Mother's Story (3 page)

One of the Pissheads had won an enviable internship, the Chief Reprobate was studying for his Bar exams and at least two of the others were earning mega-bucks in the City, but when the group reassembled, they threw off their career labels and behaved like the twenty-three-year-olds they were. Getting plastered, making crude jokes and trying to get laid became the order of the day.

Matthew's colleagues – or those in the Shark Pool, as the sign on their table tagged them – gripped their glasses of Pinot Grigio Grand Cru and Châteauneuf-du-Pape, carefully chosen to accompany the fish and venison. Their signet rings made pleasing clinks against the sides of the glasses. The practising lawyers eyed the young bucks on the neighbouring table with a mixture of disapproval and envy.

Anthony Deane stood at the top table and pulled his cream silk waistcoat down a fraction, trying to hide the bulge of good living that crept over his waistband with alarming speed year on year. He coughed and lifted his chin. ‘It's wonderful to be able to host you all here today in celebration of the marriage of our son Matthew to the delightful Jessica. I would now like to hand the floor over to Jessica's father, Roger.'

Jessica didn't think of him as her father, he was Dad, her dad. A loud ‘woohoo!' came from the back of the marquee. Anthony raised his glass. ‘Well thank you, that man. One woohoo already and we are not even close to the finale – this bodes very well.' There was a ripple of laughter. Anthony sat and folded his hands across his stomach as all eyes turned to Roger Maxwell.

Jessica watched her dad stand. He smoothed his tie against his chest, removed his glasses from the case that usually sat on the arm of his favourite chair, and placed them on his nose. He pulled the folded sheets of A4 paper from his pocket. In no particular hurry, he coughed to clear his throat. His words when they came were delivered clearly and sincerely. Jessica had to stop herself rushing over and holding him close. She felt a swell of affection and gratitude towards this man during his first ever public speech. She knew how nervous he was and loved that he didn't try to refine his Essex accent, proud of his roots and what he had achieved for his family with nothing more than hard graft and an eye for an opportunity.

Roger looked up at the assembled guests. ‘I don't think I can go any further without mentioning quite how beautiful my daughter looks today.' This prompted a round of applause, in response to which, Jessica placed her head in her hands and tried to hide. Matthew pulled her hands from her face and encouraged her to stand. She felt the scarlet stain of pleased embarrassment creep up her neck as she put her hands on her impossibly small waist and gave a half turn to show off her dress to its full advantage. The tiny crystals sewn into the delicate cream lace of her fitted bodice sparkled in the candlelight. She gave an awkward bow before resuming her place next to her husband and gripping his hand on the tabletop. Her action elicited numerous wolf whistles and cheers and to try and quieten her racing pulse, Jessica laid her manicured hand against her chest.

Roger paused to let the ruckus die down; he was handling the speech like a pro. ‘I remember the quiet Saturday night we were watching the telly when Jessica came home and told her mum and me that she had met a man at a barbecue who had been so sloshed that he called her Joanna all night. I didn't think much of it, but three months later young Matthew was knocking at my door informing me of his decision to propose to Jessica! I asked if he meant Joanna – I think that broke the ice a little.'

More laughter rippled across the room.

Matthew nodded; it had.

‘The word whirlwind was invented for these two. My first question to Matt was, quite naturally, are you
mad
, son?'

‘Oh, Roger!' wailed Jessica's mother, Coral. Then she laughed with her hand covering her mouth.

‘My second question was, of course, who do you support?'

‘Queens Park bloody Rangers!' came the shout from the Pissheads and Reprobates.

‘Yes,' Roger answered, pointing at the rowdy table, ‘and as a lifelong Hammers fan, let me tell you, those clearly weren't the words I wanted to hear. But it could have been so much worse. He might have been a Millwall fan or, worse still, been one of those blokes who only likes rugby!'

The room erupted into laughter. Anthony's passion for rugby was well known. Jessica beamed at her dad. He was doing great.

‘I think this topic will only rear its ugly head if we are ever blessed with a grandson, when I will be charging up that maternity ward with a claret and blue strip. No arguments there, boy.'

‘Ooooh! Harsh!' Matthew's friends heckled from afar.

Roger reached for his glass. ‘But all joking aside, there is no finer bloke to whom we could entrust the care of our child. We are so proud of our beautiful girl, our clever girl, and an artist no less. We love all that she is and all that she will be. It feels like only moments ago that she was holding my fingers and taking her first steps along the path in our garden.' He paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘From the very first moment I held you in my arms, Jessica Rose, I loved you and I will love you until my last breath. I know that Danny is looking down on you today and probably laughing at his old man done up like a kipper!' He plucked at his tie. ‘Your mum and I wish you both every bit of happiness in the world. And if we can give you one bit of advice, it's this: nobody's life is perfect. Be patient on the dark days, because they pass.' The room was silent. ‘No matter how dark it gets, sit it out. Even if you think you are alone, when the light comes back, if you are lucky, you'll look to your right and realise that the person you love was sat by your side, holding your hand, though you might not have seen them.' He stole a glance at his wife and smiled. Then he raised his glass. ‘To Jess and Matt.' He took a sip and everyone followed his lead.

Matthew raised his wife's knuckles knitted against his own and kissed them. He would give her the ocean in a box if he could; nothing would ever be too much for this girl who he loved more than life itself. Jessica smiled at him, fixing him with a knowing look.

Coral cried. This was to be expected at the mention of Danny on a day like this. Jessica's girlfriends whooped and hollered on cue; in fact everyone on the Tarts and Slackers table was giving as good as they were getting in terms of banter. They were all, however, similarly affected by the words of Jessica's dad, which made their tears flow. They had all known Danny, remembered Jessica's quiet older brother who had now bizarrely become her younger brother, frozen aged fourteen. Polly in particular sobbed noisily into her linen napkin, smearing it with lipstick and mascara in the process. Their collective outpouring was partly in response to Mr Maxwell's loving sentiments and partly because none of them could imagine how life might be now that Jessica, who in their school-leavers' yearbook was described as ‘Little Miss Chatterbox, the girl who even talks in her sleep!', was a married woman. It felt like the end of an era and was a timely reminder that they too would be jumping off the ship that sailed on the sea of singledom sooner rather than later.

Matthew tried several times to begin his speech, but with the persistent chanting of ‘Deano!', his student footballing nickname, it was almost impossible. Eventually Jessica stood and with arms outstretched and palms facing down, patted at the air, signalling for Jake and the boys to be quiet.

‘You're so bossy, Jess!' Jake yelled. ‘Poor Matt!'

‘I am
not
bossy, I'm assertive.' She smiled at her husband's best friend.

‘Thank you, my assertive darling.' Matthew kissed her forehead and she nodded gratefully in response.

‘We all knew Jess wouldn't be able to resist getting involved during the speeches, right? Apparently the trick for me is going to be how to get her to shut up, not just today but throughout our married life. For the days when that proves impossible, Roger has very kindly given me these for use in extreme emergencies.'

Matthew bent down to reach below the table, then straightened up to reveal a pair of orange ear defenders in his hand. Everybody laughed and clapped, her parents included. Jessica thumped her groom on the bottom as he continued. ‘Wow! In all seriousness, how to follow that?' He looked at Roger. ‘And I must say, a good summing-up from my father-in-law. Ever thought of leaving the sales game and taking up law, Roger? We could do with your sort in the courtroom!'

‘Hear! Hear!' his colleagues concurred.

Jessica was happy beyond words that her dad and husband were friends. It would mean that all the Christmases, birthdays and holidays at the seaside that she pictured in her head, where they and her parents laughed as they played cards or ate fish and chips on a pebble beach, would come to fruition. Her stomach knotted in anticipation.

‘I am quite possibly the happiest man on the planet today…' Matthew began.

Jessica smiled up at her husband on this, the happiest day of her life.

18th January, 2012

Dear Diary

I think that's how I'm supposed to start. The doctor's instructions weren't that specific. So here goes. What to say? It's hard to know what to put. It's not like anything much happens.

There was a treat this afternoon. I use the term loosely as participation was compulsory. It's strange, isn't it, that even supposedly nice things, when done under instruction inside these magnolia-painted brick walls, have the joy sucked from them.

It was a visit from a beautician called Kimberley. She wore long, thick, false eyelashes and her blinks were slow and languid, as though weighed down by the feathery fronds. It made me want to rub my own eyes. She arrived carrying a plastic box that I'm sure was designed for tools. I remember my dad owning one that was similar, full of paint-spattered brushes, screwdrivers and, bizarrely, odd buttons that he must have found around the house.

Kimberley was accompanied by a young, silent apprentice who blushed with awkwardness as she massaged oil into our cuticles and painted pastel-shaded glitter onto our nails. I wanted to smile at her and tell her not to worry, we aren't contagious, but I don't smile any more.

I sat on a stool that was bolted to the floor; God forbid someone might actually give in to their simmering rage and lob it at something or someone. As instructed, I sat with my hands stretched out on the tabletop, flexing downwards from the wrists and resting on a rolled-up white towel as Kimberley sawed back and forth with the emery board. I glanced to the left and right at the girls who sat either side of me. I was transfixed by the sight of our hands. Hands that could not be prettified or cleaned simply by washing them and applying a coat of nail polish. Hands stained with blood and violence. One pair choked the life from an ageing aunt for money; others cut the throat of a lover. Then I started to think about what my own hands had done. I studied my fingers and I remembered.

I cried then, as I often do. Kimberley's assistant glanced at me nervously from the corner of her eye, distracted from her task. I saw the lump in her throat as she swallowed her fears. I could guess at her thoughts: what comes after tears? Will she fly into a rage? Hurt me? She for one would be glad that those stools were immoveable. I wished I could summon a smile to tell her not to worry, that I would not fly into a rage or hurt her.

I looked at my thin wrists and hands with disgust. The act they have performed taints everything they come into contact with. The food they touch turns to ashes in my mouth, flowers lose their natural scent, taking on the smell of the bathroom on that day, and any skin they happen upon shrinks from my touch as if burnt.

All of this and more I deserve because I did the worst thing a woman could do.

The very worst.

Did I do it on purpose? Yes, yes I did.

Am I a bad person or do I deserve the kindly words and knowing smiles that sometimes float my way across the games room or exercise yard?

Truthfully? I don't know the answer to that question.

It was less than twenty-four hours after the wedding speeches that a naked Jessica flung open the doors on to the balcony of Matt's parents' Majorcan villa. The wood and wrought-iron shutters were thrown wide to reveal the bright blue Mediterranean morning and the gauzy curtain panels arched in the early breeze. Beyond their window and the ornate scrolled iron balcony they could see nothing but the green tops of the Tramuntana Mountains. Even at this early hour, the sun was giving off warmth and there was the distant ring of bells from the Church of San Juan Bautista in the village. Jessica looked back at Matthew, resting her chin on her shoulder.

‘This is so perfect! I think it's the nicest place I have ever been and I can't believe we're here!' She tucked her hair behind her ears and turned to her husband, who lay in the crumpled bed with the edge of a white sheet wrapped around his toned legs. ‘And I can't believe your parents just leave the key in a tin behind the bush! I'm surprised you haven't got squatters.'

‘I think that's unlikely. Everyone knows everyone – anything suspicious and Mum and Dad's phone would be ringing off the hook.'

‘We should go for a walk, stop somewhere pretty for coffee and fresh bread and then come back for more sex!' She ran at the bed and landed with a thud against the antique, brocade-covered headboard.

‘For God's sake, Jessica, you can't want more sex! You're going to kill me!' Matthew pulled the pillow over his head.

‘I can't help it, I find you irresistible. You should be glad I do. Lots of women don't like sex.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Yep. I read it in my magazine.' She smacked his bottom. ‘Think yourself lucky you didn't marry one of those,' she said as she chose a chocolate Hobnob from the biscuit selection in her handbag and shoved half of it into her mouth.