Greenwich Park(6)

Daniel used to love his job. When he first went into practice with Rory – at the building firm Daddy founded, and that Rory took on when he died – I thought it would be perfect. Even if Rory didn’t always pull his weight, surely it would be easier for Daniel, being his own boss. The firm is based here in Greenwich. He can walk across the park to work, choose his own hours. At least, that’s what Rory appears to do.

But I seem to see Daniel less and less. He comes in with these bags under his eyes, a slant in his shoulders, like he’s carrying rocks in his backpack. He tells me everything’s fine, that it’s just this demanding client, this difficult new project. But between that and the building work at home, it’s as if he has started to hate it. Maybe it’s the pressure of the baby coming too – I don’t know. I should talk to him about it, ask him properly. But sometimes when I see his face when he walks in, I’m worried to ask how his day was.

‘Work! A likely fucking story.’ Rachel laughs, slapping a hand down on the table. Her rings clang against the metal. I jump. A gaggle of pigeons that had gathered at our feet flutters away.

Rachel glances at me, then places her coffee down. She resets her expression, puts a hand on my arm.

‘Sorry, Helen. That was a joke. I’m sure he was gutted.’

‘It’s fine.’ I try to get the conversation back onto a comfortable footing. ‘I was cross with him, to tell you the truth. My brother and his wife were supposed to be there as well, but they couldn’t make it either, so –’

‘Oh yeah, you said. That’s a shame.’ She pauses. ‘Must be exciting, though – to be having babies at the same time. Especially when you live nearby.’

I nod. ‘It’s lovely.’ I couldn’t believe it when Serena told me her and Rory’s baby was due just a few weeks after mine. After all the times before, it felt like a good omen, at last. I’d somehow felt sure, then, that things would be different this time.

‘Do you get on with her? Your brother’s wife?’

‘Serena? Oh God, yes. She’s amazing. She really is like a sister.’ I gush, then feel a hot curtain of blood rising through my face. Do I sound childish? ‘We were at university together, the four of us,’ I add quickly. I’m careful not to say Cambridge – Daniel told me once that it sounded boastful, talking about it all the time, especially to people who might not have even been to university. ‘Rory was in the year above me. And Rory and Daniel are in business together now, so we see them both a lot.’



‘Your husband and your brother? In business together? Doing what?’

‘They’re architects. My father was an architect, too. He was … well, he was sort of a bit famous, I suppose. He died a few years back.’

I pause, automatically, waiting for the usual condolences, the usual curiosity about Daddy. But Rachel doesn’t react. She is using her index finger to spoon the dusting of chocolate powder from the froth of her coffee directly into her mouth. When she is finished, she starts to work the moistened finger around the rim of the cup, where a little tideline of chocolate is stuck to the lip.

‘When Daddy died, Rory took over the firm. Haverstock and Company,’ I continue, even though I’m not entirely sure she is listening. ‘By then, Daniel was doing pretty well at another place – he’d won awards, that sort of thing. So it was an easy decision, really. Rory asked Daniel to come on board as his partner, and now it’s a real family firm. They are really brilliant. Daniel is in the process of remodelling our house. We’re getting rid of the ground-floor bathroom and putting a new one in upstairs – it’s going to have one of those lovely Victorian roll-top baths, and a big walk-in shower, with these gorgeous tiles I found. And we’re putting in a new staircase and landing where that was, and eventually there will be a big basement extension, a whole new floor, with a sunken living space and glass roof, and …’ I stop, wondering if I sound boastful. ‘Anyway. A few other bits. Daniel’s designed it all. We’re quite excited about it.’

I sense my talk of the building work is boring Rachel. She finishes her coffee: a little M of froth left behind on her top lip, a smudge of chocolate in either corner of her mouth. I motion to my own lip; she giggles, wipes the marks off. She stretches her hands above her head, lets out an exhale, glances around the market.

‘Shall we have another coffee?’ she suggests, even though I haven’t actually had a coffee yet, just watched her drink the one she had already. ‘You could even risk one with actual caffeine!’ Rachel smiles, taps her leopard-spotted bump. I can’t work out whether she is making fun of me or not. She seems to believe the babies only exist in abstract, that adhering to the health guidelines is entirely a matter of personal taste. ‘Actually, could I just have an orange juice?’

She looks amused. ‘OK. Sure! I’ll go up and order – quicker than waiting for these jokers.’

She says this loudly, causing a passing waiter to look up, dumbfounded. Rachel ignores him, strides into the cafe.

When I see she is safely inside, I can’t resist peering into her shopping bags. Furtively, I lower my hand, separate the top of the bag with my thumb and forefinger and root around to feel the fabrics. Disappointingly, though, I find there are no baby clothes in the first bag at all. All I can see is a scruffy old jumper, dirty around the cuffs, and what looks like a pair of old leggings. A few clothes tags, an empty sunglasses case.