Prologue
I think about the lengths I am willing to go to. Things have to change, and this is step one towards a different future, for both of us.
Does she know what I am doing? Perhaps.
I have left her there again, slumped in front of the television, grey streaks through her dark hair, thumb scrolling incessantly on her phone, the screen resting on the threadbare cord arm of our sofa. I think the answer is closer than ever and it might motivate her to start living again. She has struggled enough, alone.
She won’t listen to me. The last time I tried to make her see sense, we argued and she had cried. I hate it when she cries.
This was not planned. Finding the photo tucked away in an envelope, deep within a drawer in my mum’s room, as I snooped to find my birthday present years ago. The sense of recognition, a puzzle suddenly solved. Time passed, and I kept returning to that photo, obsessed by what it could mean. Why it was hidden.
Then a stroke of luck. I was flicking through the local paper – thinner each year as online news took over – while Mum cooked spaghetti bolognaise in the background. I gripped the edge of the dining table, looked closer. I needed to be sure, see through the grainy pixels.
I was sure.
Not even a week later, we met in person. Well, not met, met. I engineered a meeting, bumped into them. Literally. I fell, deliberately, right in front of them. A test of sorts. What would they do?
As I had hoped, they stopped. ‘God, I’m sorry!’ and a moment later, a cool hand grasped mine, pulled me back to standing. ‘Are you OK?’
I knew they would be kind. But I didn’t know what to do next. My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t have spoken a word, even if I knew what to say.
I started doing some internet research on them, and liked what I found. Then I saw a posting, and the plan dropped, fully formed, into my head. It was fate. This was a role I could play to perfection.
So here I am, doing what needs to be done. Standing outside a gorgeous detached house on the exclusive Willow Hall development. Only five homes were built, and they sit in a sort of square, two on each side, one at the end. The two houses I walk past are turned inwards, as if they are facing the house at the top of the cul-de-sac. My destination. I grip the photograph in my pocket, my fingers running over the smooth surface, the image as clear in my head as the bricks and mortar standing in front of me.
There are two cars parked on the driveway. We’ve never owned a car, but they each look as if they cost as much as our house. The driveway is paved with small, coloured bricks, and neatly trimmed hedges lead me towards the blue front door.
I’m about to meet them. The family I feel as if I already know. If all goes to plan, they will soon know me too.
Or at least, they will think they do.
But I am going to lie to them today. By the time they figure out who I really am, they won’t be able to live without me.
1
I could remember the exact moment that the panic set in, when we knew we were in over our heads.
The first two weeks were magical, once we were finally discharged from hospital two days after the birth. We had both beamed with pride as we were stopped twice heading towards the car, Andrew carrying one car seat in each hand, the babies impossibly tiny under their blankets. People really are fascinated by twins.
Throughout my pregnancy, everyone had joked about how we would have our hands full, and yet we felt prepared.
Those early few days were lovely, living in our baby bubble, with only close family and friends visiting, and Andrew taking charge of the practicalities while I mainly rested, healed, and learned how to balance two babies and two bottles at feeding time. Ethan and Joe. I’d studied their scrunched-up faces, looking for signs of me and Andrew in them.
They were remarkably easy babies for the first week, napping for long periods.
The midwife frowned at that, advising us to wake them up every three hours, as they were both still slightly jaundiced. ‘Feeding often is the best way to flush that out of their systems, then you’ll find that they are a bit more alert.’
Days later, the jaundice was out of their system, so they woke more frequently at night, but became generally more unsettled in the day too.
Andrew began to spend evenings searching online forums for advice. But there was no magic bullet. We took them for a walk every afternoon and tried to create a relaxing routine at night. I fell in love with Andrew all over again as I watched him care for these two tiny humans we had created. He was so gentle with them, lathering baby shampoo over their bald heads during bath times, gazing down at them in wonder as he fed them, insisting I stay in bed when they woke for the fifth time in one night.
One rare morning when both boys were napping at the same time, I leaned over to rest my head on his shoulder and glanced at his phone. He was scrolling through photos of the boys, and I saw a picture of me I didn’t know he had taken. My hair dishevelled, I was kneeling on the floor, bent over them both, smiling. Perhaps mid nappy change. My chest felt full, that he had seen that moment, captured it forever. He wrapped his arm around me, and I closed my eyes. Content. Safe.
Then, one particularly difficult night, it all seemed to shift. No matter what I did, Ethan would not settle, and Joe became upset hearing his brother cry. I paced across the landing, hoping the movement would soothe him. Andrew staggered out of bed, eyes still mostly closed, his fist trying to push back a yawn.
‘What’s up with him?’
‘I don’t know. He’s had half his bottle, he’s dry, he’s warm. I’ve tried everything.’ My voice was getting louder, my frustrating seeping through. Joe, lying in the cot on his own, upped his volume to match mine. Andrew gestured for me to hand Ethan over, and I was aware of a twinge of guilt at the relief I felt as his weight was lifted from me. As soon as I cuddled Joe to me, his cries lessened in intensity as he nuzzled at my neck. Andrew was walking around the house with Ethan; I heard his voice murmuring calming words downstairs.
Joe’s head was heavy
on my shoulder. ‘Are you shattered? Your brother’s been keeping you up, hasn’t he?’ I whispered. I waited a few more moments before I laid him down gently in the cot.
I returned to our bed and lay back on my pillow, my arms and legs heavy and my head pounding. Ethan was still crying. I should go and help. The clock on my bedside table told me it was not even 1 a.m. What if he doesn’t stop? Joe hadn’t stirred again. I closed my eyes, curled up on my side facing the cot. I needed a few moments of rest and then I would go and help.
I jumped awake, my stomach queasy. Was that Joe? I blinked over towards the cot and saw a vague outline, then the bed moved as Andrew sat up next to me. I must have gone back to sleep.
‘I’ll get him.’
‘There’s a fresh bottle on the side,’ he mumbled. ‘Is that Ethan again?’
‘Yep.’ I could easily tell the difference between their cries.
Andrew rested his hand on my stomach as I leaned back against the pillow, Ethan gulping greedily at the teat. Moments later, he squirmed in my arms, arching his back as he pulled away from the bottle. His cries were like a drill in my brain. Andrew started to sit up.
‘No, I’ll take him this time, let you two get some sleep.’
Downstairs, I got comfortable on the sofa with Ethan and pulled a blanket around my legs before pulling down the vest top I was wearing and settling his head straight on to my skin. The midwife swore by skin to skin, said it gave them lots of comfort to hear a heartbeat. And he did settle. By that time, my eyes were hot with tears.
I knew then that we were in over our heads.
The next day passes in a blur of coffee and naps, with me barely seeing Andrew as we both attempt to claw back some sleep. The twins both go down for a nap just before lunch and I sit at the breakfast bar as Andrew makes us sandwiches and a fruit salad. Sunlight streams through the window and catches strands of his hair, still bleached from our Cornwall summer break.
He smiles as he slides the plate and bowl towards me. ‘Got to keep your energy up.’ My smile in return is small, forced. ‘Luce, what is it?’
‘Just that. My energy. I feel sick, my head’s all fuzzy; I’m drained. No . . . I know you’ll say go and have another nap, but I need to get used to this, I guess. You’re back at work next week and you’ve been doing half of it all. You can’t keep doing that – it’s not fair to you, or to your patients.’
He laughs. ‘I’ve never taken the wrong organ out yet. I’m probably overdue an incident form.’
I grin, despite myself. ‘Seriously. I really hope he starts to sleep a bit better at night. Do you think it’s colic?’
‘Could be. We’ll go to the pharmacy today and ask if they have something that will help.
Anything’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
The pharmacist is helpful and recommends some drops to put into their milk. He warns that it can take a few days to see any change. He is right. Thankfully, Andrew offers to do the whole night on Saturday while I sleep in the spare room, to let me rest, but in the morning, the dark smudges under his eyes tell the story of how it was. We bundle up for a long walk on Sunday, with plans for a roast dinner later. As we walk out of the cul-de-sac, a bitter wind whips down Hall Road, a narrow B road that leads to our small estate. I am reminded again why we fell in love with the neighbourhood. Even close to lunchtime on a Sunday, there are only a handful of cars; we pass more dog-walkers and hikers heading for the wood that sits behind our back garden.
My phone rings as we walk, and Andrew takes hold of the pram handle to continue pushing.
‘Nina! How are you?’
‘Never mind me, how are you all? I hope the boys are settling in and you’re getting used to parenthood?’
I smile at Andrew. ‘We’re getting there, slowly. They don’t sleep much.’
‘Or at all,’ Andrew calls, so that Nina can hear. She laughs.
‘Oh dear, I might retract that offer of babysitting until they’re a bit older. Anyway, I’m ringing to see if I can pop round on Tuesday? Steph is taking the classes, so I’ve got some free time. I bet the boys have grown so much since I saw them in hospital.’
There is a warmth spreading through my body at the thought. Nina is my closest friend and I hadn’t realised, until that moment, how much I had been dreading my first week alone with them. This was something to look forward to, a pair of helping hands and a listening ear.
‘That would be lovely. Pop round whenever. Looking forward to it.’
As I slide my phone back into my pocket, I place my hand over the top of Andrew’s on the handle and he pulls me in towards him with his arm, so I am tucked by his side, our breath mingling and misting in the air over the pram. ...
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