I come to Lilac Park every day to look at babies. They are everywhere, as numerous as the squirrels. Two women are standing by the entrance gate, idly pushing their prams back and forth as they chat. A few metres away, a toddler is running circles around a tree. A young mother is walking towards me, pushing a bright red buggy and smiling into the late-afternoon sunshine. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I feel dizzy, as if somebody is spinning me around. Turning away, I pretend to watch the ducks in the pond, but my heart races as she trundles past, the buggy wheels squeaking cheerfully.
There’s plenty to see and do here: tennis courts; a children’s play area; a rose garden and ornamental pond; a bowling green; two football pitches where matches are played on Sunday mornings. And there’s the park café, of course. On weekdays mums flock there like pigeons, clogging up the space with their expensive buggies, fighting over the few available high chairs. They cluster around the tables in large groups, breastfeeding and chatting and sipping their organic chai lattes. Sometimes I sit at the counter and listen to them discussing sleeping problems and sore nipples, debating the convenience of disposable nappies against the need to save the planet. I hear their little ones crying for attention. I want to pick them up and give them a cuddle, but of course I don’t. Daren’t.
Nobody ever notices me. Why would they? I am a single person. Unattached, unburdened by baby equipment. They might have acknowledged me in the past, but now I’m of no interest. How could I possibly understand what it’s like to be a parent? How could I have any idea of what they’ve been through or what their life is like now? They assume I have no horrific birth stories or funny anecdotes to share, no tiny prodigy to boast about. I’ve been to the café countless times, but they never see me. I am invisible.
It’s not just the mums who ignore me, it’s the dads too, although not many use the park during the week. Dads tend to prefer papooses to pushchairs. I suppose they think it looks more manly and also more caring to carry their babies rather than push them about. They like to have them pressed close, sniffling and dribbling onto their jackets. They wear the stains of fatherhood with pride.
At the weekend the park is heaving with young families – mums, dads, babies, toddlers, school-age children – often with grandparents in tow. They gather around the edge of the play area, talking in gender-segregated groups, with one eye vaguely on their charges. Sometimes I sit on the wall by the sandpit and watch the children digging holes or making castles. There are arguments over plastic spades and attempted thefts of unattended scooters. I want to mediate, to explain about sharing. I want to help the toddlers climb the slide and catch them at the bottom, or lift them onto the see-saw and sit on the other end, but interacting with other people’s children is only allowed if you have one of your own.
Hanging around the park is torture, but I have to come here to check on Mabel. She lives with her mummy and daddy in the house opposite the main gates. Number 74. It’s a purpose-built Edwardian maisonette with its own front door and lots of original features – the sort of place that’s very popular with hipster types retreating from Hackney. The primary schools have better ratings here and there’s less pollution. Being further from the city centre, house prices are lower.
Amber and George’s flat is on the first and second floors. They have a loft conversion. I only know this because there are windows in the roof. On the ground floor, there’s a narrow entrance hall where there’s just enough room to keep the buggy. I’ve seen Amber struggling to get past with her shopping, running up and down the stairs with the bags, trying to get it all into the kitchen before Mabel wakes up. She has no idea that I’m in the park opposite, hiding in plain sight amongst the joggers and dog-walkers, the pram-pushers and duck-feeders. Watching.
Amber is clearly not enjoying motherhood. There’s no smug glow about her like the mums in the park café. Her expression is vacant but tinged with sadness, as if she’s grieving for someone, or something. A previous lifestyle, I’m guessing, although she must have known what she was letting herself in for. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s not coping. She can’t be bothered to brush her hair or put on make-up, and she wears the same grey joggers and purple fleece every single day. As my grandmother would have put it, she’s letting herself go. I wonder what George makes of that …
Her orbit is small, consisting of trips to the tiny supermarket at the end of the road, the pharmacy and the health centre. She always takes the same route, cutting across the park. Off she sets with the buggy, head down, eyes fixed on the path. Other mothers talk on their phones while they’re walking, or bump into other parents they know, or sit on a bench and take their babies out to play, but not Amber. She avoids making human contact with anyone. For her, leaving the house is a necessity not a pleasure. It’s as if she’s been ordered to have fresh air, but doesn’t want to breathe it in.
I’ve never seen her at weekends, not once. I think she must spend them in bed. She and George don’t go out together; you’d never know they were a couple. They share the childcare and there are no overlaps, no doubling up. George seems to like being a dad a lot more than Amber likes being a mum. He loves the park; he can’t get enough of it. He puts Mabel in a baby carrier, which he wears on his back, reminding him of his trekking days, perhaps, when he used to go travelling to far-flung places. Occasionally he takes her to the family-friendly pub on the high street, presumably to meet his mates and watch football. I don’t follow him inside, because that would be too risky. Too obvious.
I stare at number 74, willing the front door to open and Amber to emerge. I haven’t seen her for a few days. It’s worrying, not to say annoying. Soon the park gates will be shut. Time to make my way home, I decide.
It’s a short bus ride to my flat, which is in a less fashionable and therefore cheaper area than Lilac Park. I hate the place, but I needed somewhere to live at short notice and it was all I could afford by myself. The living space looks onto a brick wall and there’s black mould in the bathroom that I can’t get rid of, no matter how hard I try. The staircase is shared with other tenants, most of whom I’ve never seen, and nobody bothers to clean the common parts – least of all me.
I let myself in and climb the filthy stairs to the top floor. The door to my flat has a dent at the bottom where somebody has tried to kick it in. There’s one bedroom and an open-plan kitchen/diner/living room. The furniture is all cheap beech laminate, badly assembled, and the sofa is hard and uncomfortable.
I haven’t had the motivation to make the place more homely. There have been no jolly dinner parties, no weekend guests – no visitors at all, in fact. It has been my secret hideaway, my self-imposed prison. I don’t see old friends any more and have little desire to make new ones. I came off social media and got rid of my smartphone. I’m virtually off the grid; it’s easier that way. Nobody can ask how I’m feeling or what my plans for the future are. Nobody can track me down.
Hanging my coat on the peg, I walk into the living area and stare at my dismal surroundings. The coffee table is stained with mug rings. Boxes of books and ornaments are still stacked against the wall and my pictures remain in bubble wrap. When I moved in, I couldn’t be bothered to unpack, and now the boxes have become makeshift furniture, surfaces for dirty plates and junk mail or to rest my feet on.
Taking a bottle of wine from the fridge, I pour myself a large glass. I can’t go on like this; the situation is killing me. I’ve become a ghost of myself, haunting a life that never was and can never be. If I had any sense, I’d leave London altogether and start afresh. I even have somewhere to go to.
I should leave Mabel behind too. The trouble is, I’m not sure I can.
Amber has never been a morning person. Seven months ago, she’d have only countenanced waking at 5 a.m. for a holiday – and even then, she would’ve slept on the way to the airport. But these days it feels horribly normal to be up and about two hours before the sun comes up, doing the all-too-familiar daily chores: sterilising bottles, wiping down the changing unit, hanging countless little sleepsuits over the radiators. She’s already had breakfast; by ten o’clock she’ll be ready for lunch. No wonder she can’t shift the baby fat, she thinks as she takes off her dressing gown and briefly catches sight of her body in the mirror.
On the subject of which, what on earth is she going to wear this evening? She can hardly turn up in her usual sloppy jogging bottoms and baggy T-shirt stained with baby vomit. None of her old dresses fit, and she’s refused to buy a bigger wardrobe on the grounds that it would be accepting defeat. But she feels defeated anyway, so what difference does it make?
She sighs as she gets dressed. It’s all right for George, who’s already got out his best suit and a cool designer shirt and laid them on the bed. He’ll look as gorgeous as ever. Fatherhood has taken no visible toll on him – he doesn’t even have bags under his eyes.
Weirdly, he seems to like getting up before dawn. She can hear him now, singing to Mabel as he baths her. The walls in these maisonettes are paper-thin; he really should keep his voice down so early in the morning. It’s not Mabel’s usual bath time, but she woke up with a full nappy, the contents of which had mysteriously spread up her back, and it was the easiest way to clean her up. Judging by the protests coming from the bathroom, her daughter isn’t a morning person either.
She puts her fingers in her ears as she walks into the kitchen. Please, George, make her stop! Mabel’s cries cut right through her; sometimes they’re so piercing they make her want to jump out of the window.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ her sister Ruby announced a few weeks ago, when she turned up to find Amber sobbing her eyes out while Mabel screamed blue murder in her cot. ‘You need a holiday, just the two of you. A week somewhere exotic. I’ll babysit.’
‘I can’t leave Mabel for that long,’ Amber replied instantly, despite her heart leaping at the idea.
‘Five days, then.’
‘No. She’d miss me too much … And I’d miss her,’ she added, although she wasn’t entirely sure she meant it.
Ruby wasn’t giving up. ‘Okay. How about a long weekend?’
In the end, they settled on just one night away.
One night. It feels simultaneously too long and too short a time. Amber knows that one night without Mabel will not be enough to fix things between her and George, but she’s grateful to her sister all the same. She badly needs a break. But with only a few hours to go before they’re due to leave, she feels nervous and wretched with guilt.
She surveys the table littered with dirty plates and foil trays from last night’s takeaway. There’s so much to do and she doesn’t have the energy even to start.
Mum doesn’t approve of their going away. ‘She’s too young to be without her mummy for so long,’ she declared. Or her daddy, Amber thought, but she didn’t challenge it.
‘The royal family leave their babies behind all the time,’ she argued instead. ‘Nobody accuses them of child neglect.’
Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘That’s because they have full-time nannies who look after them from birth, so they already know them well.’
‘Mabel knows Ruby well – she always smiles when she sees her. They get on brilliantly.’
‘With all due respect,’ her mother replied, showing no respect at all, ‘Ruby knows nothing about babies. And you know what a scatterbrain she is, always with her head in the clouds. She’ll forget to feed her or change her nappy.’
‘Mabel will make sure she doesn’t,’ Amber retorted, irritated by her mother’s lack of faith in Ruby. Why hadn’t she offered to babysit, if she was so concerned for her granddaughter’s well-being?
‘Well it’s not how it was done in my day,’ Mum continued, seemingly oblivious that she was massively guilt-tripping Amber. ‘I never left you to go on romantic weekends. When you and Ruby were tiny, I had no life outside the home, but it didn’t bother me. You were my world. I was so happy to have you.’
Yes, that’s the elephant in the room, reflects Amber as she gathers up the plates and loads the dishwasher. She’s not happy. It makes no sense to her mother, who sees everything only from her own perspective and is consequently not a very sympathetic woman. In her view, there’s nothing wrong with her daughter’s life – quite the contrary. Amber is extremely lucky. She has a decent husband who earns enough for her not to have to hurry back to work, she lives in a nice flat in a just about acceptable part of London, and she’s been blessed with an ‘easy’ baby. It’s annoying how Mabel always behaves so beautifully in front of her grandma.
Although to be fair, she is easy, some of the time. She only cries when she’s uncomfortable or hungry or over-tired or being bathed. It’s me that’s difficult, Amber concludes as she fills the dishwasher with salt. She so longed to have a baby – in fact, she was completely desperate, more than either her mother, sister or even her husband know. She sailed joyfully through her pregnancy, loving every second of it, even her labour, which was an awe-inspiring experience. Then Miracle Mabel, as she secretly called her, popped out, and within days, Amber had never felt more miserable or hopeless in her entire life.
Only Ruby, six years younger and with no experience of motherhood, seems to understand. If she knew the full story, though, she might think differently. Sometimes Ruby’s support makes Amber feel worse, because she’s never kept secrets from her sister in the past, and now there’s this invisible barrier between them that only she knows is there.
Ruby keeps urging her to go to the doctor, or to confide in her health visitor, and Amber has promised to seek help but has done nothing about it. The truth is, she doesn’t feel she deserves to get better. She views her depression as punishment for wanting Mabel too much.
Nevertheless, she knows she has to do something. This night away her mother so disapproves of isn’t a selfish, frivolous act. It is, as Ruby puts it, a lifesaver. Amber and George, who’ve been together since they were teenagers, are in danger. Their relationship has been lost under a pile of dirty nappies. They haven’t been out together as a couple once since Mabel was born, and they never do anything together as a family. The moment George comes home from work, Amber plonks the baby in his arms and goes to lie down, complaining that she’s shattered. They never see their friends. They hardly even kiss any more, let alone have sex. Most concerning of all, in a way, is that they’re both behaving as if this is the new normal. They never talk about it. Not properly.
Amber tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It feels thin and greasy, reminding her that she hasn’t washed it for several days and probably won’t have time this morning. Sadly, her old beauty routine for nails, skin and hair – both the wanted and unwanted variety – is a thing of the past.
She hopes George isn’t expecting them to make love tonight. The signs are worrying. He’s booked a luxury suite at a boutique hotel in the middle of nowhere with its own Michelin-starred restaurant. If the website photos are to be believed, their room has an enormous four-poster bed and a deep free-standing bath surrounded by furry white rugs. It’s too flashy for her taste and the bath looks especially provocative, daring guests to splash about together having wild, passionate sex.
Their last attempt at lovemaking was months ago and ended in failure. Amber insisted on turning the lights off and burrowed under the duvet like a shy animal, her confidence completely deserting her. She still can’t bear to look at herself naked, let alone parade in front of George – not with those silvery-white stretch marks on her thighs and the folds of papery flesh around her stomach. She felt so beautiful when she was pregnant, her bump as firm and shiny as a conker, but since giving birth, everything has collapsed. George is being very patient, but as her mother says, men have needs. If she isn’t careful, he’ll leave her for somebody else. There are plenty of attractive girls at the gym where he works who’d be delighted to take him off her hands – staff and clients. Amber loves George and doesn’t want to lose him, but right now it’s the thought of being a single parent that frightens her most. She saw her mother struggle after Dad died when Ruby was a baby. She knows she won’t be able to cope with Mabel on her own.
Yes, she thinks as she wipes down the kitchen surfaces, George will be hopeful of some sex tonight, and in theory, she wants to please him. It’s important at least to try. If she gets drunk, perhaps she’ll feel less inhibited and might even enjoy it. She can drink alcohol now that she’s given up breastfeeding – another failure to add to the list.
‘That bath wore her out,’ says George, entering the kitchen and interrupting the latest round of self-deprecating thoughts. ‘She fell asleep before she was even dry. Made it a lot easier to get her dressed, though.’
Amber grimaces. ‘You shouldn’t have let her sleep; she hasn’t had her morning feed yet. Now she’ll be all out of sync for Ruby.’
‘She’ll catch up.’ He goes over to the window and winds up the blind.
‘Don’t do that, it’s still dark outside.’
‘We can watch the sunrise together,’ he says. ‘It’s coming up over the rooftops.’ She looks at him blankly. ‘Or do you want to go back to bed?’
‘Can’t, can I? Got to get ready for this stupid trip.’ Amber can feel the panic rising. ‘The place is a tip. I need to hoover the stairs, make up the bottles, change the sheets so that Ruby can have our bed, put some more washing on and write out some instructions or she won’t have a clue.’
‘It’s okay, babe, we’ll sort it,’ he soothes. ‘Rubes won’t care if it’s a mess. It’s not like it’s your mum babysitting …’
‘Why did you have to choose such a posh hotel?’ she continues, her voice laced with anxiety. ‘I’ve nothing suitable to wear, nothing that fits anyway. I’m so fat. And don’t say go out and buy something, because there isn’t TIME!’ The last sentence explodes in tears, and she covers her face with her hands.
George sighs heavily. ‘What are you saying? That you don’t want to go?’
‘Of course I want to go,’ she replies from behind her fingers. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to prepare – I’m not ready, not in a fit state …’
‘I don’t care how you look or what you wear.’ He tries to put his arms around her, but she backs off, unable to bear his touch. ‘You can have dinner in your pyjamas for all I care. We’ll order room service.’
‘No, I want to go to the restaurant. We haven’t eaten out in ages.’
‘Great, we’ll do that then.’
‘But I don’t want to let you down. I look so hideous.’
‘You never look hideous. You’re beautiful.’
‘No I’m not. My hair needs cutting and I’m fat!’
‘You’re not fat, and even if you were, it wouldn’t stop me loving you.’ He moves forward again and this time she allows him to hold her lightly. ‘I’ll tidy up and make some notes for Ruby. You concentrate on getting yourself ready.’
‘Okay … thanks. I’m sorry.’
‘You need this weekend. We both do. We’re going to have a wonderful time, I promise.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she murmurs. ‘I do want to go – I’ve been looking forward to it. And Mabel will be all right without us, won’t she? She loves her Auntie Ruby.’
‘Mabel will be absolutely fine,’ he assures her. ‘In any case, it’s only one night away.’
Ruby wheels her bike off the train and onto the platform. She intended to cycle the whole way but overslept and ran out of time. Lifting it onto her shoulder, she walks slowly down the steps, then swipes through the ticket barrier. It’s downhill all the way to Amber’s house – the ride won’t take more than five minutes.
Fastening the strap of her helmet, she pushes off down the high street, making sure to keep to the cycle lane wherever possible. There’s a lot of traffic about, as always, and she needs to stay alert for jaywalkers. She relaxes her leg muscles as the bike gathers pace. The weather’s cold but the sun is starting to break through the clouds. Luckily, it’s not raining. She’ll take Mabel to the park this afternoon to feed the ducks.
She feels both excited and nervous about looking after Mabel on her own overnight. At least it isn’t for a whole week, as she originally offered, rather rashly. She’s surprised that Amber and George have agreed to go away at all. Until now, she hasn’t been trusted to babysit for more than about half an hour while Amber pops to the shops or has a bath. She tried several times to persuade her to leave Mabel for longer, to meet up with the girls from the antenatal class or have a drink with friends from work, go for a swim or watch a film – anything – but until now she always refused. It’s as if taking a break is a mark of failure, and Amber doesn’t do failure.
Her sister is a high achiever, always has been, ever since she was a little girl – probably since the day she was born. Naturally, Amber assumed she would be as brilliant at motherhood as she was at everything else. All it required was research and preparation. As soon as she became pregnant, she embarked on a programme of self-directed study, reading numerous books and online articles until she was an expert in current parenting theories. But none of them can account for the mighty force of nature that is Mabel Rosebud Walker.
Ruby loves her only niece, admiring her feisty spirit and determination to get her own way. If Mabel isn’t happy, she’ll sure as hell let you know about it. Perhaps she’ll be more contented now she’s being bottle-fed, thinks Ruby as she waits to cross the main road. Poor Amber, she tried so hard, but Mabel was a hungry bunny and Amber couldn’t seem to produce enough milk. Ruby suspects the problem was stress-related. She’s no expert, but it’s clear that her sister is suffering from postnatal depression. Amber, usually the first to google symptoms and pronounce a diagnosis, is in denial. Or rather, she knows full well what the matter is but doesn’t want to do anything about it.
Mum doesn’t help. She can’t believe that her top-of-the-class daughter could possibly be failing, whereas if it was Ruby who’d gone to pieces, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid, because it’s Ruby’s role in the family to mess up.
After years of resentment, she’s come to accept this label and even turn it to her advantage. Her mother’s expectations of her are so low it gives her full rein to explore and experiment. Since leaving university, she’s tried her hand at documentary film-making, selling jewellery made from recycled drinks cans and starting a vegan ice-cream business. When her brave plans fail – as they usually do – her mother just rolls her eyes in that told-you-so way. Now Ruby is working odd shifts at an escape room in Shoreditch, a job she would like to escape from herself.
She chains her bike and helmet against the park railings opposite and, after ringing the bell twice to no effect, knocks loudly with her fist. Eventually she hears the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and George opens the door. A gust of wind instantly blows dry leaves into the hallway.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I was making up feeds; I thought Amber was getting it.’
‘No worries.’ She follows him back up the stairs and shrugs off her coat, hanging it over the top banister. Mabel is in the kitchen, strapped into her high chair. She looks up as Ruby enters and gives her a big smile.
‘Hello, gorgeous!’ Ruby bends down. ‘Is that another tooth I can see?’
‘Yes,’ answers George on Mabel’s behalf. ‘She was very grumpy while it was coming through, but the last couple of nights she’s slept for five hours straight.’
‘Clever girl! Please do the same tonight for Auntie Ruby.’ She plants a kiss on the top of Mabel’s head. Her wispy hair – as red as her mother’s – smells of mashed banana.
‘I’ve written it all down,’ George says, nodding towards a piece of paper on the table. ‘Don’t feel you have to stick to the times; it’s just a guide. She hasn’t had any fresh air yet today, so if you want to take her for a spin around the park …’
‘I’d already thought of that.’ Ruby goes to the window and looks out. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’
‘But only seven degrees,’ Amber points out, entering the room. ‘Wrap her up properly. Hat and mittens, no arguments.’
‘Lovely to see you too,’ says Ruby, unable to resist the dig.
‘You know what you’re like. You’ll forget.’
‘I won’t.’
Amber shrugs, picking up the list of instructions and scrutinising it for omissions and mistakes. Unable to find any, she puts it back on the table.
‘I’ll follow it faithfully. Promise.’ Ruby offers a pacifying smile. ‘Please don’t worry. Just forget about us and have fun.’
‘Thanks, we really appreciate this, don’t we?’ George looks at Amber. She nods, but Ruby can tell that her sister is putting on an act. At least she’s made a bit of an effort to spruce herself up. Her shoulder-length hair looks as if it’s been attacked by a hairdryer, and she’s wearing make-up for the first time in months. Amber has classic Celtic looks – bright auburn hair, pale skin that turns pink at the merest exposure to sun, freckles sprinkled across her face like a dusting of demerara sugar. Ruby has the same pale skin, but she’s dark-haired, with not a freckle in sight. Amber has their father’s height, while Ruby is short like their mother. They couldn’t look more unlike each other and are consequently never taken for sisters.
‘You look great,’ says Ruby.
‘Do I? Really? You’re not just saying that?’
‘No! I like that eyeshadow. Suits you.’
‘I’d . . .
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