The Secret Mother(14)
Every so often, I flicked on the light and checked the time – 1 a.m., 2.20 a.m., 2.35 a.m. I attempted to read my book. I made warm milk. Three a.m. I listened to soothing voices on Radio 4. But here I am in bed at seven bloody thirty, still wide awake, my brain still rattling along like a demented freight train.
What should I do? What can I do? No wonder he was annoyed when I called him on Sunday night. I was taking him away from his floozy. What kind of a word is that? It sounds like something from the 1970s, not a word I’d ever use. But I can’t bring myself to refer to her as his girlfriend. And the word slut makes me sound so bitter.
Who am I now? Not a wife? Not a mother? I have no ambition, no place or real purpose. I screw my eyes shut tighter and slide down further underneath the duvet.
The trouble is, after Sam died, so did our marriage. Scott tried to make it work, but I was so consumed by grief, I couldn’t acknowledge that he was grieving too. I had no emotional room to think about him or his needs. And then, when he told me he was leaving – not even a year after we lost Sam – I couldn’t believe it. I assumed it was temporary. We never made the split official. Even now, a year and a half after he left, I still believe he will come back. Am I wrong? Are we really over?
Dull morning light drifts in from behind the curtains. Car doors slam beyond the window. Children’s voices, high and excitable as they walk to school in clusters. I fling back the duvet, giving up the notion of getting any sleep. I have the day off, I should do something.
I go through my morning ablutions on autopilot, slinging on a jersey tracksuit, grabbing a bowl of cornflakes and taking it into the lounge. I hate the sound of other people chewing; it sets my teeth on edge. Makes me gag. I think there’s a name for this – it’s like a phobia or something. So I’m always careful to eat quietly. But now, sitting alone on the sofa, I chew my cornflakes as loudly as I possibly can. A defiant crunch, crunch, crunch that makes me wonder if I might be losing my mind.
The phone rings, breaking into my rebellious breakfast. It’s the landline, which I usually ignore. But what if it’s Scott? Or the police? I dump my bowl on the coffee table and scramble into the hall. A glance at the screen tells me it’s a withheld number, but I pick it up anyway, prepared to hang up at the first sign of a sales pitch.
‘Hello. Is that Tessa Markham?’ A woman’s voice. Hesitant. A foreign accent. Maybe Spanish.
I’m poised to end the call. This woman could have got my name from anywhere.
‘Hello,’ I bark. ‘Yes, this is Tessa.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she replies. ‘Sorry, I should not have called.’
And then there’s nothing but the dial tone. The woman has hung up.
That didn’t sound like a telemarketer. Telemarketers don’t apologise, and they don’t hang up. Even though the call was withheld, I try calling 1471 to see if there’s a number I can ring her back on, but it’s no good. Damn. What if she was something to do with Harry? Maybe she’ll call again. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. Shouldn’t have snapped at her. I stare at the phone, willing it to ring, but it sits on the hall table stubbornly mute.
I return to my breakfast in the lounge, taking the phone handset with me. Just in case. Less than one minute later, it rings once more. This time I answer it with a gentle ‘Hello?’
‘Tess? Why aren’t you answering your mobile?’
It’s Scott. I remember I still haven’t switched my mobile phone on this morning. My heart hammers in my chest. Does he know I spoke to his floozy last night? Did she tell him about our brief conversation?
‘Hi, Scott.’
‘Sorry to call so early. Are you free tonight?’
Of course I am. I’m free every sodding night. ‘Um, yeah. I think so.’
‘Great. Can we meet? Say, seven o’clock at that tapas place near my work?’
‘Okay. Why do you want—’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit late for work right now. Chat later, yeah?’
‘Sure. See you later.’
Well, that’s something new. Scott never rings me these days. He wants to talk. Talk about what? About her? No. This floozy of his can’t be serious or he would have told me about her before now. I need to act. Do something about it. Sort myself out. I march out to the hallway and glare at myself in the mirror. I look an absolute state. I mean, I’m thirty-six years old, for Christ’s sake. Today I look double that.
If I’m going to meet Scott tonight, I need him to remember the old me. The real me. I’m in here somewhere, aren’t I? I haven’t quite faded away. Not yet.
Scott and I first met at a friend of a friend’s birthday party, and afterwards he told me he’d noticed me straight away. That I was the only one he wanted to speak to that night, but that it took him ages to pluck up the courage to approach me. When we finally did get talking, we hit it off immediately. I can’t remember exactly what we spoke about, but I do remember we laughed a lot. He found us a quiet spot in the garden in a dilapidated summer house. We sat on the floor on sunlounger cushions, drinking beer and eating peanuts. The girl whose party it was had to kick us out in the early hours of the morning. Scott walked me home and we kissed goodnight. After that, we became inseparable. Our friends called us the perfect couple.
If I could just get him to remember what we once had. If he could see that I’m trying to move past our tragedy. Not to forget, of course not. Never to forget. But to… accept? To not waste the rest of my life mourning. To make my days count for something.