AllFreeNovel
Share Us
We stay like that for a long time. Alex kneeling on the floor, while I’m perched on the edge of the seat. His hands caress my face as I dig mine into the nape of his neck, my nails scraping at the part where his hairline meets his skin. We are hot breath and soft lips, sliding tongues and muted sighs. The bitter edge of our argument dissipates, leaving only the shadow of pain and warm, sugary love.
7
Two weeks later and the thing I’ve been dreading arrives; my first day back at work. Even when Max is asleep I spend most of the night tossing and turning, waking up with the sheets tangled around my legs like cotton cuffs. My body is covered with a sheen of sweat, my skin overheated by the proximity of Alex's warm, muscled chest. His right arm is flung across me, as if he's trying to hold me down. I wonder if I kept him awake, too. I have anxieties enough for both of us.
Going back to work seems like a mountain to climb. I fret about settling Max at nursery, about getting to the clinic on time. I worry about remembering where all my files are and whether I'll be able to use the computer. It’s stupid because I know this stuff, I can do it with my eyes closed, and I suspect all of it is my subconscious distracting me from the biggest issue of all.
The fact I have to leave my baby.
I get up and peek into his cot, noticing Max is fast asleep. Tiptoeing, I make my way to the bathroom and take a long shower, luxuriating in the ten minutes I get to spend alone with my thoughts. Then I remember Alex's definition of those words and I start to giggle, managing to cut myself as I drag a razor down my armpit.
Alex is awake when I go back into our bedroom, watching me as I walk into the room, my wet body covered by the tiniest of towels, my damp hair hanging down my back. I flick it over my shoulder and he grins, sitting up as if to watch the show.
“Go and get ready for work,” I whisper. “This isn't a strip club.”
Alex laughs. “I'd have to pay in a strip club. This show's all free. A private dance for one.”
“Two.” I incline my head to the cot. “And minors aren't allowed to watch the show.”
“Good job he's asleep then.”
I make a face. “Even you should draw the line at that.” The sooner we can afford a two bedroom flat, the better.
“Spoilsport.” He swings his legs out of bed, stretching his arms up. His yawn is loud, exaggerated, but I'm too busy looking at his chest to complain.
Max isn't though. He grumbles and turns in his cot, so I run to the wardrobe, hoping I have five minutes before he wakes up. Long enough to get dressed, at least.
An hour later I'm yanking Max's buggy onto the bus, trying to manoeuvre it past irritated commuters who really don't want to move. There are only five stops to the nursery, but the journey seems to take forever, the bus impeded by road works and traffic lights and the sheer volume of traffic. It's amazing how different the vibe is to later in the morning. The need to get to work makes everybody angry, unwilling to converse or meet eyes or do anything but stare out the window.
It took us nearly a month to decide on which nursery to send Max to. There are a plethora of them in London, catering to every taste, and between us, we must have visited a dozen or more. Some we immediately discounted—the one where babies were left to cry until their sobs turned to tiny gasps stands out—but in the end we narrowed it down to two. The first was around the corner from our flat—convenient for drop offs, but not so easy if either of us needed to get there quickly from work. So we chose the second—a cheery converted house a couple of roads from the clinic—which has the friendliest staff and more flexible hours. The downside, of course, is I’ll be the one dropping him off every morning, since Alex never knows where his next job will be. Often he'll get a last minute phone call dragging him to Shepherds Bush or Acton, and with unsteady hours, relying on him will never work. So it's me who gets to experience the joys of the drop off.
When I walk inside, having been buzzed in, I'm struck by how bright and airy the house feels. The east-facing windows are bathed in light, as children of various ages sit in the dining room, eating breakfast. Half of them will leave pretty soon, when the bus drops them off at school, leaving the under-fives to rule the roost for a few hours. And though they all look happy and unfazed, I feel my heart clench when I realise one day it will be Max being dropped off at school, a tie knotted around his neck, his hair askew from playing around. These years are going to disappear in the blink of an eyelid, and I'm going to miss half of them.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself this is the dilemma every mother faces. As much as I love Max, I love my career, too. Surely I can somehow manage to juggle the two?
Max has been allocated to the baby room, three doors down from the spacious dining area. I cart him down there, his over-stuffed bag slung across my shoulder, and push the door open with my foot. It's altogether quieter in here; a couple of the staff are holding babies, chatting away, cooing and making them laugh. In the corner are a bank of white-painted cots, lined with fresh, yellow bedding. Two of them are occupied by sleeping babies, but the rest are empty, waiting patiently for nap time.
“Mrs Cartwright, let me take Max for you.” Holly is Max's carer. She greets me with a cheery smile and holds her arms out, waiting for me to place him in them.
I hesitate. It's only for a moment, but enough to see her smile start to waver, and I wonder what is going through her mind. She must be fed up with mums like me, with our resistance, our anxieties. I can't help but feel a little guilty.
“Max, Mummy has to go to work. But I'll be back to pick you up at five o'clock, and Holly is going to look after you. I promise you'll have a lovely time.” My voice wobbles. I know he can't understand a word I'm saying; it's more for my benefit than his. I press my lips to his cheek and kiss him, and he makes a quick grab for my hair. His fingers close around my tightly-wound bun, loosening it until some brown locks spill out. Then as Holly goes to take him, he grabs on tighter, and it feels as though he's pulling my hair out by the roots.
On the positive side, at least I have a good excuse for my watering eyes.
“He'll probably cry the first few times, Mrs Cartwright. It's better for you both to leave quickly, less upsetting.” Holly turns around so Max can no longer see me, and he starts to protest, wailing loudly. Though it almost kills me, I walk away, the sound of his screams reverberating in my ears. They are still echoing in the halls as I sign him in at reception, wiping at my face as the tears stream unbidden.
By the time I'm out of the nursery my chest is hitching with sobs, and I'm feeling furious with the world. Angry at London for having such high house prices that we can barely afford to live here, in spite of two incomes. I'm angry at Alex, too, for not being a millionaire, and at myself for not saving more money back when I had a lucrative job in a bank.
Most of all, it’s life I'm railing at. The pure, bloody minded way nature pulls at our heartstrings until we're little more than slaves to her whims. Have a baby, she whispered, seducing me with the thought, it will be easy, everybody does it. But it isn't easy, it's not easy at all. In fact, it's a nightmare.
I haven't even made it to the clinic before I've pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket, and I'm pressing Beth's number, desperate for any reassurance a fellow mother can give me.
* * *
The day is long and tiring. In the afternoon, during a lull between appointments, I find myself falling asleep. When my head falls into my chest, the sudden movement makes me jump, and I sit straight up, looking around the room with wide, anxious eyes. The disorientation is swift, and for a moment I'm looking for Max, wondering where I put him. That's when I remember where I am, what I'm supposed to be doing. The fact I'm being paid to work.
Coffee, a splash of cold water on my face, and a walk around the clinic to find someone to talk to. I do all these things to wake myself up, but they don’t work. Perhaps I should make a recording of Max crying and play it on a loop, since that manages to keep me up most of the night.
