Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
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leotard on stage. She looks uncomfortable full stop. Her mother thinks she’s helping her confidence by putting her on stage, but I think Delia would be happier at Brownies or in the library.
‘Which one is Delia?’ Simon asks.
‘She is in Millie’s group. She was on the far right hand side, most of the time. She’s very tall.’
Simon snorts, ‘Oh yeah. I know her. I think you’re wasting your money.’ Delia’s mum blushes. Simon is acting as though he doesn’t know the parent script, or at least if he does, he can’t be bothered to follow it. He’s supposed to say her performance was charming, that she was enthusiastic and full of character. I’m only glad he didn’t call her fat. Delia’s mother says she’s going to get another cup of tea.
‘Simon, what is wrong with you?’ I snap.
‘Is there only fucking tea?’
‘Will you please stop swearing. There are children around.’
‘Yeah, the place is full of supportive siblings, isn’t it?’ He stares at me with a cool intensity that manages to slice through his more obvious state, one of inebriation.
‘Have you been drinking already?’ I ask.
‘No biggie. Mick from work has had a baby – well, his girlfriend has. We went for a drink to wet the baby’s head.’
‘But you knew this started at five thirty. You didn’t have time to go to the pub. Did you leave work early?’ He’s clearly had more than one.
‘I was only ten minutes late. I didn’t miss much. Hell, Daisy, if I have to sit through another rendition of “Let It Go” I might literally beat myself over the head with that bunch of roses.’
I’d happily do as much, and my only regret would be that I had the thorns removed at the florist because I’m not careless enough to give my child a bouquet with thorns. The bell, announcing the second half is about to begin, rings.
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ says Simon.
‘No, you have to come in.’
‘She’s done her bit.’
‘She’ll be on stage again for the encore. That’s when the entire assembly dance together.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Please Simon.’
He shrugs and follows me back into the hall, like a dog following its master; a snarly dog that might turn and bite at any point.
Simon sat through the rest of the recital as required but was unable to muster any enthusiasm. Watching other people’s small, clumsy kids prance about on stage was only bearable if you got to see your own kid. He was ashamed that he’d missed Millie’s performance and yet also relieved. It pained him to admit, even to himself, but he was finding it difficult to be around her since they’d visited the fertility clinic. He loved her so much. It hurt. The doubt. The uncertainty. It felt like a wound.
He allowed his eyes to slide to the left, he looked at Daisy the way you might look at the sun. Never full on, it was too damaging, only with a side-eye glance. Martell must have got it wrong. He must have. No way. No fucking way would Daisy ever be unfaithful. But Martell had thought that they’d had a donor. They hadn’t. He’d thought Millie was born through IVF. She wasn’t. Blatantly he had only scanned the history which Simon had bothered to provide. The supposed expert had clearly made assumptions, mistakes. He couldn’t be trusted. Most likely the results of Simon’s tests were wrong. That was it. When they’d first had a similar round of tests he’d been told the chances of conceiving were ‘slight’, one doctor once used the word ‘negligible’. No one ever said his chances were non-existent. No one ever used the word ‘sterile’. Surely a mistake. Or maybe there had been a level of deterioration since. That was probable, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that women’s fertility dramatically decreased post-forty, it was surely the same for men. Right? These explanations were far more likely than the one the consultant had insinuated. Daisy would not be unfaithful. The idea was ludicrous. He was Millie’s father.
She didn’t look at all like him. She had blonde hair, fine and wavy, pale blue eyes. He had thick, brown curly hair and brown eyes, but he’d always thought Millie had got her colouring from her mother’s side. She didn’t look like her mother, either though, not really. Not at all. Yes, Daisy had blue eyes, but they were a darker blue and a completely different shape. Daisy had thick red hair. Simon looked about him. There were siblings of the performers sat with their parents in the audience. In many cases the children were mini versions of their parents, recognisably genetically connected, almost facsimiles, but in many other cases the kids didn’t look especially like their parents. Simon shook his head. This was madness. How had he let this thought take hold? He should just tell Daisy what the doctor had said. Admit he’d had the tests, that he was hurrying things along. That was no biggie. Then he could ask her straight out. She’d laugh. Well, that or punch him for thinking so badly of her, but that would be better than where he was now. She’d clear it up. He was sure of it. Almost.
He thought back to when Daisy had told him she was pregnant with Millie. Well, she didn’t tell him exactly. There wasn’t a cutesy moment when she announced it to him by wrapping up a couple of knitted booties, one pink, one blue, the way their friend Connie had done when she told her husband Luke that they were expecting their third. Simon had brought the subject to the table in the end. She was late by six weeks when he did so. He hadn’t even dared hope she was pregnant, in fact he had feared she was ill. He knew her cycle as well as she did, couples trying for a baby tended to. She’d been moody and tearful for 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