Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Other People’s Marriages, Every Woman Knows a Secret, If My Father Loved Me, A Simple Life. Rosie Thomas
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to live here because I thought it would be easier than staying in London where there were so many more things to remind me of him. Sometimes it is easier. Then I remember all over again that he’s gone, and I think for a minute that I can’t bear it. But I can, of course. That’s all it is. I’m sorry to be embarrassing when I hardly know you.’
‘You aren’t embarrassing.’ Hannah was indignant. ‘I am, if anyone is.’
Janice nodded. ‘And you do know us. You can talk to us, if you want to. Or forget about it, if you’d rather.’
The moment was over. Nina was grateful to the two of them, but more grateful still to have regained her own self-control.
‘I would rather,’ she said softly.
The women went back to their places. Janice took another bottle of wine out of the rack opposite Nina and raked at the capsule with a corkscrew. More wine glinted into their glasses.
Nina turned to Hannah.
‘Tell me about your shop.’
It seemed important to go on talking about something else, anything else. She was touched by their concern, but she felt too raw to accept it. She wanted to show them that she was not receding, only that she couldn’t advance any further towards them.
Hannah was anxious to make amends for her own apparent clumsiness.
‘It’s a dress shop. La Couture. Darcy bought it for me not long after we were married because he thought I needed something to keep me amused. I surprised him, rather, by making a bit of a success of it.’
Janice chipped in, pleased that Nina was recovering herself, ‘You should go in and have a look. It’s in Southgate, opposite the bookshop. I don’t go because I can’t afford it. Can I, Hannah? There isn’t a thing in there under ninety quid.’
Hannah ignored her.
‘It became a success because there’s plenty of money in Grafton.’ She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. ‘And people like to dress up and show it off once in a while. At Jan’s parties, for instance. Or at least they did. They’re not so sure, now there’s this recession. I think they’ve still got the money, most of them, but they’re not convinced they should wave it around for all to see.’
You and Darcy wouldn’t worry, Nina thought. And she also thought of Richard’s money, wedged behind her like some invisible wall. She saw that Janice’s dark eyebrows had risen a fraction. There was some puritan disapproval of Hannah in her, and of Hannah’s cheerful vulgarity. Nina wondered how these two women and their partners properly fitted together. Did they like one another, in truth? The friendliness that had warmed her earlier presented itself with chillier undertones.
Nina finished her wine, and held her hand over her glass when Janice inquiringly lifted the second bottle. They began a laughing exchange of Grafton gossip, the three of them relieved that they had safely negotiated the moment of Nina’s tears.
‘I’ll give you a lift back,’ Hannah said, when it was time to leave. ‘I’m probably over the limit, but I’m going to risk it. I usually do, don’t I, Jan?’ There was something about Hannah’s gurgling laugh and the confiding lift of her shoulders that made Nina wonder what other risks Hannah habitually took, and whether Hannah had intended to arouse the speculation. Janice made no comment. She came out to the car with them, and put her hand lightly on Nina’s arm.
‘You know where we are,’ she said, without emphasis.
‘Yes,’ Nina answered, liking her again.
Hannah drove fast and carelessly, and deposited Nina at the entry to the cathedral green.
‘Come and see me in the shop?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘I’m sorry I’m stupid. Darcy’s the only person who doesn’t really bother about it.’ Hannah drove away, revving the engine too hard, leaving Nina on the kerb.
Vicky Ransome’s baby was delivered by Caesarean section six hours after she had been admitted to the labour ward. Her obstetrician had been inclined to let her labour on for a while, as he explained to Gordon, because she had already achieved two normal deliveries. But then the monitors had indicated that the baby was becoming distressed and an examination revealed that it had turned in the birth canal and was now presenting the left shoulder instead of the head. Vicky herself was exhausted and growing panicky.
‘I won’t try to turn it again. I think we’ll just whip her in next door,’ the doctor said. Gordon was given a mask and a green gown to cover his business suit, and followed the trolley carrying his wife into the theatre. There was a calm flurry of surgical procedures. He watched, aware of his own helpless detachment even though he held Vicky’s hand and whispered encouragement to her. He waited, and then beyond the screen that protected Vicky he saw the baby lifted out from her sliced belly like a marine creature being wrested from a viscous crimson sea.
‘A beautiful little girl,’ the medical team told him.
‘A girl?’ Vicky repeated.
The baby cried, and after they had handled its tiny body and wrapped it for him Gordon was given it to hold. Then they were busy with Vicky, with the white and crimson folds of flesh and fat and muscle, stitching the flopping bag of her body back into place. Gordon was cold and shivers of nausea fluttered under his breastbone, but he made himself breathe in and exhale steady gulps of medicated air. He bent his stiff neck and looked down into the baby’s opaque black eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ Vicky said later. They had sponged her face and put her into bed in the ward, and the flowery curtains had been closed around them. The baby was with the paediatricians, but they had been assured that everything was quite normal.
‘Why sorry?’ Gordon felt jerky with tiredness. He had been briefly hungry but his appetite had left him even though he had eaten nothing. His mouth was slimed with hospital tea, and he could smell his wife’s blood thickly in the back of his nose.
‘Not to do it properly. Was it horrible? It’s just a blur, to me.’
‘No, it wasn’t horrible. How could it be? It was beautiful.’ He lied half-heartedly, wishing that he could command sincerity. He was sure that there must be some formula of words that would reassure her, and would light her face from beneath the skin in the way that it had been lit after the births of the other two babies, but the formula evaded him and he heard himself disappointing her.
‘I know you wanted a boy.’
They were whispering. The ward lights had been turned off for the night, and they were artificially held together in a small circle of light directed downwards from over Vicky’s head. Vicky had gone past tiredness, and she looked bright, with the skin stretched taut over her cheekbones. He knew that she needed to talk, although the ward sister had warned him he must only stay to see her settled. He thought of their bed at home, and the silence of the empty house. The girls were safely with their grandparents.
‘I don’t mind what it is, so long as it has everything intact and you are safe. You know that.’ He bent his head and kissed her folded hands.
‘She. She has everything intact. She’s a girl.’
Vicky was becoming querulous. He knew she was near to tears and he wanted to leave so she could close her eyes on the tears and drift away into sleep.
‘A beautiful girl. A little sister,’ he reassured her.
‘Helen. We are going to call her Helen, aren’t we?’
It was one of the names they had discussed. Gordon preferred Olivia, and for a boy he had wanted Oliver. But he whispered, ‘If that’s what you would like. Yes, of course.’
It was like soothing the children at bedtime, so they could turn inwards to sleep with the day’s wrinkles straightened behind them. Vicky and he had lovingly argued the merits of Mary against Alice when the first one was born, and it was