The Godmother (28 page)

“It's OK. Give the stuff back to me another time,” said Helen. “Here's a bag for your dress and shoes.”

Did I get the feeling I was being hurried out of the house? Absolutely. But I had no idea why.

I took the number 52 to Victoria and walked along the Embankment to the flat. I think I passed every love-struck couple in London. It was the decent weather. It brought them all out of their love nests. I trounced back in my pink velour to the sanctity of my flat, forgetting that I'd left it in a tip. Clothes crises do that to small studio apartments. My mail winked at me from the breakfast bar. I had unread emails in my in-box and a DVD to return. To hell with it, I
thought, changing out of Helen's clothes. I looked up the cinema times on the Internet, put on my old flying jacket and a thick hat, took the roof off the car and drove up the King's Road in shades. I could. So I would.

I spent the next few hours smiling through blissful sobs to some ridiculous rom-com where, of course, the girl got the guy even though she was a bog-cleaner and he was a king—well, not quite that bad, but nearly. Then I sat outside in the sinking sunlight, watching the world go by, flicking through the Sunday papers and somehow, while going through the motions of enjoying my own company, I started enjoying my own company. Suicide watch for single Sunday-nighters had been temporarily axed due to a new inappropriate man in Samira's life, which was fine by me. I had enough on my plate with my old friends right now, I didn't have time for any new ones.

On Monday morning the floor around my bed was still strewn with clothes from Saturday night. I was losing control of my life. But rather than spend the morning clearing up and preparing for my first interview, which is what I should have been doing, I pulled on some jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, pink Converse and hopped into the car. I had decided that the only person who could set Helen straight was Francesca. The model mother. The woman with all the answers. It was probably a mad thing to do, but I felt I had to do something. Guilt does that. I drove to Poppy and Katie's school and arrived just in time to see two over-sized backpacks disappear between the double doors.

“I was supposed to be clearing out the garden shed today,” said Francesca, kissing me on the cheek. “But I still feel so lousy from Saturday night that all I can do is eat.”

“Quite the party girl you were.”

“It was those Martinis that Ben got us, killer drinks. I hope we weren't too annoying.”

Ben. I'd been doing very well not thinking about him. Encasing myself in my friends' lives was helping, but just hearing his name made me feel funny.

“Your silence speaks volumes.”

“Planning my wedding to the man I'd just met was probably a bit much,” I said.

“Well, makes a change to you meddling in our lives—we were just getting our own back for once.” She punctuated this with a taut smile. I was left-footed, but she held the smile so I forged ahead regardless.

“Well, I'm on more meddling business this morning.”

I thought she'd laugh, but she didn't. “I didn't think you were here for fun, not at this hour. There's a Starbucks round the corner,” said Fran.

“Please, not Starbucks,” I pleaded.

“Why not? Bad coffee?” she asked.

“Bad memories.” I tried to take her arm, but she pulled away. I dismissed it. “Let's find a real coffee shop and I'll explain on the way.” I told Fran about my hopeless attempt with the twins the previous morning and my concern for Helen's state of mind. Fran had done this three times—surely she could shed some light on the matter?

“So you came here to talk to me about Helen?”

“Yes. I was hoping you could speak to her.”

“I thought Helen just drank too much on Saturday night.”

“So did I at first, but things aren't good at home. She seems completely at sea with the twins. I'm worried about her.”

“It's totally normal.”

I shook my head. What I'd seen didn't look normal. “Are you sure? She seems really depressed. I don't think she can handle this.”

“Hasn't she got huge amounts of help?” asked Francesca, with a tone that sounded tinged with disapproval.

“Not any more. She feels she's doing it all wrong.”

“She probably is. Most people do. I made some terrible mistakes with Caspar. My mum tried to help but Nick and I were so proud and stubborn, and I suppose, looking back on it, we were being defensive. We'd got ourselves into this mess and we were going to cope, even if it killed us. Which it nearly did.”

“I don't remember you having a bad time.”

“You weren't really around that much.”

I knew that was true. “Whenever we spoke on the phone you said everything was going well and how sweet Caspar was.”

“He was. I adored him. He still drove us mad though. He was still sleeping in our bed at eight months. Eight months of lying in bed, convinced I was going to squash him.”

“If you didn't like having him in bed, why didn't you put him in his cot?”

“Because he screamed until he was sick.” She shook her head, remember
ing a dismal, distant time. “It was my fault. The demand-feeding was great in the beginning, he ate then slept, ate then slept. Easy. But, slowly and surely, it all went crazy. When he woke up he wanted to be fed to get back to sleep. Trouble was he was so tired he never ate enough, so he'd wake up again. It seemed to be every forty-five minutes during the night, so in the end it was easier to have him in bed with us. Once I woke up and he'd latched on by himself.”

I squirmed.

“It was all my fault. Eventually my mum had to come and stay. She put him in his own bed and when he screamed she wouldn't let me go and pick him up. It was the most hideous thing in the world. I hated her, I hated myself for letting her do it, I hated Nick for not sticking up for me…” Francesca shook her head. “It was awful. And there was only one of him and I was much, much younger.”

“And you have a nice mum,” I said, thinking of Marguerite. “So what happened in the end?”

“Mum stood resolute; we had three nights of utter hell and then he slept happily through the night in his own cot, in his own room. There were the odd little yelps, but he learned to settle himself pretty quickly. In the end, I thought it was probably me who'd been keeping him awake. Any little noise and I'd stroke him, pick him up, check him. I was deranged with exhaustion. Nick was fed up with the whole thing. But no one was more tired than Caspar, poor little thing. If he could've spoken he probably would have said, ‘Will you just fuck off and just leave me alone?' That's certainly what he says now, anyway.”

“He doesn't.”

“Yes, he does. A seminal moment in one's life when your baby towers over you and swears like a sailor. One for the baby book, I think.”

“I thought things were better.”

“Yes and no. Instead of disappearing off and going AWOL, he stays in his room all the time, listening to terrible music and burning joss sticks. A habit I have to thank you for.”

I remained silent.

“Oh, look,” said Fran. “A real coffee shop.”

“He really told you to fuck off?”

“You know what,” said Fran, holding open the door, “I really don't want to talk about it.”

Fine by me.

The coffee came in a tall glass with a metal handle and a long spoon. I watched Fran drop hunks of brown sugar into her drink and slurp at the milky foam thirstily. I then watched as she inhaled a cinnamon and raisin swirl.

Since returning to England I had regained all the weight I'd lost in India. Not working was not good for my waistline—far too much opportunity to eat. And drink. The ten days with my parents had not helped. On top of that there had been lunches with friends. Teas with godchildren. Out most nights. I used to crawl in from work, heat up a bowl of soup, have a bath and go to bed. Now I could usually find someone to have a drink with at six. That's a long evening of consuming calories. I had promised myself I was going to be good, but that was before the mention of joss sticks.

“How come you can eat anything and still stay so slim?” Subliminally I think I was trying to get Francesca on side.

“Because I don't sit down between seven in the morning and nine at night.”

“But the kids are at school.”

Francesca waved a threatening fork at me. “Don't you dare, Tessa King.”

“Dare what?”

“Make me justify my day to you. I get enough of that from Nick.”

“I didn't mean that, I promise. I thought you got a bit of time to yourself with the kids at school, that's all.”

“Time to myself to fix light bulbs, change loo rolls, pick up wet towels, do the laundry, finish projects, take our shitty car to the garage, unload the dishwasher, fill up the dishwasher, unload it again, cook, shop, clear up in time to cook again…Shall I continue?”

“No.”

“Fucking boring, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Wait a few minutes, the sugar will hit my bloodstream and I'll feel more reasonable.”

I took a sip of my coffee and scalded my tongue. It seemed puny to complain, so I replaced the cup and watched Francesca stab at the rest of the pastry.

“This is what one night on the razz does to me,” she said.

“I've never seen you like this, even after a night out,” I said, trying to be reassuring.

“That's because you're usually at work,” said Francesca harshly.

Didn't see that left hook coming. “Nor on the weekends when I come over,” I replied, with a defensive jab of my own. I'll take so much…

“On the weekends when people come over it's fun and I stop worrying about the minutiae.”

I was confused. “What are you saying?”

“I'm not saying anything, Tessa.”

What sounded like not saying anything felt like a swift low undercut to the ribs. Francesca turned away and ordered another milky coffee. I gave in and ordered one too.

“Tell me more about Helen,” said Francesca. “She's too thin—is she eating?”

“She's always been thin.”

“Not that thin. Though it does often happen when women give up breastfeeding, they suddenly shrink.”

“She's still feeding them. She told me it made her lose weight.”

“That's bollocks. What it does is give you a ferocious appetite. An appetite that is impossible to ignore. And you lay down this really pleasant layer of brown fat on all the worst bits. Tummy, bum, thighs get a nice mottled, jelly-like appearance. Charming, really.”

“Francesca, I have never heard you be so negative in all my life. What's up with you?”

“I told you, I can't do late nights any more.”

“Fran, you're only in your thirties, not your fifties!”

“Are you sure? I feel like I've been a grown-up for an awfully long time. I'm half tempted to buy myself an iPod, lock myself in my room, smoke dope and listen to Carole King.”

“Dope?” I asked nervously.

Francesca looked at me. “Sorry, whatever they call it these days. Bung, skank, or the latest—you might not have heard it—joss sticks.”

I felt uncomfortable meeting Francesca's gaze. The hostility suddenly fell into place. “Oh.” I didn't know what to say.

“You should have told me that Caspar was smoking cannabis.”

“He told me he'd stop.”

“And you believed a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“I believed Caspar, yes.” I frowned, knowing that wasn't quite right. “I mean, I wanted to believe him. I thought it was a blip.”

“Well, that blip has meant he's been off school with acute conjunctivitis.”

“Has he?”

“No,” said Francesca, raising her voice. I watched her visibly regain control. “He hasn't been at school at all. He lied. He wrote a bloody note: God knows how he got hold of doctor's stationery.”

Caspar fixed my computer when it did crazy things. He's a genius with computers. “I bet it was in IT class. There isn't a great deal your son can't do on the computer.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“You should have given me a heads-up.”

“I didn't want to betray his confidence.”

“He's my son, Tessa.”

Right hook and I was down.

Francesca made me tell her about what really happened the night of Caspar's sixteenth birthday. She was shaken by the information that Caspar was already experimenting with more than just cannabis. She made me tell her what I was really looking for when I went snooping around in his room, and what, if anything, I had found. I assured her that if I had found anything I would have told her, but since I had just admitted to lying to her, my argument didn't hold much weight.

“When did you find out Caspar had been missing school?” I asked, changing tack.

“Friday.”

“So you were pissed off with me on Saturday night.”

“No. I had no idea you knew. I was on a mission to get obliterated. I succeeded.”

“I noticed.”

“Tessa, this isn't funny.”

“Sorry.”

“Caspar and I had a showdown yesterday and he dropped you in it, told us you'd said it was OK.”

“Bollocks, I said that.”

“Well, I don't think he was much impressed with your snooping. I didn't believe his version, and now I know what really happened.”

“I'm sorry that I didn't tell you what I was looking for, but you said things were better so I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—”

“While searching his room for drugs.”

“Fran, I'll take the rap for my part in this, but this isn't really all my fault.”

“You should have told me about his birthday, that cock-and-bull story about Zac lacing his drink when actually it was drugs he was experimenting with and you knew.”

“I told him to tell you everything, but I left it up to him to do the right thing.”

“Well, he didn't. And frankly, nor did you.”

I don't like being boxed into a corner. My natural instinct is to come out fighting. “Francesca, it was a complete freak of chance that I saw him that night and gave him my card.”

“And enough money to get high.”

“And enough money to get
home
. If I hadn't we'd all be none the wiser. Come on, Nick told me he'd been a nightmare for months, driving you mad, having rows, slamming doors. Something has been wrong for a while. I admit I didn't realize it was this serious, but then nor did you and you've been living with him.”

Francesca looked deflated. It was so much easier being angry with someone else.

“How long do you think it's been going on?” she asked quietly.

“I don't know.”

“Where does he get the money from?”

That I did know but didn't want to say. “Have you noticed anything going missing? The odd fiver?”

“Christ, Tessa, are you saying Caspar is stealing?!” She ran her hands through her hair. “Not my kid. No. If I've tried to do anything for my children, it is teach them morals.”

“What about the beer?”

She put her head in her hands and swore again. How could I tell her that her kid lifted fifty quid from my wallet the moment my back was turned?

“That was for a party.”

“What about selling things, then?”

She shook her head. “Hang on, he sold his bike to a friend. It was too small for him. He was going to buy another, but…” Francesca paused. “How could I not notice something as big as not buying another bike?”