Whatever it takes, p.16
Whatever It Takes, page 16
‘What the f— just happened in there?’ he hiss-whispered the minute they were alone. Eloise thought it was sweet that even when under considerable strain and dealing with increased social embarrassment he tried not to swear. His restraint was a result of spending years around children who loved nothing more than to say, ‘Daddy said a bad word!’ or, ‘Mummy, you shouldn’t say that, God won’t like it!’
‘She’s a mess, isn’t she?’ Eloise sighed, not certain whether she was devastated for her friend or irritated by her. ‘And my supposed save probably didn’t help. I certainly think I aggravated Sara more by pointing out her babies were miscarriages.’
‘Yup, about as sensitive and tactful as Simon Cowell at a regional talent show. That’s you.’
Eloise stared at Mark, ostensibly furious with him for being so spot on but really furious at herself. ‘Look, there’s nothing we can do now other than push on,’ she stated, trying to sound more in control than she felt. ‘There have been worse dinner parties in the history of mankind.’
‘Although not in your history.’
‘Thank you for that reminder. Look, we’ll just keep pouring the wine and serving up food, we don’t have a choice. Your mum’s apple tart can mend bridges. Where is it?’
‘There.’ Mark pointed to the foil-wrapped quiche that Eloise had also assumed was the tart, until about a minute before calling him into the kitchen.
‘No, that’s a quiche. Did she give you that too? She’s a treasure, we’ll have that for lunch tomorrow, but where did you put the tart? Come on, Mark, I need to warm it up.’
Mark looked pale, dazed and concerned. ‘That’s all she gave me. That and the jug of cream.’ He dashed to the fridge and pulled out the pretty jug full of lavender cream. Instinctively, he took a sniff. ‘Yuk, that smells terrible.’
Eloise grabbed the jug off him and dipped her finger into the cream and then practically gagged. ‘What the hell is it? Not lavender cream, that’s for certain. It tastes of mayonnaise.’
‘That’s all she gave me. She hunted around the kitchen for ages.’
‘Well, I can’t serve a half-eaten quiche for pudding, especially after I’ve made such a big thing about serving up my own home-baked apple tart,’ Eloise said in a hiss-whisper, not managing to hide her mounting hysteria. Even though Mark had turned away, she could see his body quivering with suppressed laughter, which was not helpful.
‘Mum did seem a bit out of sorts when I went to pick up the tart. She’s clearly just handed me the wrong plate.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go and pick up the right one.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes!’
‘But it’s after ten. They’ll be in bed.’
He didn’t have to say it. Eloise knew that waking up a couple of pensioners so that they could cater for her dinner party was not especially commendable, but what else could she do? ‘Why would she make lavender cream with mayonnaise? Do you think she was drunk?’
‘Mum? At seven fifteen in the evening? No, I don’t.’
‘Well, what, then? A joke?’
‘I don’t know.’
They fell silent, which allowed them to hear the conversation in the dining room. Not that there was any real conversation. Just Sara’s heavy sobs and Arabella’s well-intentioned but clearly embarrassed murmurs of, ‘There, there, let it all out. That’s it. A good cry always helps.’ Eloise thought this was especially magnanimous of Arabella since Sara had spent the evening flinging veiled insults and criticism across the table.
‘I’m sorry, love, but there’s no alternative, you are going to have to run along the road to your parents’ to get the tart.’
Already quite tipsy, Mark was reluctant to leave the warm house and venture out in the chilly, black night. ‘Can’t you just serve up some yogurts instead? Chop up some fruit?’
‘No. I haven’t been shopping for anything other than the dinner party. We don’t even have any yogurt or decent fruit.’ The couple simultaneously glanced helplessly at the fruit bowl; it offered up one blackened banana and a hair bobble. ‘It will only take ten minutes. I’ll suggest everyone has a coffee. I’ll say we are doing it the French way, pudding last. Your parents will understand the emergency – well, Margaret will at least.’
It turned out that nobody wanted coffee but all three of the men gratefully accepted a whisky. Sara’s crying was abating but she was now casting notably evil glares Eloise’s way as she ran through her medical history in graphic detail. Arabella and Jackie weren’t much friendlier towards the hostess. They had no way of knowing that this was the five hundredth occasion that she’d heard the details of Sara’s fertility problems. El wanted to yell at them, ‘Honestly, I was sympathetic on the previous four hundred and ninety-nine!’ But she didn’t bother, it was pretty clear that they now regarded her as a lacklustre, unsupportive friend and she couldn’t imagine they’d be rushing to invite her to coffee again any time soon.
‘It’s not that I meant to be cruel,’ Eloise mumbled, deciding to face the elephant in the room.
Sara interrupted her. ‘It’s just very hard for Eloise to empathise. With her three beautiful girls it’s impossible for her to imagine my longing or my grief, just as it’s impossible for me to imagine why Eloise might grumble about having to constantly tidy up after the girls.’ Sara smiled bravely. ‘I mean, that’s my dream, to tidy up after a child. Pathetic, I know.’ She glanced around the table, flashing her enormous doleful eyes. Even Eloise thought of Bambi.
‘No, no, not pathetic at all,’ Arabella and Jackie simultaneously soothed. Cast as Cruella de Vil, Eloise decided it was best to wait out Mark’s return in the kitchen. There, she looked around at the debris. Pots were piled in towers in the sink, evidence of the elaborate preparations, and there were copious amounts of empty bottles lined up along the windowsill. Her hand stung, blood had seeped through the bandage; it had dried to a grubby rust colour. She probably should have gone for a stitch or two but there just hadn’t been enough time. All she’d wanted was to make some friends here in Dartmouth. Was that too much to ask?
Mark came back and Eloise’s heart plummeted when she saw that he was empty-handed. ‘I think Dad must have eaten the pie and is not prepared to ’fess up,’ Mark said with a shrug. ‘They both seemed confused. I woke them up. I feel bad.’
‘You feel bad! What am I going to tell our guests?’ El snapped back. ‘It’s desperate in there. Sara’s talking vaginal juices and sperm count. When I popped my head in the dining room Ken looked very uncomfortable and Patrick looked like he was going to pass out.’
‘We’ll say the girls have eaten it.’ Mark’s face lit up as he hit on this solution.
‘But then they’ll think I’m a bad mother with feral kids,’ Eloise groaned.
‘Alternatively you can tell them the truth and lose face.’
‘Good point. I’ll lie.’
As it happened, the guests didn’t care too much one way or the other about the lack of pudding. They pretended to accept the excuse Eloise offered as it gave them a convenient and clearly welcome reason to leave sooner rather than later. There was a distinct sense of relief and urgency in the Hamilton hallway as the guests struggled into their coats. Their haste made the simple operation so tricky that Patrick couldn’t seem to put his arm in the sleeve of his coat and in the end he just threw his jacket over his shoulders – like some sort of superhero – and bolted for the door. Eloise was not convinced or comforted by the polite calls, ‘We must do this again some time’ and ‘Maybe you should come to us next time.’
But seeing her new friends’ embarrassment was nothing compared to facing her old friend’s pain. She lingered for a second in the hallway, not really wanting to confront Sara. Mark pulled his wife into a brief hug that clearly communicated in married speak that she had to bite the bullet and she had to do so alone. He called through to Charlie and suggested they went and got some air. Charlie rushed past Eloise, taking a moment to throw a sympathetic grimace her way. They understood each other; he’d been the wrong side of Sara’s overly sensitive nature so many times recently.
Eloise crept back into the dining room and found Sara sitting deadly still at the table. She looked like Snow White. Dark bobbed hair, red lips and her skin was so pale that she seemed almost transparent. She was trailing her finger in a puddle of red wine that had been spilt on the tablecloth. It would stain but sponging up the mess would seem too abrupt and efficient. Eloise knew that what was needed now was kindness. She dug deeper into her reserves of patience. She suspected tonight was going to stain their friendship just as vividly as the wine would stain the cloth if she wasn’t careful. Where to start?
‘I think of them as babies, you know,’ Sara said eventually.
‘I know.’ Eloise sighed, partially from relief that Sara was talking to her and partially out of pity. ‘I do too. But I didn’t want to mislead Arabella and Jackie. I didn’t think it was fair,’ she blurted.
Suddenly, Sara glared at Eloise, her anger searing. ‘There’s nothing fair about this, Eloise.’
El busied herself, carefully placing another log on the fire; earlier in the evening the fire was just for show but now the air really was quite icy. Eloise knew that there was no point in making a joke about the lack of pudding – or any other subject, for that matter. There was only one thought in Sara’s head, there only ever was. That was the problem. They had to address it.
‘Have you had any more thoughts about adopting?’ Eloise asked as she folded herself into the chair next to Sara’s. They’d had this conversation before, a couple of years ago. At the time neither of them really thought it would ever come to adoption, they’d talked in the abstract. Everyone heard so many success stories about IVF that it became tempting to believe that it was a foolproof treatment. Doctors took pains to remind patients that the success rate was only one in five, but everyone believed they’d be that one. Obviously, everyone couldn’t be. Eloise thought it was time Sara revisited the alternatives.
‘It’s not easy to adopt. Our age would work against us and we’d want a baby. There are no babies up for adoption in the UK. Or at least very few.’
‘Abroad, then?’
‘People think it’s just a case of popping into an African country and picking up a skinny tot but it doesn’t work like that.’
Eloise had never thought it worked that way and she was glad it didn’t and, further, she was never convinced by people who said they were desperate for a baby but baulked at the idea of adopting a child. What did they think those babies became? But she didn’t say any of this to Sara, she never had. Instead she asked, ‘Have you thought of egg donation or sperm donation? Maybe a different combination would help things develop.’ Eloise stumbled over her words. There wasn’t a great way to say any of this.
‘Maybe it would, but we’ve been pregnant twice, it is possible for us to get pregnant,’ Sara insisted. Her mouth was pulled into an unreasonable thin line, her lips had disappeared to nothing more than a mean red gash. She looked terrifying, ferocious and bitter. Where had El’s friend gone? Where was the carefree, witty, reasonable and intelligent woman that she knew?
‘Maybe you should give it up,’ Eloise said finally. The words came out in a defeated tumble, running away on breath that she’d held in for months now. This was a thought so difficult to express that it seemed almost treacherous. Now she’d said as much she rushed on while her nerve still held. ‘You could foster.’
‘No. The constant goodbyes, I couldn’t.’
‘People live without children. Full and happy lives they—’ Eloise wanted to tell her friend that she only had one life, that she was wasting it by longing for something she couldn’t have, by focusing on nothing else at all. Eloise thought that Sara was destroying her relationship with her husband and threatening her other relationships too. She wanted to tell her that she could find other ways to be happy, if only she’d open her eyes to them. But Sara didn’t allow Eloise to explain, or excuse, or even empathise or console.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said stiffly.
Sara didn’t actually spit on El, she didn’t have to; Eloise understood the point being made. Guilt flooded through her body. After years of supporting Sara without question or limits, why had Eloise hit a threshold of patience tonight? She hated herself for hurting her friend. El placed her head on the table; she wanted to bang it up and down. How could she have gone so wrong tonight? How could she have thought impressing her new friends was more important than comforting her old one?
‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Eloise stated firmly.
‘I wouldn’t say disaster, exactly,’ said Mark. El was sitting at her dressing table taking off her make-up. She’d been sitting there for half an hour, listening attentively for the front door to click, signalling Mark and Charlie’s return. She’d trusted he wouldn’t stay out too late, that he’d understand that she’d need to talk through the night’s events, and he hadn’t let her down. Timings suggested Mark took Charlie for a swift pint and then they’d returned straight home. Eloise wondered whether Sara was still awake and what conversation she and Charlie might be having. They were probably agreeing that Eloise was a total bitch, she thought despairingly. El was sitting with her back to Mark but she could see him through the mirror. He looked astute and handsome. As he kissed the back of her neck she could smell the chilly, watery air and beery pub on his hair. He was delicious and it was a comfort to register he was delicious in amongst all the mess of the evening. He was hers. She had Mark and the girls. That was why she was here in Dartmouth, for her family, and these teething troubles with their new friends were worth the effort because this was what Mark wanted, she reminded herself.
But the trouble with old friends? That was altogether different.
She furiously rubbed cleanser into her face. The cold, velvety cream might be able to remove make-up and, through some modern miracle of science and rare moment of advertising truth, it might even be able to smooth out her fine lines and wrinkles, but it couldn’t remove her hideous mood or smooth over the feeling of despair that was sitting in the pit of her belly.
‘You remember that fairy tale about the wolf who guarded a bridge and ate the baby goats that wanted to cross the bridge?’ Eloise asked Mark.
He looked bemused. ‘No, I can’t say that I do.’
‘You do,’ she insisted, although in all likelihood he probably didn’t. Fairy tales were a girl thing – like eyelash curlers, men just didn’t get them; they didn’t have a need. ‘Well, the goats’ mother tricks the wolf. She cuts open his stomach, rescues her babies – they’ve been swallowed whole – then puts huge boulders in the wolf’s stomach, sews him up and when he wakes up he can’t chase after her or her babies. I feel like that wolf.’
Mark sat on the edge of the bed and started to take off his shoes and socks. He looked perplexed. ‘The wolf swallowed the baby goats whole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Unlikely. And he wouldn’t wake up, would he? Not if he’d just had open surgery.’
‘It’s a fairy tale.’
‘Where’s the happy ending?’ he asked as he peeled off his shirt.
‘OK, look, I think we are getting off the point,’ Eloise said, trying to suppress her exasperation.
‘What is your point?’
Eloise was not proud that alcohol had been her prop tonight – but she was grateful that she’d had a prop. She’d drunk nearly a bottle and therefore couldn’t clearly explain her analogy.
‘The point is, I feel as though I have giant rocks in my belly.’ If she’d had to name them, they were disappointment, humiliation and despair.
‘But you didn’t try to eat anyone’s babies,’ said Mark gently.
‘I might as well have, I don’t think I could have offended Sara more.’
Mark walked towards the dressing table, put his cool hands on her shoulders and tried to squeeze out some of the tension.
‘Mmm, nice,’ she muttered. She wanted to encourage him because she loved his touch and didn’t want the massage to stop. On the other hand, she didn’t want to over-encourage him because he might think there was a chance of sex and she was too tired and upset for sex. She just wanted to talk and be hugged.
Mark read her like a book. ‘Come on, get your pyjamas on and let’s get to bed. It will all be better in the morning.’
‘I was so determined to make an impression.’
‘You did that all right,’ said Mark, stifling a yawn.
‘Yes, well, not the impression I wanted, obviously.’ Eloise peeled off her clothes and left them in a careless heap on the floor; a puddle of herself. ‘I just want to fix things,’ she said, as she snuggled under Mark’s arm.
‘I know you do, babe. You always want to fix things. It’s one of the reasons I love you, but I think this one might be out of your control.’
19
Sara lay in bed and listened to the sounds of Saturday morning in Dartmouth. They were not the same sounds as she was used to hearing in London. There she woke to cars tooting, teenagers swearing and, more often than not, an ambulance or police siren wailing in the distance. In Dartmouth, Sara was awoken by the sounds of a family. Little feet pounded up and down the stairs, chatter and whispers erupted like determined mushrooms on a moist autumn field. The girls, who had been awake for hours, had been told not to disturb Sara, so whenever they played in the stairwell below her room they whispered but, a metre away, they resumed their high-volume squabbles and squeals and so their attempt to follow instructions wasn’t successful. Besides, the house was alive with the sounds of breakfast pots being clattered, the radio blaring, doors and windows being thrown open. She could hear seagulls squawking and cheery hellos being thrown out by neighbours as they passed by the Hamiltons’ garden.
Last night, Sara had pretended to be asleep when Charlie came back from his walk. The last thing she’d wanted was to hear him defend Eloise, which he might very well have done. She didn’t even want him to try to comfort her. She couldn’t be comforted. That was the point.
