Chapter 10: Ten - The Idea of You

Lucy took her time, walking home slowly with a layer of upset and confusion sitting on top of the emptiness she had felt since her visit to Dr Millard. She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer for strength before putting her key in the door. The first thing she heard was Camille’s crying, huge gulping sobs that came from the sitting room, interspersed with the sound of Jonah cooing his words of comfort.

‘Don’t cry, Cam! Don’t let anything spoil your first day at work; this should be a happy day,’ he soothed.

‘It was a happy day!’ Camille shouted.

Lucy let her bag fall to the floor and walked into the sitting room with a feeling of dread. Jonah’s expression was one of confusion. He looked torn. His body twitched, as if he wanted to jump up and talk to her but knew that when Camille was crying his rightful place was by her side. She felt the cold creep of exclusion wash over her once again and it wasn’t pleasant.

Camille looked up at her with tear-stained eyes and sank further back in the cushions with her mouth set in a pout.

‘I didn’t expect you to run off, Camille.’ She looked at the girl, who avoided her eyes.

‘I think she’s got herself a bit flustered.’ Jonah’s smile was fleeting. It disturbed her to see how quickly he tried to justify Camille’s actions without speaking to Lucy first. It made it very clear in whose corner he stood.

‘I don’t doubt it. I was a bit flustered too. I’m not used to being spoken to like that, and equally I would never talk to anyone like that, especially in the street, but I can see how upset Camille is right now, so—’ She was in the middle of offering an olive branch, about to suggest that the histrionics were attributable to a lot of excitement in a strange environment, a way for the girl to save face and for them all to move on, when Camille sat forward and spoke over her.

‘You just don’t get it, Lucy! Not everyone has a perfect life!’ The petulant outburst was that of a little girl, a stark reminder to Lucy that she was just that. This was not a disagreement with any intellectual parity between the two.

‘I know that, Camille, and I wasn’t making a judgement on anyone’s life or anyone’s parenting.’ She looked skyward at the near absurdity of the conversation and how quickly it had deteriorated into this fiasco.

Jonah’s words floated into her mind: ‘Geneviève’s having a bit of a tough time with Camille. I told her it’s probably normal teenage rebellion . . .’ Suddenly, she understood all too well what the woman might have been referring to. She chose a softer tone of reconciliation. ‘What I objected to was the word you used, in public, very loudly, in my neighbourhood. A word that I find reprehensible.’

‘What word?’ Jonah looked at Camille.

Lucy looked at the girl, waiting for her to speak, wanting her to come clean. She was now certain, after hearing Jonah ask the question, that Camille’s account could not have been that full or accurate.

Camille shrugged.

‘What word, Lucy?’ He looked at her. She understood he was seeking clarification, but couldn’t shift an underlying resentment at the fact that she was being questioned in the same vein as Camille.

She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Do you know what? I have had a bit of a day, to put it mildly. I am going to go and have a long soak in the bath and leave you two to chat. If you want to talk to me when I am done, Camille, you know where I am.’

* * *

Lucy lay in the bath, listening to the drip of the ancient plumbing and casting her eyes over the jumble of bottles that littered the top of the medicine cabinet in the corner. They were mostly old cologne bottles that were wrapped in a thin, sticky film of dust and needed throwing away. This was just one collection of Jonah’s that drove her crazy, from the disused, defunct sports rackets and bats that filled a shelf in the wardrobe to his shoebox full of beer mats that clogged precious drawer space in their bedroom. There had been a time when she first moved in when she found his clutter endearing, homely; now she simply wished she could spring-clean without feeling guilty or being accused of destroying his heritage. She closed her eyes and lay down in the hot water, letting the warm foam of her bubble bath cover her skin. With her ears submerged, she could hear the distorted burble of the conversation in the sitting room, as high squeaks and low baritone responses reverberated up underneath the tub and hit her ears. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she let her mind wander to the cool, calm interior of her apartment on the Thames Path. She pictured neat and tidy Ross over on the other side of town, running his hands over the clutter-free surfaces and walking into the spacious wardrobe, and she wept with envy. At that moment in time she would have liked nothing more than to go there for a break, to revel in the solitude and dance barefoot on the tiled floors while drinking wine and wearing a face pack.

Don’t be stupid, Lucy, she reprimanded herself. This will pass. You are just tired. Too tired.

* * *

She had fully intended to go downstairs after her bath and grab a drink with Jonah, observing the old adage that you should never go to bed leaving things unsaid. The lure of the soft mattress had proved too much, however. Lucy had slipped seamlessly from her bathrobe into her pyjamas and under the duvet. Flitting in and out of sleep, she lay with a small inch of pink cotton fabric nestled in her palm, finding comfort in the contact, as she always did. She looked up at the ceiling through narrowed lids, as the last of the evening sun filtered through the leaves of the silver birch by their window, casting a dappled gold across the room. The pattern shifted in the gentle breeze. Birds perched on the telegraph pole tweeted up a cacophony that to her tired ears sounded a lot like bickering. The bedroom door opened slowly.

‘I thought you were going to come back downstairs. I’ve been waiting for you.’ His tone was a little accusatory, suggesting she might have been deliberately hiding out.

He might have been right.

‘I thought I would too, but I got rather comfy and seem to have taken root.’ She smiled, patting the mattress and pushing the pink cotton item up under her sleeve to retrieve later. Jonah kicked off his shoes and, still in his suit trousers and with his shirt sleeves rolled up, he lay next to her on the bed, his head resting on the stack of pillows that he always threw on to the floor, one by one, as the night progressed. The two lay side by side on their backs, both looking up at the beautiful display across the ceiling. It was certainly easier to talk when not sitting face to face.

‘How’s Camille?’ Her concern was genuine; she hoped she had stopped crying.

‘She’s good. Had a little weep then spoke to her friend in Poitiers – Alison?’

‘Alice.’

‘Yes, that’s it, Alice; and then she went up for an early night with a box of crackers and tub of cream cheese. I don’t think any amount of distress could dampen her appetite.’ He laughed.

‘Oh, Jonah, what a horrible day. I don’t really know what happened with her. One minute she was gabbling, happily talking about work and the people she had met and I genuinely felt like we were making friends.’ She looked across at him briefly, aware of how shallow that might sound; she was, after all, the girl’s stepmother. ‘Then she used the word “bitch” so casually and aggressively and I told her that was not okay and she got so mad. I certainly didn’t want to take the gloss off her first day at work. I think I was alarmed at how easily it slipped from her mouth and the fact that it was aimed at a woman she had never met, but then I was more alarmed at how quickly it escalated. Maybe I overreacted.’ She paused, waiting for him to offer an insight. In truth, she was hoping for reassurance that she hadn’t been in the wrong.

Jonah took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s different for her generation. I think they do swear more—’

‘No, you misunderstand me,’ she cut in. ‘It’s not swearing I have a problem with – I mean, I’d rather she didn’t, of course – but if it had been just that I would have given her a look of disapproval, a bit of a jokey reprimand to keep the peace and we could have moved on, but it was more than that. It was that particular word. I meant what I said to her – I detest it. There is no male equivalent; it’s vicious. I find it judgemental.’

She had rocked on the mattress, trying to erase the words, which were not meant for her ears. Two male orderlies snickering outside her hospital ward: ‘How old? Dirty little bitch!’ followed by their lascivious grunts of laughter.

Lucy shivered.

‘I suppose it is.’ He spoke as if in thought.

‘I don’t want to be the censorial maiden aunt in the background, but I guess I find it difficult sometimes to know where the lines are drawn. I definitely hold back where she is concerned. I know I do, and that makes it hard for me.’

‘In what way do you hold back?’ he asked.

‘Lots of ways, but a good example would be that if Maisie, when she was older, dressed how Camille did today, in a very revealing way, I would have no hesitation in telling her, nicely, that I think she’d be better off wearing something a little more conservative. I mean, yes, I would encourage her to celebrate her body, of course! She’s beautiful. But there was something a bit raunchy about Camille’s clothes that I didn’t think was right. It was her first day of work and I understand the need for her to be in fashion, but I don’t think it sent out the right message. God, listen to me. I sound exactly like that maiden aunt.’

‘No, I think you have a point, but it’s a hard one to broach,’ he confessed, and she was glad they appeared to be on the same page, something she had missed of late.

‘For me it’s about keeping her safe,’ she continued. ‘She has that amazing body, but she is only sixteen and I think sometimes, when you have a body like that, it can be a while before your mind catches up, even if you think it has. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes.’ Jonah turned on to his side and stared at her. ‘Why do you think you hold back with her?’ He went back to that point, clearly still curious.

Lucy turned her head towards him and they held hands. ‘I think I am very aware that I don’t want to tread on Geneviève’s toes. I’m conscious of the fact that she has a mum and for me to jump in with my amateur parenting would feel odd for us both. I guess also I don’t have the confidence because I have never done it, but I think above all I want Camille to like me, I know that will make you happy, so I tend to hold back, trying to be nice all the time so she likes me. That’s it, I guess.’

She watched his eyebrows knit together, as if she were speaking a foreign tongue and he was trying to figure out the meaning. The clipped tone that followed was not what she had expected after her own impassioned confession.

‘We will only ever feel like a proper family if we can all relax; it’s important. It doesn’t need to be the big deal you are making it, Lucy. She is only here for a few weeks, don’t forget, and then she’s back in France to start a new course or get a job, whatever. I just want her to have a nice break while she is here. You don’t need to parent her; you need to be her friend, a guide, that’s it!’ He made it sound so obvious.

‘I know that, Jonah, of course I do! But firstly, it doesn’t matter that it’s only for a few weeks; it is laying the foundation for all future visits. And secondly, it’s not as easy as having a plate of pasta and whacking on some music and giggling until dawn; these things take time.’ Her blood pressure rose as she struggled to make herself understood.

‘Exactly,’ he gestured. ‘These things take time, and there are huge gaps in my knowledge, don’t forget. We shall figure it out together.’

‘That sounds good.’ Her words were both appeasing and resigned; she didn’t want to keep going around in circles. ‘Camille and I have to get to know each other, and I feel she puts up barriers that make that harder than it needs to be.’

‘Look, she’s probably nervous as hell; I don’t buy all that bravado. She might be sixteen but I think she’s still a little scared of losing her dad.’

Lucy looked back towards the ceiling as a steady stream of tears fell along her temples and into the mattress.

‘Don’t cry, my Lucy!’ He leant forward and kissed her face; his mouth was soon wet with her tears.

‘I can’t help it.’ She sniffed. ‘I sometimes wonder if I lost a little bit of myself when I married you, and that scares me. Don’t get me wrong; I love you. I love you so much, but I get scared too. I know it sounds selfish, maybe it is, but I want us to come first and I think we’ve lost a bit of that recently.’

‘No no no no, Lucy.’ He laid his arm across her in a loose embrace. ‘You can’t look at it that way. You do lose things when you get married, it’s true, but what we gain far outweighs what we have lost. My life was so empty without you in it. That day I saw you in the church, your beautiful face and your manner . . . I fell for you, hook, line and sinker, and I realised that you were my missing piece. I am happy with you by my side and without you I am not. It’s that simple.’

‘Is it that simple?’ She wiped her eyes.

‘Yes! It really is. I know I can make you happy, always. And we have to try not to overcomplicate things.’ He kissed her face again.

The two lay like that for some minutes, feeling the world settle around them until their heart rates dropped and the natural rhythm returned to their breathing. It was Lucy who broke the silence, as she tried to paper over the crack in her thoughts.

‘I had an appointment with Dr Millard today, just before I went to meet Camille.’

He sat up on the mattress and faced her. ‘You should have said. I would have come with you.’

‘I know.’ She patted his arm and smiled. ‘But I wanted to go on my own.’ She sniffed again.

‘What did he say?’ His chest heaved.

‘Pretty much what everyone else has said, that these things just happen sometimes and that there was no real point in investigating why as, more often than not, people who experience early miscarriage go ahead and have healthy babies.’

‘Well that’s really good news!’

She was certain his open expression was meant to reassure her.

‘I guess, but there’s a part of me that would like to know why, not only so that I can try and guard against it, but also because it would help me understand. I think it might make me feel less sad if I knew,’ she whispered. ‘He said there was no reason not to try again when we were ready.’

Jonah’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Lucy, this is good, good news! If it’s just a case of keep trying, why don’t we? I know that I certainly haven’t changed my mind. I want nothing more than to have our baby.’

‘Really?’ She looked into his eyes.

‘Yes, of course, really!’ He kissed her again.

‘I’ve been worried that you didn’t seem that fussed when I suggested we wait. I thought you might have been a little relieved and it threw me completely. I thought we might have been on different paths.’

‘Relieved? Not at all. We are on the same path, my love. But I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you than you were already trying to deal with. I still don’t.’

‘I do want our baby,’ she cried. ‘I want her so much. I feel like she’s waiting for me somewhere.’

‘I want our baby too.’ He held her tight. ‘I do.’

The two fell into a deep slumber, wrapped in each other’s arms with the promise of a brighter day tomorrow. Lucy slept soundly, exhausted and at the same time relieved to have spoken her mind; she felt wonderfully unburdened.

Both stirred as the light of dawn peeped over the horizon, flooding their bedroom with light.

Jonah wriggled. ‘My arm has gone numb.’ He laughed, trying to work his limb free from under her side.

‘I feel happy.’ She smiled, snuggling closer into him under the duvet.

‘Me too.’ He pushed her hair from her face. ‘I’m sorry about the whole Cam thing yesterday. I didn’t know what to do. I felt caught in the middle and I didn’t like it one bit.’

‘Me either,’ she admitted.

‘I guess we have to figure these things out together, but one thing I do know is that you shouldn’t hold back, Lucy. If you want to say something you need to be able to. This is your home and you need to be free to speak; otherwise things will get bottled up and that’s no good. No stress, remember?’ He smiled.

‘Yep, no stress.’ She nodded against him.

‘How about we organise a bit of a family day, take Camille out to meet Fay and Adam and your mum? Cam might like that.’

‘Really?’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘Yes, really. It would be great for her to feel she is part of something bigger than us rattling around in Queen’s Park. Let’s take her out to Kent to meet the wider family.’ He spoke with growing enthusiasm.

‘If you think so,’ she agreed.

‘I do. And in the meantime, I am very excited about us trying again for our baby, and you know what they say . . .’

‘What?’ She yawned, glad that there was still more sleep to be had before the alarm went off.

‘No time like the present.’ He kissed her, before pulling the duvet over their heads and rolling her on top of him.

* * *

Things between us were strained. I knew I loved Jonah, that he made me happy and that I wanted to be married to him. I also knew he would be the best dad ever, I saw evidence of his kind nature every day, but it was like someone in the distance was slowly banging a drum that only I could hear. It was a low, slow, deep, heavy boom that resonated in my mind, reminding me of the passing of time and distracting my thoughts. I could only focus my mind on one thing, the fact that I was desperate to be a mother. It was an overwhelming, all-consuming sensation that flavoured my food, coloured my opinions and influenced my choices. I was also battling with the thought that Jonah didn’t feel the need for a child as strongly as I did and I didn’t know how to manage that.

And this will sound extreme, ridiculous even, but when I got my period it was with such a sense of sadness that I would lock the bathroom door and howl, as surely as I had when I miscarried. These two events were, quite obviously, inextricably linked. The blood lost in both cases might have been for different reasons and in differing amounts, but both were proof of one thing: I was still a mum-in-waiting. And that made me sadder than I can say.