because it would have meant leaving you with child-minders, and I didn’t want to have to do that. I wouldn’t have been here for you in the holidays, or after school. I wouldn’t even have been able to take you to school.’
‘I get the coach,’ he says, in a bored, indifferent voice.
‘Yes, but when you were at junior school.’
He shrugs, and sticks a potato in his mouth. And I feel the heat rising in my face.
‘I thought it would be better for you to be brought up by your mother rather than by a succession of strangers,’ I say tightly. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Again he shrugs. And he almost smirks. ‘Your choice,’ he says indifferently.
Which are the same words that his father used, when I said that I couldn’t go back to work, when I sat sobbing on our bed and pleading, How can I go? How can I leave Jono in the care of strangers?
Andrew sat beside me. He stroked my back, stiffly, mechanically, as if he’d read it in a book, an instruction manual: when the wife is sad and in need of comfort, she will need to be stroked. And he said, It’s your choice.
But it didn’t feel like a choice. Quite the opposite, in fact. It felt like all my choices had been taken away.
Jono finishes eating and lets his knife and fork clatter onto the plate. I cannot bear to look at him any more. ‘You know I did have a life of my own once,’ I say as I pick up his plate. A very good life.’
And he says, ‘Well, what did you give it up for, then?’
FIVE
Jono will be thirteen in March. On June the seventh it will be ten years since my daughter was taken out of my womb. I do not know what has happened to the years. I do not know what has happened to me.
I look at myself in the mirror and it is the same face, but a still version. As if a mask of me, a cardboard copy, has been stuck on over the gap underneath. Once, I was walking past the shops and a young man – a good few years younger than me – started walking alongside me and trying to chat me up.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘But you’ve lost your sparkle. All you married women, you lose your sparkle. It’s criminal. I don’t know what your husbands are doing. Come out with me, love, and I’ll put the sparkle back in your eyes.’ And he persisted, trotting alongside me for the full length of the High Street while I did my best to ignore him. ‘Go on, love, what do you say? Come and have a drink with me and I’ll make you smile.’
I told Andrew. I wanted to know what he would say. I wanted him to laugh, of course, but a little part of me also wanted him to grab hold of me and kiss me and set about putting the sparkle back for himself.
But Andrew was not impressed. He tutted. He barely looked at me. And he said, ‘Oh, Rachel, don’t tell me you’d fall for that old line?’
To which I replied, ‘No, of course not.’ But I couldn’t help wondering: had the sparkle gone from my eyes? And was it really that obvious?
And this was three, maybe four, years ago. I turned forty the September before last. Who will ever care about the sparkle in my eyes now?
On the wall in our spare room we have one of those wide glass photo frames that takes three photos, all in a row. We’ve had it for years. I bought it in a trendy little shop near my office, not long after we were married, and I put in it my three favourite photos of us at the time. There’s one of us from our honeymoon, taken by a stranger outside St Mark’s in Venice; I am holding onto my sunhat, to stop it blowing away, and Andrew is holding onto me. And he’s looking at me like he can’t believe I’m there. The middle one is from another holiday; this time we are balanced on the edge of a sailing boat, our faces sun-kissed and smiling, our hair whipping in the wind. You can see we have nothing to worry about. You can see it’s just us, and whatever we want to be, wherever we want to go. The third photo is my favourite, though. In this, we are at Andrew’s firm’s Christmas
‘I get the coach,’ he says, in a bored, indifferent voice.
‘Yes, but when you were at junior school.’
He shrugs, and sticks a potato in his mouth. And I feel the heat rising in my face.
‘I thought it would be better for you to be brought up by your mother rather than by a succession of strangers,’ I say tightly. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Again he shrugs. And he almost smirks. ‘Your choice,’ he says indifferently.
Which are the same words that his father used, when I said that I couldn’t go back to work, when I sat sobbing on our bed and pleading, How can I go? How can I leave Jono in the care of strangers?
Andrew sat beside me. He stroked my back, stiffly, mechanically, as if he’d read it in a book, an instruction manual: when the wife is sad and in need of comfort, she will need to be stroked. And he said, It’s your choice.
But it didn’t feel like a choice. Quite the opposite, in fact. It felt like all my choices had been taken away.
Jono finishes eating and lets his knife and fork clatter onto the plate. I cannot bear to look at him any more. ‘You know I did have a life of my own once,’ I say as I pick up his plate. A very good life.’
And he says, ‘Well, what did you give it up for, then?’
FIVE
Jono will be thirteen in March. On June the seventh it will be ten years since my daughter was taken out of my womb. I do not know what has happened to the years. I do not know what has happened to me.
I look at myself in the mirror and it is the same face, but a still version. As if a mask of me, a cardboard copy, has been stuck on over the gap underneath. Once, I was walking past the shops and a young man – a good few years younger than me – started walking alongside me and trying to chat me up.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘But you’ve lost your sparkle. All you married women, you lose your sparkle. It’s criminal. I don’t know what your husbands are doing. Come out with me, love, and I’ll put the sparkle back in your eyes.’ And he persisted, trotting alongside me for the full length of the High Street while I did my best to ignore him. ‘Go on, love, what do you say? Come and have a drink with me and I’ll make you smile.’
I told Andrew. I wanted to know what he would say. I wanted him to laugh, of course, but a little part of me also wanted him to grab hold of me and kiss me and set about putting the sparkle back for himself.
But Andrew was not impressed. He tutted. He barely looked at me. And he said, ‘Oh, Rachel, don’t tell me you’d fall for that old line?’
To which I replied, ‘No, of course not.’ But I couldn’t help wondering: had the sparkle gone from my eyes? And was it really that obvious?
And this was three, maybe four, years ago. I turned forty the September before last. Who will ever care about the sparkle in my eyes now?
On the wall in our spare room we have one of those wide glass photo frames that takes three photos, all in a row. We’ve had it for years. I bought it in a trendy little shop near my office, not long after we were married, and I put in it my three favourite photos of us at the time. There’s one of us from our honeymoon, taken by a stranger outside St Mark’s in Venice; I am holding onto my sunhat, to stop it blowing away, and Andrew is holding onto me. And he’s looking at me like he can’t believe I’m there. The middle one is from another holiday; this time we are balanced on the edge of a sailing boat, our faces sun-kissed and smiling, our hair whipping in the wind. You can see we have nothing to worry about. You can see it’s just us, and whatever we want to be, wherever we want to go. The third photo is my favourite, though. In this, we are at Andrew’s firm’s Christmas
Similar Books
