The Secrets She Keeps, page 12
I look past her at my reflection in the mirror. The only time I see my toes is at these yoga classes.
“Now take one hand to your precious baby, the other hand to your heart. Allow your lungs to expand and gently draw your baby towards you like you’re giving him or her a hug.”
I like these sessions—the stretching bits and meditation, not the new-age babble about self-exploration, emotional balance, or surrendering to a higher being. The trick, I’ve decided, is to add the science and subtract the spiritual.
“Inhaaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaaale. Two more breaths . . . that’s right . . . now come back to center and get on all fours for a prenatal sun salutation.”
On my hands and knees, I feel more like a cow than ever. I look past my bump and notice Agatha at the back of the class. I give her a little wave. She smiles nervously.
“One arm to the leg, the other behind you. Innnhaaaling and exxxhaaaaling. Keep moving with the breath. Your body is bedding down your baby and creating a beautiful home.”
I roll my eyes and Agatha copies me.
I look for her after the class. She’s brushing her hair and pulling it into a ponytail.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” I say.
“I try to hide at the back,” she replies.
We’re both wearing the same brand of leggings and sports top. “We could be twins,” I say.
“Except I do yoga like a hippo.”
She’s funny. “How about that coffee?” I ask.
“Me?”
“Sure. My treat. It’s the least I can do after you found Lachlan.”
“He was never really missing,” Agatha says. “He was always safe . . . in the storeroom.”
“I know, but I still don’t understand how the door locked behind him.”
“No,” says Agatha, who changes the subject. “Let’s have coffee at Gail’s—unless you want to go somewhere else.” She looks at me hopefully.
“No, I love Gail’s.”
We grab our bags and push through the swinging doors. Clusters of women are chatting on the footpath, dangling keys from manicured fingers. Across the road the river smells of low tide and fat-bottomed boats are marooned on the mud, canted drunkenly sideways. Turning onto Barnes High Street, we pass rows of specialty shops, boutiques, and property agencies. The butcher waves to me. A school mother smiles and nods.
“You seem to know everyone,” says Agatha.
“It’s a village,” I say, “but there isn’t much privacy.”
At the café we decide to sit inside, out of the cold wind. Automatically, the conversation turns to babies. What else is there when we’re both so near? Pregnancy. Prenatal classes. Obstetricians. Pain relief.
“I’m booked in for a cesarean,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll tear again.”
“Tear?”
“Down there.” I motion to my lap. “Lucy and Lachlan had big heads and I have a small pelvis.”
Agatha grimaces.
“You’ll be fine. It’s amazing how far we women can stretch.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Christ, yes! But you forget about that afterwards. That’s why we do it all over again.”
“So you know the day?”
“December seventh.”
“How long will you be in hospital?”
“Four or five days.” I pour my peppermint tea. “Where are you having yours? Wait! You told me. Leeds.”
“My mother lives there. She’s going to be with me.”
“So there’s no chance your fiancé can get home?”
Agatha shakes her head. “I’ll make sure there are lots of photographs.”
“It’s not the same thing though, is it?” I say. “When Lucy was born, Jack said he wanted to stay at the top of the bed, holding my hand because he didn’t want to see the ‘business end,’ but when push came to shove—and I mean that literally—he was down there, giving me a blow-by-blow account. He called it like a penalty shootout at the World Cup.”
Agatha laughs. She has a pretty face and a bashful smile, as though embarrassed or fearful of making a mistake. She asks me how I met Jack and how long we’ve been married. Like everyone else, she seems impressed that he works on TV.
“It’s not as glamorous as you think,” I say. “He’s away most weekends and he missed our last two wedding anniversaries because of European Cup qualifiers. My birthday falls during the Tour de France, so he misses that as well.”
“How long does he go away?”
“Three weeks for the tour. I get boozy telephone calls from French bars or bistros every night.”
“Men have no idea,” says Agatha, whose sweater is covered in pastry crumbs. “Do you ever worry about him being away from home—all the temptation?”
“I used to,” I say, “but he’s a keeper.”
I sound confident, but occasionally I have pictured Jack partying with those skimpily clad models in Lycra shorts and sponsors’ T-shirts who stand on the podium with the stage winners. I don’t say this to Agatha (I’ve never said it to Jack), but I know he loves me.
“Is he excited about the baby?” asks Agatha.
“It took him a while.”
“Why?”
“This is our oops baby. We hadn’t planned on having another one.”
“Really?”
Agatha seems surprised by the news. We order more drinks and keep talking.
“How about you?” I ask. “Where did you go to school?”
“Leeds, mainly,” she says, “but really all over the place. I ran away from home when I was fifteen.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t get on with my stepfather.”
“Did you go back?”
“I went into foster care.”
“But your mother . . . ?”
“We’re friends now.”
“What about after school?”
“I went to secretarial college,” says Agatha, making it sound very underwhelming. “But I did once do a course to become a makeup artist. Mostly I did weddings and parties.”
“Anyone famous?”
“God, no! I’ve never met anyone famous—not like you.”
“What makes you think I’ve met famous people?”
Agatha’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. There is an awkward pause.
“Jack works in TV . . . I just assumed,” she mumbles.
I laugh, hoping she might relax. “I used to work for a magazine. I once interviewed Jude Law.”
“What was he like?” asks Agatha.
“Very handsome and very cheeky.”
“Did he flirt with you?”
“I think maybe he did.”
“He fancied you?”
“He wouldn’t look twice at me now.”
AGATHA
* * *
I marvel at how Meg can transform herself from a ponytailed, Lycra-clad gym bunny into a sophisticated, modern wife and mother. Next to her I feel as clumsy and frumpy as a pantomime horse. Meg ordered the peppermint tea and a fruit salad—the healthy choice. I chose a large cappuccino and a chocolate éclair that has flaked all over my sweater, which is knitted from such wiry wool that it foils any attempt to brush the crumbs away.
“It’s so nice to see someone enjoy her food,” says Meg, not meaning to tease me.
“I’m such a klutz.”
“So am I.”
“No you’re not.”
“You would be amazed at how much baby food I managed to get in my hair.”
“Yes, but that’s not your fault.”
A trio of teenage schoolgirls pass the café wearing lip gloss and eyeliner and their skirts rolled up an inch or two, showing off their legs.
“I used to have a body like that,” says Meg, sounding mournful.
“Lucky you.”
“Shush. I think pregnancy suits you,” she says.
“That’s because I’ve grown into my body,” I reply. “Right now I feel decidedly unsexy and un-lusted after.”
“I don’t think un-lusted is a word.”
“You know what I mean.”
Meg keeps asking me questions and I swing between the truth and lies, rarely answering her directly. Lying comes very naturally to me, while the truth is awkward and uncomfortable, like ill-fitting shoes. It’s not that I set out to be manipulative or cunning, and the lies I tell others are nothing compared to the ones I tell myself.
Meg talks about growing up in Fulham and going to a private girls’ school in Hammersmith.
“Any brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“A sister—Grace. How about you?”
“I did have a half brother, but he died when he was five.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed in a car accident.”
“That’s terrible. How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
Meg tells me more about Grace, making her out to be a rebel. I’m expected to disclose similar intimacies about my upbringing. Why do casual conversations inevitably turn to childhood? I know that friends share memories like this, but why should I have to reveal details of siblings, punishments, pets, holidays, hijinks, broken bones or broken hearts or who has the craziest mother?
“What about you, Agatha?” she asks. “What do you do in your spare time?”
I laugh nervously. “My life is boring.”
“People who say that always have the best stories.”
“Not me.”
I try to deflect her again. Meg notices. I don’t want her thinking I’m secretive.
“I was married once,” I say, and begin telling her about Nicky. “It lasted five years but didn’t work out.”
“Are you still friends?”
“He sends me a Christmas card every year.”
“And you didn’t have children?”
My eyes swim and the café blurs. I lower my head, unable to get the words out.
“I’ve upset you,” says Meg. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault,” I say. “I thought after all this time . . .” I don’t finish. Start again. “We lost a baby—a little girl—I miscarried at five months.”
“That’s awful.”
“It shouldn’t still affect me, but it does.”
“You didn’t try again?” she asks. Something instantly comes alert inside me. I’ve revealed too much. Shared truths that will make it harder.
Meg seems to sense my disquiet. “Well, that’s all in the past. Now you have a fiancé and a baby on the way.” She smiles. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”
“Not yet. Maybe next summer.”
“Perfect.”
“We’re thinking of honeymooning in Tahiti,” I add, hoping to impress her.
“I hear the South Pacific is beautiful.”
“We’re going to get a bungalow on the beach and live like natives.”
“How romantic,” says Meg. “Lucky you.” Her face suddenly lights up as though she’s had a brilliant idea. “What are you doing now?”
“What?”
“Right now.”
“Nothing.”
“You should come home with me. I have boxes and boxes of baby clothes to sort through—far more than I need. Please take some.”
“I don’t need clothes.”
“At least have a look. Some of them are brand new. I get free samples because of my blog.”
“What blog?”
“I write a little mummy blog about being pregnant and bringing up kids. Come back to the house. I’ll make lunch. You can help me decide what to keep.”
Outside the sky has darkened and the wind picked up, snapping at the canvas awnings and rattling windows. Fat drops begin dotting the pavement.
“I don’t have an umbrella,” says Meg.
“Neither do I.”
“We’ll have to run for it.”
I laugh. “Are you serious? We’re in no condition to run.”
“Waddle, then.”
Meg runs ahead of me, holding her gym bag over her head as the rain gets heavier, falling in sheets. Shoppers are sheltering in doorways and unfurling umbrellas.
Laughing and splashing through puddles, she yells, “The house isn’t far.”
If I run too quickly I’m worried my belly will slip or the elastic backing will stretch.
By the time I arrive at the house, Meg has unlocked the front door and kicked off her shoes. She gets two large towels from the linen cupboard. Giggling like schoolgirls, we dry our hair. Meg looks like a fair-haired Andie MacDowell in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I look like Janet Leigh in Psycho before the knife starts shredding the shower curtain.
I pull off my sodden sweater and notice my long-sleeved top is clinging to me like a second skin, revealing the outline of the prosthetic belly where it wraps around my back. A breath catches in my throat. I hold the towel against me.
“Do you have any dry clothes I could borrow?”
“You bet. Come upstairs.”
I let Meg go first. I don’t want her seeing me from behind. I know the layout of the house. The main bedroom is on the second floor, overlooking Cleveland Gardens. Meg opens her wardrobe and collects leggings and sweaters. Without a moment’s hesitation she peels off her gym top. Her swollen belly is silhouetted in the light from the window. She unhooks her sports bra and turns towards me. I notice her linea nigra, the slight discoloration of her skin that runs from above her navel to her pubic bone. Her nipples are the same color.
“Get changed before you die of cold,” she says.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
She points to the bathroom. I scoop up the dry clothes and shut the door behind me.
Meg calls out. “I’m sorry, Agatha, I should have asked. I’m always getting my kit off in front of other women at the gym.”
“That’s all right,” I reply.
“It’s almost like I want to show off,” she says. “God knows why.”
“I’m the opposite,” I say, yelling through the closed door. I take off my wet clothes, trying not to look at myself in the mirror. I quickly get dressed, making sure the prosthetic is fitted properly. I’m taking too long.
“Is everything OK?” asks Meg.
“Fine.”
“Do you need a hairdryer?” she yells.
“No. I’m OK.”
“Well, I’m just going up to the attic to get the baby clothes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Once she’s gone, I open the bathroom cabinet and look through Meg’s moisturizer and night creams, making a mental note of the brands. She and Jack have matching electric toothbrushes. Back in the main bedroom, I open drawers, looking at Meg’s lingerie and underclothes. Tucked at the very back of her knicker drawer, I discover a small pink vibrator in a velvet pouch. Cute. Sexy. Modern.
Wandering along the landing, I come to the nursery, which smells of fresh paint. Admiring the furnishings and stencils, I sit in the rocking chair and pivot back and forth, imagining that I’m nursing my baby.
Meg calls me to come downstairs. She is warming a quiche in the oven and has made a salad. Once we’ve eaten, we spend two hours sorting through boxes of clothes, styling baby outfits and mentally playing dress-up. Meg talks about making friends and choosing the right day nursery and primary school.
“Does Lucy like St. Osmund’s?” I ask.
“How do you know she’s going there?”
“I’ve seen her school uniform.”
“You’ve seen Lucy.” Meg frowns.
“I’ve been working at the supermarket, remember? I’ve seen you coming and going with Lucy and Lachlan. I didn’t know their names, of course. But if I’m right, Lachlan has a brightly colored scooter and Lucy likes her hair in space buns.”
“She wants to be Princess Leia.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t you ever watch Star Wars?”
“A long while ago.”
Meg looks at her mobile. “Speak of the little devils—I have to pick them up.”
The rain has stopped. My wet clothes have been tumble-dried. Baby clothes are neatly folded in polished paper bags. Meg walks me to the front door.
“When are you going up north?”
“Next week.”
“Will I see you before then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have my phone number. Here’s my email.” She writes her address on a scrap of paper.
We hug. Our bellies bump.
“If I don’t see you—best of luck,” Meg says.
“You too.”
“Send me pictures.”
“OK.”
She stands at the door and waves good-bye. I walk along the road, not looking back but wanting to. I knew Meg and I would be friends. I kept picturing us together, playing tennis and organizing picnics and discussing what schools the kids should attend.
At the same time, I have to be careful because nothing is sewn up, or surefire, or open and shut. It’s not over until the fat lady has a baby.
MEGHAN
* * *
“I made a friend today,” I say.
Jack is sitting on the bed, lacing up his tennis shoes. He and Simon have booked a court at the Roehampton Club.
“Someone in my yoga class.”
“So she’s pregnant.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re like the mummy whisperer.” Jack chuckles. “You attract them with that blog of yours.”
“They’re not friends—they’re followers.”
“Disciples, you mean.”
Jack has no idea about social media and the difference between friends, followers, “likes,” and subscribers. He checks the grip of his tennis racket and practices his forehand.
“So who is she?”
“She works at the supermarket.”
He looks surprised.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Your usual friends don’t work in supermarkets.”
“Agatha is refreshingly down-to-earth and she makes me laugh. I thought I might introduce her to my mothers’ group.”
“The coven?”
“Very funny. This is her first baby and her fiancé is away at sea.”
