The Good Mother (26 page)

As I walk back, the effect starts to wane. Maybe the caffeine is wearing off. The froth round my lips licked away. I remember what I am returning to. On the other hand – I remember what I am returning to. This will take determination. And guts. But it will be worth it. Let’s just hope I can make Paul play along.

Chapter 65

Paul

She looks like a different person, Suze does, when the she appears at the door again. Or rather, not a different person. Herself. Before.

There’s an energy to her. A glow in the cheeks. A light in the eyes.

‘Hello, darling!’ she almost sings to me, kissing me before we’ve even got inside.

My Suze. She’s really back.

‘Make me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she says. ‘My trip into the big wide world.’ Her voice has a light tone, as though she’s intentionally mocking herself.

Red buses with forgotten destinations, cafés with little gardens outside, cutesy purveyors of beautiful cakes, all spring from her tongue, and from her hands, which she waves as she talks. There’s an energy and drive about her that I can’t remember her ever having before. The world is in her. I just let her talk. She doesn’t need a response and I don’t need to give her any; I’m content just to absorb this new super-Suze. My judgement was right – it was fine to let her go out. To see the world of which she’s been deprived for so long, to indulge her senses. But it wouldn’t have been fine before. No. She needed her period of treatment, here, with me, first. Otherwise it wouldn’t have worked. She would have returned still in mourning and despising me. To look at her now, you wouldn’t think she’d ever had a daughter, or ever had reason to hate me. Not that she did have reason to hate me, of course. Or I her. Not really. Life deals what it deals. I’d happily let her take a thousand baths on a lie if it made her glow this much.

Then, just as I’m beginning to worry if she’s perhaps too manic, the smile fades. She looks down her lashes into the mug of tea, and I think I see a tear.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

She tilts her head to one side, embarrassed almost. ‘I was a bit silly while I was out,’ she starts.

My heart beats a little faster. Silly? What does silly mean? Silly is what happens when people don’t take medicine. When they act on hallucinations or irrational fears. Or they talk to the police about what the police cannot understand.

‘What did you do?’ I ask, on full alert.

‘I bought a few little trinkets. The sort a little girl might like. The sort I might have bought if Cara was still with us.’

Is that all? I try not to show my relief. Poor darling Suze. But nothing could be more natural. I will still have those ‘I saw this and thought of you’ moments in shops for Cara for years to come.

I smile at her. ‘Show me,’ I say gently.

She gives me a smile of thanks and rises from the sofa to get her bags.

Very carefully she places four or five tissue-wrapped items in front of me.

‘There,’ she says. ‘You can see how silly I’ve been.’

I’m reminded of a cat presenting a succession of dead birds in front of its master, asking for praise. Except Suze would be a cat who knows she’s done wrong. But wants to be patted on the head regardless.

I open up the packages. Yes, they are absolutely what a little girl would love. A cute bag, a pretty purse, a necklace, a skipping rope and some kind of key ring thing with a tiny animal attached.

I look up at Suze with tears in my eyes. She does a tearful little shrug. I put my hands over hers.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, because it is. This is natural grief, manageable grief, grief that we can share together.

‘What shall we do with them?’ she asks.

I shrug. ‘Don’t know. Put them on the mantelpiece?’

She looks at me and bites her lip. ‘I’m not sure. That might – get to me. More than it should.’

Of course. Now I’m the one being silly.

‘I don’t want to just lock them away,’ she says. ‘It seems wasteful. Unless we have another!’

Suze laughs like she’s making a joke but she looks up at me and lets the words hang for a moment. She must see the shock in my eyes – she’s almost forty-five, for goodness sake, and with everything we’ve just been through … That she went through before …

But she carries on at speed before I even have time to respond her pause. ‘Or if we could maybe give them to someone, one of her classmates maybe, or …’ She trails off, then her eyes brighten like she’s having an idea. ‘Hey, I know!’

‘What?’ I ask. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can indulge her. If it’s biologically possible. She’s suffered so much.

‘That little girl, you know the one who’s always skipping out back.’

Yes, I know the one, I tell her. ‘The one who Cara used to play with? Lizzie, or something?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Lizzie. Well, what do you think?’

It’s a nice thought. And I’m sure the little girl would like them. But we can’t just go round giving her presents, can we? Won’t her parents think it’s a bit odd?

‘We’d better go round to her parents’ house, Suze. Give them the things. Explain ourselves. They might think it’s a bit funny otherwise.’

Her eyes well up. She shakes her head. ‘Forget it, then. I don’t feel like explaining myself.’

Damn. I’ve upset her again. I just want things to be normal. And it’s such a small thing – means so much to Suze, and I can always explain to Lizzie’s parents afterwards, on the sly.

‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Let me have a look out there now, see if she’s having a skip. If she is, I’ll get her to come in.’

Suze sits up taller. ‘Really? You don’t think I’m being daft?’

I shake my head. Yes, I think she’s being silly, but what does it matter? We’re a couple. Our own world. We can do silly things.

I cross over to the door and open up, hoping that little Lizzie will be outside.

She isn’t.

I tell Suze and her shoulders slump slightly.

‘Never mind,’ she says brightly. ‘I tell you what. Let’s make some cakes. I’d love that. I haven’t made cupcakes in so long. I was thinking that on the walk home.’

‘Whatever you want,’ I tell her, leaning forward and kissing her. Personally, I’d have thought cosying up on the sofa, reconnecting, would be more appropriate. But perhaps we can do that later. With frosting.

‘Great. Let me just put my bags upstairs then we’ll get started.’

Soon, Suze is back. She strokes the surfaces of the kitchen aka her studio, cherishing them, then gives them a good wipe down (I admit the food waste from those trays has built up a bit). Before I know it, she has her pretty baby-blue apron on, the eggs are broken in a bowl, and the flour and sugar are getting a good sifting. I love watching her work. She is so quick, so deft. With what seems like no effort at all, the cakes go in to bake.

‘Good seeing you with one in the oven again,’ I joke.

She blushes.

Oh.

Was she serious, before? I take a deep breath.

‘Suze, if you want to—’

‘Shh,’ she says, and puts her index finger against her mouth. ‘Don’t let’s worry about that now.’

Then she kisses me. A proper kiss. Full, deep, tongues and everything. It feels like everything we’ve been, everything we’ve lost, everything we’re going to be, is in that kiss. I love her. She loves me. Our future lies ahead of us.

‘I was thinking we could have a little fun while the cupcakes cook,’ she whispers to me. Her hands are on my crotch, her tongue in my ear.

If it wasn’t for that kiss, I’d say it was too much, too soon. But I share her urgency. It’s been months now. I know how badly she wants me, because I want her just as much. There’s something about the deadline of having the cakes cooking that turns me on. The sense that she can’t wait, I can’t wait – it must be now and it must be fast. And I’m hardly going to turn down afternoon sex. So we don’t even make it to the bedroom. Right there on the kitchen surface we pull up each other’s clothes and we make love.

Chapter 66

Suze

I have to let him fuck me. It’s all part of him accepting the plan. Or what he thinks is the plan.

We keep our eyes locked together as he lowers himself on top of me. I feel that same intensity as when he had me imprisoned, and the gun was on my neck. The same push and pull of power. He may be on top now, but I’m not sure it will stay that way.

He doesn’t suggest a condom. And neither do I. Instead, our faces close, our most intimate skin touches as he enters me. Slow but insistent. I allow myself a gasp.

Still, our eyes are open. Still, we look at each other.

Then Paul starts to get into his stride and raises his neck up, away from me. His eyes close. Perhaps he doesn’t want to see what’s in mine. Perhaps I’d rather keep it hidden. Perhaps I chose the cupcake cooking moment on purpose, so we couldn’t spend long minutes afterwards gazing into each other’s eyes as we lie on tangled bed sheets.

But I don’t shut my eyes. I want to drink all this in. This closeness. I want to commit it to memory. My lips grazing the dip of his collarbone. The little puckered pores of his neck. The way his arms imprison me on the worktop. The fleshed-out muscle that coats his ribs as I run one hand up and down them. The way he thrusts into me. Deep. Incisive. Yes, better that his eyes are shut.

Involuntarily, I tip my head back and part my lips. My eyes close slightly, but I open them again. I can’t afford to lose control. Remember what it was like when Cara was alive. Constantly alert for a creak on the staircase or the opening of our door. Never a chance to abandon myself fully to my senses. Thinking of what to say to Cara if she saw us.

Now, we have all the time in the world.

Apart from the cakes. I cannot burn the cakes. That would undermine everything.

I cast my gaze to the oven to check the rise of the cupcakes. I see his eyes closed with concentration as he ruts against me.

In, out, in, out. Deep, shallow, thrust, pull. Put your face against his neck again, your hands against your buttocks. Give him what he wants. Don’t think of Cara. Not Cara. Not Cara. Not Cara. Don’t sully her, in this moment, with him. An act of infidelity. Don’t dwell on her golden hair, her lovely face. Erase her from your mind. Think of what else you might create by this. Allow him deeper, deeper, deeper. Accept, engage, encourage.

Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. This. Is. What. The. Plan. Is. Now. Inside these walls.

And something from without.

Now think within, within, within and there, there, there—

DING!

The oven timer goes.

It’s all over too soon. But, in another way, just soon enough. I don’t want my carefully prepared treats to go off. That won’t do at all.

Paul is smiling down at me. His eyes say afterglow, caresses, pillow talk.

‘No time for that,’ I say, kissing him on the nose. Gently, I push him off me. He remains naked, watching me, as I move to the oven and turn off the cakes.

‘Now you can come back here,’ he growls to me, putting out a hand and making to grab me to him.

‘Tut tut,’ I say to him, darting out of his way. So much easier now, that his brain and movements are made heavy by lust. ‘You know full well I need to take the cakes out and let them cool. Come on, get your clothes on. You’ll pollute the cakes.’

He makes a sulky face, but you can see from his smile that he’s not in a sulk at all. He believes he owns the world. As we put our clothes back on and I tend to the cakes, he declares his love for me. He’s so pleased I’m better. So in love with me still. So looking forward to taking me on a mini-break, or a world tour if I need it, to fully restore and regroup. To talking seriously about having more children, if I really want to – there’s IVF, adoption, if I want to go down that route. He’ll support me. Of course he will.

This is all very well. But I have more immediate plans. Starting right there, outside the window.

Chapter 67

Paul

I’m just beginning to wonder out loud how much IVF costs when Suze cuts me off.

‘Oh Paul!’ she says. ‘Look, there she is, walking past the house. Lizzie. Be a darling and get her in, won’t you?’

Now? Really? Are we post-coitally inviting little girls into our house? After possibly the most intense, emotional lovemaking I’ve ever experienced? I think that’s why the orgasm was so intense, because I’m more in love with Suze than I’ve ever been. We’ve seen the whole of each now, emotionally, and we’ve shared so much. Everything is on another level. We’re so blessed. Cursed, of course. Cara, Cara, poor darling Cara. But so blessed too. Because we still have each other. Because of what I did. And because Suze is so strong, and so wonderful.

‘Come on, Paul, stop staring at me, and pop out or we’ll miss her again.’

‘Suze, come on, after that, do you really want to?’ I entreat her. ‘And we were talking about our future, our plans.’

‘This is the plan now, look lively!’ Her voice is light, jokey.

I think she sees I’m still unconvinced, because she sidles over to me, hips swinging. I can see her naked, totally naked, even though she’s fully clothed.

‘Come on, Paul,’ she says, her voice low, flirtatious. Full of love. ‘We might as well – it’s done then, and we can enjoy our evening together.’

The suggestion isn’t lost on me. I kiss her again, my darling, darling wife. Then I tuck my shirt in and check my flies. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing the conversation is averted. I’d be happy with the act of trying for more children (possibly I just have – I should have paused to think about condoms but it seemed such a tawdry concern at such a big moment of being with Suze again after so long, and it’s not likely to result in a child), to go along with adding our name to long IVF waiting lists, or starting on the adoption process (we’d never pass the screening for that – come on!) if she can’t conceive naturally. But, actually, I’d rather not have any kids. If I’m honest. I don’t mean about Cara. Of course I want Cara back. I would give anything for that. Anything apart from Suze. But a new baby – no. Because from what friends told me, back in my thirties, babies have a tendency to cry and shit more than you’d think from one so small. And sleep a whole lot less. And adopted problem teenagers are probably much the same. Plus what if something goes wrong again? Like it did for Suze with Belle. Now that I have Suze back, why would I want to jeopardise that?