But they can all come running now, if they want. I’ve found what I came up here for and more. Wouldn’t have been any good if Will had come up. He’d have gone straight to the photo albums, the usual ones, in that corner, not looked left nor right, like the good little mummy’s boy he is. Definitely mummy’s boy. Rather than daddy’s boy. All makes perfect sense, when you look at the evidence. And apply a bit of educated guesswork. Will’s not the only one who can come up with a thesis.
And it will serve her bloody well right, her mighty Mumship. Because do you know what she did? Do you know why she wanted to ‘borrow me’? To shut me up. Pure and simple. I mean, does she not know me at all? Has she somewhere along the line totally misunderstood me – like a Chelsea Emo, totes misunderstood – and now thinks I’m the simpering sort of daughter-in-law, who not only toes the line but plays footsie with it, caressing it lovingly but never crossing it? Maybe because I was so silent after she did the sidling up to me at the wedding rehearsal with her ‘in sickness and in health speech’, she thinks she can get away with it. Or maybe it’s her ‘now your parents have passed on you need a new mother figure to stop you floundering’ motif (as if you can be a replacement mother, just like that, to such a brilliant one as Mum – and as if I’m floundering)? Because otherwise, why would she have done it?
So she started off nice enough. Well, I say nice. But how nice is it really to be asked to slice courgettes when you’ve come round to be fed? So anyway, she’s like “Oh, I’m so happy for you and Will, Ellie darling. You must be so pleased.” And I’m like, “It’s not exactly fucking rocket science is it, Mrs S – we are quite pleased.” Except I miss out the fucking bit. And the rocket science. So yes, I just tell her we’re pleased. Then, crafty bitch, she changes tack.
“It’s so important,” she says, “for Will to have stability right now. No sudden changes, or outside influences, as he tries to become a father. We need to look after him too.”
I have no idea where she’s going at this stage, although I resent the ‘we’; like she’s still got a say in his life. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to imprison us in her house, away from so-called ‘outside influences’, to protect him. So I hold the courgette knife a little closer. But then, she makes it clearer.
“Like that CD of, oh, what’s he called?” she says, like she’s forgotten.
“Max Reigate?”
“Yes, that’s the one – which you stole from me, you naughty girl!” She waves a carrot at me, to make her reprimand ‘fun’ but it fails. There is no fun in her eyes. I shrug. She plainly thinks everyone who grew up North of the Watford Gap is a thieving rascal, so no point in saying again I was only borrowing it.
“I know you think it’s a little bit of fun, saying there’s a resemblance between Will and Mr Reigate,” she continues, losing those first name terms, for show. “But saying things like that can lead to all sorts of crazy thoughts. Harmful thoughts. Things that might not be good for Will.”
“What kind of harmful thoughts, Mrs S?” I ask, all innocence. But I know exactly what she means. Harmful to her. Thoughts that would whip that Surrey mask right off her face. End up with her having to leave this cosy nest she’s been set up in so nicely. The canvas for all her interior designs.
“That doesn’t matter, Ellie darling. They’d just be harmful. For Will. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand. So just, just drop that one, OK?”
I take a moment to pretend to consider. Pretend I think she is protecting Will, rather than just herself.
“Drop the Max Reigate thing?” I ask.
She nods. I nod back, like I’m still considering it.
And then, what I do is, very softly, so softly she has to crane her neck to listen, I start humming the main theme of the Max Reigate concerto. And she starts turning red. Not pale this time, like in front of Will and – well, I would say his Dad, but I’m not sure that’s right. In front of Will and John. This time it’s pure anger. Like that look Will had when he was holding the shoe. And I can imagine that at any moment she is going to thrust at me with the carrot peeler. So that’s when I announce that I’m going to the loft, and Will starts his whole ‘You’re a fragile little mother-to-be’ act, which is maybe sweet, maybe patronising, but either way so totally unnecessary – totes unness. And I’m so glad I came up here. Because I have much more proof now, of my little theory.
So I come down to the edge of the loft. And I can see them all looking up at me, gathered round that little hole, expectantly, like it’s about to give birth to me or something. But I take my own time coming down. And I’ll take my own time about my revelations. Will needs to be the first to know the full weight of them, of course. When we get a moment alone, I’ll tell him. I reckon he’ll be pleased, after the shock wears off. But first, I’m going to make that woman squirm. Teach her she can’t make me keep things from Will, things he needs to know. Plus there’s nothing like a little torture over Sunday dinner.
-Will-
Ellie doesn’t say much when she comes down from the loft. My heart is still hammering away in my chest from the run up the stairs. For one absurd moment I think it is beating to the same rhythm as Max Reigate’s concerto. Those are the sort of mad thoughts you have, I suppose, when you think someone you love is in danger. Forget the life flashing before your eyes; my heart becomes a piano.
I’d expected – dreaded – a fallen Ellie, crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Or maybe clots of blood where they shouldn’t be. But she is composed, aloof almost. The only change to her is a bit of dust on her dress, and that she is clutching some photo albums. Two, I recognise. One, I don’t. I try to take hold of them from her, but she resists. “We can look at them after supper,” she says. She gives me a little kiss on the cheek. As she moves away from me, I see the Ellie spark in her eye. That mischievous look that was there when we first met and she claimed she was conducting research into sperm count (she abandoned the clip-board pretty quickly). Or when she turned up in my office, wearing nothing but a lab-coat. Or when she convinced me we should wear matching skeleton outfits to dinner to celebrate the anniversary of our engagement. It’s the only time I regretted proposing to her by putting a ring on a skeleton’s finger.
It doesn’t worry me, the look. Because nothing bad has ever happened when she has it. But I know it means we should expect something (other than the baby). Particularly when she has her head down, pretending to look demure, like now. She sits carefully at the dinner table, placing the albums beneath the chair, at her feet.
It’s not until we’re all seated, embarking on our individual boeufs en croute, that Ellie begins. She doesn’t speak straightaway. First, she clears her throat. I’ve been tapping away at the pastry with my knife, trying to break through to the layers beneath with the minimum damage. At the throat-clearing, I look up. So do Mum and Dad.
“I just want to say,” begins Ellie, “thank you so much for the crib.”
At first, I think she is referring to the one we were building yesterday. Which would be odd, because we bought that ourselves. But no.
“I only wish you’d told us earlier,” she continues. “We wouldn’t have bothered buying our own and trying to build it.”
This is another crib, then.
I look at Mum and Dad. They seem as bewildered as me.
“I mean,” Ellie continues. “You obviously got it quite some time ago. It will need some dusting down.”
The slightest hint of a frown starts to develop on Mum’s face.
Whatever Ellie has in store, I decide she could do with moving it along.
“Mum?