Greenwich Park(20)

‘The sofa thing was one time,’ I hiss at him. ‘I don’t know why you keep going on about it.’

‘Oh, relax, Helen,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m teasing.’ But the anger is gathering in my throat, and somehow I can’t let it drop.

‘It’s not as if our living room is a very pleasant place to be. Moving the sofa was hardly going to make much of a difference.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ says Daniel. He is cross now, too. ‘The building work. All my fault.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s all you ever say.’

Our words jab back and forth at each other and Rory and Serena start to avert their eyes from us, sitting in a tactful silence. I realise, to my mortification, that I have seen them do this before, when forced to witness one of our marital spats.

I hold my tongue, determined not to let it escalate. Only when the heat dissipates do I risk a glance over the table. Daniel has filled his glass again, then pretends to study the label on the wine bottle. When I catch Serena’s eye, I grimace, mouth ‘sorry’ at her. She furrows her brow in a ‘don’t be silly’ gesture, shakes her head, telling me not to worry. Fills up our water glasses, and Rory’s.

Later that night, Daniel passes out, drunkenly, on the bed, his eyes closed over flitting eyeballs. Soon he is making the little whistling breathing noise that means he is sleeping deeply. His glasses sit on his bedside table on top of his pile of books, as if keeping watch. Without his glasses on, Daniel’s sleeping face looks untethered, incomplete, sort of like a child’s drawing.

I unfold the note I found in the bathroom. I press out the creases with my thumbnail, and stare at it for a long time. RRH. I wonder if W could be a nickname for Serena? But somehow, I know that’s not it. I have found something bad, something I shouldn’t have ever seen. Oh, Rory, I think. What are you up to?

I stare and stare until the letters start to swim in front of my eyes, until they are not like letters any more, just shapes, symbols. Eventually, I give up. I slide the note into the back of the book I’m reading, turn the bedside light out.

I listen to Daniel’s breathing, deep, rhythmic. I listen to the little bursts of laughter in the night, the hum of the washing machine on downstairs, the wind blowing on the hill, how it whistles past our window glass. It takes me a long time to fall asleep.





30 WEEKS





HELEN





I seem to be bumping into Rachel all the time – in the market, or at the bandstand cafe, or walking across the scorched grass of the park. I suppose it’s no great surprise. She lives locally, and we’re both off work. But I never bump into Serena that much. Or Rory. Or even Daniel. But then, I suppose I have never been off work before. I’m constantly surprised by how many people are around in the day. What are they all doing?

This time is odd in itself, this strange no man’s land between pregnancy and birth. I find myself constructing my entire day around a medical appointment, a trip into town to buy a baby monitor or a TENS machine. On the Tube, everyone else is glued to their smartphone, emailing and messaging, organising fuller lives than mine. Quite often no one looks up to see whether there is a pregnant woman needing a seat. I always feel too embarrassed to ask. Everyone keeps telling me to make the most of the time, to enjoy myself. I’m not sure what they mean. It feels like a dead time to me. A time defined by absence, by waiting.

When I finally manage to set a date for lunch with Katie, I find myself looking forward to it much more than I normally would, a little bright flag in my otherwise blank diary. Even so, I find myself a bit jangly on the morning of it, for some reason.

As I walk to the station, I wonder whether to tell Katie about the note I found in Rory and Serena’s bathroom. Katie is good at digging around, finding information. She’d be able to work out what Rory was up to.

As I walk past the bookshop I see Katie coming out of the station in her leather jacket, her headphones in, a coffee cup clutched in one hand and a faraway expression on her face. Katie is only eighteen months younger than me – the same age as Charlie. She was his little friend from down the road when we were growing up, and then she became mine, as the gap grew to feel less and less important in our teenage years, then university and beyond.

But looking at her now I have the sudden sense that she is much younger than me again. After all, there is so much more than a year and a half separating our ages – a marriage, a house, the babies, the pregnancy. Looking at her now, I feel old.

I wave and her face breaks into an astonished smile. She bounds over and hugs me.

‘Jesus, Helen. You’re huge!’

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You look great. It’s just … I suppose it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

The observation feels heavier than it should. I try to meet her eye and smile, to tell her it’s all right. She smiles back, a look of relief on her face.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ she says. ‘I’m starving.’

We walk through the park, where the giant horse chestnut trees are just starting to shed. An early smattering of golden leaves have sailed out of the iron gates and onto the pavements, collecting in rusty pools in drains and doorways. Some people are sitting on the outside tables at the pavilion, bathing in the disappearing warmth. They sit in coats, but with their faces to the sun, eyelids closed, enjoying every last drop. A waitress weaves around them, clearing the tables, balancing coffee cups and crumb-strewn plates on her tray, her pale grey apron tied in a little bow at her waist.