The Puzzle of You Page 5

  Even though that’s not the case, the clock is ticking, and I need to do everything possible to ace this. Ace motherhood, ace being a working mother, ace adding a new little person to our world. Already, I know everything you can about pregnancy to year one . . . although I’m planning to go back to work after two months.

  Or maybe six weeks, just like my mum. Or maybe even a month? We’ll see.

  I was surprised at David’s shock when I told him how soon I want to return to the office. He knows how I feel about work – although he may not understand it, given how much he detests his job. But surely he wouldn’t expect me to kick back at home with the baby for more than that? What the hell would I do all day? I’m many things, but a kicking-back-at-home kind of person isn’t one of them. God, I’d go crazy!

  And it’s not just that, of course. If I take more than two months off, Vivek will have my head. I can kiss any chance of ever making it to VP goodbye, and I don’t want to have worked like a demon these past few years for nothing.

  Thankfully David’s ready to take over whenever I want him to . . . he’s itching to, in fact. This baby belongs to both of us, so why does the mother always need to be the one to stay at home? All that nonsense about ‘mother knows best’ is so old-school. Why would I know more than David, just because I gave birth? At this point, we know as much as each other, all based on the plethora of books we devour every night.

  We’ve plenty of time to prepare. That’s what I tell myself when the thought of the coming ‘exam’ makes my heart beat faster, and something like fear sweeps over me. For God’s sake, we’re not even at the hallowed three-month mark yet, the point when my ever-cautious husband will feel comfortable sharing our big news with friends and family.

  I wasn’t fussed about waiting; this whole thing is so surreal that it feels on a par with telling people we’re jetting off to Mars. But David asked how I’d cope if things went wrong and we had to tell people that news, too. I couldn’t say that since I barely believed I was pregnant in the first place, it was hard to imagine how I’d feel if I lost it. Anyway, there’s no reason for things to go awry. My body behaves like clockwork; I rarely even come down with a cold. This baby is safe while it’s inside me. It’s when it emerges that we really need to prepare for.

  The one person I did tell was my mother. She’s rarely someone I confide in, but I wanted her reassurance . . . to hear that I could be a mother and have a successful career, too. Her reaction wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, though. She kept asking, ‘Are you sure?’, as if I’d somehow failed to read the test correctly. Or maybe she meant: am I sure this is what I want? Either way, she was stunned, saying she’d thought I didn’t want any children. I barely stopped myself from answering that I didn’t – not right now, anyway – and that this wasn’t planned.

  We didn’t talk long. I couldn’t bear the doubt her questions stirred up, the uncertainty I’d managed to clamp down on. I made an excuse to get off the phone, and we haven’t spoken since. I’m sure she meant well, but it’s a little late for questions. This is real . . . or so I keep telling myself.

  And I will want this. I will feel something for the child inside me. I’ll keep cramming in all that baby information, keep working hard so I can take time off without worry, keep telling myself everything will be okay and that I’ve got this all under control.

  After all, it is just a baby. How hard can it be?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Mummy, up!’

  Charlotte’s eyes barely open before a heavy weight lands on her midsection, knocking all the air from her. Her head still pounds, and she glances at the clock on the bedside table in disbelief: it’s just gone 5 a.m. Even on the busiest of workdays, she rarely makes it out of bed before 5.30. She stares at the child on top of her, dismay flooding in as she realises that her mind, her heart, are still blank.

  ‘Back to sleep, okay? It’s not time to get up yet.’ Please, God, may it not be time to get up yet. Despite lying down for most of the evening yesterday and all night, her body aches like she’s run a marathon – and having run three of them, she knows exactly how bad that feels.

  ‘Nope! Let’s get up!’ Anabelle shakes her head, her bed-head hair waving around her like a halo. With her rosy cheeks and long-lashed eyes she’s the epitome of cute, but Charlotte can see by the set of the girl’s face that she’s not going to be pushed around. Well, two can play at that game, and Charlotte is the adult here. How difficult can it be to evict a child from your bed?

  But before Charlotte can open her mouth, Anabelle dives under the duvet and burrows into her so closely it feels like she’ll need surgical removal. Haven’t three year olds heard of personal space? And where the hell is David?

  Charlotte manages to lift her head just enough to make out that David’s side of the bed is empty, the covers undisturbed. Has he even come to bed? She attempts to wriggle away from Anabelle’s death grip, conscious that she’s not wearing any pyjamas. She’s never worn pyjamas, actually, but if she’d known she’d be cuddling with a three year old, she definitely would have put some on last night.

  Ugh, last night. She grimaces as images flood into her throbbing head. Anabelle and David had returned from the park just in time for supper. David had turned on some telly channel from hell while cooking foul-smelling fish fingers he’d picked up from the off-licence down the road. Knocking up supper didn’t sound that complicated, but given the number of questions he lobbed at her from the kitchen while she feigned sleep, it must have been in the realm of astrophysics. How come an intelligent man like him couldn’t figure out how to work the oven?

  Not that she has any clue – well, she never used to, anyway. She can’t remember the last time they actually used that oven. Usually, one of them picked up a takeaway on the way home from work. Either that or they ordered from the thick stack of menus they’d collected over the years.

  The telly kept blaring until David convinced Anabelle it was bedtime, then ushered the girl into their room without even brushing her teeth. She’d whined that she wanted Mummy to put her down, and Charlotte could tell David was caving in. But she kept her eyes firmly closed and her back turned away, even when David persisted in asking question after question. Where were the PJs? Did he need to brush Anabelle’s hair? Did she wear a nappy at night?

  Hadn’t her husband ever put their daughter to bed, for goodness’ sake? Even if he wasn’t a stay-at-home dad now, he must do it on a regular basis – there’s no way Charlotte would make it home from Cellbril this early, not in million years. It seemed like he was the one with amnesia, not her.

  Not that she could blame him for faltering: Anabelle’s bedtime appeared to be more complicated than directing a mission to Mars. From the endless stories David had to tell, to the holding of her hand a certain way, to singing a goodnight song while rocking back and forth just so . . . Charlotte couldn’t believe it was so complex. Did they do this crazy dance every night? How on earth had they allowed that to happen? For God’s sake, put the child into bed and get on with it.

  Finally Anabelle was asleep, but she didn’t stay that way. She woke up once for the loo, once because she couldn’t find Zebby, and once because, well, Charlotte didn’t even know why. Even if she hadn’t already had a headache, she was sure she’d have one after such a broken night’s sleep. No wonder she looked so bloody knackered.

  ‘You need to go back to bed,’ she says again, in what she hopes is an authoritative voice. She kicks her legs gently to try to dislodge Anabelle, but the little girl grips more tightly. How did such a small thing get so strong? ‘Go back to bed and close your eyes.’

  ‘But Mummy!’ Anabelle lifts her head from where, unbeknown to her, she’s currently squashing Charlotte’s nipple. God. ‘Look! It’s light outside now.’ She gestures to a tiny bit of light slicing through a crack in the blackout curtains, and Charlotte squints. What’s the good of ugly curtains if they don’t even do the job?

  ‘It’s just streetlight,’ Charlotte
mumbles, heart sinking as she realises there’s no way her fully alert daughter will fall back asleep. She pulls the duvet against her, creating a shield between her nakedness and Anabelle. ‘Right. Well, why don’t you go get breakfast and turn on the telly?’ She always turned her nose up at mums who shoved their kids in front of the TV, but right now she can’t get her child there fast enough. ‘I’ll be up in a minute or two.’ More like an hour – she needs more sleep for her brain to start functioning, let alone firing on all cylinders at the office.

  Because she is going to the office today, even if her head feels like it’s about to burst. There’s no way she’s staying home in this chaotic, cluttered flat. Her temporary memory loss might make this morning a little challenging, but she’s sure she can get up to speed on everything quickly. She knows her job inside out, and right now she needs something familiar.

  Does Anabelle go to nursery? Where does Charlotte drop her, and when does she pick her up . . . or does David do that? He must, since he always leaves work earlier, right? Confusion swarms over her, and she sits up in bed. She has to remember something soon, but right now, she’s as clueless as ever. Thank God for David, wherever he is. He’ll have things organised to a T. Then she remembers his five million questions last night, and doubt trickles in. Well, he’d better, because she sure doesn’t.

  Anabelle’s eyes pop, and her mouth forms a round ‘o’. ‘Mummy, you never let me watch TV! You get me dressed, and then make my porridge, and then drink your coffee while your “brain gets started”.’ She scoots from the duvet, rolling with a thud on to the floor. ‘Silly Mummy.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Come on, then.’ Charlotte groans, then swings her feet on to the floor, remembering too late that she’s naked. Anabelle gives her a full-body scan and Charlotte sighs, grabbing her robe. The last thing she needs this morning is a three year old questioning why she hasn’t waxed her bikini line in what looks like forever. ‘Let’s find David. Er, Daddy. Dad. Whoever.’

  It’s so weird to think of David as Daddy . . . but not as weird as thinking of herself as a mother. She really must remember today – she’s not sure how much longer she can keep pretending. Charlotte opens the door to track down her husband, wondering if she should just tell him the truth now. There’s no way she’s dealing with this on her own. There’s no way she can deal with this on her own.

  Her eyes widen when she spots David curled up with a pillow and blankets on the sofa. Why did he sleep out here? Did he not want to disturb her when her head was so sore?

  ‘David!’ she hisses, wincing at the pain hammering her skull.

  He lifts his head and wipes his mouth, and once again she’s surprised at the bags under his eyes and the grey now colonising his hair. It has been a few years, she reminds herself. And – she sighs, remembering her pudgy tummy – she’s changed, too. Well, her body has, anyway.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  Charlotte sits down, nestling into his body. He’s as warm as ever, and she plasters herself against him, drawing in his strength. No matter how strange the last few hours since the accident have been, he is still here, and they are still them – Charlotte and David, as solid as ever. She tries not to flinch as Anabelle wiggles her way between them, separating them as neatly as a knife before hopping off the sofa again.

  ‘I need a wee! I need a wee!’ Anabelle is jumping from one foot to the other. ‘Mummy, I need a wee!’

  ‘Well, go on then,’ Charlotte says, noticing David give her a funny look. Is that not what she says? She’s hardly going to accompany the child to the loo. Is she?

  ‘Come on. I’ll take you.’ David hauls himself off the sofa, and Charlotte raises an eyebrow at the state of his boxers. Saggy and faded, they’re more fit for the rubbish than the bedroom. She used to buy David expensive new underwear twice a year, birthday and Christmas, like clockwork. What happened to that?

  David takes Anabelle’s hand as she keeps up a constant chatter on the way to the toilet. Charlotte closes her eyes as the two of them clatter around the kitchen then into the bedroom, where it sounds like David’s wrestling Anabelle to get her dressed. They head back to the toilet and begin a tooth-brushing battle while Charlotte pads into the bedroom, her mouth stretching in a yawn. Despite her pounding head, she can’t wait to get to work. She loves lurching on to the top deck of the bus each morning, watching from above as the city comes to life; feeling she’s a part of the heaving, striving metropolis. She loves the ball of adrenaline that ping-pongs around her belly when she enters the office every morning, her brain revving up as she runs through the list of clients and projects awaiting her attention. And she absolutely loves pitching for new business, and the thrill of success when she signs yet another huge deal. Work makes her feel alive, in a way that nothing else can.

  Charlotte opens the wardrobe, heart sinking as she takes in the jumbled collection of baggy shirts, jeans (and an impressive assortment of jeggings!) and jumpers. Where are the ten pairs of black trousers she owned, in every length and cut? David used to mock her when she bought yet another pair, but you can never have too many black trousers. She’d had a range of sharply cut blazers, too, and those are nowhere to be seen. Maybe she moved them somewhere else? Along with the sparkly tops for nights out on the razz . . . although those nights had been fewer and fewer as more of her friends had defected to Babyland.

  What the hell does she wear to work every day? She does go to work every day, right? Her gut clenches and a cold dread seeps through her when she remembers the casual clothes she was wearing at the time of the accident, and the fact that she was nowhere near the office on a weekday. She can’t be working part-time; Vivek always says that Cellbril ‘isn’t a place for slackers who can’t get off their arse and into the office five days a week’. She wouldn’t want to drop any days. Doing so would obliterate any hope of future progression, and there’s no way she’d throw away what she’s been working towards for years.

  No, there must be another answer to this wardrobe conundrum.

  David pushes past her, practically jumping into trousers, shirt and jacket.

  ‘I’ve got to get going,’ he says, gathering up his keys and wallet. ‘I’ll drop Anabelle at Mum’s for the day. No arguments; she’ll be absolutely fine, and you’re not in any fit state to be supermum today. She’ll bring her back around three. I’ll be in and out of meetings all day, but call if you need anything, okay?’ He meets her eyes. ‘We’ll talk tonight. About what happened at Lily’s, and something else that’s come up.’ His face tightens and he takes a step towards the door. ‘Okay?’

  She nods, but she’s still stuck on the word ‘supermum’. Is that what she is? And what exactly does that entail? Nothing that affects her working life, right? You can be supermum and superworker at the same time. If anyone can do it, she can.

  ‘Oh, and I talked to the mechanic last night,’ David says, struggling to get Anabelle’s wriggly arms into her anorak. ‘He says your car will be sorted by the end of the week – just the side dent to fix and some paintwork. But you’ll be around home as usual, right? You won’t need the car for anything.’

  Around home as usual? Charlotte recoils at the words. What the—? She draws in a breath, telling herself to stay calm. Maybe she works from home? There had been rumours about Cellbril’s headquarters moving to Germany, leaving the UK office to work virtually, in a bid to cut costs. Vivek had told them it’d never happen, but . . . that might explain the absence of work clothes, although wouldn’t she still need those for pitches and meetings?

  ‘Right, Anabelle, give Mummy a kiss and let’s make a move.’ David jingles his keys.

  Anabelle streaks over to her and places a crumby kiss on Charlotte’s forehead, but Charlotte can’t even force a smile over the fear and panic gathering inside her. She can’t have given up her job – a job she adores, a job that’s been her life – to simply stay at home. It’s just not possible. She can’t imagine the boredom of the daily grind, your world revolving solely aroun
d a child. Some people might be happy with that life, but she certainly wouldn’t.

  So where the hell are her clothes?

  ‘David.’ Charlotte’s voice cuts across Anabelle’s chatter, and David turns from doing up Anabelle’s zip.

  ‘Yes?’

  Charlotte bites her lip, thinking now’s the time to let him know that she has no idea what her world has become – that she’s praying it’s just as she left it, at least on the work front. But with ‘supermum’ ringing in her head, she can’t release the words. She’s always pushed herself to excel, and that clearly hasn’t changed with motherhood. Telling David that not only is she miles from being a supermum, she can’t even remember having a child, feels like admitting she’s losing her grip . . . like she’s out of control. And that’s just not her – past or present, it seems.

  ‘Just . . . well, is there anyone I should call? To say I won’t be there? Or that I’m taking a sick day?’ Please may he say I need to call work. She’s desperate to know that she still has her job; her place in a company she’s worked so hard for. ‘I’m feeling a little, well, foggy this morning,’ she mumbles, thinking that’s the understatement of the year.

  ‘You really did take a knock on the head, didn’t you?’ David’s face softens. ‘Well, I’m not exactly sure of your weekly schedule. You and Anabelle usually have some kind of playgroup or music class every day. Maybe check your calendar?’

  ‘Okay.’ She can barely get the word out as her heart crashes to the ground. Playgroup? Music class?

  Shit.

  The door closes, and Charlotte sinks to the floor. She wants to scream, to bang her fists on the walls and wail, but it feels like all her energy has drained away, leaving behind a lifeless shell. All those years . . . all that hard work, the long hours, the travel for weeks at a time . . . she loved it, yes, but she’d pushed herself for a reason. She’d wanted desperately to be VP, to be in a position that meant something.