February 16 EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

February 16

E IGHT YEARS BEFORE

Making her way along Piccadilly, it felt strange for Madeleine to be back at work. Stranger still that no one looked at her differently, stared, whispered about her behind cupped palms, or asked any awkward questions. No one acted as if the world had stopped spinning for a while, throwing everything they knew into confusion before righting itself again. Until she realised it was only in her world that this had occurred. For everyone else it was business as usual. She was different, felt different, changed in the most subtle of ways, but changed, nonetheless.

Her body had gone back together, but not quite. It was like having a tooth removed while your mouth and gums took a while to figure out how to close and accommodate the gap. It was like removing a mirror from a wall where it had hung for an age, and finding yourself constantly checking the blank space, surprised still not to see your reflection staring back at you. It was like having a fever dream about an exam you had already sat a long time ago, when only waking brought sweet relief and ended the panic. It was like sitting up in the middle of the bed in the middle of the night, unable to remember if she had had a baby or was about to have a baby or had imagined the whole thing, because she looked pretty much the same, felt pretty much the same, but there was no child to be seen.

It meant she felt the changes at a deeper level. There was no screaming horror of grief, no brutal pull of loss. Hers was a more general flicker of damage done without being able to pinpoint the pain.

She had carried a baby, given birth to a baby, and handed that baby over to her parents, almost unquestioningly, because it made sense! They were after all parents; they had looked after her for over two decades and had done a reasonable job. Whereas she was a mere infant herself, still trying to understand life, to carve a path, and was glad to have been able to pass the perfect little human over to Marnie and Doug, who seemed excited about the prospect – something she couldn’t begin to imagine.

It was a secret.

Edith-Madeleine, who was now eighteen days old, was a secret.

This hadn’t been her intention, not at all, but it was merely how it unfolded, in the way that it did when something wasn’t mentioned or discussed, and the longer this remained the case, the harder it was to mention it for the first time. Besides, who would she tell? Her old flatmates Luciano, Meredith and Liesl had not been in contact since she had left and were no doubt overcooking pasta and dancing in sticky-floored nightclubs with the new girl who had taken up residence in her old room. Trina was no longer her confidante, a fact that was still sinking in, and she had nothing to say to Jimmy. The people who worked for Rebecca Swinton were not her friends, they were acquaintances for whom she had fetched and carried until her unexpected leg up on the ladder. The idea of sharing the last few weeks of her life with any of them ... it didn’t occur.

What did occur to her, slowly – again there was no jolt of realisation, but rather a slow seep of awareness – was that it would be lonely living life with a secret like this. It would make her guarded, cautious, wary of opening up. It meant she would live two lives. The one she presented to the public, her peers, and colleagues – that of a cool, calm career woman with her head above the clouds and her feet on the ground. And one she lived when she nipped back to the Brenton Park estate. The Brenton Park estate where her child lived, and where every visit would see her lower her stature, her voice, and her expectations, as if this was what was painfully required just to fit in.

Rebecca had invited her to lunch and here she was, standing outside The Wolseley, feeling a little otherworldly with nerves fluttering in her stomach where her nesting baby had only recently given up residence. She was about to walk in when she heard her boss call from the pavement. Rebecca looked immaculate in her ivory silk shirt and navy cigarette pants, paired with nude heels.

‘Madeleine! There you are!’ She spoke as if she’d been searching for her.

‘This looks lovely. I feel a bit nervous.’ She stared up at the imposing arched windows, the pale stone and grand brass facade.

Rebecca stepped ahead and stood still as the bowler-hatted doorman opened the doors from the inside, then turned to face Madeleine. ‘Never be nervous of entering anywhere. The moment your actions and manner suggest you shouldn’t be there, you’re proving that thought correct. Enter commandingly, yet calmly; hold your head high and always know it’s where you belong.’

‘Good afternoon, madam.’ The doorman tilted his head. Rebecca responded with a slight nod.

The ma?tre d’ in his immaculately cut suit rushed forward. ‘Hello again, madam.’ He gave a slight bow.

Rebecca stood tall, as if she liked it. ‘Hello.’

Madeleine noticed how she only glanced at his face before looking past him into the dining room, where intimate tables were set with starched white linen and silverware. The whole place carried an air of refined sophistication.

‘And you’re dining with us today?’

‘Yes.’ Rebecca looked back at him. ‘Table for two, under the name Swinton – Rebecca Swinton.’

He walked to the lectern, where a bespectacled girl stood with a pen in her hand and carried an air of authority – the gatekeeper. Ignoring his colleague, he ran his finger down the computer screen and beamed up at her, as if she’d won a prize.

‘Please follow me.’ Again that slight bow with the incline of the head.

He paused at a table that was sat in front of the bar, almost a thoroughfare, and judging by the look on Rebecca’s face, not where she wanted to sit. Not at all.

‘No, thank you. Erm ... we’ll take that one.’ She pointed to a table set perfectly for two in the central horseshoe of tables in the middle of the room.

‘Of course, madam.’ He did his best but failed to control the twitch of irritation under his left eye. ‘May we get you some water for the table?’ He clasped his hands at his chest, as if in prayer.

‘Yes. Sparkling, thank you.’

Rebecca slipped into the chair and placed her bag on the floor, keeping her smile small and her attitude professional. Madeleine watched her every move, wanting to be comfortable in social situations, wanting to learn from her.

She studied the small, printed menu in front of her. Rebecca leaned over and whispered, ‘I always know the menu of a place before I sit down. It makes me feel more comfortable. I can then practise how to pronounce things, remove the panic that sets in if someone else chooses quicker than me! I like to be prepared.’

It was a surprise to her that Rebecca had to think about her actions, and how she was perceived. It gave Madeleine confidence. If this woman who personified poise and class could do it ...

It felt like good advice.

‘I always have the salade Nicoise here. It’s divine.’

Sah-lad nissswaz! Sah-lad nissswaz! Madeleine practised in her head.

‘Have you always lived in London, Rebecca?’ She was curious and wanted to fill in the quiet until they ordered and their food arrived.

‘Good lord, no!’ She tucked her glossy hair behind her ears. ‘I’m from a tiny village in the sticks. My father was a drunk and my mother a victim of domestic abuse. I grew up in a falling-down cottage without running water or heat and got out the moment I was able.’

‘Wowsers!’ It was a surprise to say the least. ‘You don’t ... I would never ...’ What did she want to say? That this was not the background she would have guessed at by looking ? And what did that say about her if this was how she judged?

‘Oh, I know.’ Rebecca touched her hand to her forearm. ‘No one would ever ...’ She smiled. ‘But that’s the trick: reinvention and only looking forward.’

And in that moment, Madeleine understood a little of why she was so drawn to Rebecca – a kindred spirit.

‘I had a baby.’

She hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to reveal her secret to the woman she so wanted to impress. It slipped out, as if not to share it would have felt deceitful in the face of such an exchange.

‘I had a baby,’ she repeated, as if this might make it real for them both.

‘I know.’ Rebecca held her eyeline.

‘How ... how do you know?’ This was not the reaction she had expected, as she pulled the top of her blouse shut, wanting to hide. Maybe her suspicions were correct and people were able to tell by looking. Maybe she was changed.

‘The day you came in late to the office, before Christmas. The day you told me your thoughts on the Old Berlin project.’ Rebecca’s tone and manner softened, as she leaned forward. ‘You’d put leaflets, a hospital note, and a scan picture on your desk. They were just lying there. Pictures that spoke volumes about your story. And I guessed from your manner, you were in a daze. The look of shock on your face suggested that it was not necessarily something that was planned or longed for.’

‘No.’ Her reply was small. She had no idea! But would have sworn that she put all of the paperwork in her bag, hidden.

‘You don’t have to explain. You don’t need to tell me about it. You don’t need to tell anyone anything. It’s your business, Madeleine, and yours alone.’

‘I don’t have her, I don’t ...’ She stopped talking, unsure why she felt the need to explain, to justify. It was the first time she had heard of such a possibility, that she didn’t have to explain anything. It was as freeing as it was surprising.

The waiter approached the table.

‘May I take your lunch order?’ He stood with his hands behind his back.

‘Madeleine?’ Rebecca shared a lingering look with her, a look that was encouraging and instructive.

‘The salade Nicoise for me, please.’ She ordered with confidence.

‘Oh, good shout. Yes, for me too, please.’ Rebecca nodded her approval. ‘So the Berlin project,’ she began. ‘I guess the first question is, do you have a passport?’

Madeleine sat back in the seat and looked around at the opulence of her surroundings.

Sah-lad nissswaz! Sah-lad nissswaz!

This was it. The start of her wonderful, wonderful life.