Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
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a few weeks. Hormonal. Off her food. He’d even caught her throwing up with what he later came to realise was a brief but intense bout of morning sickness, but at the time he hadn’t made the leap. He hadn’t dared to hope. They’d given up, you see. So he hadn’t been looking for it.
One morning at breakfast, he watched her push her muesli around her bowl but not spoon much of it into her mouth. ‘Are you ill? Do you think you need to go to the doctors?’
‘No and yes,’ she replied. Lifting her eyes to meet his. He could see something glisten inside her. Something wonderful, but there were also shades of concern, fear. It was like looking at a stunning view through smudgy sunglasses.
‘What is it, Daisy?’ He’d wanted to take her hand, but she seemed so far away.
‘I’m not ill, I’m pregnant.’
She said the word tentatively, like a whispered secret. He felt it glow in his head, his heart. ‘You’re sure?’
She nodded. ‘Nine weeks pregnant,’ she replied breathily.
He’d started to laugh, it spluttered out of his nose, the emotion was so raw he couldn’t control it at all. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’
‘I didn’t dare.’
He understood. They hadn’t dared to hope. Now he could touch her. He’d pulled his wife into his arms. He’d almost picked her up and spun her round but then he’d panicked, he didn’t want to dislodge anything, he didn’t want to be too rough. She’d laughed reading his mind.
‘I know, it’s terrifying, right?’
He’d covered her face with kisses. ‘We need to crack open the champagne. Oh wow, no. Not for you. But me. Yes, I need a drink.’ It was not terrifying, it was exhilarating, brilliant.
She started to laugh. ‘You’re pleased?’
‘Daisy, are you insane? What a question. Pleased doesn’t cover it.’ He was grinning from ear to ear. People used that expression all the time, but it wasn’t until that moment that he really understood it.
‘One in three pregnancies miscarry. Those are the statistics,’ she whispered, cautiously.
‘Shush, no. Don’t think about that.’
Daisy started to look more relaxed. The tension in her brow easing. They both wanted this so much that they could make it happen, they could keep the little foetus safe. ‘You took a test, right?’ He suddenly, momentarily panicked. Had she made a mistake?
‘I’ve taken three,’ laughed Daisy. ‘I still have one left, if you want me to do it again.’
She did, and there it was: positive. A little plus sign. Positive! Never had a word been so utterly true. They told people straight away. Daisy wanted to wait but Simon just couldn’t manage the prescribed twelve weeks, besides which their family and friends were so closely involved in the matter of their fertility that not telling them would have involved direct lies. People were jubilant. Champagne was popped on a regular basis which Daisy happily refused and Simon happily quaffed. Daisy’s sister, Rose, cried. Her friend Connie jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her hands. Like a child. They’d done it! They’d made a baby.
Hadn’t they?
Simon was brought back to the here and now as Daisy elbowed him in the ribs. He jerked as though he’d been asleep. Daisy scowled at him. Had he dozed off? No, he was just remembering. His mouth felt dry, scratchy. Millie was on the stage again. The entire dance school was, yet she was easy to pick out. She presented roses to the dance teacher. She did so on tip toes. Graceful, itty-bitty movements. Simon stood up to cheer, but somehow he lost his balance. The rows of chairs were too tightly packed. He fell back on top of the woman sat next to him. He landed on her lap. It was very funny. Everyone turned to look at him. And laughed.
I can hardly bring myself to speak to Simon on the walk home. He smells of booze and he ruined our daughter’s recital. Millie fills the gaps. She hasn’t stopped chatting since she burst through the hall doors and ran into our arms. I presented her with the bouquet, which she was giddy about.
‘Did you see me? Did you, Daddy?’ She asks, her face shinning with hope and, if you look carefully enough, a tiny bit of concern.
‘Yes,’ replies Simon.
She looks doubtful. ‘Really.’
‘Too right.’ Simon lies easily. I don’t think he should have lied and lies should never come easily. They should be hard and painful. I’d have preferred it if he’d told her he was a little late. She’d have been disappointed, but she’d have known it was the truth. ‘You were the star of the show,’ he adds. She was, but he sounds glib.
We get home, just in time for the supermarket delivery. I have it delivered without plastic bags as this is kinder on the environment, but it does mean there’s a little more waiting around for the delivery guy as I unpack the crates, so it’s not especially kind to him. Simon heads straight upstairs. ‘Are you going to run her bath?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
‘I can do it,’ Millie says, excitedly. She’s still dancing on air. Triumphant, having delivered a terrific performance. She’s very independent and likes to be as grown up and self-sufficient as possible.
‘OK, but be careful with the hot tap. You know it comes out really hot.’ She scampers off. I drop my backpack; it’s heavy. There are thirty-plus school books in it. I have a lot of marking to do tonight. I need to buy one of those pull-along shopping trolleys that are the domain of old ladies. I know I’ll look frumpy, but it’ll save my back aching. I ask the delivery guy to hold on one second. He hovers in the kitchen with the plastic crates. They look heavy too. ‘Just put them anywhere,’ I say.
I yell up the stairs, ‘Simon can you oversee Millie’s bath? I’m dealing with the shopping.’ I wait. I don’t get a response. I cast an apologetic glance at the delivery guy. He’s still holding the crates. There really isn’t an obvious space to put them. ‘Erm, just put them down there on the floor. That’s fine.’ But he can’t leave until I’ve unpacked. ‘Just one moment.’ I dash up the stairs and call, ‘Simon, hey Simon, where are you? Can you watch out while Millie baths?’
I pop my head into the bathroom. She’s not there. Probably changing in her room but she’s already started to run the bath. I check that the plug is in properly and I turn down the hot tap, add a little more cold water. Better she has a tepid bath than scalds herself. As I do so Millie explodes into the room. She reaches for the bubble bath and carefully pours a very generous amount into the water. A smell that’s manufactured to approximate strawberries immediately fills the air. She squeals excited to see the bubbles multiply. I start to help her undress, but she moves away from me, ‘I can do it.’ She’s growing up far too quickly.
Where is Simon? We don’t live in a big house. He must have heard me call him. He can only be on the loo or in our bedroom. I leave Millie to the task of undressing and stride into our bedroom. As I enter the room I sense movement, Simon was perhaps lying down and has sat up suddenly. Or, maybe… I stride over to the bed and duck to look under it. I immediately spot a small bottle of whisky. Simon has obviously just stashed it there.
‘What the heck is this, Simon?’
‘Nothing,’ he says sulkily. His tone is defensive and defiant at once. ‘Can’t a man have a drink after a long day in the office?’
He has had a drink. With Mick from work. That’s why he missed the recital. Or so he said. I don’t point this out. I haven’t