Beneath the Skin(69)
But it didn’t matter then, she was poorly and she recovered, life moved on.
‘You could tell him now, love. Sami must know that you don’t go for IVF unless there’s a major problem,’ Norma said, pulling gently away.
Sophie looked at her mum, an older reflection of herself. Her eyes were wet too. It was time to be honest. ‘I told Sami that he was the problem, Mum. Low sperm, no sperm, whatever. I took Antonia to all the consultations so he wouldn’t know the truth. When I told him that he was to blame, he just looked appalled but accepted it. He never mentioned it again.’
‘So, Antonia knows …’
Sophie nodded.
‘Ah,’ Norma replied.
Antonia brushes her floury hands on her apron. She’s been up since five, glad of something to do. Filo pastry from scratch isn’t what most sane people will do on the morning of their husband’s funeral, she knows, but she finds it therapeutic. It takes her mind off the terror of a funeral. The faces, the eyes and the inquisitiveness. The pity, especially. Still fresh from her dad’s burial, even after all these years.
Last night she asked Mike how many people she needed to cater for, but he looked apologetic. He said he had no idea. But then he grinned, saying he’d be more than happy to pop out to Netto for some decent nibbles if the need arose.
Mike’s friendship and his humour keeps her afloat. So it isn’t so bad. Then all the scary stuff like the undertakers, the police and the coroner have been taken out of her hands by David’s partners under the direction of Charlie, still seething in his hospital bed. She only really has Helen to impress.
She cuts the butter into thin slices and dots them carefully on to the dough. What she couldn’t ask Mike was whether it was considered to be a faux pas to attend the funeral of someone who’d committed suicide. She can see it could be embarrassing for people who aren’t close friends. Or for people who judge. But then she understands that a funeral is meant to celebrate someone’s life and to pay respects to a person they admired or loved, however they died.
That’s precisely why so few mourners attended her father’s funeral, she thinks, as she tools the pastry. Sophie was there, though. Sophie was there to hold her hand.
Sophie has been standing still under the shower for a long time, thinking. The water is hot, almost scalding her skin. She can still smell Sami. It’s the soap, perhaps. He’ll be back soon to collect her. She has to think straight, to decide.
‘Antonia doesn’t know everything,’ she eventually said to her mum.
‘Oh?’
‘She doesn’t know …’ She trailed off and started to cry again then. She hadn’t let Norma see her tears since she was very, very small and look at her now.
‘She doesn’t know that I got fed up of waiting for Sami to propose. He seemed to be losing interest.’
Norma shook her head, her eyes still bright with tears. ‘Oh, Sophie, I doubt it.’ She paused for a moment and then nodded. ‘Let me guess. You told him you were pregnant?’
‘Yes. Then of course I had to “lose” the baby. He was devastated, Mum. I think he’d told his family. Martha, anyway. She’s hated me since.’
Sophie could almost see the cogs of her mother’s mind, working it all out. The pregnancy and then the miscarriage, a lie that had snowballed. ‘So, if you confessed to Sami now about the PID or if he finds out you were always infertile …’
‘He’d see me for what I am.’
The central heating’s still blasting out its heat in Sophie’s bedroom, but the air feels cold against her hot and damp skin. She sits on the end of her bed, her hair in a towel, struggling to put the contact lenses in her eyes without looking in the mirror. She’s fearful of what she might see. What her face might reveal.
It had been going so well, the time with her mum. Sophie had confessed it all, the lies and the deceit and Norma didn’t judge or flinch. She didn’t shout or say, ‘I told you so.’ She gave Sophie just what she needed, a tight hug of love. But after pulling away, she took Sophie firmly by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘I don’t think you’re well, love. You’ve been under so much stress for so long. I really think now is the time to go to the doctor and ask for some help.’
A punch to her stomach couldn’t have been worse. It was the thing she really feared; the suggestion of some kind of mental weakness or instability. She stood and loomed over her mother, her mind and her body consumed with sudden uncontrollable hurt and rage. ‘You labelled me as a teenage slag and now I’m a fucking nut case? I should have known you wouldn’t understand.’
Sophie has screamed those words, or similar, countless times to her mother over the years. But never before had she slapped her mother’s face before stalking out of the house.
Antonia yawns as she studies her handwritten list. She’s slept fitfully over the past week, waking up in the early hours but feeling too lonely to get up. Her mind has wandered, roaming from funeral food to the messages left by the insistent journalist, from hazy childhood to Sophie and to David, but not staying in one place for long. She expected to feel more. More grief, regret and guilt. Especially guilt. It’s buried, she supposes, with everything else.
The Ridings called during the week. It was the manager herself, Mrs L Jones. Antonia held her breath as Mrs Jones introduced herself, wondering if she had a breaking point and if it was near. ‘Candy would like to come to the funeral,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘I have no objection.’