The Winter Children (7 page)

‘Really?’ Olivia is surprised. Cheska has always seemed stronger than that to her. ‘Why do you think that happened?’

Dan shrugs and says, ‘No idea. Maybe she was never really cut out for work.’

Olivia can’t see that somehow. ‘She seems very busy in Geneva with all that charity stuff. That must be like a career in itself. And she’ll find she’s got plenty to do if
Walt buys that place she showed us.’

Dan snorts. He’s always claimed to like Walt, but doesn’t show it when Francesca isn’t there. He seems to scorn Walt’s business success as though there is still something
a little shameful in being a self-made man who didn’t go to university. ‘That man has more money than sense. It’s a ridiculous thing to do.’ He shrugs again, his hands in the
sinkful of hot water. ‘It’s a money pit, and even when it’s finished, it won’t feel like a home. It’s a stately bloody pile. I can tell Cheska hates it too.’

‘She didn’t seem very keen.’ Olivia considers. ‘But it’ll be fun having friends with a house like that, won’t it? If they do go ahead.’ She sips her
tea, thinking of it. ‘Maybe we can spend some more time with them.’

‘Hmm.’ Dan doesn’t sound excited by the prospect. ‘Maybe. If I’m not mistaken, Walt will buy it, pour some money into it, get bored and sell it. Cheska will just wait it out. Trust me, I bet we never even see that place.’

The text comes late on a Friday night.

Walt is in bed with her, on top of her, pounding away as he grunts in her ear. She is enduring it, wondering if she should start fantasising now or if it’s too late for that, when she
hears her phone bleep with an incoming message. She wants to pick it up and read it behind Walt’s heaving shoulders, but she’s not that blatant. Instead she hurries him along, gasping
and moaning, thrusting up to meet him and digging her nails into the wads of soft flesh on his back. Walt responds gratifyingly quickly, excited by her enjoyment, and hurries to his climax. As he
rolls off her, she leans over for the phone. It’s from Dan.

A photograph is attached but it’s out of focus, showing two fuzzy bundles and two creased red faces with eyes tightly closed. Francesca squints at it, trying to make out the babies’
features, but it’s impossible.

‘Who is it?’ Walt asks, pulling a handful of tissues out of Francesca’s bedside box and mopping at himself.

‘It’s Dan. Olivia’s had the babies.’ A rush of dark excitement grips her. It hasn’t felt real so far, but now, here they are. The babies.
My babies.
The
thought is illicit. Thrilling.
Mine and Dan’s.
It’s brilliant. The ultimate revenge. She can see now that she’s been waiting for something like this for years, and yet she
could never have imagined something so perfect. Olivia is like a daft bird whose eggs have been replaced by the cuckoo’s, and is now about to devote itself to nurturing the alien brood.
Well, that’s what she wanted. It would have been someone else, if not me. We’ll all be happy. It’s perfect.
Then she frowns.
But Stanley and Beattie. I don’t like
the names at all.

‘That’s wonderful news,’ Walt says heartily. ‘How’s Olivia doing? I bet it hurt pushing those two out.’

‘She had a planned caesarean,’ Francesca replies briefly, tapping back a suitably ecstatic response.
As I told you dozens of times.

‘Send them some flowers from us, won’t you.’

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll take them myself.’

‘You’re going to London to see them?’

Francesca looks over at him. ‘Of course. They’re practically my oldest friends. I want to be there for them.’

‘That’s nice of you. Give them my love.’

Francesca barely hears him. She’s looking at the message that Dan sent. It’s gone out to dozens of friends, she suspects. That’s why it’s not personalised for her. But
then, what would he possibly write? This is unknown territory. They haven’t spoken a word about what they’ve done since Dan called her after she came back from the clinic in Spain. She was still collecting her luggage from the carousel when her phone
rang.

‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Any problems?’

‘None at all,’ she said. ‘They harvested plenty. They were happy with everything.’

‘Really?’ He sounded almost surprised, as though this was an outcome he hadn’t expected.

‘Yes. They were pleased with the quality. They said it was surprising considering my age.’ She hadn’t been able to stop a tiny hint of boastfulness in her voice. She wanted him
to know that, unlike Olivia, she had vibrant, youthful ovaries and eggs that were ripe and ready for him. The thought made her almost aroused.

‘That’s brilliant.’ There was a tentative edge to his voice, as if he wasn’t entirely certain that this was something he wanted. But when he spoke again, he sounded
heartfelt. ‘Thank you, Cheska. I mean it. Thank you.’

‘It’s my pleasure. And you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell a soul. It will stay between us. Forever. Our secret.’

‘I know I can rely on you,’ he said gratefully. ‘So now . . . it’s forgotten, right?’

‘Yes. Forgotten.’ Something vibrated inside her, like a tiny internal earthquake. Perhaps it was the magnitude of their secret and what it would mean for them. After all, how could
something like this be forgotten? How deeply could they bury their knowledge? Even if the fertility treatment didn’t work, they would always share the secret of what they’d planned between them and the concealment from Olivia.

As she collected her luggage and made her way to the departure hall, her excitement wilted a little, replaced by a wave of dark melancholy that she quickly pushed away. The only thing to do was
be patient.

Since then the promise to forget that she and Dan made hasn’t been tested. It’s been easy to avoid looking into each other’s eyes and seeing the truth. She’s not been
alone with him since they agreed the whole thing, and the growing swell of Olivia’s stomach always had an uncertain quality. She was high risk, an older woman with a multiple pregnancy, and
they all knew it could go wrong at any time. Now that it’s gone right and the plan, so dreamlike and unreal, has come to fruition . . . well, what will happen? She’s excited again,
thrilled by this situation and the tie that now binds her and Dan together. She can hardly believe it’s actually happened.

‘I’ll go in the morning,’ Francesca says, tapping out another message to Walt’s PA asking her to book tickets on the midday flight to London.

‘You’re good to them, honey. I hope they appreciate it.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ she says, sending her message. Then she lies back and stares at the ceiling. She feels powerful, like a goddess who’s summoned people into creation
with a clap of her hands. She’s in the mood for sex now, but it’s too late.
It’s a shame I didn’t get the news earlier. Walt would have had a lot more fun if I
had.

‘Let’s open some champagne,’ she says suddenly. ‘Let’s get up and have some champagne, then come back to bed.’

Walt looks surprised but pleased. ‘Okay. Let’s celebrate. Sounds good. After all, it’s not every day that babies arrive.’

‘Absolutely.’ She smiles. ‘And these ones are extra special.

Francesca is in London by the following afternoon. She goes straight from the airport to the flat, then pops out to a ludicrously expensive children’s boutique owned by some European
princess to pick up a whole wardrobe of clothes for each baby. She’s got tiny quilted jackets, trench coats, velvety cotton bodysuits, cashmere jumpers, soft cord dungarees, pinafores and
kilts, little white leather shoes. She knows it’s too much and that Olivia will probably dislike most of it, but she doesn’t care. Something in her wants to remind Olivia that she is a
source of wealth, able to provide luxuries for the little ones. It’s silly, she knows. Usually she is careful to ensure that she doesn’t make Dan and Olivia uncomfortable with the
disparity in their circumstances; after all, Olivia earns virtually nothing as a gardening writer and designer, and while Dan has done well enough, they’re light years away from the sums that
cushion Francesca’s life.

Laden with crested carrier bags, she texts Dan.

Dan doesn’t reply at first, and she wanders up and down the Brompton Road, eyeing up the shop windows, wondering whether to waste an hour stocking up for the new season. At last, her phone vibrates, and she finds his answer.

She stares at it in disbelief, then feels a prickle of irritation. She has assumed that she’s allowed into the inner circle, one of the privileged few, as close as family.
After all,
I spent enough bloody time in Olivia’s kitchen, all those hours listening to her going on.

She’s been assiduous at cultivating her friendship with Olivia and, actually, is genuinely fond of her now, not something she expected to feel at first. Of course, there will always be a
distance between them, but Francesca has been surprised at the way she can split herself in two: one half liking Olivia and enjoying the hours chatting and laughing together, and the other rather
remorseless in her desire to win the battle that’s been raging between them for years, ever since Dan brought her into their lives. It is hard not to warm to Olivia, and there’s nothing
personal in Francesca’s desire to be close to Dan. Olivia is in the wrong place, that’s all, and needs to be shunted firmly aside so that things can be as they’re supposed to
be.

Now she feels as though Dan has rebuked her. He is shutting her out. She’s been relegated to the status of ordinary friend. A surge of anger rolls through her, but she’s used to
controlling her feelings, and she quickly manages to suppress it.
Fine. I can wait.

She stands on the pavement, the wind lightly whipping her hair up, and taps out another message:

Then she heads back to the flat, weighed down by the expensive baby gifts in their layers of white and gold tissue.

But the next day, Dan texts to tell her that they are not allowed visitors. The babies are in special care. It’s nothing serious, but there’s a little issue with breathing that they
are confident will be sorted out. Francesca, anxious, tries to call but she can’t get through, having to leave a message on Dan’s answerphone instead. She spends the day drifting round
the flat, worrying about the babies. She is constantly on edge, feeling involved but somehow completely marginalised. These children are closely connected to her –
my babies –
but no one will acknowledge it.
Dan won’t acknowledge it.
She feels a pang of uncertainty. She realises that she has not really believed that he can wipe her contribution out of his
mind, and actually convince himself that she had nothing to do with it.

The thought makes her stop in front of the long, narrow window with its view over the leafy London square.
Could he? Could he really?

She blinks out into the afternoon, hardly seeing what’s in front of her. Not once has it occurred to her that they actually might never speak of it again. She’d thought their
agreement was almost a kind of etiquette, a necessary stage in the evolution of this new part of their relationship. But now she sees that it’s a possibility.

He wants it forgotten, just like all the other things he doesn’t want to think about.
He’s always relied on her docility but now she’s struck with a sudden sense of
her own power.
Can I let that happen? Will I?

After all, he owes her something. He has to acknowledge that. She won’t be treated like nothing.

She’s absorbed in this idea when her iPad chimes with an incoming Skype call. She comes to, remembering that of course it’s Sunday, and that’s when the children contact her.
She goes over to answer it, suddenly feeling that she has something exciting to impart to them. Then she remembers: she can’t tell them about the new babies. She can’t tell anyone.

She sits down, positioning her iPad as she answers the call. Olympia’s face, bright and smiling, appears on the screen, and calls out, ‘Hello, Mama!’

There she is. Her daughter, healthy and beautiful. Francesca feels a rush of love for her.

‘Hello, darling! How are you? How is school? Tell me all about it.’

Two days later, Francesca has to return home and she has still not seen the babies. There are meetings and commitments she must get back to, and the babies are still in special care in the
hospital. It’s impossible to get hold of Dan, and he isn’t replying to her texts, except to say that his phone is off in the ward and he’ll be in touch. Then he tells her that Olivia has been discharged, and the babies will be home at the end of the week if all goes well.

There isn’t time to visit now. She sends a massive bouquet to them at home, and briefly considers trying to bluff her way into the hospital as family, to see the babies that way. But she
quickly dismisses that idea – the chances are she’d be discovered, and Dan and Olivia could be there at any time. She doesn’t like to picture how they would react to her arrival
and attempt to get to the babies.

I must be patient. I’ll have to wait. I’m good at that.

She leaves the bags of baby presents in the hall of the flat, waiting for her return.

‘No lifting. I mean it. None at all.’ The midwife looks sternly at Olivia. ‘Promise?’

‘Well . . .’ Olivia is confused. ‘I mean . . . how heavy are we talking about?’ She has a vision of Dan having to lift her knickers out of the drawer. Pick up a spoon.
Pass her a tissue.

‘Nothing baby-weight, that’s for sure. When they get home, you let your husband do all the lifting for at least a fortnight. Those muscles of yours need to knit back together, and if
you stretch them too early, you’ll do lasting damage.’