Lullaby (2 page)

I didn’t want all the presents; they made me rather nervous. I was happy just with him. And it was true; he did look exhausted, dark shadows staining his pale skin, his sharp cheekbones more prominent than usual.

‘I’m sorry. Ignore me. I just need some sleep.’

You and me both, I thought glumly as Mickey kissed the top of my head, walking off before I could respond. He said something else I couldn’t quite catch—took Louis with him, I saw with some relief. Lately he hadn’t seemed quite so besotted with his son, which had taken me by surprise. Perhaps slowly our roles were reversing; as my love for Louis grew, did Mickey become a little disinterested in him? Maybe he felt a little less needed, that was what worried me now. It was another reason this day together was so long overdue.

‘What, Mickey?’ I called. ‘What did you say?’ But then some small beardy bloke got in between us, tripping over the pushchair that was trailing bags. I caught the man’s arm to steady him, apologised like it was my fault, and then Mickey was gone already, pushing the baby proudly. He stalked away like the cock of the walk, so upright as he led the way into the gallery.

I untangled myself from Beardy and I followed them. They were already out of view. I looked at the pictures, but I didn’t really see them. They all seemed to be out of focus, like we were under water or something. I had this nervous feeling in my tummy, like when you’ve drunk too much coffee. Then I remembered that woman. Something about her niggled me, but I couldn’t think what.

Something had woken me with a start that morning, and for a minute I didn’t know where I was. Dragged from a death-like sleep, that unique new-parent sleep. And I’d drunk too much the night before; not used to alcohol these days, so my head was feeling groggy. I
suppose it was about five, cos the planes were coming in to land. I listened for the baby, but for once he was quiet, and so I just lay there for a while. I thought about last night; drinking champagne with Mickey at the Royal Opera House, like we’d done on our first real date last year. Last night I’d worn the new dress Mickey had bought me for my birthday, deep pink and deep cut and terribly sophisticated, darling. During the second act he’d surprised me—leant over in the box, regardless of his clients, and whispered I was beautiful. He’d lifted my hair to kiss my neck and I’d bit down on my lip; bit down my dormant desire. But truly the best bit in all this heat hadn’t actually been that kiss, nor the swaggering singers or the multicoloured costumes of this last-minute treat. Nor was it the tragic love story I’d lost myself in on a rare and longed-for night off from all the baby talk. It wasn’t even Mickey’s hard-won approval. No, it had been the air-conditioning in the Royal Opera House. Oh, the sheer relief of that coolness licking round my melting limbs for a few hours.

Mickey rolled over, muttering something inaudible, then went back to sleep. I stopped thinking about
Madame Butterfly
(Mickey said he’d prefer Wagner any time—but his corporate clients lapped up the champagne, which was all that really counted; and I’d loved it, almost crying when the poor heroine died for her son’s sake, though I didn’t let Mickey see). I started worrying pointlessly about other things, like you do in the small hours when there’s absolutely sweet Fanny Adams you can do about any of them, as my Nana
would have said. I remember worrying about why I was awake when I had the rare chance to be asleep, but that just made me more restless; even more alert. Then I worried about going to the gallery that day and Mickey getting annoyed because I didn’t like some picture or other that he revered. I thought, I must remember not to ask any silly questions. For some reason that cringe-worthy time at Greg’s dinner party when Mickey had got so cross with me drifted through my head; I’d flippantly called my husband a Brit, and God, how deep those touchy Northern Irish roots were dug; how quickly he was riled. I’d tried to make a joke of it, but that only served to make things worse; I’d looked hopefully at Greg for some support that never came, though later my hostess caught my eye knowingly across the candles and the coq au vin. With no reprieve, I’d kicked myself under that dining table, and still Mickey had refused to speak on the journey home because apparently I’d made him look stupid in his own rage.

Eventually I shoved the mortifying scene from my mind, and then I just lay there listening to the planes, imagining all those tiny passengers suspended high above the ground, above a toy-town London, and how sad they must be to be nearly back. The bit I always used to dread, coming home again. Until Mickey. Until Louis came…

I was just dipping back into that half-world between sleep and consciousness when Mickey rolled back towards me and cupped my breast, a sore breast swollen with milk, blue-veined as a road map. I tensed. Everything was so different now. I held my breath; his
other hand stroked down my hip bone slowly. However much I prayed that he’d go on, I still wanted him to stop. I lived in fear that he’d discover how much I’d changed in the past six months. Mickey opened his eyes lazily and, in the half-light, looked into mine, his all slit with sleep still. He put his hand up to my cheek and stroked his thumb across my mouth.

‘All right, big eyes?’ he whispered. I nodded, shy; felt the kick of lust that I’d suppressed when Louis arrived.

‘God, you’re sweet, Jessica,’ he groaned, tucking a curl behind my ear. Then he gathered up my hair in the nape of my neck and, pulling me to him, kissed me gently. I was about to mutter that I hadn’t cleaned my teeth yet, but before I could speak he drew me against him and kissed me harder now, like he hadn’t in a long time, and finally I let go. The dawn heat slid down me like melted chocolate, and I forgot my fear, my anxiety, my very different body. I just felt the utter longing I always felt for him. I dissolved into him; I let myself enjoy it.

And afterwards he fell back to sleep and finally light began to bleed around the heavy curtains I hated so, and in the end I thought, sod it, I might as well get up and have a cup of tea; an hour to myself before the baby wakes up. And then of course the baby woke up.

It was funny, because after that odd woman and my poor ruined skirt, and all those peculiar nerves, I suddenly found myself enjoying the exhibition.

I turned a corner into one room and there was a little painting of a woman just leaning out of a window,
looking off into some kind of field, and I suddenly felt all sort of, I don’t know—serene. It’s a good word, serene. All the anxiety of earlier started floating away, and I just stood and contemplated the picture. Like, I forgot where I was, forgot all about my baby fat and how flipping tired I always seemed to be, and that Mickey and I had been bickering recently. And instead, I felt really happy, like I was where I was meant to be, with my son whom I’d finally come to love so much, and the husband whom I still longed to get to know. Who loved me really—even if I did once call him British; who’d made love to me this morning just like the old days. The not-very-long-ago days. And then I thought, I just want to be with my little family now, and before I walked off I thanked that woman in the painting. I know it sounds quite soppy, quite strange, but I did. I thought, yeah, that’s it, that’s why we come here, and look at art, etc.—because it puts a different perspective on our lives. Lives that seem so humdrum sometimes.

And I looked around for Mickey and Louis, so I could share my grand thoughts with them. Only they weren’t in sight. I thought they must be ahead of me, and I walked on through the next rooms, but they weren’t there either; so I retraced my steps, thinking Mickey must have gone back to look at a picture. He could be a real slow-coach, Mickey, sometimes. I’d known him to stand in front of one painting for a quarter of an hour, whereas I’d just get bored, wanted to keep moving, on to the next thing.

Only he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere in the
gallery. My heart started to beat a little bit faster, but I thought he must have just gone out; perhaps Louis was crying and I didn’t hear; they’re probably in the small exhibition shop, buying postcards. So I rushed to check, but he wasn’t there either. Or in the café. And now I started to feel a cold sweat prickling above my lip. He could be changing the baby. Or maybe down in the big shop on the ground floor. Perhaps he’d gone back into the exhibition, gone round the other way, and I’d missed them. So I explained to the po-faced woman on the door that I’d lost my husband and my baby and could I go in and look. For a minute she seemed dubious because I didn’t have my ticket any more, like I was lying to get in for free, and I thought,
she’s going to be a real jobsworth about this
, but something about my manner must have convinced her that I was telling the truth, because she finally let me. Fruitlessly, I looked. Oh God, I looked so hard, so hopefully.

And then suddenly I felt a big rush of relief, and I thought,
Of course, you silly cow, just ring his mobile—
why didn’t I think of that first? But with a sickening lurch I realised that my phone was in the back of the pushchair, that my bag was hanging over its handles, that I had nothing on me, no phone, no money. Nothing.

For the next forty minutes I hunted around that enormous building. Up and down escalators I went, barging past happy, chatting tourists like some mad woman; in and out of lifts. Like some stupid scene from a French farce. Up to the members’ room to see
if Mickey had blagged his way in there for a view over the Thames and that wobbly bridge. Typical Mickey. He’d be sitting in a deckchair on the roof terrace, sunning himself above the grey river, above the half-empty pleasure boats, Louis blowing bubbles next to him. Showing off to all the girls.

But there were just scruffy academic types discussing art, pushing worn-out specs up spindly noses, flip-flopped students sharing cappuccinos, well-bred ladies with little else to do but lunch. No Mickey. No baby. And all the time I was hunting, I was preparing what to say, how I would tell Mickey off, how I would cuddle Louis, how we’d laugh about it later. But eventually as I felt more panicked I started to get angry, and I stopped thinking about laughing, and started thinking about shouting.

Suddenly, coming up the main escalator for about the fifth time, I saw my pushchair. Oh God—the surge of relief was immense, overwhelming. Whooshed through me and made my knees shake for a minute.

‘Louis,’ I croaked. Thank Christ! My heart soared-until I saw this strange man lifting my son high into the air, chucking him under the chin, spinning him round above his head, and the baby was laughing, giggling, and they both turned round, and it wasn’t Louis. It wasn’t my pushchair. And then I felt sick, sicker than I could ever remember feeling, sick to my stomach, like they say; sick right down to the soles of my aching feet.

Please, Mickey, you fool, please just be here this time
, I silently intoned, going back downstairs again. People
were starting to give me funny looks. I was gritting my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. I was so furious now, furious that he could be so inconsiderate, that he could just vanish like this and not even think about me. So furious I was nearly crying with frustration. It was so bloody typical. And I was furious with everyone else here too, for having such a nice time, for not being worried and frantic like me, for not being the ones who’d lost their family. For not being inadvertently alone.

They must have gone for a walk. Of course! I went running outside, and I mean properly running, through the crowd I went. Past the sweet burning smells of the peanut stall, past the bloke with his silly bird whistles, running through shots badly framed by indignant Germans, who tutted, and humble Japanese who cast their eyes down at their cameras rather than complain. Gulls wheeled above, crying mournfully for scraps, and I nearly sent some small girl’s ice cream flying because I was looking around for Louis all the time I ran.

‘Sorry, darling, I’m so sorry.’ I wanted to reach down and hug her just for the touch but her parents were glaring at me like I was some sort of nutter, so I turned and headed back inside.

I was out of breath now. My chest hurt, and my inhaler—I scrabbled for it. It was in my missing bag, of course. I must not panic. I sat down for a minute on a leather pouffe thing and, head in hands, tried to collect my thoughts. To be practical. I searched my pockets—I had 6p in change, my train ticket and a baby sock. Just one little bobbly sock. I thought about reversing the charges—could you do that to a mobile?
I thought about ringing my sister, getting her to phone Mickey. I found a guard and asked about payphones.

‘Downstairs,’ he said tersely, waving a vague hand.

‘Is there a missing persons’ point, a meeting point or something? A Tannoy? I’ve lost my husband,’ I said. ‘He’s got my baby, you see. Our baby.’ Was I having trouble forming words? He didn’t seem to understand me. Frankly, he looked bored.

‘Walkie-talkie,’ he mimed eventually, gesturing off into the distance. I tried to pull myself together. This was ridiculous. People must get lost here every day, it was so vast, so bloody anonymous. I thought about Louis and that he must be getting hungry by now, and I felt my eyes prickle, fill up with tears. I decided to go and find the payphones before I started wailing right there in the middle of the Tate Modern, and then I saw this nice friendly man who looked official, holding a walkie-talkie, and coming towards me.

‘Everything all right, miss?’ he said, and I used every fibre of my being not to cry. He was such a nice man, he had hair growing out of his ears in little tufts just like my granddad used to, and his nose was a bit red as if he liked a whisky now and again, and he let me use his own mobile phone to ring Mickey, and I was so relieved; and in the end I stopped the tears before they came.

Only the phone just rang and rang. I looked out at St Paul’s, at that great dome, and I prayed again. Really hard. I tried to ring three times, and the first time I got the number wrong because my hand was shaking so much. The next time, it just rang and rang until the
voicemail picked up and Mickey’s disembodied voice floated down the airwaves. I left a rambling message that started off angry and ended up pleading. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘just ring this number back, quickly.’ And then the third time, it was dead. Mickey’s phone line had gone dead.