ADELE PARKS was born in Teesside, North-East England. Her first novel, Playing Away, was published in 2000 and since then she’s had eighteen international bestsellers, translated into twenty six languages. She’s an Ambassador for The National Literary Trust and The Reading Agency and a judge for the Costa. She’s lived in Italy, Botswana and London, and is now settled in Guildford, Surrey, with her husband, son and cat.

Also by Adele Parks

Playing Away

Game Over

Larger Than Life

The Other Woman’s Shoes

Still Thinking Of You

Husbands

Young Wives’ Tales

Happy Families (Quick Read)

Tell Me Something

Love Lies

Men I’ve Loved Before

About Last Night

Whatever It Takes

The State We’re In

Spare Brides

If You Go Away

The Stranger In My Home

The Image Of You

I Invited Her In

Short story collections

Love Is A Journey

Lies Lies Lies

Adele Parks

ONE PLACE MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Adele Parks 2019

Adele Parks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008284671

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008318413

For my dear friends Marguerite Weatherseed and Louise Gibbons. Two of the kindest people I have the privilege of knowing.

You are both simply lovely.

Praise for Adele Parks’ Lies Lies Lies

‘Gripping, moving and elegantly written’ Marian Keyes

‘Brilliant, moving and deeply satisfying, Parks is the queen of the domestic dark side’ Veronica Henry

‘Completely addictive… superbly drawn. Fabulous’ Ruth Jones

‘Compelling and suspenseful’ Catherine Isaac

‘I devoured Lies, Lies, Lies… so engaging, well written. It is one of those rare books that earns the title, unputdownable’ Sally Hepworth

‘Brilliantly twisty and makes for a thrilling, unputdownable read but is also so insightful about human nature: her characters, with all their flaws and secrets, are utterly real. A triumph’ Lucy Foley

‘BOOM! What a book! Layers and layers of intrigue and characters I want to spend a lifetime with. Loved it’ Suzy K Quinn

‘Utterly brilliant, twisting and twisting again, but also shocking and sad and triumphant and beautiful’ Rachel Edwards

‘Engrossing and emotional, Lies Lies Lies had me gripped from the very first page to the final shocking finale. Adele Parks just gets better and better’ Lisa Hall

Praise for Adele Parks’ I Invited Her In

‘Really, REALLY good… absolutely brilliant’ Marian Keyes

‘Packed with secrets, scandal and suspense, this is Adele Parks at her absolute best’ Heat

‘Wow! What a read. Intense, clever and masterful’ Lisa Jewell

‘Original and compelling. I read it in one sitting’ Jane Fallon

‘Fabulously gripping. Superb’ Ruth Jones

‘A beautifully written tale of revenge and retribution, full of unexpected plot twists’ The Daily Mail

‘Weaving together the emotions and ties that bind female friends with a cracking paced twist of a tale’ Stylist

‘This chilling domestic noir tale is full of revenge, betrayal and gasp-out-loud moments’ Fabulous Magazine

‘A tale of revenge and retribution that I read in a single, mesmerised sitting’ Woman & Home

‘A gripping read from the brilliant Adele Parks’ HELLO

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Praise

Prologue

2016

1. Daisy

2. Simon

3. Daisy

4. Simon

5. Daisy

6. Simon

7. Daisy

8. Simon

9. Daisy

10. Simon

11. Daisy

12. Simon

13. Daisy

14. Simon

15. Daisy

16. Simon

17. Daisy

18. Simon

19. Daisy

20. Simon

21. Daisy

22. Simon

23. Daisy

24. Simon

2019

25. Daisy

26. Simon

27. Daisy

28. Simon

29. Daisy

30. Simon

31. Daisy

32. Simon

33. Daisy

34. Daisy

35. Simon

36. Daisy

37. Simon

38. Daisy

39. Simon

40. Daisy

41. Simon

42. Daisy

43. Daisy

44. Simon

45. Daisy

46. Simon

47. Daisy

48. Simon

49. Daisy

50. Simon

51. Daisy

52. Simon

53. Simon

54. Daisy

55. Simon

56. Daisy

57. Simon

58. Daisy

59. Simon

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Questions for Discussion

About the Publisher

Prologue

May 1976

Simon was six years old when he first tasted beer.

He was bathed and ready for bed wearing soft pyjamas, even though it was light outside; still early. Other kids were in the street, playing on their bikes, kicking a football. He could hear them through the open window, although he couldn’t see them because the blinds were closed. His daddy didn’t like the evening light glaring on the TV screen, his mummy didn’t like the neighbours looking in; keeping the room dark was something they agreed on.

His mummy didn’t like a lot of things: wasted food, messy bedrooms, Daddy driving too fast, his sister throwing a tantrum in public. Mummy liked ‘having standards’. He didn’t know what that meant, exactly. There was a standard-bearer at Cubs; he was a big boy and got to wave the flag at the front of the parade, but his mummy didn’t have a flag, so it was unclear. What was clear was that she didn’t like him to be in the street after six o’clock. She thought it was common. He wasn’t sure what common was either, something to do with having fun. She bathed him straight after tea and made him put on pyjamas, so that he couldn’t sneak outside.

He didn’t know what his daddy didn’t like, just what he did like. His daddy was always thirsty and liked a drink. When he was thirsty he was grumpy and when he had a drink, he laughed a lot. His daddy was an accountant and like to count in lots of different ways: ‘a swift one’, ‘a cold one’, and ‘one more for the road’. Sometimes Simon though his daddy was lying when he said he was an accountant; most likely, he was a pirate or a wizard. He said to people, ‘Pick your poison’, which sounded like something pirates might say, and he liked to drink, ‘the hair of a dog’ in the morning at the weekends, which was definitely a spell. Simon asked his mummy about it once and she told him to stop being silly and never to say those silly things outside the house.

He had been playing with his Etch A Sketch, which was only two months old and was a birthday present. Having seen it advertised on TV, Simon had begged for it, but it was disappointing. Just two silly knobs making lines that went up and down, side to side. Limited. Boring. He was bored. The furniture in the room was organised so all of it was pointing at the TV which was blaring but not interesting. The news. His parents liked watching the news, but he didn’t. His father was nursing a can of the grown ups’ pop that Simon was never allowed. The pop that smelt like nothing else, fruity and dark and tempting.

‘Can I have a sip?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be silly, Simon,’ his mother interjected. ‘You’re far too young. Beer is for daddies.’ He thought she said ‘daddies’, but she might have said ‘baddies’.

His father put the can to his lips, glared at his mother, cold. A look that said, ‘Shut up woman, this is man’s business.’ His mother had blushed, looked away as though she couldn’t stand to watch, but she held her tongue. Perhaps she thought the bitterness wouldn’t be to his taste, that one sip would put him off. He didn’t like the taste. But he enjoyed the collusion. He didn’t know that word then, but he instinctively understood the thrill. He and his daddy drinking grown ups’ pop! His father had looked satisfied when he swallowed back the first mouthful, then pushed for a second. He looked almost proud. Simon tasted the aluminium can, the snappy biting bitter bubbles and it lit a fuse.

After that, in the mornings, Simon would sometimes get up early, before Mummy or Daddy or his little sister, and he’d dash around the house before school, tidying up. He’d open the curtains, empty the ashtrays, clear away the discarded cans. Invariably his mother went to bed before his father. Perhaps she didn’t want to have to watch him drink himself into a stupor every night, perhaps she hoped denying him an audience might take away some of the fun for him, some of the need. She never saw just how bad the place looked by the time his father staggered upstairs to bed. Simon knew it was important that she didn’t see that particular brand of chaos.

Occasionally there would be a small amount of beer left in one of the cans. Simon would slurp it back. He found he liked the flat, forbidden, taste just as much as the fizzy hit of fresh beer. He’d throw open a window, so the cigarette smoke and the secrets could drift away. When his mother came downstairs, she would smile at him and thank him for tidying up.

‘You’re a good boy, Simon,’ she’d say with some relief. And no idea.

When there weren’t dregs to be slugged, he sometimes opened a new can. Threw half of it down his throat before eating his breakfast. His father never kept count.

Some people say their favourite smell is freshly baked bread, others say coffee or a campfire. From a very young age, few scents could pop Simon’s nerve endings like the scent of beer.

The promise of it.

2016

1

Chapter 1, Daisy

Thursday, 9th June 2016

I don’t think it is a good idea to bring Millie here to the clinic. I’ve said as much to Simon on about half a dozen occasions. Besides the fact that she’s missing her after-school ballet class and she’ll be bored out of her mind, it isn’t the sort of place children should be. There’s the issue of being sensitive to the other patients for a start. It’s too easy to imagine that people who are trying for a child adore every kid they encounter; it’s not always the case, sometimes they outright dislike them, even adorable ones like Millie. It’s too painful. Millie’s tinkling chatter in the waiting room might inadvertently irritate, cause upset. It sounds extreme, but infertility is a raw and painful matter. Plus, I’m worried about what to do with her when we go into the consultancy room for a chat with the doctor. This is only a chat. That’s all I’ve agreed to. Yet, I can’t very well have her sit through a conversation about sperm and ovulation, the possibility (because it’s not a probability) of her having a sibling. But nor am I comfortable with the idea of leaving her with the receptionist; she’s just six.

We hadn’t initially planned to bring her with us but at the last moment our childminding arrangements fell through, as child-minding arrangements are wont to do. We had little choice. I wanted to postpone the meeting. For ever, actually, but Simon was eager to get talking about the options and said postponing was out of the question. She would come with.

‘The sooner we know what’s wrong, the sooner we can get it fixed,’ he said optimistically, his face alive with a big, hopeful grin.

‘There’s nothing wrong, we’re just old,’ I pointed out.

‘Older. Not old. Not too old. Lots of women give birth at forty-five years of age,’ he insisted. ‘Some of those are first-time mothers. The fact that we’ve already had Millie means you’re in a better position than those women.’

I think the fact that we already have Millie means we should leave the matter alone. Be content with one child. I think contentment is an extremely underrated life goal. Simon holds no truck with contentment. He likes to be deliriously happy or miserable. He’d never admit as much but we’ve been together seventeen years and I know him better than he knows himself. It seems to me that we have spent far too much of our married life in clinics such as this one. Places with beige walls and tempered expectations, places that take your cash and hope but can’t guarantee anything in return. When we had Millie – our miracle! – I thought all this aggravation, frustration and discontent was behind us for good. One is enough for me. I had thought, hoped, it would be enough for Simon.

Millie is perfect.

We shouldn’t push our luck. I’ve always been a ‘count your blessings’ sort of person. I don’t want an embarrassment of riches, I prefer to scrape under the radar with a sufficiency. Simon and I do not think alike on this. Obviously, he agrees Millie is perfect. For him, it’s her very perfection that’s driving him want to make more babies.

For the last couple of years, more or less since Millie started pre-school, Simon has been saying we ought to try again. I’ve nodded, smiled, acknowledged his suggestion without entering into any sort of real discussion. I mean, in a way we are trying, at least we’re not avoiding the possibility – we don’t use contraception. However, at our age, with our history, that’s not trying hard enough. We’d have to get some help if we want a second child. I know that. Recently, Simon has significantly upped the ante in terms of his persistence with this idea. He can’t seem to just enjoy what we have.

Half term is a good example. We took a cottage in Devon because British families have been doing so for generations and, evidently, we lack the necessary imagination to buck the trend. This year we took a chance, selecting a new part of Devon that we hadn’t previously visited. The cottage was dated but well-scrubbed, and whilst the water pressure made showering a slow and disappointing process, there was an open fire, an Aga and a shelf of jigsaws and board games, so we thought the place was perfect. The garden fell away to a footpath that led directly to the beach. I’m always surprised by beaches. They’re never as restful or ideal for contemplation as I imagine. British beaches are noisy places: waves crash, seagulls squawk, the wind scrapes the sand, and children laugh, cry and shriek. It’s best to accept this, embrace it. We’re keen to offer Millie every opportunity that might be presented in an Enid Blyton novel so despite the sometimes iffy weather, we took long walks and endured breezy picnics without admitting to the chill. We went crabbing and scoured rock pools for mini creatures that delighted Millie. We were just a short drive away from a petting farm and a small village packed with pastel-coloured buildings, where every second shop sold fish and chips. Yes, perfect.

It was hardly a retreat though. The place was too picturesque to remain a secret. Indeed, we’d discovered it because it was featured in a glossy Sunday newspaper supplement. Yet despite the identikit families dressed in Boden, trailing plastic buckets and spades, we managed to carve out some privacy, some time to ourselves. We ignored the crowds and the queues, and we drew a magic circle around us. Naturally, Millie made friends with other children on the beach. She’s confident, open and pretty, just the sort of kid other kids like to befriend, but when the parents of her new acquaintances invited us to join them for a scone at the café or a barbecue in their rental, we declined. We made up excuses, told small lies about already having plans and commitments. I’m not at all like Millie, I’m not confident about making new friends, I never have been. I was never what anyone would have considered a pretty girl. It’s not the worst thing in the world, although some people seem to think it is. As a child, I concentrated on being kind and funny, well informed, with aspirations of being thought of as reasonably clever. It was enough. I got by. I have great friends now but I’m not a fan of making casual, transient relationships on holiday. Why bother? Besides, we were so blissful, just the three of us, we didn’t want or need anyone else. Three is the perfect number. Fun facts: the Pythagoreans thought that the number three was the first true number. Three is the first number that forms a geometrical figure, the triangle. Three is considered the number of harmony, wisdom and understanding. I’ve always thought that three is particularly significant as it’s the number that is most often associated with time: past, present, future; beginning, middle, end; birth, life, death.

I sigh, glancing around the fertility clinic reception, I really don’t think we need to be here, trying for another baby. It’s like we’re pushing our luck. Being greedy. Asking for trouble. We’re happy as we are.

Simon squeezes my hand. I think of the last night in the cottage. Millie was exhausted after a week of fresh air and long walks, she almost nodded off at the kitchen table over supper. We got her to bed by 7 p.m. and she was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Simon suggested we have a glass of wine in the back garden, make the most of our last night and the privacy that our cottage offered. There was a gas heater, one of those that’s bad for the environment so I demurred, but Simon persuaded me, ‘Just once. Go with it.’

Let’s just say, the wine (not a glass but two bottles in the end) and the sound of the sea crashing on the beach, the novelty of spending time alone together without other people or even Netflix, had an effect. We made love under the stars and a blanket. It was exciting, daring. The last time we did anything as risky was so long ago I can’t remember when it was exactly. Years and years ago. Afterwards, we lay snuggled up under the slightly scratchy picnic blanket, clinging to one another for warmth, and just allowed ourselves to be. Be relaxed. Be satisfied. Be enough. It was blissful. Until Simon kissed the top of my head and said, ‘Do you know the one and only thing that could make this moment more perfect?’

‘A post-coital cigarette?’ I joked. I’ve never been a smoker and Simon gave up when we first started dating. I know he still misses it, even after all this time he craves the nicotine hit. Simon likes hits and highs. I don’t get it at all. I’m not the sort of person who values kicks above health.

‘Well, that would be good, but no. I was thinking a baby, asleep in the other room.’

‘We have a baby asleep in the other room.’

‘We have a little girl,’ he said gently, not unkindly.

‘Well, they can’t stay babies for ever.’

‘That’s not my point.’

I felt the warmth of his body along the length of mine and yet I still shivered. ‘You’re serious?’

‘I love Millie so much. And you,’ he added swiftly. ‘I can’t bear to think that we’re not giving her everything.’

‘We do give her everything we can,’ I pointed out.

‘Other than a sibling,’ he countered.

‘Yeah but it’s not as though we tried to deny her that, it just hasn’t happened. It’s unlikely ever to because neither of us are getting any younger.’ And conceiving was never something we were good at. I don’t add that. We don’t talk about the horrors we went through to get Millie. It’s generally agreed that the pain of childbirth is forgotten once you hold the baby in your arms. In my case it was also the pain of years of trying to conceive.

‘We should make it happen. She’s so gregarious and loving. I can’t bear the idea of her missing out on having a sibling.’

‘Having a sibling isn’t always a bonus,’ I argued. ‘You’re not at all close to your sister.’

‘No, but you adore yours. I want Millie to have what you and Rose share.’ He turned to me and I saw fire in his eyes. I should have understood then that he wasn’t going to let the matter drop. He’s a very determined man when he wants to be.

Stubborn, my mum says.

2

Chapter 2, Simon

The waiting room was chilly. The air-conditioning was a little too vigorous. It was bright outside so people had risked T-shirts and sun dresses, except for Daisy, she always felt the cold so she was sitting in her jacket. It looked like she was ready to make a dash for the door at any moment. It looked like a protest. Simon knew Daisy didn’t want to be there. He understood. He remembered the heartache associated with these sorts of places, certainly he did. And she was right, they were perfectly happy as they were, but his point was that maybe they could be happier still. Why not? Why settle?

When bored, or nervous, or stressed, Simon had a habit of repeatedly tapping the heel of his foot on the floor. This had the effect of causing his whole leg to continually jerk in violent shudders. He never noticed he was doing it until Daisy reached out and put her hand on his thigh, calming him, silently asking him to stop. She did exactly that now. He stopped, picked up a newspaper and quickly flicked through it. There was nothing to hold his attention. Just reports of financial crises and politicians caught with their pants down, nothing new there. He put down the paper and started to whistle. He wasn’t aware that he was doing so until Millie giggled and began dancing to his tune, probably saving him from a swift reprimand from Daisy. Daisy always forgave his restlessness, his quirkiness, if it entertained Millie. Despite the vicious air-con he felt clammy. He could feel sweat prickle under his arms. God, he could do with a drink.

He had persuaded Daisy here to visit the clinic on the understanding that they were just going to have a chat with Dr Martell, one of the country’s best fertility doctors, or reproductive endocrinologists, to give him the proper name. They were simply going to ask about their options, explore possibilities. That’s what he’d told her. But he’d lied. He’d already visited Martell ten days ago for a general health check, as well as a specific test of the health and fitness of his sperm. He wanted to get things moving. Many years ago, he had been told that his sperm was slow but in the end that hadn’t been a problem. It had been a case of the tortoise and the hare, Millie was proof of that. However, Daisy made a good point, he was aware that he was seven years older now than when they had conceived Millie, they both were, obviously. That didn’t necessarily mean they were out of the game though, did it? Simon was keen to know if there had been any scientific advancements since then, something that could give his boys a bit of an advantage, if you got the gist – or at least something that might level the playing field again. He was forever reading articles about the increase in the number of women having babies in later life. He thought that by taking the initiative and putting himself through the tests first, Daisy would be encouraged. He knew it was a lot to ask. The tests and possible subsequent treatments Daisy might require were significantly more arduous than anything he’d have to endure. IVF had been a slog. But it would be worth it.

He stopped whistling, but Millie didn’t stop dancing. She was in a world of her own, clearly the music continued in her head. Maybe she was listening to a full orchestra. Maybe she was on stage at the Paris Opera House. She was a marvel! Millie had an incredible, exceptional talent. She danced beautifully. She was the sort of child who naturally bounced, flew and glided through her day. Daisy often commented that she was in awe of her daughter, as she hadn’t been the sort of girl that anyone ever suggested ought to take dancing lessons: her nickname as a child – as bestowed on her by her family – was Fairy Elephant. She lolloped and lumbered, rather clumsily. As a boy, Simon had never been taken to dance lessons either, his family were far too conventional to consider that, but he liked to think he had been pretty good at throwing shapes on the dancefloor (a phrase he used self-satirically); certainly, he was good at sport in general. He’d always thought that Millie had inherited her natural ability to dance from his side of the family, his sister had been a great gymnast and was quite good at tap as a child. She was certainly good at doing flits, thought Simon with a sigh. His sister had announced she was emigrating to Canada about a month after their mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He kept telling himself it was a coincidence, but he didn’t know for sure. It was certainly an inconvenience, that he was certain of.

Millie adored all things frilly, pretty, floaty and twirling. Daisy had started her at dance classes just before she turned three. It’s not that Daisy was a particularly annoying, overly-ambitious mother, it was simply that Millie needed to channel her energy and desire to coil and whirl somewhere. It turned out she was very good, quite extraordinarily so. Her dance tutor said that in all her nineteen years of teaching, she had never seen equivalent talent, focus and drive in a child so young. Daisy was a teacher – not a dance teacher but a Year Six teacher at a state primary school – and she was aware of the value of that observation. She’d excitedly told Simon that teachers had to be very careful about what they said to parents, as parents all tended to get a little carried away. Everyone believed they’d produced a spectacular little miracle, when in fact most kids were within a recognised range.

Although, evidently Millie was a spectacular little miracle.

Simon’s eyes followed her around the waiting room; she was on her tiptoes scampering, arms aloft, like ribbons, chin jutting at an elegant angle. An adorable mix of childish abandonment and earnest concentration. Everyone in the room stared at her with an intensity almost equal to his, it was impossible not to. The emotions she triggered varied: amusement, delight, longing. Daisy looked torn, somewhere between jubilant and embarrassed. She’d said she thought it was tactless bringing a child to a fertility clinic, as though they were showing off.

‘We don’t need to rub their noses in it,’ she’d warned. Simon thought her turn of phrase was amusing, quaint. He thought Millie’s presence in the waiting room had to be inspiring. Other parents would be encouraged. There was no doubt, she was special. For sure, they had to go in for another one. Millie might very well become a prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet, why not? Who knows what else they could produce: an astronaut, the next Steve Jobs, the person who finds the cure for cancer. Or even, simply a pleasant person who was nice to their neighbours, remained faithful to their partner, became an interested parent. It was life. Life! What was more important than that? You had to try, didn’t you? You had to.

Millie danced every single day. She was crabby if she missed a class, even on holidays she carved out a couple of hours practice time. She was just six, but was that dedicated. It was astounding. Aspirational. Her existence was wall-to-wall pink tulle. When she started school she’d had meltdowns every day and, at first, Simon and Daisy had been confused and troubled as to why. ‘Do you have friends, Millie?’, ‘Is your teacher kind to you?’, ‘Do you like the lunches?’, ‘Can you find your coat peg?’ they’d asked, wracking their brains to imagine any possible irritation or upset.

‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ she’d spluttered through distressed tears.

‘Then what is the matter?’ Simon had asked, exasperated, tense. He’d taken the morning off work to be with Daisy when they tried to persuade Millie to go into her classroom.

‘The uniform is ugly!’ She’d howled. ‘It’s green. I want it pink.’ Her explanation, hiccupped out indignantly, had only made Simon laugh. Daisy ultimately solved the matter by sewing a pink ribbon all around the inside hem of Millie’s school skirt. An act that Simon always thought was a display of pure brilliance and devotion.

‘I feel very uncomfortable taking Millie into the consultation room,’ Daisy whispered. ‘She’ll understand enough of what we are talking about to be interested. I don’t want to get her hopes up that there’s a sibling on the way.’ Because Simon had just been thinking about the hand sewn pink ribbon, he was more inclined to indulge Daisy.

‘OK, well how about I go in first and hear what he has to say and then you pop in after me.’

‘Won’t that take twice as long?’ Daisy looked anxiously about her. There were two other couples in the waiting room. They may or may not have been waiting to see Dr Martell. ‘I’d feel awful if we overran.’

‘We’re paying for it, so you don’t have to worry.’

‘It’s impolite.’ Daisy had a heightened regard for being polite. Simon sometimes found that charming, other times he found it frustrating.

‘Well what do you suggest? Leaving would also be impolite.’

Daisy nodded. ‘I suppose.’

At that moment a smartly-dressed nurse appeared, she had a clipboard and clipped tones; she oozed efficiency. ‘Mr and Mrs Barnes?’

Simon stood up, kissed Daisy on the top of the head. ‘Don’t look so worried. This is the start of a wonderful adventure,’ he told her. ‘Love you.’

3

Chapter 3, Daisy

The moment Simon vacates his seat, Millie bounces into it, although she still doesn’t settle. Instead, she holds her legs out in front of her and repeatedly points her toes up to the ceiling, then stretches them out. I love her energy. She’s delicate and yet strong, a winning combination. I was a robust child. Hefty. By the time I was fourteen I hit five foot ten, not a lithe beanpole model-in-the-making five foot ten but large, ungainly, always-in-the-way five foot ten. My arms were as wide as other girls’ waists, my breasts seemed to loll around my tummy like some old woman’s. I hope puberty is kinder to Millie. I worry that she will inherit my height. That wouldn’t be ideal for a ballerina unless she dances in Russia, they like them tall there, but I don’t want her to go to Russia. I do worry that by encouraging her to dance I’m basically pursuing a fast-track path to body dysmorphia. But Millie is quite unlike me. As a girl I had glasses and spots, orange hair, freckled skin and the wrong clothes. Even when I had the right clothes they looked wrong on me. It’s just the way it is for some people. We can’t all be born beautiful.

The good thing about being forty-five is that all that angst about how I look is behind me. I’ve learnt how to accept myself, make the most of myself, that’s what women like me must do. However, I live in awe of my child. Sweet, yet certain. I look at her and I know I’ve done something right. No matter what.

Before Millie came along, we endured a decade of longing for a baby. Most young, happily married couples wait a few years before they turn their attention to baby-making, I was faster off the blocks. By the time I met Simon, my sister Rose was already the mother of two adorable boys – twins! I realised to make any impact at all on my parents, in terms of providing grandchildren, I’d have to get cracking and ideally produce a daughter. I’m joking, I wasn’t motivated to procreate by the innate competitiveness that exists between siblings, I simply adore children and I longed to be a mother. As a young girl I played with dolls, nothing else, I wasn’t interested in Play-Doh, colouring books or Lego, for me it was all about pretending to be a mummy. I started babysitting my little cousins when I was twelve and then for various neighbours by the time I was fifteen. I’m a primary school teacher. I like children, the cheeky, boisterous or mischievous types, the shy, arty or cuddly types. I’ll take any of them.

I threw away my pill packet the morning we got married. It was one of the most exciting things about the day. For the first few months, I didn’t allow myself to be at all concerned when I still got my period. I was busy putting our house together. We’d bought a one-bedroom flat in North London, I was occupied with hanging pictures, picking out furniture, getting a washing machine plumbed in. It was all so new and exhilarating. Back then, every dull chore seemed like such a delicious treat. Adulting was a novelty. I found it thrilling that I was allowed to slob around in pyjamas all day on a wet, wintery Sunday, that I was allowed to say the words ‘my husband’, and I was allowed to go with said husband to Tesco Metro at 9 p.m. to buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, if we so desired. We were in charge of our time and finances, we were a couple. Such thrilling freedom. We were just waiting for the next bit to start.

On our first wedding anniversary, I started to feel qualms of unease. I’d held this secret little fantasy that I’d be announcing our pregnancy that day. I was a month off my thirty-first birthday, Simon was just thirty-two, still young. But, even so. We made an appointment with our local GP. The doctor laughed, told us we had plenty of time ahead of us, told us to relax. When I pushed him, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he checked I didn’t smoke, suggested I cut back on alcohol, ‘Start preparing your body if you want to. You don’t need to deprive yourself, though. Don’t be silly about it. Just get healthy. Exercise, consider yoga. Everything will be fine. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

I wanted to do anything and everything I could to chivvy along the process. I took folic acid, I started to meditate, I stopped drinking altogether. Simon picked up the slack. Instead of sharing a bottle over a meal, he started to polish one off on his own. I didn’t mind, he was funny and relaxed when drunk. I’m not saying he was usually uptight, but he is quite a reserved man in some ways. Most comfortable in a one-to-one situation.

On our second anniversary I suggested he too might like to stop drinking. That maybe we needed to go back to the doctors and get some tests done. He agreed to the tests.

They examined my fertility first. I don’t know why, maybe because medically women are more often the cause for concern, or maybe it’s just sexist. I wasn’t surprised when the tests came back and said I was to blame for our problems. I had fibroids: non-cancerous, oestrogen-dependent benign tumours, growing in my uterus. These tumours cause pelvic pain and heavy menstrual bleeding. They can also cause infertility. It was recommended that I have a myomectomy to remove them. We did that, another two years passed, we still didn’t get pregnant, so we saw another doctor. She recommended that they run some tests on Simon too. I couldn’t believe it when the results came back. He also had problems. Sluggish and poor-quality sperm. We were both to blame.

It was a very difficult time. It seemed that we looked at one another in a slightly different light. I didn’t want to, but I found myself thinking he was a little less perfect, not quite so golden; I realised that he’d probably been thinking as much about me for a while.

My story, our story, is not particular or peculiar. Everyone knows someone who has struggled with infertility. The very regularity of the story is a tragedy. We started IVF shortly after our fifth wedding anniversary. It takes its toll. I think any couple who has been through it would agree. When we’d been trying to conceive naturally we’d still had a bit of fun, we’d tried different positions, we’d had lots of sex. IVF was not fun. There’s no sex involved – well, other than the thing Simon had to do into a pot. I don’t think jerking off to porn counts as sex after the age of about fourteen.

I can’t bear being in this room. True, we have never visited Dr Martell before, but we’ve been to enough similar clinics that it makes me feel tired and sad. I reach over to Millie and brush her hair out of her eyes with my hand. I want to lean into her, cover her in kisses, but I resist. I have to try very hard not to smother her in love. There’s such a thing as too much. She’s confident, content, happy practicing her points. I leave her to it.

When we were going through IVF, I started to think of my body as the enemy. As I mentioned, I’ve never had the sort of body that filled me with pride, but it had, up until the infertility point, been functional. I’m not often sick, I’ve never broken a bone, but suddenly it was failing me. Even after four financially and emotionally costly bouts of IVF, my body failed me.

People kept telling me that I should think about something else. ‘Don’t worry, it will happen!’ my friend Connie would say cheerfully. She’d then tell me a story about someone she’d known for years who had given up trying altogether when bang, it happened, she conceived. My mum kept telling me to, ‘Take up a hobby. Forget about this business for a while.’ Rose suggested a holiday. ‘Relax!’

They meant well.

Simon and I would smile, nod, agree. We didn’t point out that we didn’t have any spare cash to spend on a holiday, repeated rounds of IVF had cleaned out or savings. Rather than taking up hobbies, we were giving them up. Simon played less golf, he’d left his club, the fees were expensive. He said he’d go back to it, but it never happened. It was put on hold. Many things were. We were in limbo. Waiting. The advice was hollow, irritating. Alone together, Simon and I didn’t bother to pretend to believe in it. Simon knew my cycle as well as I did. On the day my period was due our house was awash with a terrible expectancy and fear. When I came on, which I did with cruel regularity, I’d simply say, ‘Not this month’, and he’d say, ‘Next time.’ Neither of us believed him.

At that point I think we were close to giving up, not only on conceiving, but maybe even on our marriage too. Wanting something that much is damaging. Longing nudges so easily into despair. I didn’t know what to do. I was prepared to do anything.

But then everything changed. It happened, just when I thought I had no more reserves of hope. Millie was a miracle. Conceived without any medical intervention.

A miracle. She saved us.

4

Chapter 4, Simon

Habit meant that Simon glanced around the office with an interior designer’s eye. He could see where the exorbitant consultancy fees were going. Dr Martell sat behind a huge mahogany desk with a superb, mellow antique patina. It wasn’t his specialist area, but Simon would date the desk at about 1880. French. It was well figured with a brass inlay, brass mouldings and beadings and shallow bun feet. You wouldn’t get much change from £3,000. Behind Dr Martell was row after impressive row of expensive-looking shelves that housed fat, daunting leather-bound medical books. Simon would bet money on them being first editions in many cases. The floor was a polished parquet, his trainers landed on a rich, woollen Persian rug. It was of incredible quality; all the natural dyes had held their exquisite jewel colours. The pile was thick and soft; it was like stepping on velvet. It was about the same age as the desk. You didn’t step on a Saruk Ferahan rug in the NHS, thought Simon. The doctor stood up, shook hands and then gestured towards one of the two seats that were placed side by side, facing across the desk.

‘Your wife joining us?’ The consultant’s voice tolled like a bell announcing his expensive education at Westminster, then Cambridge.

‘She’s just out there with our daughter. We didn’t want to bring Millie in here.’

The doctor nodded, an efficient bob of the head; he understood and didn’t want to spend any more time on the matter. He opened the file on the desk and started talking.

Simon had heard a lot of the words before. They burnt his ears; the heat of the sting hadn’t gone away even after all these years. Even after Millie. Asthenospermia, motility, zona pellucida binding. He had been quite good at science at school, but he quickly became lost. He was trying to concentrate, although annoyingly he found he was drifting in and out, hearing the words but not absolutely one hundred per cent making sense of them. Not quite able to string them together. This did happen to him from time to time. Occasionally in client meetings, after a lunchtime jar, or when Daisy was telling him something about his mother. He didn’t mean to lose track. It just happened. Percentage motile concentration, average path velocity, non-progressive motility. He wanted to get to the bit where the doctor asked if he had any questions, because he did. One. ‘Would there be another miracle?’ That was all that mattered, that cut through all these big words and small percentages.

Non-progressive motility though? That couldn’t be good. It had the damning prefix ‘non’. The doctor continued to intone, Simon reminded himself just how much this consultation had cost and redoubled his efforts to concentrate, to take it in.

‘It is estimated that one in twenty men has some kind of fertility problem with low numbers of sperm in his ejaculate. However, only about one in every one hundred men has no sperm in his ejaculate.’ The doctor used these words without a trace of embarrassment, of course he did. It was exactly like Simon using the words ‘colour palette’, ‘tactile fabrics’, or ‘commanding wall feature’.

‘So, you have non-progressive motility, which is as I mentioned, defined as anything less than five micrometers per second. That combined with your low sperm count presents us with some difficulties, I’m afraid.’

‘What is the motility rate of my sperm then?’ Simon asked.

‘One point five.’

Oh. It sounded bad. ‘And the other thing? The sperm count. What’s the range there?’

‘WHO normal range is 15 to 213 million cells per ml.’

Simon nodded but it meant nothing to him. 15 to 213 million. That was quite a range.

‘And mine is?’

‘Two.’ Martell had the decency to meet Simon’s eye. Two million. Not hopeless then. You only needed one, didn’t you? Were cells the same thing as sperm? He didn’t know. He should ask. The expression on the consultant’s face was one of stern concentration. Simon searched it for optimism, assurance, there was none. Martell continued, ‘I understand that this is not news to you, Mr Barnes. I realise that our tests simply confirmed what you discovered ten or so years ago. The difference being, we can give you more reliable data on the exact numbers now. We can be more precise about the diagnosis.’

‘But things can be done, right? There are advancements,’ Simon asserted. ‘Cooling the testicles, separating out the good guys. I’ve read about it.’

‘There are cases where things can be done. I’m afraid your readings don’t place you in that bracket.’

‘What are my chances? Put a percentage to it. Go on, don’t worry I won’t hold you to it. It won’t be legally binding.’ Simon laughed at the phrase as though the very suggestion was ridiculous. He knew he had to make the consultant feel at ease. He was surprised the man was being so cautious. His previous experience had been that if there was any hope at all the doctors would push ahead. Often, they were always doom and gloom, always presenting the worst-case scenarios but they still took your money. ‘What are we talking about? A four per cent chance? Two, one?’ Simon watched as the doctor became increasingly awkward. He dropped his gaze, tapped his fingers on the ostentatious desk. He was able to say ‘ejaculate’ all day long, but he couldn’t talk about this percentage. ‘We can pay,’ Simon added. It wouldn’t be easy but they’d find the money, he’d already decided that.

The consultant sighed quietly and leaned forward in his chair. ‘Mr Barnes, you cannot impregnate your wife. You are sterile.’

The word was a fucking weapon. He was no longer capable of fathering a child. The thought exploded in Simon’s head. Why? What had happened? Had his sperm quality, or quantity, or mobility or whatever deteriorated?

Before he could form the words to ask, Martell said brightly, ‘There are options. If you want to extend your family, I would recommend you consider sperm donation, as you did before. That worked out splendidly last time, didn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry I don’t understand.’

The consultant reached for the file. ‘It says here you had four rounds of in vitro fertilization. I assumed Millie was conceived that way, correct? I assume with a donor.’

‘No.’ Simon brightened, realising the doctor was missing an essential piece of information. Despite the odds, Millie had been conceived naturally. He was also irritated; he was paying enough, the least Martell could do was get the facts straight. He tried to be patient as he explained, ‘You see that’s where you’re wrong. She was conceived naturally. Against the odds. Which goes to show I can do it. We can. We had been doing IVF. Yeah, like you say, four attempts but—’. Simon stopped talking. There was something different in Martell’s face. Not just seriousness, now there was a flash of unease, alarm.

‘I had thought a donor, but if not a donor then maybe a lab mix-up. These things do happen, I’m afraid. They are rarely acknowledged but they do. That would have been regrettable, an inquiry would have been necessary, but you are telling me that she wasn’t conceived by IVF.’

‘Yes, that’s right. She was conceived months after a failed attempt. We weren’t even sure we were going to try again.’

‘I see.’

‘What do you see?’ Simon demanded.

Dr Martell sighed slightly. It was a breath that offered a level of apology, or regret. ‘All I can say, Mr Barnes, is that with the results here in front of me, it is my professional opinion that a donor would be the only way your wife could conceive.’

Simon began to feel the irritation grow into something bigger. Resentment. Anger. ‘Well the results are wrong.’

‘We can re-run the tests. Certainly.’ The doctor said it like a man who was confident that the results were correct. He brought the tips of his fingers together and placed his chin in his hands. He waited a moment until Simon understood.

‘No, no you fucking idiot. I’m her dad.’ Dr Martell didn’t say a word. ‘Fuck you, you quack. You’ve got it wrong. Do you hear me? You’ve got it wrong!’

Simon stood up and stormed out of the office. The violence with which he flung open the door meant it swung back on its hinges and banged against the wall, causing the pictures of ancient frigates to shiver.

5

Chapter 5, Daisy

Friday, 17th June 2016

Millie’s recital starts in ten minutes, 5.30 p.m. A time that does, I suppose, acknowledge that the vast majority of the performers are under the age of nine, but does not take into account that the vast majority of the performers’ parents work, and commuting isn’t easy at this hour. Millie and I came straight from school. I’m lucky that my daughter attends the school I teach at. I’ll need to do a heap of marking later tonight, and I had to swap my after-school club duties, but we were able to have a quick tea on the high street and still get here in plenty of time. I’m on the front row. There’s an empty seat next to me that I’ve saved for Simon. I’ve had to guard it quite ferociously. One woman even had the audacity to point out that the dance teacher’s rules (sent out prior to the concert) specifically stated that the saving of seats was prohibited. I pointed out that I wasn’t saving seats, simply a seat and therefore didn’t feel the spirit of the rule had been broken. I felt the tips of my ears burn as I said this, yet I held my ground. I then called Simon, again, to chivvy him along, but it went straight through to voicemail. I hope that means he’s on the tube, on his way.

Before Millie started primary school Simon and I debated whether it was a wise move for her to attend the same school as the one I teach at. We debated the issue for many months. He’d read some report or other about children being either bullied or spoilt if their parents went down this route. He said it might be suffocating for her and tricky for me. True, it can be embarrassing for a child if they bring home a friend for a playdate and that friend is confused to see their teacher out of the classroom and in the home, but I teach Year Six, not reception. By the time she reaches Year Six all her friends will have adjusted to the fact that I’m their teacher and Millie’s mother. I also understand that there could potentially be a problem if some of her teachers found it uncomfortable knowing I am in such close proximity, but I’d never dream of interfering. I know the boundaries. I told Simon that I’d always put school trip money in an envelope, put forms in her book bag like other parents. I didn’t plan on collaring her teacher in the staffroom and asking for a progress report.

For me, the plus factors regarding her attending the same school were overwhelmingly positive and outweighed any potential negatives. Firstly, I love my school. Newfield Primary is friendly, small enough to be manageable but big enough to be inclusive and representative. The staff are dedicated and approachable. It always scores pretty well on the Ofsted report (good rather than outstanding, but that’s more than respectable). Millie and I sharing a schedule makes things easier when it comes to drop off, pick up and school holidays. I immediately get to hear if she’s sick or hurt and I never miss her school assemblies or sports day. Besides, quite simply, I like having her close by. That’s the most important thing. I waited long enough for her. Now I drink up every moment. I promised Simon I’d be vigilant to bullying, alert to any favouritism, and I put Newfield Primary as my first choice on the application form. Then I crossed my fingers. We are in the catchment area. We got lucky.

On days like this I’m so glad I pushed for us to be at the same school. Since Millie has started to dance I’ve come to understand just how serious her performances are, at least to her, her dance teacher, and a fair amount of the attending parents. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not that I’m enjoying myself today, at least not yet. I sit, stiff-backed and self-conscious. I wish Simon would get here soon; my handbag looks bolshie on the spare seat. I wonder where the woman who asked me to give it up is sitting. I daren’t turn around to locate her. I nervously check my phone every ten seconds, hoping for news from Simon. Once the performance starts I’ll have to turn it off, not put it on silent, because if a message flashes up on the screen, the light is incredibly bright and can be distracting to other audience members, possibly even to the dancers on stage. It said so on the rule list. In capitals. The list terrifies me. I read it and memorised it as though it’s been brought down the mountain on two tablets of stone. Generally I really am a rule follower. As a teacher I know rules are set for a reason.

I’ve left Simon’s ticket at the box office for collection. We’ve been informed that the recital is designed to flow seamlessly between performance pieces and so we were firmly instructed not to enter or exit unless it is an emergency. To give some clarity to what constituted an emergency, we were briefed that if there is a ‘fussy child’ in the audience, said child was to be exited as quickly and quietly as possible. The rules list actually used that phrase, ‘fussy child’, like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. We were also advised (warned) that the intermission was the opportunity to chat or eat. Considering all this, I can’t imagine that Simon will be admitted once the curtain rises. There was an instruction that we aren’t to take photos, although there is to be a professional DVD made that can be purchased at a later date. I think he’ll have to make do with that.

Despite the rather draconian list of rules, people around me seem genuinely excited. Many parents are clasping bouquets of flowers or single stems of roses. I have a small bouquet made up of six fat, soft pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. It’s a tradition to present your dancer with flowers to recognise the effort and achievement of having performed in front of a large audience. Besides, everyone loves receiving flowers.

The lights dim, and the music starts up. I feel a surge of excitement that the show is about to begin and a sting of disappointment and irritation that Simon is going to miss it. A chain of little girls dressed as daisies scurry onto the stage. They are all about three years old and what they lack in ability, they more than make up in sheer cuteness factor. The audience ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ volubly, the girls can barely hear the music over the audible swooning. This lot are too little to manage anything more than a bit of twirling, even the planned simultaneous raising of their arms ends up looking like a Mexican wave, but that in no way diminishes the pleasure the audience derive from the performance. When the daisies finish and dip into sweet little curtsys or simply wander off the stage because they’ve had enough, we burst into raucous applause. Some parents even stand up. A few flashes pop, the rapturous delight has emboldened one or two parents to break the rules. I look to the door and will Simon to slip through it. It stays resolutely shut. I wonder whether he’s the other side of it. Trapped. Or somewhere else entirely. A pub. Maybe.

The next group runs onto the stage. Most are dressed as icicles; silver and white, they sparkle and shine. The word ‘Frozen’ shimmies up and down the rows of spectators. Sometimes it’s said with a self-satisfied enthusiasm – a treat delivered – sometimes it’s said with a hint of boredom. I have to admit to having seen hundreds of performances of Frozen, it’s a stalwart favourite in most dance teacher’s repertoires. The cute factor intensifies. These little children (mostly girls but two boys) are still fairly unskilled but they are trying so hard. Their faces are scrunched in concentration as they point their toes or bend their bodies to one side, it’s impossible not to melt. I risk sharing the observation with the woman sat next to me – well, it’s tricky attending these things and not having someone to enthuse with. She nods and comments, ‘Good pun.’

I hadn’t intended a pun and feel a little embarrassed that she thinks of me as the sort of mother who tries that hard.

Millie’s group are next up on stage. The girls are wearing pink tutu dresses with ballet tights and ballet shoes, the one and only boy is wearing shorts and T-shirt and ballet shoes. They are only five to six years old, but they are considerably more in control of their bodies than the last groups; all but one seem to be following the choreographed pattern. They manage to alternate hands on waist, hands above the head, they leap (although not all at once) and they twirl (only one girl looks precariously close to falling off the stage). By this age, most have stopped waving to their parents if they spot them in the audience. About two minutes into the dance Millie has a small solo piece. She has rehearsed this endlessly. I know she’s my daughter and I’m biased, but once she starts to leap, other parents gasp with admiration. She’s simply enchanting. Her arms flutter like streamers in the wind as she executes artful, mesmerising and deliberate moves. Her toes are pointed, she angles her legs, torso and head with precision, and she morphs into something other than a little girl on a stage; she is the butterfly she’s portraying. Everyone stares at her: the other dancers on the stage who are kneeling in a circle around her, the parents, grandparents, the pianist, the ballet teacher. She doesn’t notice us. She doesn’t scan the audience to catch my eye, she doesn’t look to the teacher or the pianist for the lead or the beat, she simply allows the performance to run through her. She’s everything every little girl wants to be: strong and beautiful. She elegantly extends her legs, points her toes and throws her arms wide as she commits to a leap. She sails through the air as though she has wings and then the hall door slams open. The noise ricochets through the room.

Most people can’t help themselves, it’s instinctive, they swivel their heads, attention pulls away from Millie and rests on her father. I hear him say, ‘I have a fucking ticket.’ Swearing is rife in the circles we mix in, holding back is seen as prudish and lower middle class. Still, I’m mortified. I guess I’m prudish and lower middle class. I don’t turn. I keep my eyes trained on Millie and watch her as she lands, not quite as gracefully as I’ve seen her in do in rehearsals. I notice her eyes slip to the doorway for a fraction of a second. She’s no longer in a garden, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she’s a little girl with an embarrassing daddy.

The children scamper across the stage, toes pointed, legs stretched in front of them, a light, elegant pitter-patter. All I am aware of are his heavy footsteps slamming on the wooden floor as he threads his way towards the front of the hall. Why hasn’t he slipped into a seat at the back? I can hear him repeatedly say, ‘Sorry, ’scuse me, can I get past?’ He sounds impatient, a little sarcastic. His words are slurred.

At the interval, we stand in a frosty silence. Simon is swaying slightly. We have nothing to say to one another. Only the kindest of the mothers try to talk to us.

‘The costumes are quite something aren’t they?’ says Ellie’s mum.

‘The Year Twos looked like hookers,’ replies Simon.

I blush and sip my tea. Ellie’s mum pretends she’s seen someone else she knows that she needs to have a word with.

Delia’s mum picks up the mantel. ‘I love this troupe.’ It’s just a ballet class, not a troupe, but it seems rude to correct her. ‘It’s so inclusive. Rather lovely that all the children have been given roles, even though they don’t all have rhythm. You are lucky. Millie is so incredibly talented. If Delia had as much ability in her big toe I’d be thrilled, we just come here for the exercise really.’ She smiles at Simon. I think she’s trying to say something outrageous to draw attention away from his behaviour. It’s lovely of her but it won’t work. A modest grumble about your own kid’s mediocrity, whilst said kid is out of earshot, is nothing compared to interrupting the recital.

Delia reminds me of myself as a child. She looks uncomfortable in a leotard on stage. She looks uncomfortable full stop. Her mother thinks she’s helping her confidence by putting her on stage, but I think Delia would be happier at Brownies or in the library.

‘Which one is Delia?’ Simon asks.

‘She is in Millie’s group. She was on the far right hand side, most of the time. She’s very tall.’

Simon snorts, ‘Oh yeah. I know her. I think you’re wasting your money.’ Delia’s mum blushes. Simon is acting as though he doesn’t know the parent script, or at least if he does, he can’t be bothered to follow it. He’s supposed to say her performance was charming, that she was enthusiastic and full of character. I’m only glad he didn’t call her fat. Delia’s mother says she’s going to get another cup of tea.

‘Simon, what is wrong with you?’ I snap.

‘Is there only fucking tea?’

‘Will you please stop swearing. There are children around.’

‘Yeah, the place is full of supportive siblings, isn’t it?’ He stares at me with a cool intensity that manages to slice through his more obvious state, one of inebriation.

‘Have you been drinking already?’ I ask.

‘No biggie. Mick from work has had a baby – well, his girlfriend has. We went for a drink to wet the baby’s head.’

‘But you knew this started at five thirty. You didn’t have time to go to the pub. Did you leave work early?’ He’s clearly had more than one.

‘I was only ten minutes late. I didn’t miss much. Hell, Daisy, if I have to sit through another rendition of “Let It Go” I might literally beat myself over the head with that bunch of roses.’

I’d happily do as much, and my only regret would be that I had the thorns removed at the florist because I’m not careless enough to give my child a bouquet with thorns. The bell, announcing the second half is about to begin, rings.

‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ says Simon.

‘No, you have to come in.’

‘She’s done her bit.’

‘She’ll be on stage again for the encore. That’s when the entire assembly dance together.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Please Simon.’

He shrugs and follows me back into the hall, like a dog following its master; a snarly dog that might turn and bite at any point.

6

Chapter 6, Simon

Simon sat through the rest of the recital as required but was unable to muster any enthusiasm. Watching other people’s small, clumsy kids prance about on stage was only bearable if you got to see your own kid. He was ashamed that he’d missed Millie’s performance and yet also relieved. It pained him to admit, even to himself, but he was finding it difficult to be around her since they’d visited the fertility clinic. He loved her so much. It hurt. The doubt. The uncertainty. It felt like a wound.

He allowed his eyes to slide to the left, he looked at Daisy the way you might look at the sun. Never full on, it was too damaging, only with a side-eye glance. Martell must have got it wrong. He must have. No way. No fucking way would Daisy ever be unfaithful. But Martell had thought that they’d had a donor. They hadn’t. He’d thought Millie was born through IVF. She wasn’t. Blatantly he had only scanned the history which Simon had bothered to provide. The supposed expert had clearly made assumptions, mistakes. He couldn’t be trusted. Most likely the results of Simon’s tests were wrong. That was it. When they’d first had a similar round of tests he’d been told the chances of conceiving were ‘slight’, one doctor once used the word ‘negligible’. No one ever said his chances were non-existent. No one ever used the word ‘sterile’. Surely a mistake. Or maybe there had been a level of deterioration since. That was probable, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that women’s fertility dramatically decreased post-forty, it was surely the same for men. Right? These explanations were far more likely than the one the consultant had insinuated. Daisy would not be unfaithful. The idea was ludicrous. He was Millie’s father.

She didn’t look at all like him. She had blonde hair, fine and wavy, pale blue eyes. He had thick, brown curly hair and brown eyes, but he’d always thought Millie had got her colouring from her mother’s side. She didn’t look like her mother, either though, not really. Not at all. Yes, Daisy had blue eyes, but they were a darker blue and a completely different shape. Daisy had thick red hair. Simon looked about him. There were siblings of the performers sat with their parents in the audience. In many cases the children were mini versions of their parents, recognisably genetically connected, almost facsimiles, but in many other cases the kids didn’t look especially like their parents. Simon shook his head. This was madness. How had he let this thought take hold? He should just tell Daisy what the doctor had said. Admit he’d had the tests, that he was hurrying things along. That was no biggie. Then he could ask her straight out. She’d laugh. Well, that or punch him for thinking so badly of her, but that would be better than where he was now. She’d clear it up. He was sure of it. Almost.

He thought back to when Daisy had told him she was pregnant with Millie. Well, she didn’t tell him exactly. There wasn’t a cutsie moment when she announced it to him by wrapping up a couple of knitted booties, one pink, one blue, the way their friend Connie had done when she told her husband Luke that they were expecting their third. Simon had brought the subject to the table in the end. She was late by six weeks when he did so. He hadn’t even dared hope she was pregnant, in fact he had feared she was ill. He knew her cycle as well as she did, couples trying for a baby tended to. She’d been moody and tearful for a few weeks. Hormonal. Off her food. He’d even caught her throwing up with what he later came to realise was a brief but intense bout of morning sickness, but at the time he hadn’t made the leap. He hadn’t dared to hope. They’d given up, you see. So he hadn’t been looking for it.

One morning at breakfast, he watched her push her muesli around her bowl but not spoon much of it into her mouth. ‘Are you ill? Do you think you need to go to the doctors?’

‘No and yes,’ she replied. Lifting her eyes to meet his. He could see something glisten inside her. Something wonderful, but there were also shades of concern, fear. It was like looking at a stunning view through smudgy sunglasses.

‘What is it, Daisy?’ He’d wanted to take her hand, but she seemed so far away.

‘I’m not ill, I’m pregnant.’

She said the word tentatively, like a whispered secret. He felt it glow in his head, his heart. ‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘Nine weeks pregnant,’ she replied breathily.

He’d started to laugh, it spluttered out of his nose, the emotion was so raw he couldn’t control it at all. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’

‘I didn’t dare.’

He understood. They hadn’t dared to hope. Now he could touch her. He’d pulled his wife into his arms. He’d almost picked her up and spun her round but then he’d panicked, he didn’t want to dislodge anything, he didn’t want to be too rough. She’d laughed reading his mind.

‘I know, it’s terrifying, right?’

He’d covered her face with kisses. ‘We need to crack open the champagne. Oh wow, no. Not for you. But me. Yes, I need a drink.’ It was not terrifying, it was exhilarating, brilliant.

She started to laugh. ‘You’re pleased?’

‘Daisy, are you insane? What a question. Pleased doesn’t cover it.’ He was grinning from ear to ear. People used that expression all the time, but it wasn’t until that moment that he really understood it.

‘One in three pregnancies miscarry. Those are the statistics,’ she whispered, cautiously.

‘Shush, no. Don’t think about that.’

Daisy started to look more relaxed. The tension in her brow easing. They both wanted this so much that they could make it happen, they could keep the little foetus safe. ‘You took a test, right?’ He suddenly, momentarily panicked. Had she made a mistake?

‘I’ve taken three,’ laughed Daisy. ‘I still have one left, if you want me to do it again.’

She did, and there it was: positive. A little plus sign. Positive! Never had a word been so utterly true. They told people straight away. Daisy wanted to wait but Simon just couldn’t manage the prescribed twelve weeks, besides which their family and friends were so closely involved in the matter of their fertility that not telling them would have involved direct lies. People were jubilant. Champagne was popped on a regular basis which Daisy happily refused and Simon happily quaffed. Daisy’s sister, Rose, cried. Her friend Connie jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her hands. Like a child. They’d done it! They’d made a baby.

Hadn’t they?

Simon was brought back to the here and now as Daisy elbowed him in the ribs. He jerked as though he’d been asleep. Daisy scowled at him. Had he dozed off? No, he was just remembering. His mouth felt dry, scratchy. Millie was on the stage again. The entire dance school was, yet she was easy to pick out. She presented roses to the dance teacher. She did so on tip toes. Graceful, itty-bitty movements. Simon stood up to cheer, but somehow he lost his balance. The rows of chairs were too tightly packed. He fell back on top of the woman sat next to him. He landed on her lap. It was very funny. Everyone turned to look at him. And laughed.

7

Chapter 7, Daisy

I can hardly bring myself to speak to Simon on the walk home. He smells of booze and he ruined our daughter’s recital. Millie fills the gaps. She hasn’t stopped chatting since she burst through the hall doors and ran into our arms. I presented her with the bouquet, which she was giddy about.

‘Did you see me? Did you, Daddy?’ She asks, her face shinning with hope and, if you look carefully enough, a tiny bit of concern.

‘Yes,’ replies Simon.

She looks doubtful. ‘Really.’

‘Too right.’ Simon lies easily. I don’t think he should have lied and lies should never come easily. They should be hard and painful. I’d have preferred it if he’d told her he was a little late. She’d have been disappointed, but she’d have known it was the truth. ‘You were the star of the show,’ he adds. She was, but he sounds glib.

We get home, just in time for the supermarket delivery. I have it delivered without plastic bags as this is kinder on the environment, but it does mean there’s a little more waiting around for the delivery guy as I unpack the crates, so it’s not especially kind to him. Simon heads straight upstairs. ‘Are you going to run her bath?’ I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

‘I can do it,’ Millie says, excitedly. She’s still dancing on air. Triumphant, having delivered a terrific performance. She’s very independent and likes to be as grown up and self-sufficient as possible.

‘OK, but be careful with the hot tap. You know it comes out really hot.’ She scampers off. I drop my backpack; it’s heavy. There are thirty-plus school books in it. I have a lot of marking to do tonight. I need to buy one of those pull-along shopping trolleys that are the domain of old ladies. I know I’ll look frumpy, but it’ll save my back aching. I ask the delivery guy to hold on one second. He hovers in the kitchen with the plastic crates. They look heavy too. ‘Just put them anywhere,’ I say.

I yell up the stairs, ‘Simon can you oversee Millie’s bath? I’m dealing with the shopping.’ I wait. I don’t get a response. I cast an apologetic glance at the delivery guy. He’s still holding the crates. There really isn’t an obvious space to put them. ‘Erm, just put them down there on the floor. That’s fine.’ But he can’t leave until I’ve unpacked. ‘Just one moment.’ I dash up the stairs and call, ‘Simon, hey Simon, where are you? Can you watch out while Millie baths?’

I pop my head into the bathroom. She’s not there. Probably changing in her room but she’s already started to run the bath. I check that the plug is in properly and I turn down the hot tap, add a little more cold water. Better she has a tepid bath than scalds herself. As I do so Millie explodes into the room. She reaches for the bubble bath and carefully pours a very generous amount into the water. A smell that’s manufactured to approximate strawberries immediately fills the air. She squeals excited to see the bubbles multiply. I start to help her undress, but she moves away from me, ‘I can do it.’ She’s growing up far too quickly.

Where is Simon? We don’t live in a big house. He must have heard me call him. He can only be on the loo or in our bedroom. I leave Millie to the task of undressing and stride into our bedroom. As I enter the room I sense movement, Simon was perhaps lying down and has sat up suddenly. Or, maybe… I stride over to the bed and duck to look under it. I immediately spot a small bottle of whisky. Simon has obviously just stashed it there.

‘What the heck is this, Simon?’

‘Nothing,’ he says sulkily. His tone is defensive and defiant at once. ‘Can’t a man have a drink after a long day in the office?’

He has had a drink. With Mick from work. That’s why he missed the recital. Or so he said. I don’t point this out. I haven’t got time. I’m conscious that I’m holding up the delivery guy. ‘Yes, he can, but usually people drink in their kitchens or sitting rooms, usually with their partners.’

‘It was just a sniff. Just a bit of fun.’

Then why did he try to hide it? I can hear the water gushing into the bath. I’ll pick up this matter later. ‘Can you go and help Millie get bathed? I need to unpack the shopping.’ I take the bottle downstairs with me. It’s about two thirds empty. I sigh. I hate it when he has a sneaky snifter in the bedroom. There’s no need. He can always open a bottle of wine at dinner. We do so whenever he asks. Personally, I try and not drink through the week. A hangover and a classroom of thirty eleven-year-olds is not a great combination. Sometimes I have half a glass just to keep him company. It’s different at a weekend. But even then, I rarely drink more than a glass or two. Millie has no idea about the concept of lying-in, so I like to keep a clear head.

I hear the grocery delivery guy cough loudly. It’s not subtle but it is fair. I dash into the kitchen and apologise. I throw my groceries onto any available surface in order to be as fast as possible with the unloading, I accept all substitutes and then bundle him out of the door. I start to clear out the food in the fridge that is out of date and past its best. I consider washing the plastic vegetable drawer because a tomato has been squashed in to the back corner and already looks like a science experiment. I pull out the bulky drawer and look around with faint desperation because the sink is full of breakfast pots that should be in the dishwasher, but the pots in the dishwasher are clean, so they should be in the cupboard. Right. I need to set this place straight. I start to move about the kitchen. First I unload the dishwasher, then refill it with the dirty pots that are scattered about. Then I wash the vegetable drawer and only at this point am I ready to find homes for all the new groceries. I am just beginning to enjoy the sense of order I’m restoring to the room when I suddenly hear Millie scream. It’s loud and convincing, not a playful shriek but a scream that’s full of pain and panic. I launch myself upstairs, dashing two at a time and explode into the bathroom.

My first thought is that she’s crying so not drowned, not dead. Relief. Then I notice the blood. There’s a lot of it. Panic. It’s smeared on the back bathroom wall and all over her hands and face. I pull her out of the bath, she’s wet and slippery but I hold her tight. Examine her quickly. ‘What happened? Where did you get hurt?’

‘I slipped. I banged my head.’ She points to the back of her head. My stomach lurches. There’s a nasty cut, and she’s losing a lot of blood. I grab a towel and put it over the wound, trying to stem the flow of the bleeding. I realise that the blood on her face comes from her hands, where she’s touched her own wound. I can smell iron in the air. I want to be sick, but I must stay focused, useful. I wrap another towel around her and pick her up. She sobs into my shoulder. I can feel her entire body hiccup with stress and pain. ‘We need to go to A&E,’ I tell her. ‘The doctor will take a look but don’t worry. It’s going to be OK.’

I call to Simon, but he doesn’t reply. I haven’t got time to look for him. I swiftly dress Millie in pants and a long T-shirt then carry her to the car and drive her to the hospital.

When we get back from the hospital, the house is in darkness. Millie’s head is glued, and she has a sticker declaring her bravery. She’s fallen asleep in the back of the car. Usually when she sleeps I’m relieved. She has a lot of energy and by the time she is ready for bed I’m begging her to go. However her sleep makes me slightly uneasy now. It’s deep and terrifying. I have been given a leaflet that tells me what to look out for: drowsiness, dizziness, forgetfulness, headaches. I feel queasy just reading it. A close call. The friendly young doctor called it a ‘nasty bump’. I was asked a lot of questions. ‘Who was supervising her when she slipped?’ ‘Her father,’ I lied. I couldn’t bring myself to admit she was on her own. We’d failed her. It isn’t a concussion, but you can never be too careful with head injuries. I will wake her every couple of hours tonight. She’ll be grumpy, but I don’t care.

I lift her from the car and carry her into the house. Her feet trail low, down past my knees, she’s too big to carry but I want to hold her close and tight. I lower her into bed, she rolls onto her side as her injury is too tender to allow her to sleep on her back. That thought causes a twinge in my belly. I’d take her pain if I could. I kiss her forehead and she murmurs, ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. It doesn’t hurt now.’ Then her eyelids drop heavily, like a metal shutter over a shop window.

I wander into the bathroom. The water is still in the bath. It’s pink with her blood. I’m shocked again as I see her blood smeared on the tiles. It’s obvious where she fell, the blood is most concentrated there. It’s dried hard. There are also small bloody hand prints on the bath edge. I pull the plug and use the hand-held shower to sluice it away.

‘What’s going on here?’ Simon is stood in the doorway. He wipes his eyes, clearly he’s been asleep for the entire time we have been at the hospital, four hours. He must have been asleep when she fell.

‘Millie slipped as she tried to get herself out of the bath,’ I snap.

‘Daisy!’ I hear accusation in his voice. He thinks this is my fault and maybe it is. I can’t trust him. I glare at him.

‘I asked you to bath her, or if that was too much, at least to watch her whilst she bathed. She could have drowned.’

He looks a little shamefaced and then defiant. ‘But she didn’t.’

‘She’s badly hurt her head. It’s been glued.’

‘Glued?’

‘They do that instead of stitches now.’

‘So she’s OK?’

I know what he’s asking but I can’t give him that glib reassurance yet. I’m too angry. ‘No, she’s not OK. I’ve just told you. She cut her head, banged her elbow. She was really upset. There was a lot of blood. A lot of painful bruising.’

‘I need a drink.’ He leaves the bathroom and goes downstairs. I’m furious. That was not the response I wanted. But then I sigh. What response did I want? What could he say or do now? I finish cleaning the bathroom. I want it to look spotless by the time Millie sees it next. After washing away all evidence of her fall I also put her dirty clothes in the wash basket. I pop my head around her bedroom door just to check on her, before I go downstairs and join Simon in the kitchen. He’s stood by the breakfast bar in semi-darkness. He has only bothered to put on the small light above the hob. I don’t flick the switch for the overhead lights. I think it would be too garish. The dimness offers us both a cloak which, for reasons I can’t explain or even understand, I feel we need.

‘Do you want something to eat? I’m hungry,’ I say. We missed supper. This offer is as conciliatory as I’m capable of being right now. I feel I can’t blame Simon for the fall, at least not entirely. I knew he was less than sober and in a weird mood. I should have unpacked the shopping and then bathed Millie myself. I shouldn’t have allowed her to try to manage and I shouldn’t have relied on him. I’m telling myself all of this to try to stop feeling angry with him, but I just find I’m angry with him for a different reason. Not for the fall but because I can’t rely on him.

Simon reaches for a bottle of red wine from the wine rack. He slides it out. The sound of the glass bottle scraping against the wooden shelf is a familiar one. Like opening the fridge or the sound of the back door closing, the TV jumping to life; a domestic sound, familiar to our home. ‘Do you want a glass?’

‘No, it’s too late for me,’ I say pointedly. Then I dare to add. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’

‘No, I don’t.’ He says firmly as he unscrews the cap and reaches for a glass.

Simon has had enough to drink. Too much. Why can’t he see it? Why can’t I say it?

This happens from time to time in our marriage. Simon likes a drink and then there comes a point where he drinks too much. Usually I wait it out. After months, maybe a year, he’ll notice he’s over-doing it and cut back. No one is perfect. We all have stuff to deal with. He drank heavily when we were trying to conceive. He drinks heavily if things are stressful at work. I wonder what’s on his mind now? I fear it’s something to do with wanting another child. The visit to the fertility clinic was so peculiar. The way he ran out of the place. Odd. When I asked him what the doctor had said to upset him, he said he never even got the chance to speak to the doctor, that he’d just been left waiting in the consultation room. He said that was what had annoyed him, the lack of manners. The arrogance. ‘I knew you didn’t want to be there, Daisy, so I just gave up. I thought, forget it.’ I don’t really believe him. I suspect it had something to do with his drinking, nearly everything does. Maybe he felt woozy or nauseous, maybe the doctor commented that he didn’t seem quite sober, maybe he suddenly just wanted a drink more than he wanted a baby; he did bolt straight to a pub.

He’s right about one thing, I didn’t want to be at the fertility clinic. It was a great relief to me when he charged out of the building and I was left to hurriedly collect up Millie and our belongings. I daren’t even ask him if we got a refund. I don’t really care. I want to leave the matter alone. I’m glad he’s stopped talking about a sibling for Millie. Yet, I can’t ignore the fact that Simon is drinking heavily again. It’s not social drinking. It’s not even overindulgent drinking. It’s purposeful, determined drinking. It’s as though he’s trying to find something at the end of the bottle. Oblivion, maybe.

‘Simon, you were drunk and therefore late to the recital and then you came home and drank some more so fell asleep instead of looking out for Millie. How could you let her down like that?’

I steel myself to look at him. I don’t want to because he’s ugly to me right now, he’s in the wrong. Millie got injured, she will still be in pain tomorrow, she’s shocked, scared and it could have been a whole lot worse. That doesn’t bear thinking about. But when I lay eyes on Simon, my fury crashes, dissipates. He’s staring at the counter. He looks sad, confused.

‘I didn’t mean to let her down,’ he says with a sigh. He looks out to our garden. My eyes follow his. I think I see a fox by the bins.

Whoever means to let anyone down? I wonder. ‘Have you got something you want to talk about?’ I ask his reflection in the kitchen window.

He shakes his head. We stand in silence for a minute. Then he asks my reflection, ‘Have you?’

‘No.’

He picks up the bottle of red wine and pours a second glass and I put two slices of bread in the toaster. We eat and drink in silence.

8

Chapter 8, Simon

Saturday, 18th June 2016

Simon really wanted to make it up to Millie for leaving her alone in the bathroom. When he thought about her battered head, her aching elbow, when he imagined the moment of panic she must have felt when she slipped, the fear, the confusion – he hated himself. He got up early on the Saturday morning and made pancakes with her. The first couple were misshapen, but he told her that they looked like Mickey Mouse’s ears and she was kind enough to agree with him. He got into his groove and then made twice as many as they could possibly eat. They took some up to Daisy in bed because Millie wanted to, even though breakfast in bed was usually only something that occurred on birthdays or Mother’s Day. As it happened, Daisy was already in the shower. But they persuaded her to put on her robe and climb back into bed to eat them. She said they were delicious. There was a lot of smiling. Simon’s smiles were bashful, then hopeful, then rather pleased with himself. Daisy’s were tentative, possibly forced, certainly smaller than he’d have hoped. Millie’s smiles were the most fabulous and uncomplicated. Her smiles buoyed everyone up. Like a life raft.

Daisy said she had a lot of marking to do. Simon realised that she’d probably intended to do it the night before but had had to abandon it to dash to the hospital. Usually Millie spent Saturday morning at ballet school and Daisy marked her books whilst she sat in the car waiting for the classes to finish, she had to do it this way because the ballet school was a serious one and not the sort that allowed the mothers to sit on chairs along the wall, chatting and distracting. However, Millie wasn’t allowed to dance for a week or so because of her injury. Simon offered to take her to the park instead but even that caused Daisy to look aggravated. ‘She can’t play on the swings or slides. She has a suspected concussion.’

‘We’ll just have a stroll about,’ he replied. Daisy didn’t look convinced. Her brow was knitted with concern. Simon decided not to pursue the matter. He wanted to entertain his child, yes, but he also wanted please his wife. He’d woken up ashamed. Of course Millie was his child. Of course Daisy would never be unfaithful and then pass off another man’s child as his. That was madness. He was mortified by his own stupidity and only glad that he hadn’t shared his fears with anyone else, grateful that no one could read his mind.

‘How about we go and buy a tent?’ he suggested.

Millie had been begging to go camping for weeks now. She’d seen people camp on the beach during half term and fallen in love with the adventure and freedom that sleeping outside offered. They didn’t own any camping equipment, it wasn’t Daisy’s idea of fun. Simon used to camp as a boy, he’d been a Scout, and as a young man he’d had a few rowdy nights under the stars at festivals. He had a vague idea that one day they could all go on a family camping trip and he’d impress them with his tent pitching skills. Or, if Daisy wasn’t up for that, then maybe a father-daughter camping trip. It would be fun. Not now, not while Millie was injured. But the weather was starting to warm up, maybe they could camp in the garden to start with, to see if Millie caught on to it. If so, they could go further afield at a later date. He suggested as much to Daisy, taking care to do so when Millie was not in earshot, because Daisy would appreciate them talking about it as parents first and reaching a consensus before Millie’s exuberance railroaded them into a decision. ‘It would take her mind off her injury,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We don’t have to buy a tent. We can borrow one off someone.’

‘I’m not sure. Not all night, not when we’re still monitoring her. But maybe you could put up a tent, make a den, cook supper on a stove in the garden. She could fall to sleep out there and then you could carry her into her bed,’ Daisy conceded.

Millie loved the plan. She and Simon travelled by tube to Holland Park to see their friends, Luke and Connie Baker. They had three kids and all the trappings of a middle class west London family life. They owned little fold-out chairs that ‘Came in handy on prize-giving day or at the races’, they had a picnic basket with glass, silverware and china ‘for Glyndebourne’, and a roof rack that was useful when collecting the two-metre tall Christmas tree that they bought from a Chelsea garden centre every Christmas. Simon guessed they’d have camping equipment. One phone call to Luke had confirmed that indeed they had. Luke laughed and told Simon that a few years ago they’d tried camping, ‘Connie and my girls hated it. We spent a bloody fortune on all the gear. Only ever used it once.’ Luke laughed about things like that. He and Connie were loaded, the waste didn’t matter as long as it made an amusing anecdote. ‘Borrow what you like. It’s good to know it’s getting used.’

Luke was an architect. He sometimes put interior design work Simon’s way, decent work, Simon couldn’t complain. Connie was a photographer and was managing to make a good living out of it even though everyone had an iPhone and filters nowadays, and could take decent snaps for themselves. Simon had known Luke for twenty-something years, Daisy and Connie had made friends at university when they were still teenagers. Simon and Daisy met at Luke and Connie’s first wedding anniversary party. Somehow, the fact that they’d found each other through the Bakers, and Luke sometimes commissioned Simon, had led to an unarticulated hierarchy in their relationship. Simon always felt Luke was lording it over him. Simon felt stung by a sudden determination that his girl would like camping, and that they’d go on to have lots of memorable trips away together, which they’d record on his iPhone and post on Facebook.

The trip to the Bakers and back took most of the morning. By the time they returned, Daisy had finished marking her books. They had a sandwich lunch and then pitched the tent together. Millie filled it with pink cushions from her bedroom and a huge number of cuddly toys. Simon doubted there would be room for him to lie down. Daisy found some solar fairy lights in the back of the cupboard where they kept their boxes of Christmas decorations. They draped them over the tent and waited until it got dark. For supper they made beans and sausages. The Bakers’ camping stove worked a treat. Millie was too excited to fall to sleep in the tent. At 10 p.m. they all gave up and went inside, but it wasn’t with an air of defeat, it was a decisive victory. The day had been won. The day had been glorious. Daisy made hot chocolate in the kitchen.

Simon made his that bit tastier by adding a nip of whisky.

9

Chapter 9, Daisy

Thursday, 23rd June 2016

Connie has got it into her head that she wants to throw a party. The Bakers throw a lot of parties, they always have. They’re party people through to their souls. Over the years, Connie and Luke have thrown lavish Christmas, birthday, Easter and summer dos, any excuse. Connie is known for her incredible attention to detail and her generous hosting. I used to love them, I really did, but I haven’t been to one since Millie was born. I hate parties now. I find excuses. Some of Connie’s friends take their kids along but I never have. I tell Simon that I worry about drugs. Connie doesn’t indulge but a lot of her guests do. It’s not something I want Millie to be around. Truthfully, some of the people Connie mixes with leave me cold.

This is the third time she’s brought up the topic of us hosting a joint party, a ludicrous idea. The previous occasions were over the phone; I was able to say someone was at the door and cut the conversation short. This time, it’s harder to dodge. We’re sat face to face in a coffee shop in Covent Garden. I can’t even depend on one of the kids interrupting us because her three girls and Millie are all sitting at a different table. Fran, Connie’s eldest, is holding court the way only a thirteen-year-old can. Her younger siblings, Flora who is ten, Sophie age seven, and Millie are in her thrall. She’s showing them different apps on her phone. There’s no way any one of them will tear themselves away from that.

The café is a noisy, overly trendy place. Pricey but fun. It’s a novelty, being out in town after school. Normally Millie and I have a class or rehearsal to dash to. Unfortunately, because of her slip in the bath, Millie isn’t well enough to go to classes. I’m trying to make sure we enjoy the time that has been freed up, rather than resentfully dwell on Simon’s carelessness. Millie is laughing and giggling with the others. For a moment I’m able to forget the inch-long wound at the back of her head, flagged by matted, dirty hair. I can’t bring myself to wash it yet so we’ve been making do with dry shampoo.

‘Come on, Daisy,’ Connie insists. ‘It’s our anniversaries, we have to celebrate.’

As coincidence would have it, Simon and I share our anniversary, more or less, with Connie and Luke. We met at their first wedding anniversary party and married a year later. It was fast. Too fast? The thought springs into my head and I push it away, mortified by my subconscious betrayal. Things aren’t easy right now but that’s a terrible thought to have. I play with a sachet of sugar in the bowl on the table. I now see that when I was planning my big day, I should have given more thought to the fact we’d be forever sharing our anniversary with the Bakers. I didn’t because, after Simon proposed, all I was concerned with was securing the first date possible in the venue I wanted. I practically ran down the aisle.

‘Don’t you think a joint party will be fun?’ Connie asks.

I don’t. I can’t think why she’s suggesting it. The Bakers are not short of money, so I know they can’t possibly be motivated by splitting the cost. I can’t add anyone exciting to the guest list, we share our best friends and I don’t have any acquaintances that Connie would be keen to meet; I’m a Year Six school teacher, she’s a photographer for glossy magazines, she has the monopoly on glamorous friends. She’s not normally shy of being centre of attention. Honestly? I think I can go so far as to say it’s unusual for her to want to share the limelight. So why this sudden and ardent interest in us hosting a joint anniversary party?

‘It’s not really my sort of thing,’ I reply carefully. ‘People don’t make a big fuss of anniversaries unless it’s a round number,’ I point out. We’ve been married sixteen years; the Bakers have been married eighteen.

‘But why not? That’s a crazy rule! Every year is special.’ Connie has always had her own way of looking at things. To be fair it’s a brighter, more sparkling way than the rest of us and usually I enjoy her joie de vivre but sometimes she can be a tiny bit irritating.

‘I think Simon might have already booked something for us that weekend,’ I mutter. Connie widens her eyes sceptically, but is too polite to say this is very unlikely. I take care of all the social arrangements, I book our holidays, organise flights, car hire, bookings at Airbnb. Truth be known, I also deal with the less exciting admin: insurance, renewing the TV licence and reading the electricity meter to someone in a remote call centre. Simon isn’t the sort to surprise me with a mini-break.

‘I have to do something!’ she says, laughingly. Connie laughs a lot because her life is perfect. I know, I know, no one’s life is perfect but I’m up close and personal with hers and believe me, it is as near to perfect as I can imagine.

‘Fine maybe you do, but why do you need me and Simon to be involved?’

‘I don’t want to bag the date and make it all about me. Us,’ she quickly corrects herself, remembering to include Luke. ‘It’s your date too. It will look bad.’

‘Who to? I don’t care.’ I really don’t.

‘I’ll feel bad,’ she persists.

I might have agreed to a smaller, more intimate gathering. A dinner party for our nearest and dearest could be nice but that’s not Connie’s way. Connie’s wedding anniversary parties always echo the original, triumphant day, which was a glorious, no holds barred affair, full of possibility, romance and big flouncy skirts. Connie loves looking back at her wedding day. She had her old wedding video digitised and they watch it on every anniversary; I don’t doubt she has plans to play it at this party, if it goes ahead. I find taking a trip down memory lane more complex. Sometimes it’s just what I need, today I can’t face the thought of it.

Last night, I barely got any sleep. Simon came back late. He said he’d had to stay at work for an important meeting. If I’d lit a match near his mouth he’d have probably gone up in flames the alcohol fumes were that bad. When I asked him if he’d been to the pub he said yes, just for one beer, but that was a lie, he smelt of spirits and could barely walk in a straight line. I was so angry. It had only been a few days since his drinking and negligence had led to Millie’s accident. I’d hoped his remorse might last longer. We rowed. I called him a bloody liar, he said I was a sneaky bitch. We say some awful things to each other sometimes. Then I cried, he hugged me and told me he has it all under control, that I’ve got nothing to worry about.

You see, he is a bloody liar.

‘Do you think it’s over the top if Luke and I renew our vows?’ Connie suddenly asks. She doesn’t meet my eye but instead stares intently at her half-finished wheatgrass smoothie.

‘Do you need to renew them? Have you broken your vows?’ I ask with the flat honesty that a twenty-seven-year friendship allows. She did. Once. A long time ago. It was a drama. I really don’t want to hear if she has again.

‘No, I have not,’ she says quickly, self-consciously. ‘But I thought it would be romantic.’ She pauses and then, oh-so-casually adds, ‘I thought you might want to do it too. You and Simon.’

And there it is. Her reason for asking us to share a party with them. I had wondered. Now I understand.

It is a pity party.

Literally.

Scalding hot embarrassment seeps through my body, drenching me in shame. Connie beams at me but I know her too well, the smile is shadowed with concern. The side of her mouth quivers ever so slightly. ‘Simon popped round to ours last night.’ She’s trying to sound simply chatty, off-the-cuff. She fails. ‘He and Luke are working together on something at the moment and it needed discussing, so Luke had asked him to stop by.’

I nod as though I knew this already. I didn’t, Simon doesn’t often give me much detail about the projects he works on. He used to. My first thought is relief that his explanation for being late home wasn’t totally inaccurate. Going to see Luke to discuss work, even in a pub, is almost the same as having to stay behind for a meeting.

My tentative optimism is knocked back when Connie adds, ‘Only Simon wasn’t really up for talking about the project. He wasn’t making much sense at all, in fact. Just kept going on about how much Millie had loved camping in the garden. He was sort of fixated on that, you know.’

She doesn’t say it. She wants to say he was rambling and repeating himself, that he was drunk. I know she does because I’ve seen it often enough myself. There was a time when Connie might have dared called a spade a shovel but we’re more careful with each other now. More reserved.

When we were at university together and when we shared a flat after that, we saw each other every day of our lives, but that intimacy has been neglected. I can no longer open up to her without reserve. We’ve replaced one another. We’re married now and have been for a long time. That draws a curtain around certain things. Things like her explicitly saying my husband is a functioning alcoholic. She can’t say it until I do. I have no intention of doing so. We still love each other. I love her boldness, her candour, her volatility. Her panache. I’m also intimidated by all those characteristics too.

As usual, I try to change the subject. ‘I should have brought your camping stove back, I forgot all about it.’

Connie looks briefly impatient as she knows I’m dodging her point. ‘Simon returned it last night, actually.’

‘Oh good.’

‘Well, most of it. He’d mislaid the screw-on pan support bit.’

‘We’ll buy you another,’ I say quickly.

‘Oh wow, no. No need. I didn’t mean that. We never use it.’ She glances at her hands and then carefully says, ‘Luke put him in an Uber.’

They know. My friends know my marriage is quaking under the strain of Simon’s drinking. I’d hoped we’d hidden it well enough, but they know, and this is Connie’s clumsy attempt to fix things. She doesn’t understand that what she is suggesting – a party, a renewal of our vows – is a pathetic, inadequate Elastoplast put over an amputated limb. Her idea is idealistic, therefore idiotic. How could we stand up in front of our friends and family and say our wedding vows again? For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. It’s a crazy idea. For one thing, Simon rarely stands without swaying, he prefers to slump. He rarely speaks, instead he slurs. It would be utterly humiliating. I’m doing my best to hide, why would she think dragging us out, putting us under the microscope would be a good idea?

She clears her throat and carries on. ‘It might be fun to do something celebratory. I know you have a lot on your plate. Your mother-in-law being so ill, the pressure Simon’s under at work.’

I flash her a look that could freeze breath. ‘What do you know about his work?’

‘Luke made me go along to some corporate dinner the other week. Simon’s name came up amongst the guests there. They just mentioned that…’ she loses her confidence and trails off.

‘What?’ I demand hotly.

‘Well, his workload seems to be getting on top of him. They weren’t gossiping. Just saying,’ she adds hurriedly. Connie blushes. They, whoever they are, clearly were gossiping.

I need this conversation to stop. I need to put an end to this stupid idea of hers. I shake my head. ‘I’ll come to your party, we both will, but we can’t possibly renew our vows.’

‘I just thought it would be—’

‘No, Connie. Absolutely not.’ I’m rarely this forceful. Usually I don’t have it in me to argue with anyone other than Simon. Not the nurses in my mother-in-law’s care home, not the whingy parents of my pupils, not even the annoying cold callers that ring to ask if I’ve been in an accident recently, certainly not Connie who is wily and persuasive. She seems startled by my determination but, to my relief, she nods.

‘OK, I understand.’ She pauses and glances at Millie. ‘But you know if there’s anything we can ever do.’

‘There isn’t,’ I state, plainly.

‘If you ever need to talk.’

‘I don’t.’ I glare at her. I need her to drop this now.

On the whole, my friends and family seem prepared to look in the other direction when there’s evidence that Simon drinks too much. That he’s a functioning alcoholic. Oh yes, I know the label, I just don’t see what it achieves in bandying it around. Of course, I’ve asked him to get help; yes, I’d like him to go to a doctor, a counsellor, but he won’t. So what is there to discuss? My friends are understandably embarrassed, or at least they know I am, and in a truly British way, they don’t want to make a fuss. We’ve known each other since we were students. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t seen every other one of us totally plastered at some point or other, so to date they’ve made excuses for my husband. They laugh when he falls asleep at the dinner table or slips on their front step as we leave their home. As though it’s all one big joke. As though he is a big joke. This has suited me. I don’t know what to do to get him to stop drinking, this is a problem I can’t solve so I’ve been happy enough to ignore it. I thought, hoped, that one day he’d wake up and announce that the hangovers were no longer worth it, that he was going to buy a Fitbit and a bike and start getting healthy, that’s what most middle aged men do. But he hasn’t. Few of my friends get seriously drunk anymore, most abstain from drinking through the week and, other than Simon, I don’t know anyone who drinks through the day.

Now, I no longer know what I want from my family and friends. Do I really still want them to politely look away, to refuse to acknowledge what they evidently see? I don’t know how to ask for help or even accept it when it’s being offered up, as it clearly is by Connie, right now. Sometimes it feels like Simon and I are on a boat, an oar-less boat that’s drifting further and further out to sea. My sister and my friends are stood on the shore, watching us, aware we are in deep and dangerous waters but doing nothing other than waving at us; friendly but ineffectual. If Connie holds my gaze for a moment more I might just tell her. Simon isn’t coping. I’m not coping.

She shrugs, the moment vanishes. Lost. Well she offered. She can tell herself, and Luke too no doubt, that she’s done the right thing. She can congratulate herself on being a good friend without having the awkwardness of me telling her just how bad things are. She brightens up, almost instantly, nothing much depresses her for long. ‘But you’ll come, right? That’s great news. You haven’t been to one of my parties for ages. I’ll absolutely mention that it’s your special day in my speech.’

I don’t say anything, and she takes that for agreement. She often does. I’ll think of an excuse to get out of the party later. I slurp down my iced latte and say, ‘Look, we’ve got to go.’ I stand up, banging my leg into the small table in my haste. It shudders and the glasses rattle on their unnecessary saucers. The women on the table next to ours stare at me. I wonder whether I’ve spoken too loudly, sometimes I don’t judge those things as well as I ought to, not if I’m stressed. I use my school teacher voice, when really that should be limited to the classroom of eleven-year-olds.

Connie looks crestfallen. ‘Don’t you want to stay and make some plans? Talk about menus and things?’

‘It’s not really my forte, I’m sure whatever you decide it will be wonderful,’ I garble. ‘Millie, come along now, Daddy will be wondering where we are.’

This is unlikely, but Simon isn’t the only one who is a bloody liar.

10

Chapter 10, Simon

Sunday, 26th June 2016

Simon hated visiting his mother. He thought it was a waste of time. She often didn’t know who he was and, even if she did seem to temporarily recognise him, she forgets that they’d seen one another within an hour of his visit. But Daisy was adamant. She was religious about it. She visited every Wednesday after school and insisted that they all visit every Sunday. She said it was their duty. It was the right thing to do. She argued that even if Elsie’s relief was only temporary, she was cheered while they were there. This wasn’t always true, sometimes Simon’s mother just cried when they visited. Or swore, cussed at them in a way that would make a sailor blush and made Millie giggle inappropriately. Daisy always took flowers, which Millie liked to present to her grandmother with a little over-the-top flourish. Once Simon’s mother tried to eat the flowers. Millie laughed at that too, she thought her grandmother was being deliberately funny. Daisy never took chocolates; chocolate messed with Elsie’s digestive system. Daisy said that dealing with the aftermath wasn’t pretty.

Simon thought that it was a depressing hellhole, the care home. He understood that they tried, he wasn’t saying otherwise. The staff were friendly enough, and no doubt dedicated, conscientious, blah blah blah. But in the end, all he could see was an over-heated institution, where people went to die. You couldn’t polish that turd.

His father had died of a heart attack just a few years after Daisy and Simon married. At the time, his dad being cut down before he’d even retired, seemed like a tragedy. Now, Simon had redefined what tragic was.

‘Hey, do you remember that game show on TV?’ he asked.

‘Which game show?’ Daisy did not quite manage to hold in her sigh of frustration. She didn’t like his nonesequential thoughts, his musings. She called them ramblings.

‘The one where people would carry buckets of water over greasy poles or rolling logs, and others would interfere, try to knock contestants off balance by squirting water or throwing custard pies. What was it called?’ Simon was excited by this thought. He really wanted to know the name of the show. It was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Knockabout, something like that…’

‘It’s a Knockout,’ offered Daisy.

‘It’s a Knockout, that’s right.’

‘What about it?’

‘Nothing.’ Simon turned and looked out of the window. It was a bright day. He wished he’d brought his sunglasses.

Even with his head turned away he could feel Daisy’s frustration. She wouldn’t have liked him to elaborate, though. Not really. He was thinking that sometimes life was something akin to a great big game of It’s a Knockout. The show was designed to emphasise skill or organisation. Brains mattered, strength and endurance too. People always started the game grinning, showing great determination and spirit but everyone ended up looking foolish; wet, exhausted, broken. Yeah, life was like that game except it wasn’t pies that were thrown, it was infertility, depression, madness, infidelity, death. No one was immune, no one was safe. You think you’re doing OK, drifting along, going to university, getting hired, getting laid, getting married, things are going well and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a great big blast of icy water knocks you off your greasy pole. Daisy wouldn’t want to hear him say that.

If they had to visit his mother every Sunday, Simon would have liked to do so in the mornings. It was not that he was a make-the-most-of-the-day sort of person, far from it. If anything, it was more of a get-it-over-with mindset. There were two main reasons for his preference. Firstly, if they arrived at 11 a.m. they had to leave at 1 p.m. because that was when the carers served the strained mush that they called lunch to the oldies, so the visit could be a maximum of two hours. Secondly, he liked to go out for long pub lunches, the sort that shimmered with the chance of swelling into the afternoon. There was nothing better in the winter than a roast, washed down by a bottle of red, maybe a couple of whiskies, in front of a fire. In the summer he was more of a G&T guy. The long lingering lunches weren’t possible if they had to be at the care home by 2 p.m. However, Daisy didn’t agree with Simon. She’d decided it was more convenient to visit his mother in the afternoon. That way she could take Millie to the dance studio for a private lesson in the morning and have a big meal in the evening. Millie wasn’t even dancing this week, but it seemed there was no room for flexibility. Simon was pretty sure Millie could be dancing again by now, she seemed as bright as a button, fully recovered. She was practically climbing the walls, she had so much energy to spend, but Daisy wouldn’t hear of it. Daisy was milking it, making more of the accident than need be. She was punishing him. Still. Even after the success of the garden camping. It didn’t matter what he did. How hard he tried. Daisy wasn’t the forgiving type.

She was such a hypocrite.

Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.

Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.

Daisy was such a hypocrite.

At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.

‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.

‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.

Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’

Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.

His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’

Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderl ine anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.

‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.

‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.

‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your grandma. Tell her what you’ve been up to at school this week.’

Millie looked from left to right, eyes swivelling between her parents. She was an obedient child and found it confusing when they issued conflicting sets of instructions. Which they did with increasing frequency. She hovered near the door, unsure what to do. Simon chose to ignore her. The moment Daisy left the room, he started to rummage through his mother’s bedside cabinet.

‘What are you looking for?’ Millie asked.

‘Bedsocks,’ he lied.

Elsie suddenly engaged. ‘Are you looking for this?’ She held up a large print book.

‘No.’

‘Are you looking for this?’ She waved a banana.

‘No, I said bedsocks,’ he muttered impatiently. Simon found the gin at the back of the cabinet, behind the bed socks. His uncle Alan brought his mother a half bottle every week. It was an irresponsible gift to give a dementia sufferer but, no doubt, Alan believed any comfort he could offer the old lady was justified at this stage. Every Thursday when Alan visited, he secreted a bottle in the cupboard and he believed Elsie knocked it back throughout the week. She didn’t, but the gift was gratefully received. Simon quickly put it in his laptop bag, which he’d brought for this purpose. Millie looked at her feet.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’ Elsie pulled out her hearing aid and shoved it under his nose. Simon could see her ear wax on the plastic.

‘No, I told you—’

‘What are you looking for?’ This time, the question came from Daisy. She was stood in the doorway next to Millie, holding the flowers which were now in a vase of water.

‘Nothing. She’s confused, you know what she’s like.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see. A carer was pushing an old man in a wheelchair around the small garden. It took less than thirty seconds for them to do a lap. The silence in the room was deafening. Simon wished his mother would say something. She could usually be relied upon to talk nonsense to fill a gap.

Daisy carefully placed the vase on the bedside cabinet. She bent and closed the cupboard door. ‘What did you put in your bag?’

‘Nothing.’

The room wasn’t large and, in the same instant, they both reached for his laptop case. Simon was slightly speedier. He hugged it to his chest.

‘What are you hiding?’ Daisy demanded.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Simon insisted.

She started to try to prise the bag off him. Simon was taken aback that she was being so openly confrontational – what was wrong with her? – and so he momentarily slackened his grip. It was enough for her to get some purchase, she yanked the bag off him and opened it.

‘You brought gin here?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘No, I was taking it away.’

‘You were stealing her gin?’ She glanced at Millie who was trying not to look at her parents. Daisy’s shock was palpable. Simon felt it calcify, another layer of disappointment settling on their history.

‘Not stealing it. Taking it away for her own good. She shouldn’t be drinking. It messes with her meds. Alan brings her it every week.’

‘You steal from her every week?’ Daisy shook her head. Disgust oozed from her.

Simon didn’t answer. What was the point? She didn’t want to know. Not really. She’d prefer not to know that when he nipped into the other rooms, ostensibly to say hi to the other oldies, like a decent chap, he checked their bedside cabinets too. There was usually a quarter of whisky, a small bottle of sherry, at the very least. On a quiet week, he’d settle for a box of liqueurs. He told himself that he was doing them a favour. It was irresponsible to give la la old people alcohol. There could be accidents. He wasn’t stealing. They’d give it to him if he asked. They liked him. These old dears that smelt of pee. They all thought he was their son or husband. They didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Simon knew Daisy wouldn’t understand if he explained all of that, so instead he did the only thing he could think of, he lurched forward and grabbed the gin out of her hands. In an instant he’d unscrewed the top and started to down it. Glug, glug, glug. Temporarily, she was frozen. Then she reacted. She tried to knock the bottle out of his hand.

‘Stop it, Simon. For God’s sake, stop it.’

But if he stopped drinking she’d take it from him. He knew she would. She did succeed in spilling a fair amount down his shirt, which was a waste. He flopped back into the armchair and slung the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. It landed with a satisfying clunk. He yelled, ‘In the back of the net,’ and punched the air. Millie giggled, nervously.

Daisy looked like a fish, her mouth was gaping. She was swirling, sort of gauzy. She looked from him, to the wastepaper basket and back again. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

The air between them shuddered.

‘Him? Oh, he’s my husband. He’s always been rather too fond of the bottle, I’m afraid,’ said Elsie. She carefully patted the back of her hair with her frail, veiny hand. Then in a whisper, leaning towards Daisy, she added, ‘I find it’s best to ignore the matter. It doesn’t do to bring it up.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I only wish he had a hobby.’

Simon started to snigger. It was hilarious. It was just fucking hilarious.

11

Chapter 11, Daisy

Simon’s proposal to me was a fairy tale. Textbook. Perfect. It was at my sister Rose’s house just before Christmas, on the twins’ first birthday. Simon and I had been dating for not quite six months. I wasn’t expecting a proposal, I didn’t so much as dare dream about it. Honestly, that’s true. If I did dream about it, I’d wake myself up because I didn’t want to jinx anything. Even the idea of Simon liking me enough to want to date me was mind-blowing, the possibility that he might one day propose was out of this world. So I was not expecting a ring. He was an amazing boyfriend though, I already knew that. I thought I’d be getting maybe a necklace for Christmas or something especially meaningful, like an early edition of Little Women, my favourite book. We’d had the conversation about favourite books. We’d had so many conversations, late into the nights. He was easy to talk to.

The setting was very romantic. Rose’s house was dressed for Christmas, there were fresh, green garlands and white twinkling lights everywhere. Rose’s ‘mum friends’ naturally all had kids about the twins’ age and many of them had other siblings too so there were smallies everywhere. As usual, I spent a lot of time playing with the children that were old enough to understand games like hide and seek. Everyone I cared for most in the world was at that party: my parents, my sister, her husband and children and, as my sister had sort of adopted my gang, many of my closest friends were there too, including Connie and Luke. Whilst I was playing rowdy games with the kids, I was constantly watching the door because Simon was late. His absence was profound. I suddenly realised that almost everyone in the world I most cared for was at the party, but not everyone. He’d leap-frogged into that special position in my heart. He was the most important.

I was beginning to imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios like he’d fallen under a bus or, worse still, he’d gone off me. No doubt he’d ditched the toddler party and the robust redhead and was sipping gin and tonics in a bar somewhere with a leggy brunette. Then suddenly, I spotted him. He was dressed as Santa with padding, a fake beard, a sack, the lot. I was pretty cross with Rose for roping him in for such a job; I couldn’t believe he’d really be comfortable with the role. On the other hand, I was totally delighted because he’d agreed to do it. I mean, no matter how shaky my self-esteem may have been, even I understood that a boyfriend dressing as Santa to entertain your baby nephews and their sticky, noisy, tiny friends, was an act of devotion. I intercepted him under the mistletoe. Giggly, blushing, breathless.

The kids that were old enough to have clue about what was going on were rustled into a line and Simon did the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing. He followed the traditional script and asked each child what they wanted for Christmas and whether they’d been good that year. They nodded their little heads, wide eyed and expectant. On cue he delved into his huge sack and produced a present; I can’t remember what the gifts were, something tacky and plastic. I remember being surprised because I’d thought Rose would opt for chocolate coins and wooden puzzles. I do remember the children’s happy, excited faces. Their pink rosebud mouths lisping thank yous, following the prompts of their watchful mothers.

When all the children had received their treats and were beginning to get restless about what would come next in the constant stream of entertainment and goodies, Simon yelled above their noise, ‘There is one girl who hasn’t told Santa what she wants for Christmas, yet.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his knee. I was this exquisite mix of mortification and total utter joy. I’d never been happier than in that moment. I’m not normally a fan of being in the limelight and I’ve never been a fan of sitting on men’s knees, I feel too hefty and it’s uncomfortable. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, but still, I was delirious with happiness.

‘Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?’

I heard one of my friends make a joke referencing something lewd I’d told her, and I promised myself to stop over-sharing. I tried not to be distracted as I replied, ‘Quite good.’

‘Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you’ve been more than quite good. You’re wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you’ll accept it.’

I didn’t guess. I heard my friends whisper that it was probably flights to somewhere exotic, but I couldn’t think clearly enough to hazard a guess, I was so in the moment. Overwhelmed. The room was tight with anticipation and excitement, everyone loves a bit of romantic theatre. At least we did then, now I wonder whether we’d all feel a bit embarrassed if one of us put on a similar show. You get too old for such blatant romance. Too weary, I suppose.

He continued, ‘In fact, you are unbelievably good. I never thought that I’d meet anyone quite so good, special and amazing.’ His voice was thick and heavy with sincerity and intent. ‘So, I would be honoured, ecstatic, if you’d accept my gift.’ Then he reached into his sack one more time and pulled out a small ring box. Suddenly everyone else disappeared. I mean, I know they were there, the collective intake of breath nearly starved the room of oxygen, but suddenly they didn’t matter to me, not my sister, my parents, my nephews, my friends, no one mattered, except him. His shiny eyes, his dark curly hair, his hopeful nervous smile. ‘Will you make me a very happy man, in fact, the happiest man alive, and agree to be my wife?’

Apparently, I screamed then repeatedly yelled ‘Yes’. I can’t remember that, but it seems reasonable. I can imagine it would be something I’d do. The happiness was almost painful, it was so complete and beautiful that, even whilst I was slipping the diamond on my finger, I was thinking This can’t last. This is too good. So, in that moment I was never happier or more afraid.

Everyone in the room cheered and applauded. People started singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. That seems quaint now. It’s a lifetime ago. There was hugging and congratulating, lots of kissing and some crying and champagne corks popping; it was a luminous, glistening moment. Later, Simon confirmed that he’d come up with the entire plan on his own, not just the bit about giving me my ring in that way, but dressing as Santa, giving all the gifts to the children, everything. I worked out as much that evening, when we were snuggled up in his bed, post-coital, emotionally and physically elated and exhausted. The gifts were the tell. If Rose had been in charge she would have chosen different presents for the children, something less fun.

It was such a thoughtful, individual, perfect proposal. For a long time, I believed that moment would stay gleaming in my mind for ever, but it’s tarnished now. I’m embarrassed for them. That hopeful young woman, that ambitious young man, because we let them down. I have no idea where that man went.

Or that woman, come to think of it.

12

Chapter 12, Simon

Wednesday, 13th July 2016

The TV woke him up. He tried to focus, but it was tricky. There were a lot of voices talking across one another. What was he watching? Four middle-aged women, sitting on stools around a breakfast bar. They were wearing bright tops, but the gaiety was cancelled out by their angry faces. They were arguing although not with each other. Simon listened for a moment or two, long enough to gather they were angry with some man, or some male thing, yet there were no men there to shout at so they were shouting at each other and in general. It was almost funny.

He knew what it was, he knew it. Daisy loved this show. It was Loose Women. He didn’t know how he knew that, he was hardly the target audience, but he did. He felt remembering the name of the show was something. A small victory. Daisy sometimes watched it in the school holidays. A guilty pleasure when she was ironing or doing something with Millie, crafting or whatever. It must be mid-morning. Why was he asleep in an armchair mid-morning? His head was fucking killing him. It was pulsing, pounding. He must be ill. That was it. He was off work because he was ill. He searched about for the remote control and noticed an empty bottle of red wine and an empty bottle of whisky at his feet. He ignored them. They didn’t make sense. Finding the remote was all that mattered. He had to mute the angry women. If only life was as easy. Unfortunately, even when he managed to shut them up, the screaming and yelling continued in his head. He didn’t know if it was real, or something he remembered, or just something he was imagining. It was sometimes hard to tell.

Simon looked out of the window, it was pitch black, dead of night, not mid-morning. He turned back to the TV confused. Definitely Loose Women. It took longer than it should but then he took a stab at sorting it out in his mind – it had to be a late night repeat. He checked his watch; it was tricky to focus, he couldn’t quite see the illuminated numbers. He was really ill. Maybe hallucinating, a fever? He’d heard something was going around, something serious. It was 3.15 a.m. Or maybe 5.15 a.m. He didn’t know or care. Not really. What was that smell? It was disgusting. Puke and sweat.

He noticed that his shirt and the arm of the chair were covered in vomit. Some of it had solidified, some of it still oozed. Sloppy and shaming. He peeled off his shirt, balled it up, tried not to let the puke slide onto the floor. He walked through to the kitchen and dropped the soiled garment on the floor, in front of the kitchen sink. He realised that he probably should put it in the washing machine, but he couldn’t, not right then. Too much effort. He wasn’t up to it. He was ill. Daisy would sort it out when she got up. He tried to remember yesterday. Had he come home from work sick? Had he gone into work at all? Maybe this was not a bug, maybe he’d had a few jars, eaten a curry with a bad prawn. He couldn’t remember eating. The puke didn’t smell of curries or prawns.

He needed a drink. Water maybe? No, a beer. A beer would be best. Hair of the dog. Because yes, he realised now this was most likely a hangover. Off the scale, a different level, but a hangover all the same. His hands were freezing, his vision was blurred. Not a hangover then, he was still drunk. It would be best to keep on drinking.

As he opened the fridge, the light spilt out on to the kitchen and he nearly dropped the bottle in shock.

‘What the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark?’ he yelled.

Daisy sighed. She’d been crying. He could tell. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face blotchy. Simon realised, with a slow sense of regret, that it had not just been a late night but an emotional one, too.

Here it was. Off they went.

‘I stayed up to check you didn’t choke on your own vomit,’ she said with another sigh. Like, how was it possible to have that much air and disappointment to expunge? It couldn’t be for real, could it. There had to be an element of theatre to it, a sense of drama. She had her hands wrapped around a mug, the very picture of wifely patience. It fucked him off. Her patience – or at least her show of it – her acceptance, her constant understanding, it all fucked him off. Because it wasn’t real. It wasn’t her. He didn’t believe it. Not anymore. It would be more real if she showed she was angry. He wanted her to be angry. Like him.

He was swaying, ever so slightly. He needed to sit down. Just as he was about to do so, his body collapsed below him. He sent a wooden kitchen chair toppling, his head thumped against the corner of a unit. The pain was blunted by his state, but in the morning there would be a bump. His body relaxed into the pain, working through it. He’d learnt this technique now. Sometimes when he was drinking he hurt himself by accident. One evening, he fell down some steps in town, another time he walked into the closed patio doors thinking they were open. It was best to roll with the pain. Not to fight it.

‘Oh Simon.’ He could hear pity and despair in Daisy’s voice.

He felt warm and then cold, his thighs. He could smell something beneath the puke and sweat. It was a dark and acidic smell. It was piss. He’d pissed himself.

He woke up, he was in bed. He was relieved. Sometimes, he didn’t get to bed. He fell to sleep on a chair in the sitting room, on a bench in the street, or on the train home. That was the worst. He’d be carried to the last stop on the route and then woken up by a ticket inspector. He couldn’t always get an Uber. Occasionally he’d slept on stations, caught the first train home in the morning. Waking up in his own bed was a bonus. He put his fingers to the back of his head where it ached, not just the usual hangover ache, something more specific; there was a lump, but he couldn’t feel any stickiness, no blood. There weren’t any bottles next to his bed. He was naked but smelt clean. It didn’t add up.

Daisy was not in bed. As he sat up he noticed she was dozing on the chair in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was normally covered in discarded clothes. She heard him stir and her eyes sprung open. Always a light sleeper. Instantly, her face was awash with anxiety, resentment, disappointment.

‘Morning,’ Simon said brightly. Best to style this out. Clearly there had been something but as yet he couldn’t recall exactly what that something was, so he wasn’t worried. He was in his own bed, there wasn’t a bucket or any bottles by his side. He was good. ‘What time is it? I need to get to work.’ As he asked this, he swung his legs out of bed. The movement was too sudden, too energetic. He felt like crap. His body ached and shook but he was good at ignoring that, good at hiding how awful he felt, how awful he was.

Daisy checked her watch. ‘It’s noon, just after,’ she muttered tonelessly.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I took a personal day.’

Simon snorted. ‘Is that a thing now?’

She ignored his sarcasm. It was unusual for Daisy to take time off work, unprecedented actually. Simon was not sure he wanted to know why she’d done so. He asked the more pressing question instead, ‘Did you call my boss too?’ Simon calling in sick was not unprecedented and although Daisy didn’t like doing it for him – made a big fuss about how she hated lying – she had done so in the past. The truth was, she was a better liar than she made out.

‘You really can’t remember, can you?’ she asked.

‘Remember what?’

Another sigh, more of a puff. She really was honestly a tornado of regret and dissatisfaction. ‘You don’t have a job. You were fired yesterday.’

‘What the fu— What are you talking about? Fired? No.’

‘You turned up late and drunk, again. But this time you were aggressive with the client and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your boss has been looking for an excuse for a while. You know he has.’

She was wrong. She was being a bitch. Dramatic. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.

‘You didn’t tell me. Luke did.’

‘Oh, Saint Luke,’ Simon snapped, snidely.

‘I don’t know why you are being like that. He’s your best friend. I called him last night when you came home legless and making no sense. He filled me in on the details.’

Simon dropped his head into his hands and tried, really fucking hard, to remember what she was going on about. But he couldn’t. Nothing. Yesterday was nothing. The last thing he remembered was leaving home, catching the tube into Covent Garden. But he did that most days, he wasn’t sure if that was a specific memory or just something that he knew happened.

Daisy looked disbelieving. She thought his memory – or lack of it – was convenient, that he blanked out what he wanted. Right now, Simon thought the blackout was inconvenient. He wanted to know how and why he’d lost his job. Or at least, he probably wanted to know.

So, she told him. Her version, or Luke’s version, some bloody version but he couldn’t imagine it was the truth. He wasn’t drunk when he turned up at the office. Maybe, they could smell alcohol on his breath. Occasionally, he had a nip from his flask as he walked to the station. It was no big deal. Not drunk. And a nip in his coffee, too. Sometimes. Some people like maple syrup in their coffee, he liked whisky. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly wasn’t a dependency. What the hell? No. He was a creative, an interior designer, no one could expect him to work to a rigid schedule, he needed space. He needed freedom. Who puts a meeting in a diary at 10 a.m. anyway? It was uncivilised. And the client was a dick. OK, Simon could see that it wasn’t perhaps his wisest move, calling him the c-word for suggesting mushroom for the colour palette. Maybe that was hard to come back from. Simon didn’t really know why he had been so against mushroom, except he’d been thinking something brave, something bold. That’s what they pay him for, right? His ideas. Why wouldn’t they listen to him? He did not believe that he wasn’t able to stand up properly. They felt threatened. By him? That was just bullshit.

She made a big thing about saying she couldn’t account for his afternoon. Apparently, he stormed out of the agency or maybe security threw him out; she wasn’t totally clear on this point. Someone who knew that they were mates had called Luke, who had spent his afternoon looking for Simon. And that made him some sort of god in Daisy’s eyes. She kept going on about how good it was of him, how inconvenient. ‘He has a job of his own, you know, besides being your babysitter,’ she snapped bitterly. ‘Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for him? Since he’s the one that introduced the client to your firm in the first place. He is always putting work your way. If you ask me it’s the main reason the agency have kept you on as long as they have.’

‘That’s just bullshit. I’m good at what I do and they know it.’ Simon was sitting naked on the edge of the bed. His penis flaccid, his head is in his hands. What did this woman want from him? She was stripping away his manhood with her tongue. If what she was saying was true, he’d just lost his fucking job, how about some support please? Some sympathy. She told him that he came home at midnight, that he was ‘awkward’. He fell over in the kitchen and wouldn’t come to bed. He couldn’t remember any of this, but he believed her on that last point. He didn’t want to go to bed with Daisy. The thought was a hideous one. After what Martell had told him. Besides, sex is nothing compared to booze. Sex was messy and demanding, it came with secrets, never-articulated caveats and demands. It lied. Booze was pure. Generous. Easy.

‘You threw up on yourself. I stayed up all night, checking on you every thirty minutes to see you hadn’t choked,’ added Daisy. Simon tutted. Her martyrdom was boring. What did she want? A medal? ‘You peed yourself,’ she added, exasperated.

‘Then how come I’m clean now?’ Simon challenged. He couldn’t believe Daisy had dragged him upstairs if he was in the state she said he was.

‘I called Luke. He came around at four in the morning. He helped me get you upstairs and into the shower. We hosed you down.’

She was a lying bitch. He knew she was.

13

Chapter 13, Daisy

Saturday, 23rd July 2016

I have never been so desperate to get to the end of a term. It breaks my heart to close the door behind me every morning, knowing Simon is most likely going to spend the day in bed drinking, or slouched in front of the TV drinking. Without the pretence that he’s going into work, I fear the ‘functioning’ part of the label ‘functioning alcoholic’ is null and void. It’s desperate. He isn’t shaving, or even showering. He’s barely speaking. Still, I’ve kept it together. I have responsibilities. Millie, Elsie and my job. I’ve told Millie that Daddy is a bit poorly which is why he isn’t going to work.

‘Has he got a poorly head again or is his tummy upset?’ she asks innocently. ‘Poor Daddy. He’s often ill. He needs to see a doctor.’ Out of the mouths of babes. I don’t want to leave him alone more than I have to, but I honour my commitment to visit Elsie. Despite what Simon says, I think Elsie does enjoy our visits; maybe she can’t anticipate them or even remember them but when she’s in the moment, they seem to bring her some ease. Usually. Unfortunately, this week, she’s picked up a urinary tract infection which is common in dementia sufferers, and she’s had bouts of terrible hallucinations and intense paranoia. She threw things at me when I went into her room, she thought I was an undertaker and had come to measure her up. I’ve tried to concentrate on my class, who are all excitedly looking forward to their summer holidays and to the idea of going to big school after that. I busy myself writing reports and rehearsing for the end of year assembly. I manage to warmly thank my students and their parents for their thank you gifts of chocolate and cava but all the time I’m at school, my mind and heart are with Simon.

What are we going to do? My first thought is his health but I’m also concerned about money. How will we pay the mortgage with only my salary? Who will give him a job now? No one in their right mind.

Thank goodness it’s the holidays and I can have some breathing space. I’m only just holding on and I know I need to do more than that. I need to hold us together.

The last thing I want to do is go to Connie and Luke’s anniversary party. I had not expected Simon to so much as remember it, let alone want to attend. I thought shame would keep him away. I can barely stand the idea of facing Luke, but Simon doesn’t have the same sensitivities. He wakes up on Saturday morning and is buoyant about the idea of going.

‘We’re going, Daisy. We promised Connie and Luke,’ he says. As though he’s a regular guy and keeping his word is important to him. The fact is, parties mean alcohol. Lots of free-flowing alcohol. They also mean dancing, catching up with old friends and eating gorgeous nibbles, but none of that is important to Simon. For him a party only means alcohol. Lots of people will be drinking to get drunk. He’ll fit right in.

I haven’t seen my friends since Simon was sacked. I’m avoiding them. My sister Rose called as soon as she heard but I fobbed her off. ‘Connie has exaggerated things wildly,’ I told her. ‘You know how she is.’ In fact, the account of Simon’s dismissal that Rose relayed to me, gifted to her from Connie, was less sensational than what really occurred. I guess Luke did us a favour of playing down how dreadful the whole episode was. ‘The truth is Simon and his boss came to a mutually agreeable decision to part ways. Simon is looking for new creative challenges,’ I insisted.

‘Really, Daisy?’ my sister asked, concern oozing from her voice.

‘Rose, I’d tell you if there was anything seriously wrong.’

‘Would you?’

I’d want to. That’s almost the same thing. My sister and I used to confide everything in each other. Then that stopped being possible. I no longer believe a problem shared is a problem halved. I know it for what it is, double the trouble. Some secrets must stay just that. I don’t want to go to this party. The thought leaves me feeling panicky and breathless. Even before Simon’s humiliating dismissal, I’d had no intention of going. Throughout the day I try to persuade Simon that we shouldn’t bother.

‘Let’s just stay in, have a quiet night,’ I suggest.

‘What’s the matter, Daisy? Are you afraid everyone will be gossiping about us?’

‘I just don’t like parties. You know I don’t.’

‘The sooner you start to behave as though nothing is wrong, the sooner everyone else will believe that is the case,’ he replies smugly, unrepentant, as though it was me who soiled my clothes and had been hosed down by my best friend. I know what he says is true, but it smacks of wallpapering over the cracks, rather than fixing the problem. Something I can do and have done for a long time. I just don’t think I want to anymore. I get the feeling that if I carry on that way, the whole house might fall down around me.

‘My parents can’t babysit. They are going to a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. They already have tickets.’ I offer up this problem, but I didn’t expect it to matter to Simon.

‘Why haven’t you sorted out a sitter sooner?’ he asks crossly, then adds, ‘We can take her along.’

That’s not happening. No way. I nip over the road and arrange for Millie to sleep at her friend India’s. Millie and India are in the same class, that and the proximity of their homes means they’re best friends. The pair of them are always in and out of each other’s houses, having meals, watching TV, playing in the garden, but this will be their first official sleepover. Millie is deliriously excited.

Early afternoon, Millie and I nip out and buy popcorn because India tells me her mum has promised sparkly nail varnish and facemasks. I’m not sure that I approve of six-year-olds wearing nail varnish, and they definitely don’t need facemasks, but on the other hand, I once read a feminist book that argued grooming rituals are an important part of female bonding. I don’t want to pour cold water on the plan. What harm can a single at-home-spa-night do? Whenever I feel a tidal wave of fear or shame, and I consider backing out of the party, just staying at home and using looking after Millie as an excuse, I remind myself that Millie would be upset if her sleepover didn’t go ahead.