I sit opposite his empty chair. It’s wearing the jacket that Jack was earlier. His right pocket is slightly open, and the top of his wallet is peeking out.
Before I know it, I’m out of my seat.
The wallet slips out of Jack’s pocket so easily, it’s like it was waiting for me. Inside is a picture of Sophie and me. It’s old – from Sophie’s first birthday. I look quite together in the photo, which is surprising considering what I was going through. There are some receipts – the usual expenses he claims: newspapers, dinner. I scan the food he ate at lunchtime yesterday: steak, crème brûlée, and one small glass of pinot noir. Only one meal, but quite an extravagant one – on my birthday. I almost give up searching, but I feel like I am missing something.
There is a compartment I’ve not noticed before: to the side and underneath his cards. I wedge my fingers inside it. There’s something there. I grasp it, using my fingers as tweezers, and pull it out.
It’s a note. The paper is blue, with black lines – like the old-fashioned Basildon Bond writing pad my grandmother used. The creases are crisp; it’s not been read many times. I unfold it and look straight to the name at the bottom: Francesca.
I read the rest of the letter.
This woman definitely knows my husband.
Friday, 27 June 1986
Debbie
Peter’s holding Annie while I pack. I almost don’t want to leave the hospital. With Bobby, I wanted to go home straight away, but regretted it as soon as I got back.
Ever since I gave birth to him, I’ve been scared that I’ll die any minute. I go to bed and, most nights, I think I won’t wake up. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but when my mind feels sleep begin – it’s like I’m slipping from life, and I’m jolted awake. I can’t sleep for hours after.
At least in hospital I’m safe. Plus, people give you food to eat, and you don’t have to worry about housework. As much as Peter said he’d become one of these New Men who help tidy up and change nappies, it didn’t happen. Now I know what’s waiting for me when I get home.
I had a little routine here. I got to know Stacy in the next bed. Actually … know is exaggerating it a bit. We watched Coronation Street together, and both our babies decided to sleep through it, which was a miracle in itself. Stacy couldn’t get over Bet Lynch being in the Rovers when it was on fire. I told her that it’s not real life, but she was having none of it. I put a cushion between us when she said she fancied Brian Tilsley – it still gives me shivers thinking about it.
‘Was it horrible spending the whole of your birthday in hospital?’ says Peter.
‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I say.
I smile at him, so he’ll probably think it’s because of Annie that I didn’t mind, because she’s enough of a present. He gives me a smile back. He thinks he can read my mind. I look at him and he’s the same lovely-looking man I’ve been with for years. I love him. Why are my thoughts telling me different? It’s like they’re betraying me.
I zip up my suitcase; the clothes inside’ll smell of hospital when I open it up. I’ll probably feel sentimental about it.
‘It’s too warm in here,’ I say.
He smiles again. Perhaps he likes the fact I’m suffering for our child – even after being pregnant and giving birth. Perhaps he’s right. It was a relatively quick labour – I’ve not endured enough to deserve the life I’ll go back to: swanning about the house all day watching Sons and Daughters, The Sullivans, and all the other soaps he reckons I watched during those long weeks when my maternity leave started.
‘Good luck,’ says Stacy, lying in the next bed, baby fast asleep in her arms – her only child.
‘Good luck,’ I say, to be friendly. ‘Not that you’ll need it.’
‘We should meet up for coffee sometime,’ she says.
‘Yes, we should.’
I pick the baby up from the bed and Peter and I leave the ward. I didn’t give Stacy my telephone number because we’ll never get together. People suggest it all the time and they never mean it. I’m not sure if I’ll regret it or not.
Annie’s wrapped up in the shawl we used for Bobby on his first day out into the world. We’re in the lift and Annie’s not opened her eyes since leaving the ward. She’s going to miss her first proper glimpse of sky if she’s not careful.
‘There, there,’ I say, stroking her soft, plump cheek.
‘Don’t wake her, Debs,’ says Peter. ‘The bright light might startle her.’
‘Don’t be silly. She’s got to see it some time.’
The lift doors open and there are people everywhere.
‘Can we pop into the shop to get a souvenir?’ I say.
I don’t wait for Peter.
‘Is Annie not souvenir enough?’
I pretend I didn’t hear. I want something to put in her little keepsake box, like I did for Bobby. Someday she’ll look at it and know that I cared enough.
On the counter, there’s a selection of pens. I pick one up that has a boat sailing up and down. She’ll like that, I know she will. I’d have loved my mum to have bought me anything that wasn’t on a birthday or Christmas, even if it were practical.
‘A pen’s got nothing to do with hospitals,’ says Peter.
‘They’re hardly going to sell stethoscopes and hypodermic needles.’
I smile at the lady behind the counter, but she doesn’t smile back. She’s not amused. I’m used to it. Peter’s always telling me not to be so honest in public.
I wind the window down because it’s as hot in the car as it was in the hospital. I’m holding on to Annie tightly on the back seat. Peter’s driving at about ten miles an hour. It’s a good job our house is only five minutes away.
I’m staring at Annie, willing her eyes to open, and it seems she’s telepathic: her eyes don’t even squint in the daylight.
‘Welcome to the world, little girl.’
I say it quietly, so Peter doesn’t hear. I’m keeping this moment for me.
They’re due here at three. The house looks okay; I have the baby as an excuse not to bother about it so much. If it were my mum visiting, I’d make it a bit messier – if only to give her something to do. She likes to feel useful.
Bobby’s waiting by the window. His little hands are around the cat’s neck as it lies on the back of the settee. Annie’s in the pram next to him by the window – the midwife said it’s the best way to get the jaundice out of her.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind Monica and Nathan coming round?’ says Peter. ‘I tried to put them off, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’
Sometimes I think Peter knows about my secret, but he doesn’t seem to let on.
He says I look good, considering, but I don’t feel it. I can’t move quickly with these damn painful stitches; I walk like I’ve drenched my