Beneath the Skin(33)



Maybe there was something in what Mike said, she thinks as she kisses Hannah’s warm chubby face. Not by deed, but perhaps by unwholesome feelings or by thought she did something to make her unborn baby die. It’s a frightening thought, one she shared with Antonia. ‘Thoughts don’t kill, Olivia,’ she replied, her brown eyes kind, understanding. ‘Much as we would like them to at times. It’s the deed that counts.’

Sophie peers at her mobile again before flinging it from the bed and on to the floor where it makes a soft thudding noise of protest. She feels another surge of breathlessness. She wants to feel brave, she really does, but sometimes it’s hard, the erect head, the bright smile, the flippancy for the ‘camera’ which everyone expects.

So many injections. The prodding, the poking, the pain. The fucking humiliation of it all. She knows what’s coming this time and she doesn’t feel brave at all.

She lies with her face in the pillow, like she did as a child, resisting the urge to kick her legs and howl. Then after a few moments she leans over and scoops her phone from the carpet. She sits up cross-legged and stares at the name in her contacts list. ‘Carrot or stick?’ she muses aloud. She knows she could wait for Antonia to call her back, but she’s temporarily annoyed with her, and besides, she knows she needs a much firmer hand to help her through. She takes a deep breath and presses call. It’s answered after three rings, which Sophie finds herself counting. ‘Hello, Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s me.’

Antonia fingers the bunch of flowers as she stares at the mossy, weathered headstone. In memory of. Name, date of birth and date of death. No loving this, or much missed that. Her dry eyes flick back to the flowers. It’s a large bouquet, albeit common chrysanthemums, bought impulsively when her heart was full of poetry.

The slant of sunlight behind her moves and she feels her heels sink into the grass. It’s fine. She has tissues in her bag to wipe her boots, so she won’t soil the car. She gazes at the weed-strewn grave of Jimmy Farrell a moment longer and then shakes her head and turns away, berating herself for dwelling on the good moments, which were far too few. There’s no point brooding on the dead, it’s the living who count. She has David to think of and what to create for his dinner. Something he likes, a delicacy to please him. Perhaps poussin, she thinks, he’d see the funny side of that.

As she hurries towards the exit gate, a bird chirps from a tall tree and the wind ripples the flowers’ cellophane wrapping, reminding her they’re there. She stops and turns her head towards the direction of her father’s grave, then sighs, tucks her hair behind her ears and bends to lay the flowers gently on the closest naked grave.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


‘I don’t really think she’ll go through with it. Do you?’ David asks from the other end of the new Italian contemporary dining table. ‘Antonia?’

Antonia lifts her head, her face blank for a moment in the light of the dinner candle. ‘Oh, do you mean Helen and this America thing? Not if she knows that Charlie is ill, surely. Though you never know with Helen. Has he told her?’

David shakes his head. He’s tried several times to broach the subject of the doctor and the test results, but Charlie ducks the issue by saying it isn’t important, that there’s too much else to think about. Talking to Charlie about anything just now seems impossible.

‘Should you say something? To Helen?’

‘God, no. I promised Charlie. He’d go ape.’

With her dark eyebrows slightly raised, David thinks Antonia looks sceptical, and as he gazes at her lovely face, he wonders if he could try to explain that old school rule of ‘not splitting on a friend’, whatever the consequences. It was an unspoken drill learned early at boarding school, one of loyalty, allegiance and honour. A rewarding lesson he was proud of, often taking the flak for his friends, as they would do for him.

As Charlie has always done and surely always will?

David waits for his heartbeat to slow, then leans towards his wife. Antonia has such a tight friendship with Sophie, he thinks she might understand. But she’s drifted away again, her face contemplative, even softer than usual. He wants to say, ‘A penny for your thoughts?’ or, more specifically, ‘Where did you go yesterday after you left Olivia’s house at three? I called, but you weren’t at home,’ but he’s too afraid to ask. He’s too afraid to say, even casually, ‘Naomi mentioned that Sami popped by last week. What did he want?’

He moves the pasta around the bowl with his fork. Creamy spaghetti carbonara made with chunks of gammon. It’s just as he likes it but he doesn’t feel hungry. ‘Do you mind if I nip over to Charlie’s tonight? He wants me to talk to Rupert about school.’ It’s on the tip of his tongue to say he doesn’t know why. Who is he to offer advice when it comes to academia? Or children, for that matter? But he suspects that Antonia would be disappointed in him for showing weakness or failure. ‘Do you want to come? Keep me company in the car?’ he adds instead.

Antonia shakes her head as she stands to collect the plates. ‘No, I’d better stay in to phone Sophie and catch up. She’s left half a dozen messages and I’ve ignored them all. Keep your ears peeled, I’m expecting a big telling off!’ She bends to kiss David’s cheek. ‘Good luck with Rupert though, love. A fifteen-year-old incommunicative boy. You’re a sweetie for saying yes. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

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