The Mother-in-Law(48)

“Mmm,” he mutters now, from behind his newspaper. “That’s better.”

It’s been two weeks since what Tom is calling “Christmasgate” with a smile. He can smile, because the children are still speaking to him. It’s irritating. It’s easy to be popular if all you say is yes. In fact, he’s the reason I have to be the way I am. Heaven forbid there was no bad cop. If they had two parents like Tom Goodwin, what kind of entitled brats would they be?

I haven’t told Tom what had gotten me hot under the collar at Christmas. In truth, I’ve hardly been able to process it myself. It was a few days before Christmas when Kathy had called me out of the blue and suggested we meet up for a coffee. (“Not with the girls,” she’d said. “Just the two of us.”)

I’d thought it was going to be about Kathy’s health—perhaps she’d found a lump or had a bad test result. That was what “news” was about when folks were our age. But as it turned out, it was nothing to do with Kathy at all.

“I was away in Daylesford for the weekend,” she’d said. “And I saw something. I really shouldn’t be saying anything because I’m not a hundred percent certain but . . .”

She’d been quick to point out that it may have been a misunderstanding, but she would’ve bet her life that it was Patrick, coming out of a restaurant, with a lady. A lady she could’ve sworn wasn’t Nettie. His arm had been around her. It didn’t look platonic.

I’d decided not to get involved. After all, Kathy wasn’t sure about what she’d seen and it was none of my business. But then, at Christmas, Nettie started talking about IVF again, and I panicked. I hadn’t meant to upset anyone or insult Lucy. All I wanted was to make Nettie think twice before trying to have a baby with a man who may not be faithful.

Instead I’d acted hastily and alienated them all.

The quiet since Christmas has been surprisingly loud. As someone who knew a lot of women who had very little to do (Jan, Liz and Kathy), I’d always been smug about my full life—my charity, my chores (which I did myself rather than outsourcing), drinks with the girls, the children, the grandchildren. When people talked about the elderly being lonely, I always thought: that won’t be me. I am surrounded by people. People like me wish for loneliness. But it’s been two weeks since Christmas, and I’m starting to feel, well, lonely.

“I noticed Ollie and Eamon were here today,” I say to Tom.

Tom lowers his newspaper, revealing a guilty face.

“How much did you give them?”

I’d just driven Faizah home from the hospital with her baby when I’d returned home to find Eamon’s ridiculous sports car in the driveway. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were doing here.

“It’s an investment,” Tom says. “In their business.”

I take Tom’s sock-clad toes and bend them back toward his knee, stretching out the calf muscle. He groans.

“Are you upset with me?” he says.

“No. I’m not upset, I’m tired.”

The fact is, sometimes, being a mother is impossible. From the time your children are little, you’re thinking not only about whether you should let them have chocolate for breakfast “juuuuust this once,” you’re also wondering if it will rot their teeth, set them up for a lifetime of bad habits, and contribute to the childhood obesity epidemic. When they’re adults, it’s worse. I worry about Nettie not being able to get pregnant, I also worry that she might have a baby with a man that is a philanderer. I worry about Ollie’s business going under. I worry about my children expecting their parents to provide for them when they are adults.

Tom puts the newspaper down. “What would you say if I said I’d given money to Nettie too? A few months back, for IVF.”

I sigh. “I’d say I’m not surprised.”

“But you don’t endorse it?”

I close my eyes. “No. I don’t.”

I feel Tom’s hand on my leg. “Come on, Di. Think about what your life would have been like if your parents had supported your desire to have your baby rather than sending you away.”

I shake my head. “It’s different.”

“It isn’t,” he says. “It’s all about support. Whether you want to give it or not.”

I open my eyes. “Actually it’s about whether to give money or not. And that’s not the same thing.”

On the fourteenth day, Nettie extends the olive branch. I find her on a bar stool in the kitchen when I return from running errands. She’s dressed in tailored pants and a white shirt, but she’s taken off her slingbacks and is leaning over the counter on her elbows. It reminds me of when she was a teenager, lolling all over the counter after school, scavenging for something to eat.

“Nettie.”

She spins on her stool so she is facing me. She’s lost weight. Her eyes look more prominent in her face. And her hair has a dull look, like it hasn’t been washed in a while. “Hi, Mum.”

“This is a surprise.”

I continue into the kitchen and Nettie swivels her stool to follow me. “I wanted to check we were okay.”

I set my handbag on the kitchen counter and climb onto the stool next to hers. “I hope we are.”

“I hope so too.”