Read Online The Perfect Mother by Margaret Leroy - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Leroy
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for taking your child to the doctor that’s unknown to me: a frock from Monsoon perhaps, with a pattern like a flowerbed, or a tracksuit and pink lipstick.
There’s a clatter from the hall—Richard closing the door behind him, putting his briefcase down. Relief washes through me: I’m always so glad when he’s home. He comes in, and I see he’s tired; he’s somehow less vivid than when he left in the morning, as though the dust of the day has settled on him and blurred him. He’s brought me flowers, blue delphiniums, wrapped in white paper, with a bow of rustling ribbon. He’s good at choosing things—orchids, silver bracelets; his gifts are always exact.
‘Thanks. They’re so lovely.’ They’re an icy pale blue, like a clear winter sky, the flowers frail, like tissue. I hold them to my face; they have the faintest smoky smell.
He kisses my cheek.
‘There’s pollen on you,’ he says. He rubs at my nose with a finger.
‘Was the meeting OK?’
He shrugs. ‘So so,’ he says.
I’m not sure this is true: he looks strained, older.
‘D’you want to eat?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks. Scotch would be good. Just tonight.’
I smile. ‘It was that bad?’
He shakes his head. ‘It was fine. Really.’
He has a still face; he’s always hard to read. I don’t pursue it, don’t know the right questions. There are parts of his life that are opaque to me.
I get him a large glass of Scotch, with ice, the way helikes it. He doesn’t sit, he’s restless—as though the uneasy energy that’s built up through the day won’t leave him. He leans against the mantelpiece, sipping his drink.
In the silence between us I hear Sinead upstairs, the clumping of her slippers and water from the shower running away. I’m worried she will wake Daisy. I’ve become alert again to all the noises of the house—like when you have a baby and skulk round like a conspirator, and every creak on every stair is marked on a map in your mind.
‘We went to the doctor,’ I tell him.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘How was it?’
‘We saw someone new. A woman. She was rather young, I thought.’
‘And was it OK?’
‘Sort of. Well, Daisy liked her.’
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘There. I told you it would be all right.’
‘I’m not sure. I wasn’t happy really.’
‘What is it?’ he says, solicitous. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I told her that Daisy wasn’t eating and she said I needed nutritional advice. It felt so patronising. Like she couldn’t really hear what I was saying. I keep worrying I handled it all wrong—you know, said the wrong thing or something. D’you think sometimes I don’t express myself right—d’you think I’m not assertive enough, perhaps?’
I want him, need him, to say, Of course not, of course you didn’t handle it wrong—it’s nothing to do with you.
‘Darling, you do rather brood on things,’ he says.
He’s standing just outside the circle of light from the lamp. Half his face is in shadow and I can’t see what he’s thinking.
‘And then she launched into this thing about how it was all psychological,’ I tell him.
There’s a little pause.
‘Well, maybe there’s something in that,’ he says then.
For a moment I can’t speak. The smoky smell of the flowers he’s brought clogs up my throat.
‘But how can there be?’
‘Look, darling,’ he says, ‘you do worry a lot. Maybe that affects Daisy in some way.’
‘I’m worrying because she’s ill. How could that make her ill? I don’t understand. Is that so bad, to worry?’
‘Well, I guess it’s not ideal,’ he says. ‘But with your background, it’s maybe not so surprising.’
I hear a sound of splintering in my head. There’s a sense of shock between us. He shouldn’t have said this, we both know that. But instead of taking it back, he tries to explain.
‘You know, all those things you went through. It’s bound to affect you…’
He turns a
There’s a clatter from the hall—Richard closing the door behind him, putting his briefcase down. Relief washes through me: I’m always so glad when he’s home. He comes in, and I see he’s tired; he’s somehow less vivid than when he left in the morning, as though the dust of the day has settled on him and blurred him. He’s brought me flowers, blue delphiniums, wrapped in white paper, with a bow of rustling ribbon. He’s good at choosing things—orchids, silver bracelets; his gifts are always exact.
‘Thanks. They’re so lovely.’ They’re an icy pale blue, like a clear winter sky, the flowers frail, like tissue. I hold them to my face; they have the faintest smoky smell.
He kisses my cheek.
‘There’s pollen on you,’ he says. He rubs at my nose with a finger.
‘Was the meeting OK?’
He shrugs. ‘So so,’ he says.
I’m not sure this is true: he looks strained, older.
‘D’you want to eat?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks. Scotch would be good. Just tonight.’
I smile. ‘It was that bad?’
He shakes his head. ‘It was fine. Really.’
He has a still face; he’s always hard to read. I don’t pursue it, don’t know the right questions. There are parts of his life that are opaque to me.
I get him a large glass of Scotch, with ice, the way helikes it. He doesn’t sit, he’s restless—as though the uneasy energy that’s built up through the day won’t leave him. He leans against the mantelpiece, sipping his drink.
In the silence between us I hear Sinead upstairs, the clumping of her slippers and water from the shower running away. I’m worried she will wake Daisy. I’ve become alert again to all the noises of the house—like when you have a baby and skulk round like a conspirator, and every creak on every stair is marked on a map in your mind.
‘We went to the doctor,’ I tell him.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘How was it?’
‘We saw someone new. A woman. She was rather young, I thought.’
‘And was it OK?’
‘Sort of. Well, Daisy liked her.’
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘There. I told you it would be all right.’
‘I’m not sure. I wasn’t happy really.’
‘What is it?’ he says, solicitous. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I told her that Daisy wasn’t eating and she said I needed nutritional advice. It felt so patronising. Like she couldn’t really hear what I was saying. I keep worrying I handled it all wrong—you know, said the wrong thing or something. D’you think sometimes I don’t express myself right—d’you think I’m not assertive enough, perhaps?’
I want him, need him, to say, Of course not, of course you didn’t handle it wrong—it’s nothing to do with you.
‘Darling, you do rather brood on things,’ he says.
He’s standing just outside the circle of light from the lamp. Half his face is in shadow and I can’t see what he’s thinking.
‘And then she launched into this thing about how it was all psychological,’ I tell him.
There’s a little pause.
‘Well, maybe there’s something in that,’ he says then.
For a moment I can’t speak. The smoky smell of the flowers he’s brought clogs up my throat.
‘But how can there be?’
‘Look, darling,’ he says, ‘you do worry a lot. Maybe that affects Daisy in some way.’
‘I’m worrying because she’s ill. How could that make her ill? I don’t understand. Is that so bad, to worry?’
‘Well, I guess it’s not ideal,’ he says. ‘But with your background, it’s maybe not so surprising.’
I hear a sound of splintering in my head. There’s a sense of shock between us. He shouldn’t have said this, we both know that. But instead of taking it back, he tries to explain.
‘You know, all those things you went through. It’s bound to affect you…’
He turns a
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