Whatever it takes, p.27
Whatever It Takes, page 27
Ray liked the silences the least. He didn’t really mind the occasions that she skewed something in her mind, at least not when they were alone. Of course it was frustrating in public because people saw her disease for what it was then. They saw it stripping her, eroding her and he hated that. He hated Margaret being exposed. But at home, if she forgot who he was and talked to him as though he were Mark or even Frank, her younger, late half-brother, he found those conversations quite edifying and enlightening. She was often completely lucid, as though she was right there in 1956 or 1989 or whenever. It allowed him to catch up a bit. Catch up on the parts of her life that he’d missed because her memories dated back to before they’d met, obviously. He also caught up on the parts that he’d missed because he’d been at work and she’d managed most of Mark’s upbringing on her own, as was the norm in those days. Hearing what his wife and son used to get up to when he was in the office was like being given a second chance, of sorts.
Ray hadn’t understood it, not completely, not in his core. He hadn’t quite comprehended just how much Margaret loved Mark until he’d been privy to some of her recollections. Of course, they both loved their son more than anything in the world, and had from the day he’d arrived, the way right-minded parents do, but a mother’s love, well, that was something extra again. He’d had no idea. The stories she told! The details she could recall! It was fascinating. When Ray remembered Mark’s childhood, he remembered a few very pleasant years visiting castles and paddling or sailing in the sea. It had been marvellous, idyllic. But the memories were all a bit vague. Margaret remembered it clearly as though it were yesterday. She could bring it back to life for both of them. She could sometimes recall which jumper Mark had been wearing on a particular family occasion, like a birthday or boating trip, and what little toy he’d bought in a particular National Trust shop attached to some castle they’d visited. She recalled which parts he’d played in all his school productions, when he lost his teeth and the funny things he used to say. Ray had completely forgotten that Mark had gone through a stage of impersonating Michael Crawford’s Frank Spencer from Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. That used to have them in stitches. Until Margaret became ill, they hadn’t spent much time reminiscing; there’d been no need, they were still moving forward.
Ray had, on occasion, started to wonder whether they should have adopted more children. Margaret had so much love to give. She could have spread it round a bit more. She’d never asked for more children but did she yearn for more? It was an odd thing for Ray to allow to shuffle around his head. He wasn’t one for regrets or ‘what ifs’, he’d always been far too rooted in the practicalities of the here and now to glance back over his shoulder. He’d always been a happy man, content with his life choices, and had no need to reconsider or reassess. But lately he’d started to wonder if there was anything, anything at all, that he could have done to make Margaret’s life any better. Because if there had been, he would have wanted to do it. He really would have.
‘The girls were fun today, weren’t they? Not too scrappy.’ Ray knew that Margaret liked talking about the grandchildren, it was her favourite subject. ‘Emily’s growing up to be very bonny, I think. Of course I’m biased. I think they’re all delightful. But she definitely has a more contented glow about her recently. I think she’s truly enjoying her time at the Academy. Don’t you?’
Ray had found his family an enormous comfort today. Today they’d allowed him to believe that Alzheimer’s didn’t have to ruin his life. It often felt like the disease was the end of his world because it was the end of Margaret’s – which was the same thing, in his mind. Eloise was a marvel. He’d been dreading the trip to the doctor’s. The appointments were so harrowing and this one, coming straight after Christmas, had been something he’d been feeling especially anxious about. Ray Hamilton was no coward. He’d face full on whatever it was he had to face. He was not the sort of man who buried his head in the sand. Not usually, but he’d been grateful today when Eloise had taken Margaret to the doctor’s and come back with a version of events that he knew had been edited. He was aware that his daughter-in-law was protecting him to some extent but just this once he allowed that. He was kind to himself. He wasn’t avoiding, he was galvanising. He was aware that it was going to be a long journey and he’d be able to reserve his own strength by sharing the load.
Mark was lucky to have Eloise. They all were. Of course, she concerned herself with things that bemused his generation; shopping and brands and ‘statement foods’ in expensive restaurants (whatever the hell that meant), but she had a good heart. And she was surprisingly practical, which was not what you’d imagine when you saw her ooh-ing and ah-ing over something like a bit of slate shaped as a heart with the word home written on it. Today Eloise had suggested Ray pin up a note near the door reminding Margaret of the things she needed to check before she left the house: remember to lock up, take your keys and put on warm clothing, that sort of thing. And she was right about making sure the home was well lit and that there were no obvious hazards. Good idea to suggest fixing the loose carpet in the hall and to remove the locks from the bathroom and loo so that Margaret couldn’t lock herself in again, like she had last week.
Eloise was good at wallpapering over cracks, smoothing ruffled feathers, which was an estimable skill. She was doing her best to fix things between Mark and Margaret. That one was a struggle, though. Irrationally, Mark seemed to be angrier with his mother than he was with his father, even though they’d both colluded to keep the truth from him all these years. Perhaps it was because Margaret was the one who’d blurted out the truth or perhaps it was because she was unwell. Dying. And really Mark was furious about that; it was possible that he was subconsciously displacing his emotions. Or perhaps it was simply because Mark loved Margaret more than he loved Ray. Finding out Margaret wasn’t biologically his mother must be more of a blow than finding out Ray wasn’t biologically his father. Ray didn’t know. It was all too much. Ray thought he needed to sit down with his son and have a man-to-man. Get it all said and out in the open. He was fed up with Mark’s barbed comments and sneaky digs about honesty, especially since he refused to actually discuss the situation in an adult way. It wasn’t good enough. Ray resolved to call Lydia in the morning and make an appointment to see Mark in the office. That way Mark couldn’t say he was too busy to talk, which was what he’d mumbled on every occasion when Ray had tried to broach the subject. Ray thought he owed Eloise this much, it was clear that Mark’s unhappiness was a strain. She tried so hard to make everything right. They could all take a leaf out of her book.
It wasn’t tricky; all he had to do was sit Mark down, apologise for the deception and tell him how it was. They couldn’t have loved him more. That was the fact of the matter. He was their all. It just needed saying.
Ray was feeling buoyant. He’d had a good day and he had a plan. He stirred the powdered chocolate into the hot milk. He was feeling so jaunty that he spooned an extra tablespoon into each cup and then, with a flourish, he squirted that ghastly squirting cream that Margaret had recently taken a fancy to. He called through, ‘I have a treat for you, Margaret.’
Bright and breezy he carried the tray into the sitting room. Margaret was still watching the soap. She hadn’t moved. She didn’t turn to him when he set down the tray and yet Ray knew that she was perfectly aware of his presence. There was something about her stance that suggested she was studiously avoiding his eye. Then he smelt it. Acidic and familiar. Undeniable. Urine. Ray looked at his wife, dressed in beige slacks and a chocolate-brown roll-neck jumper that Eloise had picked out this morning; she looked elegant and almost serene. She was wearing pearl earrings and even a touch of lipstick. Had she reapplied her make-up at some point today? She looked beautiful.
But she was sitting in her own pee and didn’t even seem to know it.
35
Sara’s big concern, her only concern, was would it be enough? She’d hoped he’d stay all day. Ideally, she’d wanted to have two or even three rounds, to increase her chances. Was that even possible at their ages? Maybe not. Anyway, it wasn’t to be. After the first unthinking, drunken session he’d become increasingly maudlin and started to go on and on about his wife and family again. It was clear that she wasn’t going to benefit from a repeat performance. She supposed an element of regret was always a potential hazard. She’d been as reassuring as she could be. She’d promised him that his wife and family would never know, that what they’d done meant nothing, that he shouldn’t really give it another thought. She was as sympathetic as she could be whilst remaining horizontal with her legs discreetly propped above head height. Luckily, he didn’t notice her lack of animation; she didn’t want him to suspect that she was after more than a quick tumble. It was only after he’d left that Sara could lie with her feet blatantly propped on the headboard, which she did for over two hours.
Would it be enough? She wasn’t sure. She’d done everything she could. She’d pinpointed the date she was most likely to be fertile. There were helpful kits that assisted with that, kits that had been part of her life for five years now but had yet to help bring her dream to fruition. Would it be different this time? Please God, it would be. Sara concentrated very hard and tried to imagine cells splitting and reproducing. She laid the flat of her hand on her belly and prayed. Then she spent the rest of the day in bed reading the latest Costa novel winner. She felt totally composed and tranquil. She was certain that what she’d done wasn’t wrong. How could it be wrong when it felt so right? She’d bathed in a feeling of peace and optimism for the first time in a desperately long time.
At 6 p.m. she stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets.
36
It was nearly midnight when Eloise finally heard the car pull up outside. She was wired on coffee but hadn’t had a drop of alcohol as she needed a clear head to negotiate these choppy waters. She still had no idea what Mark was thinking. She could only hope that years of trust and honesty would give him the faith he needed to believe in her. From the kitchen window she could see Mark at the wheel. He paused, sank his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. He looked wrecked. Even worse than she’d imagined he might. Worn, deflated and simply very, very sad. Eloise’s heart contracted. She wanted to rush out to him and throw her arms around him but something held her back. Instinctively, she knew that he had to come to her in his own time. Five minutes passed. Seven, nine, the kitchen clock taunted her. It was ten minutes before finally he got out of the car and came into the house.
Mark was carrying a huge bouquet of white roses, Eloise’s favourite flowers; they weren’t easy to find in the middle of winter. She breathed in their scent and the sign that it was all going to be OK. He hovered in the kitchen doorway holding the flowers out in front of him, like a schoolboy offering his mate a bite of his apple. He looked handsome and sheepish and uncertain and determined. The mix of emotions shooting across his face made him appear vulnerable and adorable. Eloise knew she wasn’t having a fling with Charlie and she knew she didn’t want one. She decided that her absolute clarity on the matter would have to buoy them both up for a while, until Mark learned to trust her again, until Mark felt confident again. This was a glitch. It was not part of their history, Eloise wouldn’t let it be. Love, real and absolute love, allowed her to feel confident.
‘Did you get my messages?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Late this afternoon. I didn’t turn my phone on until then.’
‘Right.’ Eloise was aware of her own breathing. It was shallow and faster than comfortable. ‘And do you believe me? It was not what it looked like. He came on to me. I’m innocent. Nothing happened.’
Eloise knew that she sounded frighteningly like a nineteenth-century tragic heroine but she felt entitled to be a bit melodramatic under the circumstances.
‘Yes. I believe you.’ Mark was close to tears. Eloise had never seen Mark cry. Not once. Not through happiness or grief. He hadn’t cried when the girls were born, or when he’d heard he was adopted, or even when Margaret was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He was old-school English. Stiff upper lip. An internaliser. He’d never bought into the new man vogue that gave guys permission to cry at animated movies. She did not want to be the one to make him cry.
Eloise swept the flowers into one arm and him into the other and she kissed him. His lips, cold from the night air, fitted hers, hot from the warmth of the kitchen. He kissed her back. Carefully at first, eyes open and staring at one another. It was like a first kiss. Unexpected. Unsure. Unknown. Clearly well received. Mark’s confidence grew and he started to kiss Eloise with determination and intention. His kiss became vigorous, sensual and overpowering. It was nothing like Charlie’s childish and desperate fumble that had taken place in this very room this morning. Her husband kissed her as though he was concentrating, something they sometimes forgot to do because of their cluttered lives, chock-a-block with endless chores and errands. For too long they had been settling for affectionate but thoughtless pecks on the cheek. This kiss was deep and focused, startling and interesting. All the things Mark and Eloise were to one another, all the things they’d taken for granted.
‘Your hair is wet,’ mumbled Eloise through the kissing.
‘I went swimming in the sea,’ he muttered, not wanting to talk, just wanting to kiss.
‘In this weather! You’re mad.’ Eloise broke away momentarily and started to worry about hypothermia.
‘Possibly. I haven’t skinny dipped since I was a teenager but I just needed to, you know . . .’
‘Get back to nature?’ Eloise threw out the cliché doubtfully.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Sober up?’ She could vaguely smell the faint hint of alcohol on his breath. He shouldn’t have driven.
‘That was part of it. I just wanted to . . .’ He stumbled.
‘Feel something?’ she asked with more thought.
‘Yes.’
Eloise was tempted to ask him what specifically was it that he’d wanted to feel when he’d plunged into the icy sea? Young, clean, renewed, challenged, scared? What was he facing down? Mark was a man who did his best to hide what he was feeling but any of these emotions were possible, he had a right to them all. Eloise decided this wasn’t the moment for a chat but instead she started to kiss him again. They kissed for ever. He moved on from her lips. He kissed her neck, sending shivers erupting through her body, he kissed her jaw, her cheeks and her eyelids and he whispered in her ears telling her he loved her and she told him that she knew, she knew. They lost track of time and just roved. Being together was all; the misunderstandings, the silences, the fear, the embarrassment dissolved away. Eloise couldn’t think of anything other than Mark’s kisses.
That was until he picked her up and carried her to the kitchen table.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t christened this room,’ he said. His voice was husky with longing and lust. Eloise had never felt as appreciated and attractive, or at least not for a long time. A complex ball of emotion threatened to choke her; relief, gratitude and pure, unadulterated lust. Overwhelmed, she took refuge in banter.
‘We haven’t christened any rooms in the house, other than our bedroom.’ She didn’t add that they’d only done that a couple of times. Quickies. Auto-pilot sex.
‘Well, there’s a challenge,’ said Mark, beaming. His smile lifted her heart, cleared her head and caused flutters between her legs. He gently pushed her back on to the table.
Afterwards, they talked. Mark asked Eloise to tell him exactly what had happened with Charlie, and she did so, including the first kiss in the bathroom. She laid out the facts as calmly and coolly as she could.
‘I was nothing more than a sympathetic pair of ears for Charlie and because he’s so stressed out about baby making and finances he’s inflated our relationship from friendship to something more. It was nothing in reality. A brief infatuation. Everyone makes mistakes.’
‘They do,’ groaned Mark. ‘I thought –’ he coughed as he choked on his words – ‘I thought I was losing you. I just couldn’t stand that, El. Not considering everything with my mum and the adoption. If I lost you and the girls . . .’ Mark sounded panicked.
‘Shushhh. It’s OK.’ She kissed him again, to calm him down. They were in bed now, because whilst the kitchen table was fun and liberating it was also a bit cold and uncomfortable, so the second time they made love (second!), they did it in the comfort of their bed, between the White Company duvet and sheets. Eloise was lying on her side, head propped up on one elbow. Mark was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling but drinking in every word she offered up. They’d lit the fire in their bedroom; it was only the second time they’d bothered to do this and the warmth and the smell of burning logs swaddled them. Eloise couldn’t think why they didn’t light the fire every night, she couldn’t think why they didn’t make love every night. It was heaven.
‘Are you angry?’ she asked.
‘Not with you,’ he muttered. ‘Certainly not.’
‘With him?’
‘I’m so sorry, Eloise. I should have trusted you. I should never have left this morning. We have to stop seeing Charlie and Sara. You know that, don’t you?’
Eloise had expected Mark to ask this of her, she understood why it was necessary but she wished it wasn’t. ‘Cutting Sara off is going to be hard. She’s one of my closest friends. Possibly my closest,’ sighed Eloise. She wished there was another way.
‘No, she’s not. Your friendship is all one way. What does she do for you?’
‘Friendship is not about what’s done for you.’
‘OK, then what is it about?’
‘Having fun together, making memories together and what you do for them.’
‘Well, I accept you’d do anything for her.’ The surrogacy offer pounded around both their heads. ‘But when did she last make you laugh, or arrange a night out or even ask you how you are?’
