The Dare, page 14
Catherine was there, waiting for me, her eyes shining with admiration. ‘You did it, Ross! You actually did it!’
But it was all for nothing. Apart from the shock and a few bumps and bruises, Sue Molyneux was fine. She had to spend a few weeks on bed rest, but she didn’t lose the baby.
Afterwards, Catherine said I didn’t bowl into her hard enough.
PART TWO
* * *
‘There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said no. But somehow we missed it.’
Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
After Alice died and the Molyneuxs moved away, Catherine talked about finding them so many times. She’d never really forgiven me for messing up the first time. Because if things had gone according to plan, Lizzie Molyneux would never have been born and Alice might still be alive. It was a fantasy of hers – an obsession – and I went along with it because it kept her happy.
And because I was obsessed, too. With Catherine. I never thought for one moment that it would actually happen. As the years passed and we got on with our lives, the less we spoke of them. It seemed unlikely that we’d ever see or hear of the Molyneuxs again. I can’t tell you what a relief that was.
Sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, I remembered the words Catherine had written on that card, how we watched as the flame consumed each and every stroke of the pen. In my mind’s eye, I see her slender fingers close over the pile of grey ash in the palm of her left hand and I’m following her out of her bedroom and down the stairs all over again, across the yellowing lawn to the rough piece of dirt at the very end of the garden. Behind the swing chair.
Since I qualified as a doctor, Catherine and I had been drifting apart, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Part of me was relieved. I knew deep down that it wasn’t a healthy relationship, never had been. She represented the side of me I wanted to forget. But I couldn’t help feeling abandoned, too. She had this knack of making me feel like the little boy I once was. A sad, lost, angry little boy, craving love and attention. So when she phoned up out of the blue and wanted to catch up, I felt excited at the prospect of seeing her again.
She’d got her nursing qualification now, and she seemed different. More settled. I won’t lie – I couldn’t wait to hold her. To fuck her. She was the drug I couldn’t kick. I’d had other girlfriends over the years, but no one quite like Catherine. There’d never been anyone like Catherine.
I’d been making plans to visit a university pal at his parents’ bungalow on the east coast. They’d recently passed away within a couple of months of each other, and I said I’d go up and spend a few days with him, help him sort out their stuff. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, to be honest, but he was a friend and I didn’t like to say no. When I told Catherine where I was going, she invited herself along, too. The trip suddenly held more appeal. Catherine’s presence would, I thought, make the whole thing so much more bearable.
I should have realized straightaway that she had an ulterior motive. Should have guessed she’d never truly given up looking for the Molyneuxs. When she suggested the trip to Dovercourt, I’d assumed she just wanted to walk on the beach, but when we got there, she was more interested in the houses facing the sea than the sea itself. It wasn’t until we caught sight of Nigel Molyneux deadheading roses in a front garden that she finally came clean with me. Told me she’d been doing some sleuthing on the internet and that, voilà, her tenacity had finally paid off. Her face was jubilant.
I knew in that moment that it would all start up again, that it had never really stopped. And I knew, with a sinking sense of inevitability, that whatever she wanted me to do, I’d do it.
Like that first, dreadful dare.
But we were children then. This time, it was different.
35
I pat and smooth the pillows on the spare bed, hoping I won’t regret my generous impulse. Ross was a bit taken aback when I told him I’d offered Catherine our spare room. Almost angry. I know it was rash of me and that I should have spoken to him first, but after everything he’s said about me needing to move on from the past and how I ought to make more of an effort to be civil to her, I thought he’d be fine about it. In any case, it’s only for two weeks and it seems daft, her having to squeeze all her things into June’s one-bedroom flat and share a sofa with two long-haired cats, when we’re lucky enough to have this place all to ourselves.
I open the little wardrobe and count the hangers. I don’t expect Mum and Dad will be too pleased when I tell them. If I tell them. I haven’t made up my mind whether I will or not yet. It’ll be hard for them to understand how different Catherine is now. How much she’s changed. Besides, I’m still reeling from the revelation that not only did they use to know the Dawsons, they lived on the same estate, the same street. What else haven’t they told me?
I’ve always thought of my parents as allies, as friends. The two people who have my best interests at heart, whom I can turn to when I need help and support, or just want to talk things through. Maybe I feel this even more because of my epilepsy and the things we’ve gone through together. But the fact that they’ve lied to me all these years has changed how I feel about them. I still love them, of course I do, but something has shifted between us now.
I feel a slight flicker in my tummy. Is this what I think it is? Is it the baby moving? Fluttering its tiny limbs like the wings of a butterfly? I know it’s the most natural thing in the world, but it’s such a weird sensation. Instinctively, I cradle my belly with my hands and wait for it to happen again. When it does, it makes me giggle. It feels so alien.
This time next week, it’ll be my mid-pregnancy scan. I was pretty out of it during my first scan because they did it the night I had the seizure, so I’m really looking forward to this one. Ross has booked the morning off work to come with me. I can’t wait for us to get our first proper sight of her. Or him. Although I’m convinced it’s a girl. Sometimes you just know these things, don’t you? It’s intuition.
Catherine arrives about an hour after Ross gets home. He’s been on edge ever since he walked through the door and I’m beginning to realize my mistake. Home is Ross’s sanctuary after the stresses and strains of his working day. He likes to shower as soon as he gets in – to wash away the ‘stink of the day’, as he calls it. I think what he really means is the stink of the patients. He likes to change into something loose and comfortable. A pair of tracksuit bottoms or lounge pants and T-shirt. He’s obviously not pleased about having to share his personal space with a colleague, about her seeing him off-duty. It’s blurred the line he likes to draw between work and home. But it’s too late now. I’ve offered and she’s accepted. He’ll just have to put up with it.
By the time Catherine has emptied out her car, all the space between the front door and the stairs is taken up with bags, cases and boxes. I had no idea she’d have quite so much stuff.
‘Right,’ Ross says, grabbing hold of a purple hard-shell suitcase covered in stickers. ‘Let’s get this lot upstairs before one of us trips over.’
He looks, and sounds, distinctly pissed off and, though I understand why, I wish he’d be a little nicer. Poor Catherine looks embarrassed. Maybe she’s regretting it, too.
She takes a bag in each hand and follows him upstairs. By the time I’ve got hold of a few more items and am on my way up with them, she’s already deposited her first load and is coming back down for more.
‘Let me do this, please, Lizzie. I don’t want to put you guys out any more than I already have. I’m feeling bad about imposing on you like this.’
‘You’re not imposing on us at all. Is she, Ross?’
‘Of course not,’ he says, but his voice is clipped and he doesn’t smile when he says it.
Later, when Catherine is moving around upstairs in her room and Ross and I are in the kitchen, I tackle him about it.
‘Can’t you at least try to be a little friendlier?’ I say, taking the lasagne I made earlier out of the oven. ‘It can’t be easy for her, having to move in with us like this, playing the gooseberry in another couple’s life.’
‘That’s just it,’ he says under his breath. ‘She didn’t have to move in with us, did she? She could have stayed with June, like she’d planned.’
‘She’s allergic to cats,’ I tell him.
Catherine suddenly appears in the doorway. Neither of us heard her come downstairs. I hope to God she didn’t hear our conversation.
‘You made me jump,’ I say, and she laughs.
‘Sorry. At work they call me the Ninja Nurse.’
She takes the cutlery I pass over to her and sets it out on the table. ‘It’s so kind of you to make me supper, Lizzie,’ she says. ‘I really didn’t expect it.’
‘Well, I thought, seeing as it’s your first night …’
She smiles. ‘Thank you.’ She flashes an awkward glance at Ross. ‘I promise that, most of the time, you won’t even know I’m here.’
Oh no. She must have heard us talking just now.
Ross helps himself to a beer, takes a long, greedy pull at it as soon as he’s cracked it open. I don’t expect him to offer me one, because he knows I won’t drink it, but surely he’s going to offer Catherine one. He must see how rude it will seem if he doesn’t.
I give him a pointed look and, finally, he gets the message.
‘Thanks,’ she says, taking the bottle Ross has just opened and handed to her. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind. I don’t want to deprive a tired, thirsty doctor of his last beer.’
I laugh. ‘You won’t, don’t worry. He’s got a whole box of them in there.’
‘You not having one, Lizzie?’ she says, arching her eyebrows.
‘No, I don’t drink much, to be honest. Never have, and …’ I give Ross a sidelong glance and a little smile. ‘I guess there’s no point hiding it any more?’
Ross opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, then closes it again. I suppose I’ve already given the game away now.
Catherine’s about to bring the bottle of beer to her lips, but pauses midway. Her eyes widen. She looks from me to Ross and back to me again, her lips parting in surprise.
‘You’re not …?’
I nod, beaming. ‘We are. We’re having a baby.’
Catherine places her bottle on the counter and steps forward to give me a hug. ‘Congratulations, Lizzie! That’s fantastic news.’
She looks at Ross from under her eyebrows. ‘You kept that one under your hat, didn’t you, Dr Murray!’
Ross looks like a rabbit in headlights and I immediately regret blurting it out like that. But I refuse to spend my whole time worrying about his reaction to things. Besides, what difference does it make when we break the news? His colleagues are bound to find out sooner or later.
‘It was a bit of a surprise to us, too,’ he says. I wish he’d look a bit happier about it.
After supper, Catherine insists on loading the dishwasher while Ross and I sit on the sofa and watch a bit of telly.
I look at him sideways. He’s staring at the screen, seemingly engrossed, but somehow I sense that he’s not really watching it at all. He becomes aware of my gaze and gives me a quick glance.
‘I didn’t realize you were going to tell her tonight,’ he says. He sounds tense, as if I’ve done the wrong thing.
‘Nor did I, but it’s okay, isn’t it? You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Although it’s going to be a nightmare at work once this gets round. Everyone popping in to slap me on the back and make daft comments.’
I give his arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘At least you’ll get it over with.’ I kiss him on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you more warning. And I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before offering her a room. I’m too impulsive, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not. We’re just very different types of people, that’s all,’ he says, squeezing my hand. ‘It’s what makes us work.’
I snuggle into him. ‘Do you think she’ll come in here and watch telly with us?’
‘I hope not,’ he says.
I can’t help laughing at his hangdog face. ‘Two weeks will fly by, you’ll see.’
36
By the time I wake up, Ross has already left for work. I wish he wouldn’t do that, just go off without waking me.
Sunlight oozes in through a crack in the curtains and I find myself staring at a massive grey cobweb I’ve never noticed before. It swathes the corner of the ceiling above the wardrobe and has started to inch its way along the coving. I’ll have to try and get rid of it with a broom.
From somewhere in the house comes a faint murmuring. Ross must have forgotten to turn the TV off. I get up and make my way downstairs. My head feels fuzzy this morning. Ross was tossing and turning half the night and so I didn’t sleep particularly well either. He said he felt uncomfortable, knowing that Catherine was on the other side of our bedroom wall. He didn’t even want to make love, which is most definitely a first. Ross always wants to make love.
As I reach the bottom step and turn, a shape materializes at the end of the hall. For one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s an intruder. But it’s only Catherine. I thought she’d have left for work by now.
‘Morning,’ she says, in a cheerful, sing-song voice. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’ She laughs, prettily. ‘Told you I was a ninja.’
She’s carrying her breakfast into the living room. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve helped myself to cornflakes and coffee. I’ll buy my own food from now on, though. I don’t expect you to feed me as well as give me a roof over my head.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. And you’re very welcome to eat with us in the evenings if you want to.’
She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t. Last night was great, but I don’t always know what I’m going to be doing in the evenings and I don’t want to put you out.’
She settles herself on to the sofa, the bowl of cereal in her lap. I’d have probably sat up at the table if I were in her position – a guest in someone else’s house – but I don’t really mind. I like eating on the sofa, too. Always have done. Mum used to tut about finding crumbs down the sides of the cushions.
‘Alice used to love eating her breakfast in front of the telly,’ she says wistfully.
It still feels a bit awkward talking about Alice. Then again, Alice is the thread that connects us both, so it’s hardly surprising. And Catherine obviously feels comfortable talking about her.
‘Her favourite cereal was Rice Krispies,’ she says. ‘I used to tell her off for sticking her hand straight into the box and pulling out a handful to eat dry. Not that she ever took any notice.’
She does a sad little laugh. Then she gives me a quizzical look. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Lizzie, you look a bit tired this morning. Why don’t you sit down and let me make you a cup of tea and some toast?’
I shake my head, but she’s having none of it.
‘Look, you and Ross have been kind enough to let me stay. The very least I can do is bring you a cup of tea now and again.’
My shoulders soften. ‘I do feel rather grim this morning.’
Catherine tilts her head and looks at me from under her eyebrows in much the same way my mum does when she’s about to give me some advice. ‘You must listen to your body, Lizzie. It’s telling you to take it easy.’
‘Well, if you insist.’
‘I do. Now what do you want on your toast? Butter and jam? Marmalade? Poached egg?’
I smile. ‘Butter and jam will be fine. No work today, then?’
She puts her bowl of cereal on to the coffee table and gets up. ‘I’ve arranged to go in later this morning. I’ve been racing around all week. It’s nice to take things easy for once.’
By the time I’ve drunk my tea and eaten some toast, I’m feeling miles better.
‘So how many weeks pregnant are you?’ Catherine says. Her face is happy, animated.
‘Almost eighteen,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got another scan next week.’
‘Eighteen weeks already! Wow! You hardly show at all. I take it Ross will be going with you?’
I laugh. ‘He’d better!’ I tuck my legs under my bottom. ‘Yeah, he’s booked the time off from work already.’
‘I remember when Mum got pregnant with Alice, how excited I was. I kept looking at the black-and-white photo she brought back from the hospital and convincing myself the baby was waving.’
‘Do they still tell you what sex the baby is?’
‘Depends on the sonographer, I think. They tend not to, unless you ask them directly. Do you want to know, then?’
‘I think I already do know. I mean, obviously I don’t know for sure, but I have a strong feeling I’m going to have a girl.’
For some stupid reason my cheeks go red. It’s that survivor’s guilt thing I still carry around. The knowledge that I’m doing things Alice can’t. Catherine must have noticed because she gives me a sad little smile. ‘Do you ever wonder what Alice would be like, if she was still here?’
‘All the time,’ I say, determined not to cry but coming perilously close. ‘I think … I think she’d look a lot like you.’
Catherine looks pleased at this. She jumps up all of a sudden. ‘Wait here, I’ve got something to give you. I meant to do it last night, but what with your announcement …’
She runs upstairs and, when she comes down again, she has a small photo album with her. She leafs through it and holds it out towards me.
‘Do you remember this?’ she says.
I stare at the glossy photo and am instantly transported to that summer’s day in the garden at Riley Road. The day Mick Dawson took photos of us with his digital camera. In this one, Alice and I are eating lollipops, both of us doing silly poses, huge grins plastered all over our faces.
