Life Begins Read online

  Tim, busy grappling with an unfolding ladder from a hatch in the bedroom ceiling, said he would do his best and did she want to go up first or should he?

  ‘Tim,’ Charlotte pleaded, ‘can you get me this house?’ She tugged at his jacket. She didn’t care about the attic. They were pointless places, used for storing things probably better off in a skip. She didn’t like their dusty cool either, the sense of the unknown crouched inside. Sam would love it, though, she reflected, glancing upwards with a trace more interest. Sam, who didn’t want to move, who was too young to see the sense – the importance – of a clean slate for the pair of them, would love it. As a little boy one of his favourite places had been the tank cupboard behind the eaves on the top landing of her mother’s house. Discovered during a game of hide-and-seek, he had taken to retreating there when no need for concealment was required, staying sometimes for alarmingly long periods, but emerging always with dirty knees and the dazed, triumphant expression of an explorer returning from a distant land.

  ‘Hey, I’ll do my best, okay?’ Tim promised, clearly somewhat surprised by the urgency in her tone. He patted the ladder. ‘Now, are you going to take a look or not?’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘Not now, thanks. I’ll save it for Sam. Talking of whom,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘I ought to be going. I’ve got to pick him up from after-school club, drive him to his father’s and get back in time to go out. I’m a bit worried about him, actually,’ she confessed, stepping out of the way of the ladder.

  ‘Who?’ puffed Tim, still trying to seal the hatch.

  ‘Sam,’ Charlotte murmured, momentarily transported back to her unsatisfactory consultation with the very young, very smiling, faintly condescending form teacher earlier that afternoon. Charlotte had left the meeting feeling humoured rather than reassured, angrily contemplating the empathetic deficiencies of a creature whose talents extended only to the dates of Henry VIII’s wives and how to inscribe those dates across a whiteboard in straight lines, a creature whose sole knowledge of childhood was her very recent own.

  ‘You’re worried about Sam?’ Tim prompted, brushing patches of dust off his suit.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Charlotte protested, heartened nonetheless at this display of interest. ‘I saw his teacher today… Something unpleasant is going on at school, I’m sure of it. But Sam, like all children, I suppose, would endure anything rather than the hassle – the embarrassment – of complaint.’

  ‘Bullying, you mean?’

  Charlotte shrugged. ‘Maybe. A bit…’

  Any temptation to elaborate was cut short by the slam of the front door. Starting a little guiltily, they hurried downstairs to exchange hasty pleasantries with the owner of the house, a Mrs Stowe, in her late fifties with pale blue eyes and long grey hair kept in girlish fashion off her face with a wide blue hairband.

  ‘We were just going, but it’s lovely, thank you so much. In fact, I might…’ Charlotte glanced at Tim, who had shrunk back into composed, estate-agent mode, clutching his sheaf of papers and staring hard at the briars of tight green rosebuds springing round the front door ‘… that is to say – and I know this is probably premature and unprofessional – but I might be interested in putting in an offer.’

  Mrs Stowe smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, that’s very nice, dear, but as I hope Mr Croft explained, this was very much an unofficial visit. My husband, in particular, is still keen to sell privately. In fact –’

  Before she could reach the end of the sentence Tim had abandoned his flower-study and was bringing the encounter to a smooth close with farewells and thanks and promises to call.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Charlotte wailed, once they were out of earshot. ‘Either it’s on the market or it isn’t.’

  ‘Well, no, actually, since people are entitled to change their minds. And as Mrs Stowe said, that was something of a premature viewing, agreed to by her thanks to my powers of persuasion. Getting a foot in the door, Charlotte, that’s so often the key. I shall talk to her first thing tomorrow, see what I can do to move things forward, maybe drop in the idea of sealed bids…’

  ‘Sealed bids?’

  ‘If Mrs Burgess comes back with an offer on your place and you can, as you say, raise a bit more money, you could be in a very strong position.’ Tim couldn’t keep the heartiness from his voice. One of Charlotte’s reservations about him, he suspected, was that he was only an estate agent. Well, here he was, showing her how important that could be, how he could guide her and help her; that he could be depended upon. She looked lovely, too, standing all flustered by her car, with the wind knotting her extraordinary hair and her green eyes a bit wild. He even liked it that she was complicated, blowing hot and cold, keeping him guessing, keeping him on his toes. ‘You enjoy your mah-jong and don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll phone as soon as I have any news.’ He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘Okay? This is my job,’ he added, aware that he was pushing his luck, but riding high now, unable to resist. ‘It’s what I do. I’m good at it. You go off and have a nice evening. We’ll talk soon. And, Charlotte?’

  She paused, one foot in her car. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The other business… us… No pressure, I promise. Scout’s honour.’ Her face collapsed into a warm, relieved smile that made his heart surge. He’d quite forgotten the thrill of a chase, the sweetness of a prize that required patience.

  Chapter Four

  I am three people: the daughter who writes home each Sunday with talk of the occasional tasty meal, the results of maths tests and hopes of selection for the swimming team; the quiet, carrot-headed girl called Bootface, who keeps her eyes down and feigns sleep when the teasing starts, holding the sheets tight against her clammy skin; and I am Charlotte, friend of a day-girl called Bella, who sits next to me in class and invites me to her house for leave-weekends and half-terms, where we play with her mother’s makeup and try to handle cigarettes like film stars, letting the smoke stream between our teeth, pressing the pink prints of our lips round the cork tips.

  Bella has an elder brother called Adrian, who is short and thick-set, with whiskery hairs on his chin, and ears that stick out like brackets. I like him because he rides horses and because he doesn’t care that he is ugly. His eyes are a sharp blue and full of teasing. He smells of saddle soap and the mulch of the stableyard. He calls me Charlie and orders me around. I fetch and carry tack, buckets, brooms, brushes with a singing heart. Between the clammy sheets I seek consolation in dreams of his piercing gaze and big hands. Calloused, the nails stubby and full of dirt, I want them on me, stroking the nape of my neck and pushing up through the long orange burden of my hair. And in such dreaming I start to believe that maybe there is another me – a fourth – sitting like the miniature Russian doll inside the others, waiting to be found.

  The Rotherhithe house was everything Charlotte had always assumed Martin would despise: part of a modern development within a gated compound, one in a row of identical homes overlooking a mini roundabout filled – at this time of year – with regimental lines of daffodils and tulips. Entering the place always made Charlotte feel as if she was in some sort of adult Toytown, where grown-ups could play safely at the normally hazardous business of living.

  Sam, however, claimed to like it a lot. It was ‘cool’, he said, to be able to see the river Thames from his bedroom and not to need a helmet for riding his bike round the compound’s network of plump, humped Tarmac pathways. And when Charlotte pressed (gently, oh-so-gently, resisting the urge to howl that the only mothering worth anything was her own), he claimed to like Cindy, too. She cooked home-made pizza and let him choose the topping. She allowed him to get out three DVDs at a time in Blockbuster and on Sundays he could stay in his pyjamas till lunchtime if he wanted. Charlotte received such pieces of information (randomly and infrequently delivered) with as much stoicism as she could muster, fighting urges to scour cookbooks for pizza recipes and sweep shelves of DVDs into her shopping basket.

  Of course
, Sam’s happiness was all that mattered; Charlotte knew that, had always known that. Far better an indulgent, saccharine Cindy than a cruel one, though she did marvel that Martin clearly colluded in such cosseting – Martin, who had spent so much of their son’s brief life reprimanding her for being too soft, who, on one particularly horrible night, had locked Sam’s bedroom door to discourage his nocturnal wandering into their bedroom. When the whimpering started, he had locked theirs too, pinning her to the bed, ranting about some childcare tactics he’d seen on the telly, telling her that this was it, that she had to choose – to act with him or against him. As if he was the one being hurt rather than their six-year-old, sobbing in voluble confusion across the landing.

  Charlotte had chosen. It had been easy. She had crawled into Sam’s bed and stayed there all night, telling herself he needed her, even though he had fallen asleep in seconds and she had lain awake, listening to the pumping of her own heart till the birds sang.

  ‘Okay, here we are,’ Charlotte trilled, doing her best to sound cheerful as they pulled up on to the slab of spare Tarmac next to Cindy’s Saab. ‘Did you remember your toothbrush?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget to use it, then.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘You haven’t had George round for a while, have you?’ she offered next, in a fresh bid to lift the gloom that seemed to linger after each school day now, even the ones that hadn’t involved the ordeal of after-school club. ‘I’m seeing Theresa tonight – shall I fix something up?’

  Sam made a noise suggesting rather than actually articulating the word ‘No.’

  ‘No – thank – you – Mum,’ Charlotte corrected sternly, hoicking his bag out of the boot, then kissing his head to sweeten the reprimand. In the same instant a light came on in the kitchen, which overlooked the drive, bringing the room to life like a flickering TV screen. Cindy, in pink velour jogging bottoms and a white T-shirt, her blonde hair gathered in a fashionable spiky knot, strolled across the centre, her back to them as she reached for a cupboard. Charlotte couldn’t help staring, at the slim honey-coloured arm, at the ample curve of the bustline, the trim indent of the waist. Freya, she recalled suddenly, had had a doll called Cindy, with wavy yellow-blonde hair, pearl studs in her ears, red-painted fingernails and a chest so pointy and hard that when they gave up on playing and fought each other instead she was often the top choice of weapon.

  When they were greeted on the doorstep, however, Charlotte couldn’t help noticing that her husband’s new partner looked rather below her usual dolly-perfect self. Though she smiled as she always did and said ‘darling’ to Sam, who surprisingly – annoyingly – didn’t cringe and make his gagging face, but merely offered a shy smile back, there were blue-black smudges under her eyes and evidence of thick concealer to hide several large blemishes on her face. Charlotte, poised as always to scuttle back to the refuge of the car, couldn’t resist asking if she was all right.

  ‘Oh, absolutely fine, thanks – a bit of a hard week at the office. Crazy markets – nobody can read them at the moment. Thank God it’s Friday. Hey, sweetheart, nice to see you.’ She patted Sam’s head, offering Charlotte the torchbeam of a smile with which she had managed every one of their encounters: fierce, sharp, bright, there was never any way round it other than retreat.

  ‘Bye, Sam, be good.’ Charlotte ruffled his hair and called, ‘See you Sunday night,’ as he ran off. Then she confided to Cindy, in a much quieter voice, that she needed a word with Martin some time over the weekend.

  ‘You can call any time you want, you know that, Charlotte.’

  ‘Yes… I… of course. Thanks.’

  ‘But I’ll tell him if you like.’

  Charlotte blinked in the glare of the smile as a dizzying, violent sense of usurpation took hold. This woman had had an affair with her husband and now was sharing his bed permanently and playing mother to her child. She had trampled upon the fragile, threadbare remains of her and Martin’s happiness by making herself available to him. And now here they were with their Toytown house and matching cars, playing at happy families, while she grappled with the vile realities of money, houses, parenting… It was intolerable. Martin always said to consult him about everything to do with Sam but he certainly didn’t make it easy. Drop-offs and pick-ups were never a good time to talk and on the phone he either sounded rushed and distant or old enmity crept into the conversation, steering them off course.

  But having managed a civil farewell, the feeling passed, like a bout of nausea, leaving only pity; Cindy was welcome to Martin, and he to her. Their marriage had been a limping, draining thing. She was well out of it, well out.

  She had reached the bottom of the drive when Martin’s black BMW swung into sight. ‘Hey.’ He got out quickly, pulling his briefcase after him and running one hand through his hair as he always did when agitated.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You’ve dropped him off, then?’

  ‘Yes, just now. I’m in a hurry I – I’m going to Theresa’s.’

  ‘Fine. See you Sunday, then.’

  They were standing several feet apart, Martin at one end of his car and Charlotte taking small steps backwards towards hers. His hair, youthfully fair still, was visibly thinning and in retreat from his forehead, yet physically he looked in better shape than he had for years, his suit trousers hanging loosely off his hips, his upper body exuding poise and strength that seemed new.

  ‘It might be a bit earlier than usual – I hope that’s okay. Say, four o’clock?’ he added.

  Charlotte bit her lip, weighing up the easy option of agreeing against a small inner shout of protest at being taken for granted. She was visiting her mother on Sunday. The early drop-back would mean rushing home from Kent, having to make sure there was something sensible for Sam’s tea. ‘May I ask why?’

  She saw him tense, a visible bracing of his entire body, as if he was preparing to maintain his balance against the approach of a large wave or a violent gust of wind. ‘Cindy and I have joined a choir. The rehearsal time is five o’clock on Sunday. I need to drop Sam and get back here so as not to be late.’

  Charlotte couldn’t stifle a snort of disbelief. ‘You – a choir?’

  ‘Just tell me if that’s okay,’ Martin muttered, hugging his briefcase, almost bashful, as if he, too, somewhere deep inside, recognized the incongruity of the old Martin whom she had known so well – obstinate lover of punk rock and Led Zeppelin – offering the services of his scratchy bass to the classical formality of a choir. ‘Can I deliver Sam back at four o’clock on Sunday or not?’ He clenched his jaw, casting a wistful glance at the illuminated window from where Cindy had offered a stagy wave to acknowledge his arrival, then disappeared.

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose so,’ Charlotte conceded, incredulity giving way to weariness. ‘Four o’clock. I’ll be there. I’m having lunch with Mum that day – probably be glad of an excuse to get away,’ she admitted ruefully.

  ‘I see… Well, thanks.’

  ‘But I do need to talk to you,’ she called, as he turned for the house, the worries about Sam rushing back at her, together with a dim terror at the prospect of daring to ask to borrow money.

  Martin set down his briefcase on the doorstep and folded his arms. ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’ Cindy, studiously not looking out of the window, had stepped back into the frame of the kitchen. Next to her Charlotte could just make out the dishevelled top of Sam’s head and then one of her son’s stubby chewed-nail hands, stained with some felt-pen doodle, pointing at something.

  ‘I am. I meant tomorrow – on the phone. It’s to do with Sam.’

  ‘Well, I assumed that. Why can’t you tell me now, for heaven’s sake?’ A fine rain had started, more like a floating mist, its droplets glittering as they caught the sheets of light streaming from the house. Martin stepped back under the protection of his porch.

  Charlotte put her handbag over her head and ducked towards her car. ‘Not now, there isn’t time.’<
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  ‘Charlotte.’ The syllables flew through the wet air like missiles, sharp and angry. ‘If it’s important tell me now, for fuck’s sake.’

  Charlotte flinched, remembering all the bad stuff – suspicion, hostility, the desire to be free. ‘Tomorrow, Martin. I’ll call you.’

  A moment later Martin appeared on the illuminated stage of the kitchen, an arm round Cindy’s smooth white shoulders, a hand ruffling the soft straw tangle of Sam’s head. Man, woman and child: the perfect human triangle. But not perfect, Charlotte hastily reminded herself, turning the ignition once and then a second time to get the engine going, because Sam wasn’t their child, Cindy looked drained and Martin would tire of her one day – if he hadn’t already.

  En route to Theresa’s, she stopped at the off-licence in the high street. Emerging with a bottle of rioja, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a bright red bobble hat on the pavement opposite. A tall skinny girl with frizzy orange hair walked at his heels, shoulders hunched inside a school blazer that was several sizes too large. Edging back into the traffic a few minutes later, Charlotte spotted the pair again, getting into a silver Mercedes. They were laughing about something this time, with such gusto that she found herself pondering what it would have been like if Martin had died instead of being unfaithful, whether the end of a marriage was easier to accept with death as its instigator instead of human failing.

  There was a full moon that night, large and melon-yellow, hanging so low over the skyline that George, studying it through the upper pane of the bathroom window, imagined it cartwheeling across the treetops like a giant Frisbee. He had been commanded to wash by his mother, who had an uncanny knack of keeping track of such things even when she appeared to be paying no attention. Not a shower, a bath, she had said, as if she knew about his secret trick of running taps and splashing water on his hair when time was short or he wasn’t in the mood. He hadn’t been in the mood that night, but she had bustled into the bathroom before he had had time to lock the door, set the taps running and tipped in so much of her special bubble bath that when he got in a great shelf of foam spilled over the end on to the floor.