Torn (5 page)

‘What about the New Year?' Sara, the nursery nurse asked.

‘I'm only going for five days. I'm flying back on the twenty-eighth.'

‘Which airport?'

‘Heathrow.'

‘Then you could stay on in London to celebrate. That's where I'm going. There's an all night party at the O2.'

‘No thanks, I'm coming straight home. Sounds like my idea of hell.'

‘It'll be totally awesome.'

‘It's not that I don't like parties, I'd just rather celebrate with people I know.'

Jess was struggling to fasten a tasselled curtain tieback around Rory's pot tummy. It unravelled and fell to the floor. Picking it up for the third time she brushed off the dust before winding it around her son again. ‘Keep still, darling.'

‘You all right with that?' Sheila asked.

‘I should be able to manage,' Jess said. ‘It's not like it's rocket science.'

‘But not your area of expertise. Can't expect a brainy mathematician to be any good at home-handicrafts.'

‘There, that's got it.' Jess straightened with a half sigh. ‘I'm not claiming my mother earth skills are very developed but I'll have you know I made his entire costume!'

While they'd been busy setting up the rows of chairs for the expected audience and putting the final touches to the set, Rory had been ‘helping'. This had involved a lot of excited racing around and getting in the way. Now that they were taking a breather and his simple, deckchair-striped shift had been securely tied around the middle, the significance of the occasion had begun to exert an influence on him.

‘Mummy, I'm bored,' he whined. ‘When's ‘tivity starting?'

‘When the others are here. Won't be long now. Why don't you make sure baby Jesus is all right?' Rory wandered unenthusiastically over to the crib.

‘Mathematician? What did you used to do?' Sara asked. Jess hated this question. Once upon a time, telling people she worked as a derivatives trader had met with an admiring, if sometimes mystified response. These days the response was more often hostile.

‘Jess was an expert in risk analysis and probability,' Sheila said. Even though the subject was an uncomfortable one, Jess bristled slightly at her friend's proprietary tone.

Sara puffed out her cheeks. ‘Yeah but, what does that mean? What did you do?'

Jess twisted the teacloth and corded circlet – destined for Rory's head. Even without the ill-informed prejudice against bankers, her particular area of expertise was hard to explain in straightforward, jargon-free terms. Conversations on the subject could become painfully convoluted.

‘It's all dreadfully complicated.' Sheila chipped in again. ‘You have to be brainy, like Jess here, to understand it.'

‘Hardly brainy. Some people are good at art or music. I just happen to be good with figures and perceiving patterns. It's a knack.' She raised her head and looked straight at Sara. ‘I worked for an investment bank, trading futures and options on the …'

Lynn interrupted. ‘Were you one of those hedge … whatever people?' Her eyes sparked. ‘The bastards who caused the credit crunch? My sister lost her house because of you lot!'

‘No. I wasn't a hedge-fund manager.' I'd be a lot better off now if I had been, she thought privately. ‘And you can't blame the bubble on their activities alone.' But she could tell by their blank faces there was no point. They had her down as greedy, grasping, and selfish. The atmosphere chilled and the subject was changed. The other helpers began talking amongst themselves about their plans for Christmas. But Sheila seemed determined to bring Jess back into the conversation.

‘And what are you planning to do at New Year, Jess?'

‘Me?' Jessica half laughed. She hadn't given it a thought. ‘I'm probably going to bed early and pulling the duvet over my head.'

‘You are joking! I'm not just going to party, I'm planning to get totally off my head! If you can't get totally rat-arsed on New Year's Eve, like, when can you?' Sara, who'd made the jarring remark, was a plump, fresh-faced child of no more than nineteen. How could Jess argue? If differently phrased it was a sentiment she might have expressed herself only a few years previously. And at the time she'd been quite a bit older than Sara was now. It was the arrival of Rory that had made all the difference. These days partying, and more importantly its association with intoxication in all its varying forms, had lost its appeal.

Sheila appeared not to have absorbed the nursery nurse's contribution, and the other helpers had moved away. She continued to stare at Jessica.

‘No! I won't let you! You're staying in over Christmas. You can't do the same on New Year's Eve! Surely you can appreciate the symbolic significance more than most? What better occasion to celebrate and affirm your new life?'

Taken aback by Sheila's vehemence, Jessica shook her head. The front door opened and Bianca, wearing her angel wings over her outdoor clothes, ran in, followed by her mother.

‘Symbolic or not, I've no idea where to go. I've had no invitations, let alone to a New Year party.'

Rory ran back and flung himself at her feet, arms twined round her ankles. ‘I want to go to ‘Year party!'

Jess sighed. ‘Don't be silly darling. Get up. You'll get your nice costume all dusty. Look, people are arriving. We've got to go and get ready now.'

Sheila ignored the interruption. ‘If you've nothing else on you must come out with me.'

‘Thanks Sheila, but it's all too complicated. What about you know who …' She tipped her head towards her child, who still knelt like a supplicant on the ground cuddling her knees. ‘Not to mention transport. Taxis are always booked months in advance for New Year and charge megabucks!'

‘There are always solutions,' Sheila said. ‘I'll look into it.'

‘But you don't even know what you're doing yourself.'

The door opened again and Sheila glanced towards it, then frowned. Jess turned to see Sasha, already in costume, skip in. The adult accompanying the little shepherd, an older woman whom Jess had seen with her before, was carrying a cat basket. Shaking her head, Sheila turned back.

‘I'll be going out somewhere on New Year's Eve and you're coming too. Trust me!' She turned to the rest of the room and clapped her hands. ‘Come on people. Time to start. Break a leg!'

In effect, the Nativity was just a series of
tableaux vivants
. Every child who wanted to be was involved. If there weren't enough major roles to be distributed then an extra shepherd, angel, or even sheep, could easily be incorporated. The costumes varied wildly from the finesse of something hired, through the lovingly home-crafted, to those quickly cobbled together by the nursery's helpers – a halo made from wire and tinsel, a paper crown from a cracker, or a cardboard mask topped with cotton wool which looked more like a dim-witted monkey than a sheep.

Amongst the ensemble of young actors there were eye-goggling grimaces, smiles, and giggles as some stood on tiptoe to spot family members in the audience – there was even the occasional, inhibited wave. Some fidgeted; some scratched nose or bottom. Others coughed and stared at the ceiling. Rory stood blankly with the group of other shepherds. He held his crook in one hand, while absently twisting the index finger of the other into his ear.

The first verse of a carol was sung to illustrate each scene. Sara started the backing-track and Sheila conducted from the front. Though initially they sang with gusto it was easy to become distracted. The pre-recorded children's choir gave the illusion they all remembered the words.

In Harry Potter glasses, King Herod wore a cardboard crown on hair more reminiscent of Christopher Robin than a middle-eastern monarch. He adopted a stern frown and shook his head emphatically at the wise men, who, headgear askew, dragged their cloaks behind them, like three versions of Dopey from
Snow White
. One of the shepherds sucked his thumb and another yawned widely despite the abrupt appearance of a flock of self-important angels.

The Virgin Mary adopted a reverential expression when receiving her visitors, then spoilt the effect by elbowing her husband when he threatened to up-stage her. Unabashed, the diminutive Joseph continued to grin, taut-cheeked at someone in the audience, the roundness of his face accentuated by his skinhead haircut and bat ears. Under a gaping dressing gown, his Manchester United shirt and red Wellingtons were all too visible.

Vetoing Rory's choice of Buzz Lightyear as a suitable gift for baby Jesus, Jess had chosen a once white teddy bear. In her eyes it adequately mimicked the grubby wool of a lamb as Rory marched forward, the bear held at arm's length. He squashed it into the crib beside the pink doll. The occupant of the cat basket had proved to be Bluebell, a white, lop-eared rabbit. The introduction of a live animal was worrying, but ‘Sasha was adamant', her granny had said, with a helpless shrug.

Thankfully, Bluebell proved placid. But for Sasha, the animal was heavy. And having struggled to carry him that far, she pushed in front of Rory and unceremoniously dropped the rabbit into the crib. Then she gazed at the audience, vigorously scratching her head through her striped tea cloth headdress. Apparently unperturbed by his rough treatment, the rabbit investigated the other occupants of the crib but, finding nothing edible tucked away in the nooks and crannies of pink plastic and fuzzy nylon, gave up and also stared out at the audience, nose twitching. The Virgin tilted up her nose at the laughter.

There was a sudden loud clatter as a toddler in the audience dropped the key ring with which its parent had tried to distract it. A baby started to cry. The cast began to sing ‘Away in a Manger'. A hinged bookcase, that usually partitioned the chill-out corner from the rest of the nursery, was in use today as a screen between the stage and the side door. Jess peeped out from behind it. Women made up the majority of the small audience, some with young toddlers, some with babies, a few ‘mad women' with both. She recognised most of the faces, but alongside them quite a few men had also made the effort to attend. Did she envy these women the support of their children's fathers? It all depended who the father was, she decided.

She stiffened. Standing at the back of the room and instantly recognisable was the man from the hill. It was apparent he'd made more of an effort with his appearance. His hair was combed, he was apparently shaved, and, as far as she could see, he was wearing a respectable jacket. Turning to the audience, Sheila and the cast took their bows to enthusiastic applause. She thanked everyone for their help and support. Called on once again to assist several small and very hyper actors to change back into their everyday clothes, it dawned on Jess that the man who had verbally abused her and Rory was almost certainly the father of one of these children.

The New Year party had been thrown by one of Sheila's many friends, Rosemary.

‘Her divorce has just been finalised,' Sheila said. ‘She wants to celebrate.'

There were two decidedly separate age ranges at the party. The forty-somethings, in which group there was a majority of women, and the rest, friends and contemporaries of Emma, Rosemary's nineteen-year-old daughter.

Jessica, who fitted neither age group, had come with four mature women all squashed into a Micra belonging to Camilla, a non-drinking friend of Sheila's. Most of the older women were wearing outfits from the spangly range brought out by most department stores for the festive season. The younger girls were in tiny, lace-trimmed dresses with bootlace straps, worn with flat ankle boots or vertiginously high stilt-heeled shoes with stacked soles. A few were more ‘alternatively' attired in long tiered skirts, floppy blouses, scarves, and shawls. She looked down ruefully at her own dress.

Despite her misgivings Jess had begun to feel a growing fizz of anticipation at the prospect of a party – but it was a fizz tempered by a continuing concern over Rory. Somehow Sheila had procured him an invite to a sleepover, where several of the nursery school children were spending the night. The event had been sold to him as the much desired ‘Year party'. He had yet to form a firm friendship with any of the children at Cherubs. And, though dry at night, he was still occasionally waking up. Jess didn't know how he would react to finding himself in the dark, in a strange house without Mummy or even a close buddy. But Alison, who was laying on the event, knew this and seemed willing to take on the responsibility. Phone numbers had been exchanged. If all went well Rory was to be picked up around lunchtime the next day.

She'd tried to push her anxiety to the back of her mind as she got ready. Even though she didn't expect much of the evening, the revelries ahead offered the first opportunity for several years for her to dance, flirt, and drink without conscience. The Nicole Farhi dress had been lovingly unveiled from its polythene cover and layers of tissue. She loved the feeling of it as it shivered down over her skin. Around her shoulders she pulled on a lacy shrug and eased her small feet into a pair of highly expensive sandals.

These items and quite a few others had been bought just before leaving London. It wasn't as if she needed them. Her wardrobe was already full to bursting. Would she ever have the occasion to wear such clothes in the depths of the country where she was headed? But need had nothing to do with retail therapy. She wanted them and would have felt miserable and deprived if she'd denied herself. Whether it would prove worth it or not, this evening was the perfect occasion to dress up. With her new haircut, make-up carefully applied, an emerald nose stud, and a delicate necklace round her throat, she felt feminine and desirable.

Fat lot of good feeling desirable, she now thought, as she appraised the men. None was attractive, let alone available – the women they'd arrived with would be bound to keep a close rein on their partners at an event where men were in the minority. Anyway, they were either a bit too mature, or were still boys. Jessica reminded herself she'd had no expectations of this evening and was definitely not on the look-out for amorous encounters.