Chapter Nine PRESENT DAY

Chapter Nine

P RESENT D AY

Madeleine texted Tan to let him know she’d be in the office by mid-morning. It wasn’t unusual for her to go and see her therapist at short notice; what was unusual was for her to leave the office early on one day and arrive late the next. These were not, however, normal circumstances. Her life felt it was moving a little too fast and she needed it to go slower, to rationalise her thoughts and talk to the one person with whom she didn’t have to hold back – the one person who didn’t openly judge or make snarky comments or make her feel guilty or interrupt. Well, not often, anyway. The person who kept her on an even keel and had done for the last couple of years.

She was grateful Dr Schoenfeld could see her.

Her sleep had been fitful and her pulse raced. Tossing and turning in her Egyptian cotton sheets as thoughts of Marnie in hospital, her earlier chat with Trina, Edith heading off with Jimmy, and Nico’s face as he walked away all now interspersed with the things that usually preoccupied her musings in the early hours: the Stern project, her move to LA, the scratch on her fridge, the incorrect paint colour on her walls. One thought, however, hammered inside her skull louder than all others: why the hell hadn’t she stocked up on sliced chicken?

It wasn’t the best way to start the day – a little frazzled, a little fraught. And that was before she plucked up the courage to contact Nico. Each time she pictured him on the doorstep with his bottles of antacid and the cheap flowers in his arm, his face full of joy at seeing her and then his expression instantly falling when he saw the padded earthworm over her shoulder, it made her stomach roll with anxiety. It was also most unlike her to keep checking her phone like an overly keen teen with the explicit hope that he had called or texted – a simple thumbs-up would have been enough to quell her worries – yet this was precisely what she did, over and over. But nothing. So far it was radio silence from Nico Spectacular.

She wanted to call him directly, but wondered if giving him space was the right thing to do, allowing him to calm down and get the questions straight in his head, which she would answer willingly. Or maybe she’d never hear from him again. This too felt like a possibility. His assuming she was divorced, or in fact whatever he deduced, didn’t really matter. It was all irrelevant if he simply decided she was too much of a gamble, carrying too much baggage, secretive, or just not for him. Could she really see Belinda Yannis welcoming Edith for a play date? Of course not. What had she been thinking? She and Nico were from different worlds. No matter how fancy the restaurant she booked or how plush her apartment, she was a girl from the Brenton Park estate who had royally messed up, and he was son and heir to Field and Grey, with a few minor titles thrown in for good measure. She swallowed, embarrassed to have thought for a moment that things might have been different.

With the beginning of a headache pulsing in her temples, she rang the buzzer and trudged up the dreary stairs to find Dr Schoenfeld waiting by her open door, her curly hair still damp about her shoulders.

‘Morning, Madeleine.’ She stood back to let her pass, closing the door behind her.

‘Thanks for seeing me.’

‘That’s my job.’ Orna sipped coffee from a pretty pottery mug. ‘You want one?’

‘Please.’ She watched her therapist pop a pod into the noisy machine and press a couple of buttons before handing her a coffee.

It tasted surprisingly good, restorative; she sipped as she dumped her bag and sat on the sofa.

‘How was your evening?’ Orna took her chair and unscrewed her pen lid, notepad at the ready.

‘Hectic.’

Her therapist stared at her – this Madeleine’s cue to expand.

‘My mum’s in the hospital. She had a heart attack.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. How is she doing?’

Madeleine waved her hand. ‘Okay, I think. My dad’s all over the place. But that’s not ...’ She took a breath. ‘I mean, it is what I’m worried about, of course it is, but that’s not what’s on my mind. I mean, it is on my mind, the both of them, but there’s more. It’s like ...’ She hated when she got flustered like this.

‘No need to rush, Madeleine. We have time. Take some deep breaths.’

It was the simplest of instructions that often had the biggest impact. Today was no exception. With her eyes closed and shoulders relaxed, she did as she was asked: in through her nose and out through her mouth. There was something about being in this calm space, this safe place, away from the hustle and bustle, the busyness of life, that was cathartic. It was all about her, a pause from the race, somewhere she was permitted to offload. She was fairly certain that even if she and Orna stayed silent and she did nothing but sit on this couch and breathe, inhaling the sweet earthy scent of the candle, wrapped in the warm lamp light, she would feel better. Having a relationship with Orna didn’t make up for losing the ear of a friend like Trina, but her therapist certainly helped plug some of the gaps. It had felt entirely necessary to come and see her this morning. Her thoughts were a turbulent rage when what she needed to function best was calm waters. She was, to put it mildly, unsettled. Unsettled by being plunged back into Marnie’s world, unsettled by spending time with Edith and knowing she hadn’t exactly got it right as the kid wanted to bolt the moment they’d arrived. Unsettled by seeing Jimmy, which was never easy for her – he the other player in this drama that had bound them for the longest time – and unsettled by what had happened with Nico. Nico, who, it seemed, had slipped through her fingers. It was an awful lot to process.

‘When you’re ready.’ Her therapist’s soft voice encouraged her to speak, her gentle rhythm inviting a response that matched.

‘I remember when Mum asked me if it was okay for Jimmy to be more involved in our daughter’s life. I mean, he’d met her, of course he had. And I knew what Marnie was asking: could he hang out, play with her, maybe take her to his mum’s or out for a walk, whatever.’

She remembered the day clearly. She’d gone to visit her parents and was in the kitchen with Marnie, chopping parsley as she helped with supper. Edith, about six months old, was asleep in her bassinet on the sofa next to Dougie, who liked to watch her sleep. Liked to watch her, full stop. The new apple of his eye. That hadn’t bothered Madeleine. Not as much as she thought it might. She was just grateful for their devotion and for her freedom.

The conversation had been brief.

‘You don’t mind if Jimmy spends more time with the little one, do you?’ her mum had asked almost casually, as Madeleine switched her attention to slicing courgettes on the plastic chopping board with a burn mark on it in the cramped kitchen.

‘What?’ She’d held the knife still, and stopped slicing. ‘Has he asked to spend more time with her? Why are you even asking me that?’

‘You’re right, why am I asking you? We have an agreement that I raise her how I think is right and asking you for permission is not how we do things!’

‘Just a second, Mum.’ She’d concentrated on keeping her voice steady, on letting go of the stream of angry expletives that were lined up on her tongue. ‘There’s no need to come down on me like that!’

It was a familiar battle, but no less wearing for that. If anything, the inevitability of it only made the whole exchange more loaded. This was the way it had been since Edith’s birth; Marnie fluctuating between expressing her admiration and love for Madeleine, holding her close when she saw her, smoothing her hair and repeating how proud she was of her and her bravery – and curtly offering up cutting remarks as she still tried to fathom how her only child could choose not to be with Edith, could give up parenting the most beautiful baby girl. Behaviour that was, she liked to remind Madeleine, quite unlike that of any other mother she knew.

It didn’t help.

It made her feel useless and had paved the way for further estrangement. Over time, Madeleine chose not to put herself through the guilt bath that her mum verbally immersed her in every time she went home. Not that it felt like home then, and not that it had felt like home since. It was easier to stay away, not to endure, and leave cloaked in inadequacy and confusion, pulled in two different directions by her feelings of guilt over leaving Edith and her desperation to walk away from the nappies and bottles to pursue her career.

Orna gave a subtle cough, a reminder that she was there.

‘I didn’t object to him seeing more of her – why would I? But I guess I thought he’d be on the periphery of her life. Dipping in, like ... like ...’

‘Like you do?’ Orna finished her sentence, her tone neutral.

Madeleine nodded. It sounded horrible and accusatory, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t need her inadequacy pointed out by Orna, who was supposed to be on her side. The therapist’s expression, however, told her this was not how she had intended it.

‘But it’s become more than that, more than a peripheral thing?’ Orna gripped her pen.

‘Yes, much more.’ She shifted on the sofa. ‘Our daughter is always so delighted to see him or talk to him, so ... excited!’

My daddy!

‘Is that hard for you?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe a little.’ Maybe more than a little ... But this she knew was a feeling she had no right to. ‘And perhaps this sounds ridiculous, but she was supposed to stay at my flat last night, for the first time, but instead she called her dad and he came to fetch her. She didn’t want to stay with me.’

The emotion that now gathered as her eyes misted was as surprising as it was embarrassing. She didn’t want to cry over this. It was ridiculous!

‘It’s like, every time I see her, I have to start over. Slowly getting her to trust me. When she leaves, she seems keen to see me again, but then the next time there’s this ... this thin veneer of mistrust. I can sense it. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to feel, how it’s supposed to be, but it doesn’t feel like either of us truly relaxes.’

‘She’s nervous with you? Hesitant?’

‘No, not exactly.’ She pictured Edith jumping into her arms, curling her little arms around her neck. ‘No, not nervous, it’s more like ... I don’t know. Like we don’t know each other that well, and she’s a smart kid – really smart. And all the while I’m staring at her, figuring out what to talk about, whether it’s okay to ...’

‘To what?’ The doctor sat forward.

‘To touch her, cuddle her, in the way that seems second nature for my parents and for her dad.’ She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth; it wasn’t easy to say. ‘But for me, it’s like I forfeited that right and I never know where to start. I don’t know how to get close to her.’

‘Children are very astute, and if she senses your hesitation, your nervousness, that might be why she prefers to stay at her dad’s, perhaps?’

‘Yep.’ This was obvious. ‘He makes it look easy. They all do.’

‘I guess it’s just practice, right?’

It was Madeleine’s turn to nod. ‘I guess so. And he’s had a lot of practice. I kind of ...’ She took her time. ‘I kind of stayed away a lot when she was a toddler. I was always working, and when I did see her, I felt so uncomfortable, so ... ill at ease. And Marnie would make such a big deal of dumping her in my arms and watching me. I’m not sure if she was on high alert in case I dropped her or to see if I broke down and begged to be her full-time mum. I couldn’t stand it.’

‘Does your mother know this? Are you able to talk to her about it?’

‘It’s not easy. She tends to take everything personally and chooses to cherry-pick the bits of the conversation that resonate most, which aren’t necessarily the things I want to talk about or resolve.’

‘That can’t be easy.’

‘It’s not. I remember I went to see our daughter on her third birthday. I’d bought balloons and gifts and whatnot. We were in the lounge at my parents and Jimmy walked in and the baby went nuts! So happy to see him!’ She took a sharp breath at the memory. ‘It was the first time I’d seen it. And I realised that he’d made different choices to me. He showed up. And he’s still showing up.’

‘It must be a difficult day for you on her birthday.’

Madeleine looked at the floor. ‘It is. And even though she’s now seven, I still don’t ...’ She hesitated, wary of what unboxing this particular thought might unleash.

‘You still don’t what?’ her therapist coaxed.

‘I still don’t always feel like it’s real.’ Her voice no more than a whisper.

‘You don’t feel like what’s real?’

‘Her being here! My child! My baby!’

‘Because of your late pregnancy reveal or ...’

‘Because I don’t feel like a mother. I don’t feel like her mother. I’m fond of her, more than fond – I love her. I can see she’s this fabulous, beautiful child, but I know it’s not for me. It’s like I was tricked. And in being tricked, I had to make the hardest of decisions and as a result of those decisions, I lost my ...’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I lost my family.’

‘You didn’t lose them. But they have had to shift their priorities. Would that be fair to say?’

‘Yes.’

‘And would it be fair to say that you exclude yourself?’

‘It’s jealousy, Orna. I know it. It’s not easy for me to say.’

‘Jealousy of?’

‘Jealousy of this little girl who came along and blew up my life! And stole my parents and even stole my honesty. I now live with this ... this big secret. The fact that she is mine, the fact that she exists at all! And jealous of how she chooses others over me, chooses anyone over me, which I understand. Even though I don’t like it.’ She thought again of Nico. ‘What kind of person does that make me?’

‘An honest one, actually. And it’s that honesty that will help you find your answers.’

This was the first time Madeleine had said any of this out loud. It was scary and cathartic in equal measure. It was her truth; she felt seven flames of envy flare in her gut, fanned by a wind of disloyalty whenever the baby she had given birth to reached for Marnie, or wanted to go sleep at her dad’s house rather than spend one night under her roof. And the hardest thing was that Madeleine knew, had Edith wanted to live with her, be with her, she would have felt her blood run cold. What was wrong with her?

‘I mean, what was Marnie thinking? Letting him get so close to her, letting him parent her? I don’t get to do that and he does? What kind of messed-up thinking is that? It’s like it’s part of my punishment.’

‘But it was your choice. It is your choice?’

‘Yes, it was my choice.’ Thank you for the reminder! ‘ Is my choice, but does that make it okay that Marnie allowed this relationship to foster, without me ... without my ... my ... blessing?’ She was breathing hard and sat back on the sofa, knowing she needed to calm down. ‘Not that she needs my blessing, of course.’ And there it was again, that punch in the throat that reminded her of the deal. ‘And I suppose what you’re thinking is that shouldn’t I just be happy that the little one is happy? Shouldn’t I be delighted that she has Jimmy to lean on for those times when one of her pillars crumbles away? Shouldn’t I be thankful that this is the case? Because let’s face it, I can’t do it, can I? I just can’t do it!’

‘You never say her name.’

‘Sorry?’ She’d heard perfectly but wanted the chance to think over her possible responses.

‘I said, you never say her name when you talk to me about her. You say, “my daughter”, “the little one” or “my little girl” or “the baby”.’

‘And your point is?’

‘Just an observation, but I wondered if it’s difficult for you to say her name out loud, because that makes her real.’

‘Difficult?’ She laughed, as she did when nervous or wanting to deflect.

‘Is it difficult?’ her therapist asked with her typically deadpan expression. ‘To say her name out loud? To refer to her by her name?’

‘It’s not difficult, no.’

‘Really?’

It felt a little like goading and she took a deep breath, finding that place of control that she had mastered over the years, to curb her spontaneity, to dull her temper, to control her vowels, to speak clearly, to fit in. To shake off Mads Woods from the Brenton Park estate who, just like every other girl she saw wandering the walkways reluctantly pushing a second-hand pram, had royally fucked up her life!

Knee-swars . . . gnocchi . . . gnocchi . . .

‘Her name’ – she held the woman’s eyeline and spoke slowly – ‘is Edith-Madeleine. She was named after her grannies, as was I.’ And without warning, to say her name, to picture her dancing on the grass with daisies on her dress, was enough to bring her to tears, which she swiped angrily from her highlighted cheeks.

‘Did you choose her name?’

Madeleine found it hard to get the words out and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Dr Schoenfeld pulled a tissue from the box that was always within reach, but which Madeleine rarely required the service of. Until recently.

‘Can we please talk about something else?’ She coughed to clear the croak from her throat.

‘Sure. I will say this though. I think you need to give yourself permission to freely give love and demonstrate love to Edith. And that doesn’t mean being her full-time mother or comparing how you wish to parent with how Jimmy or Marnie does it. It’s between you and Edith. I also think part of that permission should start with you talking to Marnie, expressing how you feel.’

‘You make it ... make it all sound so easy.’ She hiccupped, knowing the dread she felt at having to talk openly with Edith was as powerful now as it always had been, and she suspected would only grow stronger as her child hit her teens.

‘If it was easy, Madeleine, I doubt you’d be sitting here right now. No, it’s not easy’ – Orna reached for her coffee and took a sip – ‘but valuable. So valuable. And the outcome I believe could change things for you – for you all.’

Having hailed a taxi, Madeleine slid into the back seat, gave her destination, and called the office.

‘Tan, it’s me.’

‘Good morning, Miss Madeleine. How are we on this dull, grey day?’

‘I am dull and grey, so quite fitting, really.’

‘Darling, you could never be dull and grey. And there’s a little something that has just arrived and is sitting on your desk that will be sure to lift your mood. And, trust me, they are neither dull nor grey, but more a rampant display of rose pink, apple green and pale lilac all interspersed with Baby’s Breath and the most delicate of feathery ferns. A glorious, glorious display! Must have cost an arm and a leg.’

She loved this vulgar aside, knowing it was horribly crass to put a price on a gift or gesture.

‘Flowers?’ Her smile was wide and her spirits instantly lifted. Nico had sent her flowers! This was far, far better than a comic thumbs-up. ‘Are they tasteful?’ she whispered, aware that the cabbie was within earshot and not wanting him to think she was one of those women who would rather not have flowers than have nasty flowers. Even though she was precisely that kind of woman. And, actually, when it came to Nico, she would right now happily receive any flowers, even the shoddy garage forecourt ones, the thought of which usually gave her hives.

‘Fret not, they are exquisite, abundant, and filling the whole space with the most delicate of perfume.’

‘Is there a card?’

‘Of course – sealed and awaiting your return.’

Her stomach bunched with excitement. It spoke volumes, the kindest gesture that was conciliatory, forgiving and held promise.

‘Wonderful, and actually it’s about my return that I’m calling. I’m going to the hospital to see my mum and so should be with you just before lunch or just after. Either way, I’ll be in later. I’m on my phone for any emergency, and ask Nadia to check my diary and shift any meetings, etc. She knows what to do.’

‘Of course. Take your time and don’t worry about a thing. I can hold the fort.’

‘I know that.’

‘Hope your mum’s okay.’

‘Thanks, Tan. See you shortly.’

She opened her phone to send a text to Nico. Her finger hovered over the keyboard, what to put? She settled on one word.

HAPPY X

She would send another when she’d read the card and arranged her beautiful bouquet. It was exciting, and comforting – a stay of execution! Maybe he did want her after all. Maybe having had a chance for his thoughts to percolate, he had decided that she was worth the investment – baggage and all. The thought of sitting down with him and filling in the blanks, of coming clean and the two of them continuing without the burden of her secret weighing her down, a chance to explain what had happened and how her life was now structured, felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She smiled broadly as excitement rose in her gut.

Forgiveness was certainly healing and there was no better way to say it than with flowers ...