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And I mean it. My concern isn’t so much for the baby but more about how I’ll cope as a mother. Especially if I end up on my own. We’re not all like my mother. We don’t all thrive on our own.
‘Have you told Martin yet that you know the baby is a girl?’
I blush. I’m not at all comfortable with the fact that I know the sex of our baby and he doesn’t. But he wants it to be a surprise. I did too, until I started to feel so terribly ill and so worried that it’d affect how I bonded with her. So I’d figured that if I knew, it’d make her more real to me. That it might help.
I’m not in the habit of keeping things from my husband. Or I hadn’t been, but things had been different recently. I suppose I’ve been trying to justify it to myself, telling myself it doesn’t really matter. It’ll still be a surprise for him when she’s born, but I know that I’ve broken his trust. Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m even entertaining the notion he could be breaking mine, too. I know first-hand how easy it is to lie by omission, to hide what I know. I’ve even hidden a set of three pink onesies in a drawer upstairs.
‘No, Mum, and I don’t think I will. We’re close now anyway. I don’t think it’d do any good to anyone to cause upset now.’
‘Well, I can’t wait until it’s all out in the open. Then I can go legitimately mad in the shops and buy up all the pink in the world.’
‘You don’t have to go mad in the shops, Mum,’ I said. ‘You keep your money for yourself.’
‘Nonsense! I know I don’t have to spend my money on the baby, but I want to, and more than that, I’m going to. I’ve been saving up.’
‘Mum, you need your money. Save it up if you want but keep it for yourself. This baby’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘I’ve worked hard all my life, Eli, and if I want to spend my money on my grandchild, I will. And that’s the end of it. Sure, what else would I spend my money on? This is something happy! My first grandchild.’
‘And probably your last,’ I say with a grimace. ‘I can’t imagine ever going through this again.’
‘Everyone feels like that during your stage of pregnancy,’ my mother soothes. ‘You don’t know how you’ll feel after the birth, but I can tell you that even if you only have the one child, she’ll be more than enough.’
‘Did you always feel that way, Mum? Always feel I was enough?’ I ask.
She tilts her head to one side and those sparkling blue eyes look at me again. ‘From the moment I first held you, my darling, I knew that I’d never need or want anyone else in my life but you. If life had given me more children I’d have loved them too, of course I would. But I never felt anything but complete with you in my life.’
It’s too much emotion for pregnant me. I feel my chest tighten and I hug her. ‘I love you, Mum,’ I whisper into the soft curls of her hair on her cheek, the familiar smell of her Chanel No. 5 perfume comforting me.
‘You’ll be a great mother, Eliana. Don’t doubt yourself. Not even for a second. And I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.’
‘I know,’ I whisper.
‘And you can tell me anything.’
‘I know that, too,’ I say.
‘Like if there was any reason you asked me to come down a day earlier than planned.’ She raises one eyebrow.
She’s not one to give up easily.
‘I told you, Mum, it’s nothing. Martin was just going away for work and, well, it’s getting closer to the baby coming and all …’
‘If you’re sure that’s all?’ she asks.
I nod. Thinking that yes, it is indeed easy to lie or just not tell the whole truth. Much too easy.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_ee37abc4-2d97-5df3-ac25-db00dd2b2d04)
Eli (#ulink_ee37abc4-2d97-5df3-ac25-db00dd2b2d04)
It’s just after 9.30 p.m. when my mother, seeing how hard I’ve been trying to stifle my yawns, orders me off to bed. I don’t argue. I’m bone tired but thankful that I’m also feeling soothed by my chat with Mum.
I plug my phone in to charge, rest it on the bedside table and climb under the covers. I’m just about to close my eyes, when it rings.
I see Martin’s name on the screen and, suddenly, I desperately want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I even think, maybe, just maybe, my mother’s right and I should tell him I know about the sex of the baby.
I don’t have to tell him she’s a girl. I can leave that surprise for him for the big day, but I shouldn’t keep from him the fact that I know. Not when I know how much of a spin it’s put me in to think he could be keeping something from me.
Answering the call, I do my best to sound jolly, to sound just like the Eli he fell in love with and not the grumpy wife he’d had words with last night.
‘Hi, baby, how’s your day been?’ I say.
He sighs, or maybe it’s a yawn. ‘Long and busy, but I wanted to check in with you before I settle down for the night. I didn’t like how we left things last night.’
‘We were both tired, let’s just file it under a “bad day” and let it go,’ I say.
‘How’s everything?’ he asks.
‘It’s fine, Martin. Mum came down early and made a big pot of her famous chicken soup. She insisted on doing the washing-up herself and packing me off to bed. I was just settling down. I’m in bed already.’
‘I wish I was there with you,’ he says softly.
Something in me, the part of me that needs this man always, tightens. I wish I could see his face, feel his breath on my face, his skin touching my skin.
‘I wish you were here, too,’ I tell him. ‘I really do.’
‘I’ll be home in a few days,’ he says. ‘We can make up for it then. At least you’ve got your mother there for company while I’m gone.’
‘That’s true, but she’s not as good at spooning me as you are,’ I say.
‘Well, I do make for a very good big spoon,’ he says and I hear the longing in his voice.
It makes me feel loved. It makes me feel love for him. It makes wonder how I could ever doubt him.
He yawns and I know he’s too tired to launch into any deep conversation, so I tell him I love him and promise to talk to him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about the baby’s gender then.
I also make a promise to myself to take the stupid note out of my bag in the morning and throw it in the bin where it belongs. And to leave it there this time.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_7fb36d81-1a0f-5039-9f64-087a58c54cc6)
Louise (#ulink_7fb36d81-1a0f-5039-9f64-087a58c54cc6)
It couldn’t be that hard to follow someone, I figured. Especially at night-time when the roads are quieter. So I did. I walked behind her out of the supermarket. Left my basket abandoned in one of the aisles. Didn’t pay. I’d make do with toast for dinner.
Fate smiled kindly on me. The woman had parked her car close to the supermarket exit and I got a full look at the make and model. I knew my own car was parked just two minutes away on the main road, and if I hurried I’d still be able to follow her.
I got to my car as quickly as I could and switched on the engine, cursing that the windows of the old rust bucket I’d the misfortune to drive were so badly steamed up. I stuck the blowers on full. I didn’t have time to wait. I couldn’t let her get out of my sight and away. I grabbed the old chamois leather I kept in the glovebox and wiped the inside of the windscreen furiously. Just as I looked up, I saw the flash of headlights from the car park exit. Her car emerged and turned left towards the Foyle Bridge.
I swore under my breath. My visibility was still shocking and I was pointing in the wrong direction. I needed to do a U-turn, but with my rear windows still clouded over I couldn’t see clearly enough to do it safely.
I could take a chance, I supposed. I wound down my window and stuck my head out, tried to gauge what else was on the road. She was getting away, so I slammed my car into first and turned the steering wheel. The road was clear and I could make a go for it.
But just as I moved off, the car juddered, stalling with a thud. And the road was no longer clear, and my engine wasn’t catching when I turned the key in the ignition. Her rear lights were moving further and further into the distance, blurring with the rain and the condensation and actually, my tears, too.
I slammed my fist on the steering wheel in frustration, the horn blaring loudly.
Kneading my forehead with the heels of my hands, I tried to regain my composure. This was just a setback. This wasn’t defeat. I’d still do this. Nothing of worth in this world was ever easily achieved. I reminded myself that I’d asked God to send me a sign and He had. He’d brought her to me and I had to keep faith that He would bring her, and her baby – my baby – to me again.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_68f7e59e-3cae-5952-ba2d-aad016a0533f)
Eli (#ulink_68f7e59e-3cae-5952-ba2d-aad016a0533f)
The screech of the security alarm wakes me. Did I hear glass breaking? My heart’s thumping and I sit up in the darkness, afraid to turn on the light, trying to figure out what’s happening as my body adjusts to the rude awakening. I can’t think. The noise is too loud.
I put my hand to my stomach – a protective instinct, maybe. It’s what a mother should do. Mother. I think of my mum. She’s two doors away down the hall. Is she awake? Is she safe? I want to call out, but what if someone’s near? An intruder. What if I’m drawing attention to us? My bedroom door’s closed but not locked. Why would it be?
I curse the alarm. It’s so loud I can’t hear if anyone’s approaching, climbing the stairs, rattling the door handles.
The security company will call, I remind myself. If I don’t answer, they’ll send the police. Or at least, I think that’s what they’ll do. I’ve never really checked; never felt like we’d really need the system. It was just one of those things.
I try to place the breaking glass – had it happened or had I dreamed it? It has to be real. The alarms only go off if there’s a breach into the house.
Climbing out of bed, I lift my phone, switch it to silent mode, creep to the en suite and lock myself in, keeping the lights out. I’m shaking. Adrenaline, I tell myself. A hormone. Just like all the other hormones. It won’t kill me. I’ll be fine. I hope my mother is. I need her to be okay. I need her to be here with me. And God, I wish Martin were here, too. And where are the police? The call from the security firm? I glance at my phone. They’ll call him first, I curse, if no one taps in the security code.
I think of how isolated I am. Here in this beautiful home, which is to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. People don’t just walk past. Most people don’t even know this house exists, closeted away as it is by the surrounding trees. No one outside these four walls will hear the alarms. No one else’ll come running to help us.
I search my phone, fat fingers mistyping as I try to see if I have a number for the security firm saved. I should just call the police. I can’t think. The noise of the bloody alarm’s starting to hurt my ears and my stomach’s swirling, with both fear and pregnancy sickness. I realise that I’m going to throw up. I clamber to the toilet, try to be as quiet as I can.
My mother’s still two rooms away. Or I hope she is. What if she’s hurt? I grab a towel, wipe my mouth, try to orientate myself after the sickness has made me dizzy. My phone lights up with the sight of an incoming call notification from a private number and I answer, trying to keep my voice low, which is ridiculous given the screeching of the alarms.
A calm voice speaks, asks me for our password and asks if I’m safe.
‘I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t hear anything over the noise of the alarm. But I think, I think there was broken glass before. I think I heard a smash.’
‘Okay. We’ve notified the police of a potential break-in. We can deactivate the alarm if you wish,’ the calm voice says.
‘Yes, yes, do that,’ I say, thinking it might give me a chance to think.
‘Okay, Mrs Hughes. We’ll do that. The police should be with you soon. If you’re in a secure place, we’d recommend you stay there.’
‘Okay,’ I whisper, trying not to think about my mother. What must she be thinking? Is she scared?
The alarm falls silent. I can still hear buzzing in my ears. A rattle at the bathroom door makes me jump.
‘Eli, it’s me.’ My mother’s voice. I hear it and feel it at the same time.
Tears spring to my eyes. I reach for the door and unlock it, pulling her into a hug.
‘Mum, you’re okay. Thank God. The police are coming.’
She holds me. I allow myself to nestle against the soft fabric of her dressing gown.
‘I’m fine,’ she says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Whoever it was ran away as quickly as they arrived. I was downstairs, couldn’t sleep. Heard the crash – it was the glass beside the door. I ran from the kitchen, but they were driving off. I’m sorry I didn’t get a look at the vehicle. I don’t have my glasses on.’
I can feel her trembling and cold as I hug her.
‘Oh, God, no, I’m glad you didn’t get near them. And they didn’t see you. Mum, you could’ve been hurt!’
‘I didn’t think,’ she says. ‘I just, well, I didn’t know what to do. They threw something in. I didn’t see what it was, but it looked like it was wrapped in paper.’
I stand up, start to walk towards the stairs.
‘Don’t you think we should wait? For the police. You don’t know what it might be.’
I switch on the landing light and look down into the hall. My mother’s right, of course, to be cautious. This is still Northern Ireland. Security alerts aren’t a thing of the past. You never know why someone might target you.
But it doesn’t look like a device of any sort. It’s more rudimentary than that. Solid. I can see the rough edges of a rock, wrapped in what looks like paper. A brown elastic band wrapped around both.
‘I think it’s just a rock,’ I call to her.
‘But better to be safe,’ she says.
She looks pale in the light. Shaken. She must have had such a fright.
I feel a chill run up my spine. This could’ve been worse. If they’d seen her, would they have hurt her, or did they see her and that scared them away? I walk down the stairs, get closer to the rock. No signs of wires or tubing. I know I should leave it for the police but I’m curious. I can’t understand why anyone would do this.
‘Wait there,’ I call to my mother.
I open the door of the hall cupboard, dig into a bag filled with other plastic carrier bags and pull two out. Wrapping them around my hands, I walk back to where the rock lies.
‘Eliana, you’re not going to lift that, are you?’ My mother looks horrified.
‘It’s just a rock. I’ll be careful. Look, I’m covering my hands, making sure I don’t disturb evidence.’
I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Evidence? When did my life become an episode of CSI? I chide myself for being too flippant. I carefully lift the rock, pull the elastic from it and unwrap the paper. I turn it towards me and staring back at me, I see the same neatly printed writing that I saw on the note in the bottom of my bag.
My stomach drops. I feel my legs start to shake. I can’t ignore this. I can’t see this as anything more than what it is. A threat. A revelation. An accusation.
SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON AT THIS TIME OF YEAR
ROMANTIC WALKS, PERHAPS?
A DATE AT THE THEATRE?
IF I WERE YOU, I’D WATCH MY HUSBAND MORE CLOSELY …
I drop the rock. I hear my mother’s voice somewhere in the distance just as I hear the siren of an approaching police car.
