Page 36 of The Bordeaux Book Club

Only she’d left her potential tribe behind in London.

Bella stirred again, breaking Monica’s train of thought. She picked up the baby monitor and moved towards the nursery.

It was for the best. It wouldn’t do her any good at all to wallow. Besides, Peter would be back in a short while and, when he next left, she’d have hosting the group to look forward to. She’d already bought the wine – Peter had advised her on that – and the bottles were set into the ornate rack between the built-in cupboards. She knew already that everyone would exclaim over the flat – everyone always did.

But she felt no real sense of ownership, of pride at having a beautiful home. She’d loved Grace’s house – the way it was filled with Grace, somehow. Her personality shining out from each and every painting, every colour choice, every ornament. But at the back of her mind, she’d known what Peter would think of it. He liked clean lines, modern fittings. Hated mess. Would have been appalled to learn that Hector slept on Grace’s bed. Monica smiled; she loved Peter and would laugh at his obsession with cleanliness. She wondered how obsessive he’d be about it if he actually had to do any cleaning himself. Growing up, his family had had a housekeeper. She’d laughed out loud when he’d told her, assuming he was joking, then stopping as she saw his face register confusion.

In some ways, she envied Peter’s upbringing – saw how the money had smoothed his passage, insulated him from difficulties. But sometimes she wondered whether having money insulated you from life too. Stopped you from understanding other people as much as you might. She remembered Peter’s face when he’d first seen her childhood home. How out of place he’d looked in the red-brick semi.

But he couldn’t see the life that had happened in those relatively modest rooms – the memories of family sing-songs at Christmas, of she and her sister dancing around in their night-dresses before going to bed. He couldn’t appreciate the times when she’d sat up late with her Dad as he explained her homework to her patiently, until she’d understood. The photos of their holidays to Dorset and Cornwall didn’t do the memories justice – she’d seen his expression as he’d taken in her windswept, messy hair and ice-cream-covered face in the album. But he couldn’t feel the whip of salty air on skin, the sand-between-the-toes gloriousness of a family holiday that might not have all the mod-cons but was absolutely perfect in its own way.

She peeped into the nursery, almost hoping that Bella would be awake. But her baby lay, still sleeping.

Moving back to the table with her open laptop, she sat, pulled up a website of her favourite clothing brand and idly clicked. The white jeans and flimsy summer tops she’d used to favour felt a world away from what she wore now. She’d lost most of the baby weight, but her body had changed – her hips were wider, her waist wasn’t as defined. She’d have to visit a store to try things on. But everything was too difficult at the moment with Bella. Even getting her ready to go out was a nightmare. She couldn’t imagine trying to do anything other than wander with the little girl squalling in her pram. Besides, the thought of standing in a brightly lit changing room and having to disrobe in front of an unforgiving mirror was more than a little off-putting.

Before she could browse any further, Bella’s hungry cries pierced the air and she went to switch on the bottle warmer.

She looked at the clock. It was still only seven in the morning. The day stretched away in a way that should have been luxurious. But to her, time had become a menace – something standing in between her and Peter, her and her next interaction. Her and the next group meeting, with the closest thing she had to friends.

She picked up the lukewarm bottle and made her way to the nursery. ‘Shh, Bella. Mummy’s coming.’ Her little girl continued to wail, but stopped when Monica leaned over her cot. She set the milk down and reached for the warm, wriggling body – surprised, as she seemed to be each time – at Bella’s lightness, her fragility. The baby clung to her and she felt a shiver of recognition. Setting her baby into the crook of her arm, Monica lowered herself into the leather nursing chair and manoeuvred the teat into her baby’s desperate mouth. Then she sank back as Bella slurped and gasped, listening to her baby’s tiny noises and, from the open kitchen window, the muffled sounds of life passing by below.

‘I’m sorry, chick,’ she said to her tiny, pink bundle. ‘I’ll try to be a better mum. I promise.’

14

Leah knocked cautiously on Scarlett’s bedroom door.

She’d put off this moment for an hour, telling herself she ought to keep reading in order to get through the rest ofPride and Prejudiceby the end of the week. It was the middle of April and May’s meet-up was just around the corner. A meeting per month, a book per month, had seemed eminently doable when they’d arranged it, but it was odd how quickly the meetings seemed to come around.

Then again, if she was honest, she had also been pleased to delay having to knock on Scarlett’s door.

The problem was not knowing exactly which Scarlett would lie on the other side. The pleasant version (almost the Scarlett she’d used to be during childhood) or the other version (a hardened teenager looking at her with disdain). The two personalities could switch in a heartbeat.

Leah ought to be above all of this, of course, she thought to herself. Whatever she was experiencing on the outside must pale in comparison to what Scarlett was going through with her ups and downs and mood swings. She’d read enough books now to know that Scarlett’s brain wasn’t fully developed, that she’dthink about things differently from Leah, that it was natural for her to want to ‘break away’ from her mother. She’d even read that she should take it as a compliment that she was the one who was often the target of her outbursts. Apparently, this meant Leah was Scarlett’s ‘trusted person’: Scarlett knew Leah loved her unconditionally and felt safe being… well,meanto her.

Whenever she finished a chapter of yet another parenting book, or reflected on what she’d read, or sat in the evening half-watching TV and thought about the day just passed, she felt a well of sympathy for her daughter and would resolve to take it on the chin and see it for what it was.

Yet whenever she approached her daughter’s room, she felt trepidation – a bit like she’d felt at school when approaching a group of more popular girls. A little bit sick, a little bit cowed and – occasionally – scared.

She shook herself. It really was time to grow up.

‘What?’ came the response from the other side.

She peered around the gap. ‘I was just wondering if you could give me a hand,’ she said. ‘I wanted to sow some broccoli while your dad’s out. Surprise him.’

‘With broccoli?’ Scarlett was incredulous.

‘Just getting it done for him,’ Leah said. ‘So when he comes home, he doesn’t have to work for once.’

‘Where is he anyway?’

Now it was Leah’s turn to snap. ‘He’s just out for… well, he’s gone out for a bit to clear his head. And I thought we could…’

‘Nah. I don’t feel like it.’ Scarlett remained on the bed, phone in hand, her eyes on the screen as if her life depended on it.

‘Scarlett! Nobody feels like it. But sometimes you have to get on and do it anyway!’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely day; it’ll do you good to get some fresh air.’ She felt the echo of her mother in her own voice – was she really that person now?

‘Maybe in a bit,’ her daughter said, still looking at the phone.

---