not that kind of school.'

Her breathing remains measured. The hour-long runs she has put in at the gym, each day for the last fortnight, are paying off. Her cheeks glow but with exhilaration rather than exertion. To his surprise, Dan begins to trail behind.

She takes the lead and wonders yet again if she should make a move, or whether she should rely on him to do so. She decides on the latter. Despite her determination to take the upper hand, she feels uncharacteristically vulnerable. She is not used to rejection but she senses that, were he to spurn her, she wouldn't take it well.

Karen glances over her shoulder. He is chasing her now. She feels nervous, like a teenage girl flooded with desire yet fearful of what she is about to get into. A sickening, delicious feeling; this feeling of being scared – of being alive.

I felt like this once with Oliver, she thinks. In that sweaty West End club as I snared my prize, my banker. And later, once I got to know him. Before marriage; before children; before I realised that work was his real passion – the thing that always had to come first.

Or was that fair? Was he alone to blame for the distance between us? Didn't I push him away, certainly once we'd had the kids and I wanted to do everything my way, but, in truth, much earlier: almost from the very start?

A memory crowds her head: the bathroom of their honeymoon suite in Rome, moonlight streaming through the window, and the look of incomprehension on her husband's face. He had found her again eight months later, while skiing in Val d'Isère, and this time had begged her to see a psychotherapist. He'd even made the appointment. Of course, she hadn't kept it but had made sure he never again caught her. She became more and more controlled, more distant, more private. Life – children, exercise, meals – were run with rigorous organisation. And passion, warmth, love, humour: all of these ebbed slowly away.

Dan is closing in now. She maintains her pace, letting her sorrow ease away from her, steadying her breathing.

‘Have you been practising?' he asks as he catches her up.

‘My tarte au citron? But of course. Just wait till you taste my tarte tatin.'

‘I meant the running.' He is exasperated. ‘You seem to be getting faster.'

‘Whatever gave you that idea?' Karen ups her speed and runs off. Blood gallops in her head; she is sure her heartbeat is audible. She begins to sprint; pushing her body to its extreme, exhilarated by her power – physical and sexual.

He is in pursuit now, chasing her down a gentle incline that swiftly becomes far steeper than she anticipated. Her foot catches in a hidden rabbit hole and jolts her. She falls, arms raised to her head as she tumbles, twisting three times before she rolls to a stop.

In a second, he is by her.

‘Are you OK? Are you all right? You haven't twisted it, have you?'

Her heart judders but she feels shock at the fall, not pain. How could she have been so stupid? Jake's jibe rings in her head:
You're fooling no one.

Dan's face is masked with panic: does he fear their meeting being exposed or is he just concerned for her? Compassion and shock jostle.

I look old, she thinks. I'm older than he thought.

‘I'm OK. Really. It's not twisted. I'm just a bit shaken.'

She tries to put some weight on the ankle, and avoids wincing.

Her voice becomes more abrasive.

‘Help me up, won't you? I said I was fine.'

He places firm arms around her back. With some effort, she resists softening into them; she keeps her body ramrod straight; her manner formal.

‘Thank you. Now, let's get back.'

‘If you're sure…' But she is off, tentative at first but increasing her pace as they hit even ground and she becomes more sure-footed. A mantra pounds through her head: I'm fooling no one; I'm fooling no one; I'm fooling no one; I'm fooling no one.

I'm fooling no one at all.

He trails behind as if chastened by her curt tone and fearful of offending her. As they sweep on to the gravel, he calls out: ‘Can I check on you later? I'd like to check you're OK … I mean, I'd like to see you.'

She glances at him, unsure of what to make of this admission: is he expressing concern for a woman who has injured herself, or something more ambiguous? She cannot read words shorn of innuendo; freed from the artifice of flirtation.

Karen feels suddenly weary. She craves a hot bath and then the comfort of being held. The thought shocks her. She is not a cuddly person. She craves sex – not affection.

She takes in his open face: unexpectedly gentle.

‘All right … I'd like that,' she says.

24

A tarte au citron is the most disarming of desserts: in small quantities, sharp and refreshing and yet, at heart, hugely rich. The citrus cuts through a heavy meal but then, suddenly, you are sated. Unable to manage another mouthful. The clever hostess serves only a sliver of it.

‘Dan?'

Harriet's voice, as she spies him watching Karen jog up the central staircase, is that of a disappointed headmistress.

‘Could I have a word if you have a moment?'

She moves aside from the doorway of the lounge where she has been waiting, gesturing that he should enter, and closes the oak door.

He stands before her; the Platonic ideal of a desirable man, made concrete. She takes in the dark curls softened by beads of sweat; the glow of his face; his broad chest. He is twenty years younger than her and has a lot to learn about celebrity. She is not sure, though, if he will listen to her.

‘It's a little delicate.' She pauses to check if he knows what she's talking about and pats her hair, somewhat nervously. ‘You know me. I'm hardly censorious … but do you think it appropriate to go running with a contestant – someone whose work you judge?'

He sighs.

‘It looks bad, Dan. And as we both know in this game, appearances are everything. Your jaunt may have been entirely innocent but you need to make absolutely sure it looks it – and that it remains that way.'

‘We only went for a run,' he begins.

‘Oh, Dan. You must think I was born yesterday.' She looks at him as if he were a pupil risking expulsion about whom she cannot help caring.

‘If this got out, the
Daily Mail
would have a field day. The brand, and your image, would be tarnished. Eaden's would drop you like a shot and that would be such a loss. You've such a promising career.'

She smiles and pats her hair again. ‘I'm not being entirely altruistic. We're a good team; we work well together. You've refreshed me. Given this old boot a bit more career longevity.'

She grimaces at the admission. ‘Please, Dan, just stop whatever it is you've started.'

*   *   *

It is not until nearly midnight that Karen accepts he has taken the coward's way out and will not come to her. In the intervening four hours she has cosseted herself: taking a languorous bath, silky with essential oils; slathering herself with body lotion; tending to her ankle, whose purple bloom is beginning to appear. She has pulled on sleek black underwear under a delicate cashmere hoodie and Pilates bottoms, tweezed her eyebrows and reapplied her make-up. Her feet, she has checked, are exquisite: the nails professionally painted in Chanel's appropriately named Vamp, and a silver toe ring hinting at a rebellious streak.

Easy-listening ballads play on her iPod. Tracks she knows are hardly hip but which she cannot help but relax to. David Gray, Katie Melua, Dido, James Blunt. A few soul classics are incongruously interspersed: Marvin Gaye begins to croon about getting it on. She jabs the iPod, pressing the forward arrow, seeking to silence him.

For the first hour she is busy with preparation; for the next, giddy with anticipation. She flicks through her copy of
Vogue,
then turns to
OK!
seeking distraction in inanity but the identikit smiles of the D-list celebrities grate. She wonders how many of the relationships celebrated here in exclusive, eight-page glossy photo shoots will last a year. For a moment, she thinks of Oliver. Balding, cerebral, prosperous but still a man whose good opinion – she no longer expects affection – she craves. Did they ever look at one another with the adoration that perky little actress is feigning? She is pretty sure he once did. Before Rome, before Val d'Isère and, perhaps, for a little while after. As for her, she has never done adoration.

Infatuation she can do though. An antidote to an absence of love. A heady drug that gives her a rush; confirms her vitality and vibrancy. All-consuming and immediate, it is the reason she books the same Eaden's delivery slot each week: Ryan, tall, tattooed and barely twenty and hers from 11 a.m. to noon on Wednesdays; the reason she swam when Jamie, a mere twenty-two and still boyishly beautiful, was on his lifeguard shift.