kids.’ John gave a bitter laugh.
The words pierced me with a physical pain in my uterus. I inhaled, took a moment.
‘What’s it like, adopting?’ I asked. ‘Is it the same as … you know, having your own?’
John gave another bitter laugh. ‘I can’t really answer that, never having had my own.’
‘But do you love them?’
‘Of course I do. I’m officially their father.’
‘But do you feel like their father?’
He folded his arms. ‘What is this? Twenty questions?’
‘Sorry. I just – y’know. I wonder sometimes.’
John raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you and Mark considering …?’
‘What? Adopting?’ I made a great show of shaking my head. ‘God, no!’ I laughed to show how silly the idea was. And, to be fair, it was. Mark and I had discussed it. While he was happy to support whatever I wanted to do, I think we both knew that, if we couldn’t have our own children, our hearts were not in adoption. But sometimes, as the dream of a baby of my own slipped further away, I found myself wondering: could I do it? Could I love someone else’s baby as my own?
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘About Mum. What do you think?’
John exhaled, fiddled with a newspaper lying on the coffee table. ‘I don’t know, Lex. It seems to have suddenly got worse. I think we should watch her – we, Lexi, not just me – and see how it goes.’
‘Okay.’ As I said it, I vowed to be a better daughter, to take better care of my mother. I would do it. I would.
‘And,’ said John, turning his gaze onto me, ‘if things don’t get better, I think we should start thinking about trying to get her to move into some sort of sheltered housing.’
‘What? She’s not even seventy!’
‘I’ve just been through all this with Valya. Trust me, having scrambled around to find the right place for her at the eleventh hour, I know it’s better to have plans in place.’ He looked at me but I didn’t reply. ‘She’s not getting any younger, Lex. If we start looking at places now and get an idea of what’s out there … you know, before we know it she’ll be in her seventies. I’d just like to know what we’re going to do, moving forward.’
‘Hmm.’ I drummed my fingers on the armrest.
‘She can’t live on her own in that house forever. It’s only a matter of time before something happens. There are some really nice places out there. I’m not talking retirement homes. Of course not! But there are some lovely residential developments where the oldies buy a place – like a one- or two-bedroom apartment, or even a small house – and there are social clubs and restaurants. It’s nice. Honestly.’
‘I think you’ll have your job cut out getting her to move. She loves her house. She loves that garden. The view …’
‘I know, Lex. But I’m just thinking about her safety and her health. She crashed her car. For how much longer do you think she can continue driving? Being independent? It’s not going to go on forever.’
‘I don’t know, John. It seems awfully premature.’
John groaned and buried his face in his hands. ‘Then you’ve got to help me,’ he said, looking up again, his voice desperate. ‘With the physical stuff, not just phoning her. I can’t do it all! I’m running around like a headless chicken trying to keep on top of Anastasia and the kids, not to mention work. There aren’t enough hours in the day! The last thing I need is to worry about Mum going doolally.’ He looked at me. ‘Are you willing to pull your weight a bit more?’
‘Pull my weight a bit more?’ I snorted. ‘Mark and I moved from London to be closer! He now has no job. We have no money.’ My voice broke. Even as I spoke, I realised John was right: the effort to conceive had taken over my life and, when it came to neglecting Mum, I was guilty as charged.
‘Lexi, if you don’t make the effort to see Mum, you may as well be living in Timbuk-bloody-tu,’ John said.
I held up my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try. I promise to call her more often and go down more often? Okay?’
John took a deep breath. ‘Thanks. Maybe we can come up with a rota where we take it in turns to visit her. But, meanwhile, I think we should start looking at those home places. I really do.’
Audrey Templeton examines herself in the mirror: she’s pleased with the way the sleeveless silk sheath dress Ralph’s tailor has made for her has turned out. The neckline reveals her collar bones, and the slit at the front reveals just enough leg to be daring but not vulgar. An opening at the back dips almost to her waist, making onlookers wonder how she could possibly be wearing a brassiere – the answer is that, tonight, she’s not.
Although the dress is a soft white, it is almost entirely consumed by large navy flowers and, as Audrey looks at herself in the mirror, she ties a silk sash in matching navy around her waist. She opens her jewellery box and selects from the jewels within a discreet pair of pearl stud earrings. She slips her stockinged feet into a pair of navy pumps and slides her hands into her favourite off-white evening gloves that reach way beyond her elbow.
As her fingers wriggle into place inside the soft silk gloves, Audrey hears the shrill cry of a baby. Arm still extended, she holds her breath, as if by holding herself still she can will the baby to stop crying, but the noise not only continues, it ramps up a gear. Audrey can tell, by now, that it’s John, not Alexandra. The girl’s voice is softer, less shrill. Audrey slips off her gloves and shoes and dashes across the expanse of the galleried landing to the nursery.
‘Hush now. Hush, hush,’ she whispers. John is sitting up in his cot, his face wet with tears. When he sees Audrey, his screams get louder. Ralph tells her the babies are too young to remember their mother – he’s made her swear that she’ll never tell them – but Audrey knows that, on some level, they know. She leans down into the cot and strokes John’s hair but he flinches away.
‘What’s wrong?’ Audrey whispers. ‘Did you have a bad dream? You want Mummy to hold you?’
The screaming gets louder and Audrey stares helplessly at John.
‘Ssh!’ she soothes. ‘You’ll wake your sister!’ She looks over at the other cot, where Alexandra is already starting to stir.
‘Mama!’ screams the boy. ‘Mamaaaa!’
‘Mama’s here!’ She reaches into the cot to try and touch John again, but he backs away to the farthest corner. ‘Mamaaa!’
Audrey’s forehead flops onto the cot rail.
‘What do you want?’ she sobs. ‘What am I supposed to do? Please stop crying!’
‘Madam,’ says the ayah, suddenly behind her. ‘I try.’
Audrey spins around. ‘Oh, Madhu. Thank you. I … I just don’t know what’s wrong with him.’
Madhu reaches into the cot and picks up the screaming baby. Audrey slips out of the room and listens at the door. Within seconds the crying simmers down and Audrey hears the rhythmic step of the ayah walking up and down the nursery floor and the soothing hum of her voice. Why can’t she do that?
Audrey steps silently down the polished staircase in her stockings. She walks across the parquet floor of the drawing room to the bar, where she pours herself a