Home Truths Page 19

  It sounded slightly unsavoury to Fen and she conjured an image of batik wall hangings, dog-eared posters of Jim Morrison, a chaotic fridge, forgotten washing-up and contrasting music reverberating from each room. She shuddered at her thought of what the bathroom might be like.

  ‘It's not studenty,’ Al was saying, as if sensing Fen's reservations. ‘we're all a bit obsessed with cleaning, actually. It's a gorgeous house – all polished floors and high ceilings. It belongs to Jed's parents. They're collectors. Anyway, what have you been up to? How's your kid?’

  Fen detested children being referred to as kids. ‘She's wonderful,’ she smiled suddenly missing Cosima terribly. What was she meant to say now? What had she been up to? Was Al really remotely interested in her daily grind of cleaning and tidying, of wiping bottoms and shovelling organic mush into a little mouth, of stocking the fridge and socializing with people to keep herself from going mad? She doubted it. And she was hardly likely to tell him all about the Mother, the Uncle, their Affair and her Half Sister. In an instant Fen assessed that for this afternoon to work, for it to have the function she hoped for, truth and veracity were not essential. ‘I've been bloody busy,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I'm planning to go back to work.’

  You are?

  No.

  ‘Work?’ asked Al. ‘What do you do?’

  Fen reckoned ‘archivist’ sounded dull but ‘art historian’ sounded pompous. ‘I lecture,’ she embellished, ‘in art.’

  ‘Wow! Where?’

  ‘Oh, the Tate usually,’ she said with nonchalance, ‘the Courtauld.’ Partly true. She'd studied at the Courtauld and had frequently given talks as a student to people visiting the Institute's collection.

  ‘What do you lecture about?’ Al seemed impressed and genuinely interested.

  ‘The European Rappel à l'Ordre of the post-war years,’ Fen announced elaborately, simply repeating the title of one of her undergraduate courses, ‘and Fetherstone too.’

  ‘Who's Fetherstone?’ Al asked, endearingly sheepish.

  ‘A student of Rodin. Late nineteenth, early twentieth century,’ Fen discoursed. ‘Famous – or notorious – for his exquisite feel for form, his intensely erotic subject matter.’

  ‘Cool!’ Al marvelled, his pupils dilating as he hung on Fen's words and gazed at her lips. ‘I'll have to come along to a lecture, then.’ Fen tossed her head and laughed and told herself to go easy with the exaggeration and embellishment. Instead, she turned to questioning him, flattering him, expressing great interest in all he said. And she took to touching his arm at times when he made her laugh. And laughed in excess of the cause. And licked her lips becomingly every time she sipped her wine. And lowered her eyes at opportune moments. And pouted now and then.

  ‘Do you have to get back?’ Al asked her eventually. ‘To your kid?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fen, with a shrug.

  ‘Who's looking after her? Do you have a nanny?’

  ‘No,’ said Fen, ‘my sister is.’

  Al drained his beer glass. ‘Is it tough? Being a single parent?’

  Something Fen couldn't pinpoint, and hadn't the time to analyse, made her not jump to Matt's defence. It occurred to her only then that Al had never asked about the father of her child. But there again, she didn't wear a wedding ring and She'd never mentioned Cosima's father. Why wouldn't he suppose she was a single mother? Fundamentally, why would a mother in a relationship take up an invitation for afternoon wine, flirting and flattery in a bar? She wondered what to do. To whom did she have the greater duty to set the record straight – Al? Matt? Herself? Cosima?

  But can't I just play a while longer? I'm not ready to go home. It's fun, liberating. It's just harmless acting. It's not like I'm telling lies. Or doing anything wrong.

  ‘No, It's not tough,’ Fen finally answered Al. ‘I'm very close with my sisters. I have two.’

  Al nodded. ‘Shall we meet again?’ he said.

  Fen looked at him. It was all appealing and a little dangerous and all the more tempting for it. ‘But I'm a frumpy old mum!’ she protested with a winsome pout and a flutter of her eyelashes. ‘I'm almost thirty-four!’

  Al shrugged. His eyes sparkled. ‘I think You're cool,’ he said. ‘I think It's sexy that You're a mum.’

  ‘I'll call you – when I'm not so madly busy,’ Fen all but purred, standing, leaning to kiss him on the cheek and making sure her lips just caught the side of his mouth in the process.

  Al didn't say anything in response. But his eyes followed her as she left the bar.

  He's looking at my bottom, she thought, unsure whether to enhance her wiggle or screen it with her handbag. He gave her a wry, desirous smile when she turned to wave before she sashayed away.

  No one has called me sexy for ages. I can't even tell if I actually fancy Al – but I am turned on by the fact that he fancies me.

  With a spring to her step, a sexy sway to her stride, she grinned her way along the King's Road, tossing her head and tempering her smile into a pout every now and then. She felt like pouting, she felt coquettish. Someone found her sexy. How thrilling! She enjoyed catching sight of herself in the shop windows. Oh look, here's Whistles. And look at that divine dress.

  Did she dare?

  Yes she did.

  She didn't have to spend money to waste time, or spend time to waste money. She could just try something on, take window-shopping one logical stage further. Flushed with anticipation, Fen headed to the changing cubicles.

  She was crestfallen. How stupid had she been? It was as if her trip away from home to an area far from her stamping ground, her shrug from responsibilities, had falsely invested her self-image with extra inches in height and fewer pounds in weight.

  Nothing bloody fitted.

  She denounced herself for being too round of figure and too square of image. She felt she looked ridiculous. The confines of the clothing made her feel saggy and squidgy and unrefined. And so she stood; horror-stuck in the cubicle, clammy and depressed, confronting all the bumps she could see and a fair few she imagined.

  ‘I'm fine!’ she all but yelled to the sales assistant hovering.

  What Fen couldn't see was that if she tried a larger size, just one size up, She'd look wonderful. She couldn't see that the dress suited a fuller figure anyway. Designers Don't want bagginess in a forties-style tea dress; the cut craves curves and the material needs undulations to flow to its best advantage. But Fen was defiant that once a size 10, always a size 10. And if she didn't fit a size 10, she simply wouldn't be able to have the bloody dress.

  If nurturing a foetus required padding to the hips, surely running around after a baby should take it off again? If hormones had encouraged her ribcage to expand during pregnancy, then why hadn't hormones shrunk it back to normal after the birth? Ten and a half sodding months after the birth. Standing there, she scowled at her reflection, rounding her shoulders and relaxing her belly to compound her fears and loathe herself more. She felt resentful and out of sorts and dreaded leaving the changing room, the sparkle of the shop, the clear light of day.

  I'm not sure it should be the fit of frock that makes you loathe yourself, Fen.

  Seeds Not Sown

  ‘Give us a hug,’ Pip cooed and clucked. She scooped up her niece and pretended to gobble her cheeks. The baby giggled. Pip gobbled some more. ‘You are scrumptious,’ she said, ‘but we'd better think of something to do before I eat you up.’ Pip and the baby regarded one another, as if considering various options. ‘I know,’ said Pip, ‘how about we pop over to Auntie June and save her the journey here?’ Cosima didn't appear to object. ‘She left a message to say Tom had left his cricket stuff there, which he'll need for tomorrow.’

  For June and Pip, Zac had swiftly ceased to become part of their equation. June didn't think of Pip as the wife of her ex who was the father of her child; Pip had no issue with June being the woman with whom Zac had a baby. Not for June or Pip the dropping-off of Tom with cordiality. Sharing Tom was easy because t
he women liked each other; to some extent, Tom was both central and yet oddly irrelevant to their friendship.

  June cooed over Cosima, marvelled at how much the baby had grown, in much the same way as Pip fussed over June's bump. ‘It's not so much a bump,’ Pip said, ‘It's a perfect medicine ball. So neat!’

  ‘I'm enormous,’ June remonstrated, ‘and I still have eight weeks to go.’

  ‘You're gorgeous,’ said Pip wistfully.

  ‘I think I'm practically due on Cosima's first birthday,’ June said.

  ‘Well, We'll cancel the clown if needs be,’ Pip said, ‘and relocate the party to the labour ward.’

  ‘Or I could just set up my birthing pool in Fen's back bedroom,’ June said.

  ‘Are you going for a water birth?’ Pip asked.

  ‘You must be joking,’ June said. ‘I'm going private this time so I can have all the fancy drugs available. I Don't do pain.’

  ‘Listen to you,’ Pip chided in jest.

  ‘Believe me,’ June said, ‘Tom's birth was a nightmare. This time, I Don't want plinky plinky music, whale song and yoga – I just want drugs.’

  Pip glanced from June's bulge to Cosima and back again.

  I wonder what sort of birth I'd go for?

  ‘Do you ever think about it?’ June asked.

  ‘About?’ Pip busied herself fussing over Cosima.

  ‘About having a baby,’ June said.

  ‘Zac loves having just Tom,’ Pip said.

  ‘But That's not what I meant,’ June persisted.

  Pip wasn't sure if she wanted to answer fully or not. ‘Sometimes,’ she said. June said nothing. ‘Recently?’

  June clapped her hands and grinned. ‘And?’

  ‘Zac loves having just Tom,’ Pip reiterated.

  ‘Have you asked Zac?’ June asked.

  Pip shrugged. ‘Sort of,’ she said. June looked confused. ‘I think he thought I was joking. And then I think he thought I was drunk. And ultimately I think he thinks I'm barking.’

  ‘Well, he sounds complacent,’ said June. ‘You should keep the pressure on – you'll make a great mum.’

  ‘I hate confrontation,’ Pip said, ‘and anyway, It's probably just a hormonal thing.’

  ‘You know what,’ said June, ‘You're right It's probably hormonal but I for one think it'll be a shame if you let it pass.’

  Pip wanted to cry. This was the first She'd said out in the open and it was being met with such tender but unswerving support it was rather overwhelming. ‘The thing is,’ she said tentatively, ‘since the woman who is my mother barged back in, I've had something of a confidence crisis. Am I fit to be a mother? Say there's some rogue part of our DNA that dictates otherwise.’

  ‘Rubbish, Pip,’ June said, not intending to sound so sharp but she was beginning to feel a little tired. ‘Look at Fen – She's a fabulous mum. Your mother – literally – has nothing to do with you. I think you should go for it. And I think when that stuffy old accountant comes home all hassled from work tonight, you meet him in an outrageous negligee and you demand that he impregnate you with his finest.’

  Pip looked utterly disconcerted.

  ‘Believe me,’ June continued, ‘and It's not because I'm an over-heating, hyper-hormoned pregnant woman. Well, perhaps it is – but That's no bad thing. But what I want to say is this – that urge to breed is one you must heed. Breeding is your raison d'être, Pip, It's your right.’

  Pip pushed Cosima's buggy along Hampstead High Street. It was a glorious day and She'd toyed with the notion of taking the picnic blanket and lolling about on the Heath. But what swung it for the High Street were the shops. The shops provided one thing that the Heath didn't. Windows. And reflections. And every shop she passed boasted back an image of Pip pushing a buggy. It was visible proof, as if it was needed, that it suited her. She proudly told the first admirer that Cosima was her niece. But when the sales assistant in BabyGap cooed over Cosima and asked Pip how old her daughter was, Pip told her ten months and agreed with the assistant that she was quite the most beautiful baby girl in the world.

  And Cosima ate everything Pip offered her, even if it wasn't orange.

  And Pip could soothe the baby's tears quickly.

  And Cosima needed minimal lulling to drift off to a lovely afternoon nap. She didn't need her Elvis for Babies CD which Fen had packed, nor flopsy bunny. A personalized rendition of ‘I Had a Little Nut Tree’ from Pip was all it took.

  Pip let the answering machine take the call because she and Cosima were engrossed in Teletubbies and something extraordinary with the Tubby Custard machine was about to befall Po.

  ‘Shall I pick it up?’ Tom asked, looking up from his maths homework.

  ‘That's OK,’ said Pip. ‘You crack on with your work, young man.’

  It was Fen leaving a message to say she was running late and how sorry she was but She'd had a lovely day and would be there soon.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Pip to Cosima, ‘you can have tea with Tom.’

  ‘Am I her big cousin?’ Tom asked because he was stuck with his maths but knew that Pip was no use to him whatsoever. ‘Am I her big cousin officially? Or am I a step-cousin twice removed or something?’

  Pip paused. ‘Well, let's work this out. I think You're her step first cousin.’

  ‘Will my new brother or sister be her step second cousin, then?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, I Don't think They'll be cousins at all.’

  Tom looked perplexed. This was becoming more complicated than the maths homework. ‘Of course they will!’ he declared. ‘It's all about family.’

  ‘If I had a baby, then the baby and Cosima would be full cousins. I have you which makes you half a full first cousin. Step.’ Pip and Tom looked at each other, brows furrowed. ‘Or something!’ Pip said and they laughed.

  ‘Why do babies like eating such weird things?’ Tom asked.

  Pip looked over to Cosima who was sucking the remote control. ‘Shit – That's Bang & Olufsen.’

  ‘You said “Shit”!’ Tom whispered, impressed.

  ‘Don't tell your father,’ Pip warned him.

  ‘If you had a baby, I'd have two half brothers or sisters, wouldn't I?’ Tom mused. ‘I'd have brothers and sisters from all directions. That would be funny.’

  Pip couldn't think how to respond. ‘Why Don't you have one, then? With my dad,’ asked Tom. Pip couldn't think how to respond, but Tom seemed happy to wait. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘because he hasn't asked me.’

  ‘Why Don't you ask him?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I half have,’ Pip admitted and wondered if she should now backtrack.

  ‘I'm getting confused with all these halfs,’ Tom laughed. ‘Me too,’ agreed Pip.

  Fen appeared slightly flustered when she arrived to collect Cosima, mumbling something about wanting to die in Whistles.

  ‘But how were the flowers?’ Pip asked. ‘Can you now tell your larkspur from your delphinium?’

  ‘What? Oh. The show. Was – great,’ said Fen, ‘huge. Amazing.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Pip asked. ‘Want a cuppa?’

  ‘I'm just a bit – stressed,’ said Fen, looking very discomfited. ‘You know – Tubes and rush hour and escalators that aren't working.’

  ‘Welcome back to the real world,’ Pip laughed.

  ‘To think I did the rush-hour thing every day,’ Fen remembered. ‘Madness.’

  ‘Would you like that cuppa?’

  ‘we'd better go – Cosima needs her supper.’

  ‘We fed her!’ Tom announced, triumphant. ‘She had scrambled eggs just like me!’

  ‘Scrambled eggs?’ Fen looked at Pip.

  ‘Was that OK? The eggs are free range.’

  ‘Well – yes. But did she eat?’

  ‘The lot!’ Pip said.

  Momentarily, Fen felt put out, having had limited success with scrambled eggs. ‘Organic milk?’ she asked shyly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Pip.

  ‘You're a star,’ said Fen looking at
her sister with affection and at her baby with pride.

  ‘Any time,’ said Pip.

  ‘You're a super star,’ Fen said, wondering if Pip really meant it when She'd said, ‘Any time.’

  Zac returned to find his wife and son embroiled in a backgammon tournament; a pile of pennies at Tom's side and a fraught expression etched on Pip's face.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said, scanning his son's impressive defence and two of Pip's counters desperate for access.

  ‘Six, two,’ Pip muttered at the roll of the dice. ‘Blast and double blast, I can't bloody move!’

  ‘That's her fourth “bloody”, Dad!’ Tom informed Zac, Pip's language obviously giving him far more pleasure than his victories or winnings.

  ‘I'd say a “bloody” is worth 10p, Tom,’ Zac said, taking off his jacket, loosening his tie, opening his post. ‘How's your mum?’

  ‘She's like a great big beached whale,’ said Tom, rather proudly.

  ‘Tom!’ Pip and Zac remonstrated.

  ‘But she says so,’ Tom protested, as if it were a standard description of her particular stage of gestation.

  ‘June looks wonderful,’ Pip told Zac. ‘I babysat Cosima today and we met up. She's absolutely blooming.’

  Zac regarded Pip. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, with mock consternation, ‘You're not going to go all broody on me, are you?’ He winked at Tom, planted an affectionate kiss on Pip's forehead, bypassing her mortified expression, before heading to the kitchen to make coffee.

  ‘What does “broody” mean, exactly?’ Tom asked and Pip wished he hadn't because she didn't want to hear Zac's reply.

  ‘Broody?’ mused Zac. ‘Broody is when hormones and BabyGap turn women into mad things.’

  ‘What exactly are hormones?’ Tom asked, knowing precisely where BabyGap was but not hormones.

  ‘you'll learn about them in science, soon enough,’ Zac assured him.

  ‘Have you gone broody on my dad, then?’ Tom asked Pip though he was still unsure to what it precisely alluded.

  Pip wanted to cry out, Yes! yes I have – I am seriously broody. But she did not. She assessed that the circumstances were inappropriate. And though part of her resented Tom's presence, felt that it prevented her confronting Zac, she put the child's best interests first.