Chapter Two
I spent the next couple of hours brushing oils onto a vast rectangular canvas. But as colour and form grew, my mind continuously wandered elsewhere. My brain was whirling. Thoughts of babies, conception, the gestation period, trying to work out exactly how pregnant I was, all kept tumbling over and over like an old-fashioned video tape stuck on a loop. This pregnancy was indeed a miracle. As soon as we’d shaken the confetti from our hair, Marcus had wanted to get down to the business of starting a family.
‘I want us to have ten children,’ he’d grinned. ‘Five boys and five girls.’
I’d laughed and suggested we let Mother Nature take her course and that two children would be perfect. As twenty-five-year-olds we had no real qualms about money. We both did the daily commute to London. Marcus had an escalating salary, and I was a stressed PA. Together, we earned good money. Not long after becoming engaged, we’d driven through Lower Amblegate and spotted The Cul-de-Sac. Investigating, we’d noted the For Sale board outside Number 2. We’d wasted no time making an appointment to view. Walking through the front door, we’d fallen in love with the larger than average rooms and huge windows letting in streams of lemony sunbeams. We’d felt as though the house had embraced us. Even the branches of the fruit trees dotted around the paddock-like garden had seemingly wrapped their leafy boughs around our shoulders, hugging us, urging us to stay. In the misty recesses of my mind I saw a little boy hanging off a tyre that swung from one of the sturdy branches, while a little girl played tea parties with her dollies in a home-made treehouse.
Buying it was, admittedly, a bit of a push. You don’t see many twenty-five-year-olds starting out in a four-bedroomed detached, but we opted for living on baked beans and toast in order to get the deposit monies together. It was more than a dream home. It was our dream family home. A year after moving in, the initial room we’d set aside as a nursery remained empty. Eventually I’d mentioned my pregnancy concerns to my doctor during a routine smear test.
‘You’re young and a busy working lady,’ he’d smiled reassuringly. ‘I suspect you’re living life in the fast lane, skipping meals and staying late at the office.’ The doctor had been more precise than Mystic Meg. ‘It’s time to slow down. Make some changes. Eat properly – no missing breakfast. Take your lunch hour in full and go out of the office. Stretch those legs. Do some walking and fill those lungs with gallons of fresh air.’ The “fresh air” bit hadn’t been quite so accurate. At the time I’d been working near Fleet Street. The air had always been thick with the diesel fumes of a hundred buses and honking black cabs, while a haze of exhaust belched from scores of immobile cars stuck in congested lanes. In fact, the pollution was so bad that one of my colleagues regularly used to have an asthma attack on the walk to Blackfriars Station. But I didn’t tell my doctor all that. Instead I hoovered up his words of hope. ‘Some women simply need to prepare their bodies for pregnancy. I would bet my stethoscope that you’re simply one of them.’
After two years I went back to the same doctor, who also summoned Marcus for examination. That’s when the tests began. Apparently I had lazy ovaries causing an irregular menstrual cycle. This made it tricky to plot the most fertile time of the month. But, even trickier, Marcus’s tests revealed a very low sperm count. There were no obvious reasons as to why. It was just one of those things.
‘Try not to worry about it,’ the doctor had said kindly. ‘I’ve had many a man in my surgery with the same problem. They’ve all gone on to become fathers. I’m sure it will happen for both of you. One day. Meanwhile, try not to stress about it. Stress makes things much worse and, indeed, could even be the cause.’
Marcus immediately suggested I give up work. Certainly my job was full-on and incredibly demanding, but initially I’d been reluctant to walk away from my work. It wasn’t simply a case of saying good-bye to the rat race; it meant saying good-bye to a lot of friends. No more gossip about who the married senior partner had secretly snogged at the Christmas party. No more jostling into the tiny rest room with the girls on a Friday night, fighting over the dingy mirror as we excitedly re-applied lipstick before setting off for an end-of-week drink at the hip local wine bar. But even more crucially, no more enjoyment of financial independence. Marcus, however, had been adamant.
‘I’m earning enough now to cover the mortgage and bills. Give up the commute, Florrie. I want you to relax at home. If you’re worried about being bored, take up a new hobby. Maybe knitting.’ He’d looked pleased at that idea. ‘Perhaps if you get those needles clicking away and churn out a few of those old-fashioned matinee jackets, it will get your body in homemaker mode. A baby is bound to follow.’
Within a month I’d gone on to fully bond with Daisy and Alison, my immediate stay-at-home neighbours. Alison, despite being a roaring snob, was a good sort with her heart in the right place. Daisy, Alison’s complete antithesis, was scruffy and scatty but equally lovely. However, even their welcome friendship couldn’t stop the moments of downright monotony. My neighbours had children to keep them busy, and their social lives flourished through the school mum network. It didn’t matter how many times I was invited to join their respective coffee mornings with other school mums, my face didn’t fit. I didn’t have the right badge you see. I wasn’t a parent. The only time I felt truly able to be myself with Alison and Daisy was when there weren’t any other school mums around.
As for the home-making attempts, my foray into the world of matinee jackets had produced a single garment with so many holes from dropped stitches it had looked more like a dwarf’s string vest. And there is only so long one can make a house gleam before feeling utterly fed up. I’d always played with paint and charcoal, producing sketches and colourful canvases. With so much time on my hands I’d returned to my old passion, tinkering about with oils and water colours under the rafters of the loft room which had been turned into a working studio. Occasionally, through word of mouth, I’d sell a painting which would leave me glowing for weeks.
Another year went by. We had a few attempts at IVF with no success. It was at this point I realised Marcus wasn’t happy. Outwardly he was the same. Jovial. Cheerful. Caring. Loving. But inwardly it was another story. Privately I suspected he was wrestling with turmoil that his inability to father a child was making him feel emasculated. This was confirmed when, about three months ago, I’d received a surprise letter in the post.
The letter had been addressed just to me in bold flowing handwriting. I’d stood in my immaculate kitchen surveying the envelope, wondering who it was from. The writing wasn’t familiar. Eventually I’d tugged at the seal. And instantly recoiled in shock.
The written contents had never been discussed with anybody. Not Marcus, nor my parents, and most certainly not my dearest friends, Alison and Daisy. Nobody. I suppose my reasoning was that if I didn’t discuss the letter, it didn’t exist. No doubt some clever counsellor with umpteen certificates on their study walls would declare such a tactic to be a coping mechanism. And perhaps they’d be right. I still had the letter. It was hidden in a shoebox, tucked away in the depths of my wardrobe. Sometimes I’d forage within the wardrobe and withdraw the note, studying the style of writing, trying to analyse the character of the author, looking for clues as to who had put pen to paper. But then I’d hide it away again and try and forget all about it.
I put down my paintbrush, suddenly drawn to read the letter again, even though I knew what it said word for word. It was at that precise moment my mobile chirruped the arrival of a text. It was from Daisy.
Fancy a coffee?
I sighed. I was pleased her text had distracted me from digging out the letter. However, much as I loved Daisy, I knew I really should crack on with the current work in progress. The local Italian restaurant had already bought paintings off me and were after yet another. I stared at my easel, observing the riot of colour before me. It was coming together, but nonetheless not complete. I dithered. If I ignored Daisy’s text, she’d take to the doorbell. If I stalled for time and asked for two hours’ grace she’d only be chasing me later this afternoon. Wiping a blob of Prussian blue from my iPhone, I decided to reply. After all, I had amazing news to share. In fact, most newly pregnant women in my shoes would by now have employed a town crier to scream out an announcement. “O’yez! Gather round and know that Florence Milligan’s ovaries have finally popped an egg and partied with a single exhausted sperm. God bless the fruit of Marcus Milligan’s loins.” I wasn’t exactly behaving in a euphoric manner, was I? I began to tap the mobile screen with a paint-stained index finger.
Sounds good. As it happens, I have something wonderful to tell you!
Daisy’s response was immediate.
In that case, I’ll see if Alison is available too. We can’t exclude her or neither of us will ever hear the end of it.
I mentally nodded. Too true.
Sure. I’ll be over in a jiffy. Just give me a few moments to clean up.
I was just locking the front door when Alison emerged from Number 3. Her expensive perfume wafted on a little gust of spring air invading my senses. I sniffed appreciatively. It was a familiar smell, quite masculine with its musky overtones, although I couldn’t place it, or remember where I’d smelt it before.
‘Not bogged down with PTA meetings this morning then?’ I grinned.
Alison shuddered dramatically, but we both knew she loved being involved with fund raising. No day was complete for Alison without sucking up to the School Governors at Darwin Prep. There wasn’t a cake sale or a second-hand-uniform jamboree that Alison wasn’t behind.
‘There is a PTA meeting but thankfully much later this afternoon.’ We stepped over the strips of grass separating the three houses she, Daisy and I lived in. ‘However, I can’t stay too long for coffee at Daisy’s.’ She placed a perfectly manicured nail over the doorbell and gave it a couple of sharp rings. ‘I have to go to Harriet Montgomery’s place in an hour or so. We’re finalising the arrangements for the May Ball. It’s also going to provide some fund-raising for Darwin Prep. With only a week to go there’s still lots to do. Harriet absolutely insisted I was involved from the start. You know Harriet, don’t you?’
Alison knew perfectly well I didn’t personally know Harriet, but everybody in Lower Amblegate knew who Harriet Montgomery was. A beautiful ex-movie star, she’d dominated the big screen for ten years before dramatically announcing she was getting hitched and “taking a rest”. Harriet Montgomery had gone on to marry famous business tycoon Martin Murray-Wells who was old enough to be her grandfather. As Daisy had sardonically said, “It must be love.” They’d managed to produce one daughter, Piper, who also went to Darwin Prep. It went without saying that Alison was very keen for little Tiffany to be Piper’s bestie. Meanwhile Alison was doing sterling work cosying up to Harriet at every given opportunity.
Daisy answered the door, eyes shining. She had managed to brush her hair since I’d last seen her but was still wearing the crumpled pyjamas covered in egg yolk and baked bean sauce. Alison clocked the grubby nightwear with distaste, but arched an eyebrow at Daisy’s evident happiness.
‘Why are you looking so perky?’
Together we stepped over the threshold into Daisy’s hallway.
‘Because I’ve just watched the best bit of breakfast telly ever!’ Daisy clapped her hands together. ‘There was this gorgeous bouncer pinning down this mouthy woman who was trying to knock seven bells out of this really chavvy female, and they were arguing over this ancient bloke. I mean, really ancient. He had to be at least fifty.’
Alison looked affronted. ‘Can I remind you, Daisy, that Henry is fifty. He is not, as you so eloquently put it, ancient.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Daisy flapped a hand dismissively, ‘I forgot you like oldies. Still, at least Henry isn’t as ancient as your mate’s hubby.’ Daisy nodded at the hall window. We followed her gaze and looked into the distance at a huge mansion perched high on a hill and overlooking the North Downs. It was Harriet Montgomery’s pile. Alison didn’t know whether to be peeved at Daisy’s insult of being attracted to old men, or flattered that Daisy thought Alison and Harriet were “mates”. Alison’s ego got the better of her and the latter comment won.
‘Harriet’s hubby is delightful,’ she cooed. ‘Naturally I’ve met Martin several times. Martin is an absolute sweetheart.’
‘Good to know.’ Daisy shrugged as we followed her into the lounge. ‘I still wouldn’t want to bonk him though.’
‘I personally think Martin is extremely debonair,’ Alison said defensively as we carefully negotiated the floor. It was covered in discarded toys, colouring pads and breakfast detritus.
‘Someone’s got mentionitis,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ve just said “Martin” three times in as many seconds.’
Alison ignored the dig and carried on talking.
‘I was just telling Florrie, I’m helping Harriet put the finishing touches to the village May Ball. It’s a fundraising affair obviously. I fully expect you both to attend, even if you have to drag your husbands along kicking and screaming.’
‘I’m not sure I want to rub shoulders with all your toffee-nosed friends,’ Daisy grumbled.
‘They are perfectly normal people,’ said Alison irritably as she flopped down onto a sofa, ‘and anyway, it’s not just the Darwin Prep parents who will be there. Everyone in Lower Amblegate is invited.’
I sat down next to her, narrowly avoiding stepping on some congealed plates. Alison stared at them distastefully.
‘You allow your children to eat on the floor?’
‘Of course,’ said Daisy. She gave Alison a strange look. ‘It’s near the telly.’
Alison looked appalled. ‘Don’t you ever sit up at the dining table as a family and make intelligent conversation about how to resolve world peace or debate whether Donald Trump will be a good president for America?’
‘What the heck would we want to do that for?’ Daisy asked in bewilderment. ‘I’d miss Jeremy Kyle or Coronation Street.’
Alison’s brow furrowed. ‘But if you don’t ever sit around a dining table, where do you entertain?’
‘Entertain?’ Now it was Daisy’s turn to frown.
‘Yes! As in hosting a soirée.’
‘A what?’
Alison rolled her eyes. ‘A dinner party, Daisy.’
‘Ah,’ Daisy looked enlightened. ‘Where you’re sitting, Ali. There’s nothing like fish and chips out of newspaper on your lap.’
Alison looked stunned. The day she offered the likes of Harriet Montgomery a take-out whilst sitting on a sofa or floor would be the day Hugh Heffner became a monk.
Daisy cleared her throat. ‘Now then, ladies, coffee or tea?’
‘I’ll have coffee, please,’ I said to Daisy.
‘Do you have any Earl Grey?’ asked Alison.
Daisy placed her hands on her hips. ‘Honestly, Ali, I do wish you’d drop the airs and graces. You’re not at Mrs La-de-da’s house now. You’re at mine, complete with chaos and mess. You’ll have the supermarket special and love it.’
Alison looked pained. ‘Well at least give me a porcelain cup and saucer rather than a cracked workman’s mug.’
Daisy tutted, and stomped off. From out in the kitchen we could hear her huffing and puffing as she searched through cupboards for the elusive china. Five minutes later she returned with a tray bearing steaming drinks and a plate of biscuits.
‘Have you thought about getting a cleaner?’ Alison asked.
Daisy bit into a chocolate biscuit. ‘Why would I want one of those?’ she asked, dropping crumbs everywhere.
‘To make this place ship-shape of course,’ said Alison in exasperation. ‘You have such a lovely house, Daisy, but inside it looks like it belongs to Mr and Mrs Slob. Doesn’t Tom ever get annoyed?’
‘Sure. But I just tell him I’ve done the housework and the kids simply messed it all up again.’
‘Doesn’t he ever suss that you only do the minimum?’
‘Nah,’ Daisy shrugged and took another bite from the biscuit. ‘I just squirt a bit of furniture polish in the air before he comes home and he says, “Wow, I can tell you’ve been working your socks off today.” That’s when he’s home, anyway. After school, he’s catching up on pastoral chit-chat with the vicar. These days he seems to be perpetually busy.’
Alison nodded. ‘Your husband too, eh?’ She rattled her cup into the saucer making Daisy and I jump slightly.
‘I don’t mind,’ Daisy said helping herself to another chocolate biscuit. ‘At least it gets me off the hook in the bedroom.’
‘Don’t you like,’ Alison paused, ‘sex?’ She mouthed the last word.
‘Yeah,’ Daisy nodded. ‘Well, I did.’ She chomped away, thoughtful for a moment. ‘I guess it’s just all a bit predictable though. And boring. Do I really want a late-night grapple which no longer makes the earth move for me? Especially when I’ve just washed the sheets. It just makes another job. I guess, like housework, sex for me is a chore.’ She grinned, revealing a chocolate crumb lodged between her front teeth. ‘We can’t all be like our Florrie here. What’s it like still fancying the pants off your hubby and having mad passionate sex morning, noon and night?’
I laughed, but couldn’t quite meet Daisy’s gaze and took a hasty swig of coffee so I wasn’t able to reply.
‘Anyway,’ Daisy shifted in her chair. A regrouping gesture. She looked at me expectantly. ‘What’s this fab news you have for us both?’
Alison straightened up, giving me her full attention. ‘Fab news?’ She turned two wide eyes towards me. For the first time I noticed exactly how wide Alison’s eyes actually were. Surely she hadn’t had a lift? After all, she was only thirty-seven. I stared at her forehead. It was as smooth as polished marble. That had to be the work of botox. And, good heavens, her mouth was looking incredibly pouty. Was that a touch of filler around the upper lip? ‘What fab news?’ she repeated.
I blinked and, suddenly shy, gave a tiny smile. ‘I’m expecting a baby.’
Daisy immediately stood up and punched the air, slopping coffee down herself in the process. ‘Fan-flaming-tastic,’ she whooped.
Alison’s response was more reserved. ‘That’s wonderful news, Florrie,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m very pleased for you.’
I allowed my smile to turn into a full-on grin. Inside I was still quaking somewhat. Still trying to digest it all. But now I’d told my two dearest friends, it was as if an internal light switch had been flicked on so that I immediately began to feel like I was glowing radiantly.
‘To be honest, Marcus and I are shell-shocked. But happy,’ I added, nodding emphatically as some butterflies took off in my stomach. Nerves. I brushed the feeling away. Surely every expectant mother felt nervous. The fact that expectant mothers were more likely to feel nervous nearer to the time of their due date as opposed to the day of finding out they were pregnant was surely neither here nor there. Everyone was different, I firmly told myself. I looked from Daisy to Alison, and my megawatt smile instantly faded. Alison seemed to be struggling with her emotions. The duck-pout was wobbling alarmingly, and the wide-apart eyes were now swimming with unshed tears. Alarmed, I leant forward and touched her arm. ‘Ali? Whatever’s the matter?’
‘N-nothing,’ Alison sniffed. ‘E-everything.’
‘Eh?’ Daisy hunkered down in front of Alison. ‘You’re not fretting about this chuffing May Ball, are you?’ she asked. ‘Of course we’ll come. Even if I’m so tired that I collapse head first into the asparagus velouté and start snoring. I absolutely promise to be there for you.’
Alison sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. She gave a watery smile. ‘Sorry. I’m just a bit out of sorts.’
‘Why?’ I put an arm around her cashmere-clad shoulder. ‘You can tell us, Ali.’
The tears were threatening again. Her face worked. She was clearly wrestling with her emotions, unsure whether to confide in Daisy and me, or not. ‘It’s Henry,’ she eventually said, almost choking on her husband’s name.
Daisy and I looked at each other and paled.
‘Is something wrong with him, Ali?’ Daisy asked. ‘I’m sorry I said he was old. He’s not old really. Well, not old enough to die anyway.’
Alison gave an imperceptible shake of the head. ‘He’s not ill.’ Foraging up one sleeve, she removed a tissue and noisily blew her nose. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘What is it then?’ I urged.
She gulped a few times, still not quite sure whether to divest a secret. Taking a deep breath, the need to unburden won.
‘Henry’s having an affair.’