Thirty-two years she’d been on this earth and yet Libby could bundle her whole life up into two suitcases and a carpet bag.
The days spent in bed had made Libby bigger, rounder. She had to leave the side buttons of her loosest dress undone, bending down to buckle her shoes took a lifetime, but soon she was inching down the stairs on unsteady legs.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Freddy! This habit of creeping up on me, I don’t like it at all,’ Libby hissed as he surprised her by slipping out of the drawing room, usually the domain of the ladies. ‘Hugo’s sent me a letter. He’s waiting for me. He wants us to be together.’
‘How nice of him and how very forgiving of you,’ Freddy noted. ‘You’re meant to be in bed.’
‘It’s not going to take any time to get to Highgate and then I’ll go straight to bed.’ Freddy let out a long exasperated sigh but Libby persevered. ‘I can’t stay here much longer and I love him and if he loves me then perhaps the situation isn’t as impossible as I thought it was. He may well have left Pamela. If I were him, I’d have left her months ago!’
They couldn’t very well argue about it in the hall, not with Millicent (who they could hear berating Hannah in the kitchen) so close by. Freddy grabbed his coat from the portmanteau and took both cases from Libby.
‘I’m coming with you just in case there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,’ he muttered and insisted on hailing a taxi though the cabbie said that he’d only take them as far as Highgate Village and even that ‘was in the back of beyond’.
Libby had no choice but to waddle the rest of the way. She felt huge, like a beast of burden, as she lumbered down Southwood Lane.
‘This is the road,’ she said to Freddy, as they turned into the street of new houses. So new that at the furthest end there was still scaffolding up on the very last plot, but number twenty-three was done, finished, waiting for Libby and Hugo. ‘This is it.’
‘All these identical houses for identical people with their identical little lives,’ Freddy groused as he followed Libby up the path.
‘They’re not identical. Some of them are mock Tudor or neo-Georgian,’ Libby said loftily, quoting the builder’s advertisement. ‘We went for the Moderne style and I don’t know why you’re being so stuck up. All the houses in Willoughby Square look the same.’
‘That’s different,’ Freddy said, but he didn’t explain why. In fact, he was quite silent as Libby unlocked the door, felt a moment’s hesitation, fear curling its way down her spine, then stepped inside.
There was nothing to worry about. The house was still a lovely place to come home to. ‘I’ll be much more comfortable here,’ Libby said. ‘No queuing for the bathroom, for one thing.’
She showed Freddy around, expecting him to marvel at the electric lights, the boiler in the kitchen, the built-in cupboards, but he was silent.
‘You can’t stay here, Libs,’ Freddy said eventually when Libby came to the last room, the back bedroom where she and Hugo would sleep and she could open the curtains of a morning to see beyond the huge back garden to the treetops and green expanse of Highgate Woods and their life would be bucolic and wonderful. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Libby bristled.
‘Because, you silly woman, there’s not a single stick of furniture in the place. No carpets, no curtains. Not so much as a tea kettle.’
Hugo had told her to come and Libby expected that when he got here, he’d have furniture with him. She’d never gone back to Heal’s; Pamela’s visit had put paid to that, but they’d talked about what they needed, colour schemes and so on, and Hugo was very good at being practical, at organising and delegating.
‘It will all be fine,’ Libby said. She gestured at the larger case, full of things she didn’t need but couldn’t bear to parted from. Her old theatre keepsakes, the dress she’d been married in, the clothes she’d knitted for the other baby. ‘Could you put that on the top shelf of the cupboard, please?’
Freddy did as she asked but grumbled about that too, so Libby left him to it. She was tired. Ankles and feet throbbing, an ache in her lower back, but as she came down the stairs she saw a dark shape through the glass panel of the front door. Her heart quickened. It had been so horrible, the last time they’d seen each other, they’d both said such unkind things, but it was far better to begin the rest of their lives together with a smile and a promise not to let the past cast a long shadow over the future.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, as Hugo came through the door. ‘You don’t know… you can’t even imagine how glad I was to get your note.’
Hugo paused, one hand raised to take off his hat. His eyes swept over her, lingering on the ripeness of her belly. Libby placed her hand on the underside, on the particular spot that the pickle liked to press against.
‘You look well,’ he said.
‘I think you mean I look like a whale.’
He smiled and when Libby reached the bottom of the stairs, he was ready to help her down the last step and kiss her on the cheek.
‘There’s nowhere to sit,’ he said, shrugging helplessly. ‘Let’s perch here.’
He gently pulled her down on the stairs then sat down next to her. It was a tight fit but it was so glorious to have Hugo next to her, cleaved together. He smelt as he always did of the woody, peppery scent of his aftershave layered with tobacco and underneath that, the metallic tang of engine oil. It was such a masculine, comforting array of aromas.
Libby took his hand. ‘So we needn’t run off together after all, then?’
Hugo shook his head. ‘I’ve signed the house over to you. Had my lawyer put the deeds in your name.’
‘You didn’t have to do that!’ Libby was aghast. Mr Shaw, the builder, had advertised the house for nine hundred pounds, but that was before Hugo had insisted on central heating and a shower and so many other extras that Libby dreaded what the final cost might be. ‘Is it because of Pamela? Having to hide your assets? Was she very angry? Of course she was.’ Why was it that she always babbled when she was with him? Whereas Hugo was always so quiet, so considered, as if there were no point in speaking unless the words had real meaning. ‘You have to know, Hugo, I don’t hate Pamela. I can understand a little of how she feels, why she’s done the things she has. It can be very hard to be a woman. When so little is expected of you, only that you’ll be a good wife and mother, then to not even be able to achieve that, it’s very hard to know what your purpose is. Do you see?’
Libby glanced across at Hugo hopefully. Waited for him to squeeze her hand, lift it to his mouth for a kiss, but he turned away to look at the wall. ‘Oh God,’ he said faintly then he stood up so he could look down at Libby. ‘I do see. You won’t be a good mother, Libby. How could you be? It’s not your fault, of course, I’m not saying it is, you lost your mother when you were still a child yourself and since then, well, the way you’ve been living.’
‘What’s wrong with the way I’ve been living?’ Libby felt her nails digging into the wooden steps but it was impossible to get purchase. They skated over the smooth surface.
‘On the stage, on your wits.’ Hugo at least had the guts to look her in the eye for what he had to say next. ‘You’ve had lovers. You told me so yourself. You were pregnant when you married Morton.’
There was nothing of the lover left in Hugo, of that man with his sleep-soft face next to hers on the pillow as they’d shared kisses and promises. Now he was like the Hugo in her dream, who thought her little more than a whore. Condemned her for simply wanting to be loved, when it had been he who’d pursued her, dismissed all her protests and fears about loving him back. She’d been right to be afraid because Hugo was just like all the others. Worse than them, in fact, because they’d never pretended to love her.
‘You were one of my lovers, what does that say about you?’ It felt as if something was pressing down on her chest so Libby could hardly raise her voice above a croak.
‘It’s different for men. We’re weak, prone to temptation,’ Hugo said as if he were trying to convince himself. ‘But you’re carrying my child. I have certain rights. If I had to sue for custody, and I don’t want to do that, the courts will clearly find in my favour so let’s save ourselves that unpleasantness, shall we?’
‘Yes, let’s. Because you can’t prove paternity,’ Freddy calmly said from behind Libby. ‘If needs must, I’ll say the child is mine. Didn’t you learn about Occam’s razor in school? Let me take a moment to remember.’ Libby swivelled round as best she could to see Freddy strike a pensive pose. ‘Ah yes, “The principle states that among competing hypotheses that predict equally well, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected.” A married woman is pregnant, both she and her husband insist that he’s the father and then there’s this other chap, married to another woman, claims that it’s his. Who does the judge believe? Occam’s razor, old pal.’
Libby didn’t know what razors had to do with any of it but Freddy seemed to be making enough sense that Hugo faltered. For a few moments he lost the high colour he’d had and went quite pale. Then he shook his head. ‘You were in Spain. Filing stories for your paper, all very conveniently dated, whereas Libby and I were being followed by a detective to gather evidence for my divorce.’ He smiled without any warmth, with no humour. ‘He was very comprehensive with his note-taking. There are even photographs of us engaged in quite, um, intimate displays of affection around the dates that conception must have occurred. And yet, all that time you were abroad.’
It was ghastly to have the faintest of hopes raised then dashed in the next breath. ‘You can’t have the baby. I’ll run away, I will!’
‘Libs.’ Freddy’s voice was a warning. ‘Nobody’s going to take the baby away. For God’s sake, man, she’s already lost a child, what kind of people would try to take this one?’
‘Libby. I’m not a monster.’ Hugo dropped to his knees, placed his hands on either side of the stair that Libby sat on so she was trapped, boxed in. ‘The baby, he’d want for nothing. I know that giving him up would make you unhappy, but I have to weigh your unhappiness against my unhappiness and Pamela’s, the children too, because you’d be depriving Robin and Susan of a younger sibling to dote on. And what about what’s best for the baby? You can’t give him the life that he deserves, that he’s worth. You’d be making so many people unhappy just to get what you want. Isn’t that rather selfish?’
Hugo stared at her with blue eyes so beguiling that Libby could easily picture a little boy with the same eyes playing in a garden much bigger than the one at the back of this house. There’d be an elder brother who’d teach him all sorts of useful things and an older sister to spoil him with kisses. Hugo would take him for rides in his fastest cars as a special treat, call him ‘little man’. Pamela would tuck him up every night and though he wasn’t hers, she’d fall in love with him because he would be so easy to love. He’d go to a good school, learn Latin, play cricket, then Oxford or Cambridge, the world would be his.
Hugo could give the baby all that and all Libby could give him was love. It didn’t seem like a fair trade. Then she thought of giving birth to the baby. Of how it would feel to have him snatched away by nurses, given to Pamela in her fur coat and diamonds, how Libby would never hold the baby in her arms. Run a gentle finger along a cheek as soft as rose petals. Would never feel him suckle at her breast. Would never have the chance to wipe away tears and savour every smile, memorise each peal of laughter, soothe skinned knees and wasp stings. Love him with everything she was.
‘How can you even ask her that? What kind of monster are you?’
Libby had never heard Freddy sound so angry. She’d never thought he was capable of anything even approaching fury.
Hugo gave Libby a long, disappointed look then rose to his feet. He sighed. ‘All I care about are the best interests of my child and they lie with me. There isn’t a court in the land who would disagree.’
Freddy thundered down the stairs, squeezing past Libby so he could square up to Hugo. There wasn’t much between them. They were a similar build and height. Libby had once thought they looked similar too but standing chin to chin, Freddy was all whip-cracking energy and fizz, eyes gleaming with a combative glee.
Hugo was as still and cold as a grave.
‘Best interests! Ha!’ Freddy was spoiling for a fight. He cocked his head at Libby sitting splay-legged and ashen-faced on the stairs. ‘The best interests of the child are to stay with its mother. No one would ever love it more than Libby.’
‘All your cant about doing the decent thing when really you don’t have the first clue what the decent thing is,’ Libby said dully. ‘This is my child, Hugo. Mine. Already I love him more than you ever could.’
It was the only truth Libby knew for certain and she clung to it even as she rested her huge weight on her hands and attempted to get to her feet.
‘I will take you to court,’ Hugo said, stepping past Freddy to put a hand under Libby’s arm and haul her upright. ‘Love doesn’t make you a fit mother.’
‘Take your filthy hands off her!’ Freddy dragged Hugo’s hand away, then patted down Libby’s sleeve as if he could obliterate Hugo’s touch. ‘You won’t go to court. Your sort hate the whiff of scandal. Couldn’t bear that people, your friends, business associates, would know you had a bastard.’
‘No, Freddy! Don’t say that word,’ Libby begged and somehow the three of them were moving towards the door that Hugo hadn’t bothered to close, Freddy pulling Libby after him, Hugo equally determined that she stay and face his wrath, his condemnation. He took hold of her hand again, fingers crushing hers so hard that Libby wanted to cry out. ‘Don’t call the baby that horrible word.’ Little wonder she was crying again.
‘You’re too highly strung to deal with a baby,’ Hugo pointed out. ‘I could have you declared mentally unsound. I don’t want to, Libby, don’t want to do any of this, if only you’d just stop being so… bloody minded.’
‘You really are a cold-hearted bastard. She’s not meant to get upset. It’s bad for her, bad for the baby that you claim to care so much about… I told you to take your hands off her!’
They spilled out into the little front garden, Hugo and Freddy squaring up to each other again, Libby in the middle. They each had one of her hands and she wondered if the simplest solution was to let both of them tug and tug at her until she split in two. No more Libby. No more baby. Problem solved.
Hugo pulled her around in a parody of a lover’s embrace. ‘You can have the house. You and he can start again. You could have another baby. Stop acting as if this is the end of the world for you. It isn’t.’
Libby was so tired of it all. Exhausted to the point where her legs no longer wanted to hold her up, but somehow she had to find the strength to fight. ‘You don’t care for me at all! You never did.’
Then Freddy was there, pushing his way between Libby and Hugo. An odd kind of knight, his shining armour a threadbare tweed coat, a shirt with frayed collar and cuffs. ‘Get away from my wife, you son of a bitch.’ His voice was murderous and low. ‘Do you want to make her ill? Do you want her to lose this baby as well? You’d have that on your conscience every day for the rest of your life. Are you man enough for that? Not fucking likely!’
Hugo took a step back. Held out a hand towards Libby who cowered away. ‘You’d know about that, wouldn’t you, Morton? About causing her pain.’
‘You really are a callous bastard. Not a day goes by when I don’t hate myself for how I treated Libby. I wish that I’d cherished her like I promised. Perhaps then things might have turned out differently. You do know that, don’t you, Libs?’ Freddy turned to Libby, but she was gone, unlatching the gate and walking up the road, ignoring the clump of people who’d come out of their neat little houses to see what all the commotion was about.