Hide and Seek Read online

  Then it happens, like I said it would. The casing for the nail breaks. The heel of Will’s shoe comes ricocheting off. He’s overdone the machismo. We should just have had sex.

  Will drops the shoe.

  “Damnit!” he says, leaning over to examine the hole in the casing. I lean in too. It’s all split and cracked. Like I will be after… Jesus, I must stop reading those magazines. Focus on the crib. There’s no way that’s going to hold a nail, now.

  “Four hundred quid down the drain, then,” I say.

  Will looks despondent.

  “Or we just hold it together with gaffa tape,” I add, to cheer him up. Classy mummy, I’m going to be. What would Mum have said, if she knew I was already letting my mothering standards slip? Probably nothing. She probably would have kissed me on the head, told me to run along, then it would all magically have been fixed when I came back. SuperMum. All she needed was a cape.

  “I can’t believe I just broke Leo’s crib,” Will says. It seems Leo is now definitely Leo. Which is fine. But he’s not here yet.

  “It’s only because you’re so big and strong,” I say, a hand on his bicep. OK, it’s not actually as bulging as I imagined, but it’ll do. “How about we try and break our bed as well, hey, before your parents get here?”

  Will looks at me. Surprised, maybe. Or not – I mean, with this bump, how difficult would it really be to break the bed? Me on top, like some kind of ex-show pony, its belly too big to compete, but still gamely trying to straddle fences. Huh. Maybe I don’t really want sex. Not the pregnant reality of it.

  But no, it’s initiated now. And Will, because he’s great really, isn’t he, despite destroying his child’s new home, he’s slowly kissing me from my neck to my belly. Yes, maybe my bump is glorious. Maybe it’s sexy. It’s of sex, anyway. And it seems Will doesn’t want to break the bed, but would rather break the chair instead. So he sits back and invites me onto him and I straddle him in the very chair in which I used to see my mother sit. Maybe it’s part of the mourning process. Or maybe it’s just a very nice way to spend an afternoon. Either way, the baby sites were right. It’s a very good position. The baby doesn’t get in the way at all – it is just me and Will, for a little while longer. And I perform to standards of which any woman would be proud.

  Chapter Three

  -Will-

  “I still can’t believe I broke my son’s bed,” I say to Ellie, as she peels herself off me. I take a covert look at her bump. It really is becoming impressive now. She’s a mother way before I’m a father.

  “What, you broke me?” Ellie asks in mock consternation, looking down at herself.

  I laugh, but I’m serious. It’s not a great portent of my ability as a father, is it, getting so carried away in a show of my shoe prowess that I damage his new bed? If I do that to furniture, how am I possibly meant to help keep the child alive, in those precious two weeks of paternity leave?

  Ellie sits on my lap, side-on, and wraps her arms round my neck for support.

  “We’ll get it fixed. Reclaim our hammer from your parents. Stick some superglue in the cracks, then give it a really good precision blow.”

  A precision blow sounds good. I consider saying this to Ellie, but she might take it wrong, like I didn’t just enjoy the sex. I did. Obviously (and I’m hoping the chair has survived unscathed). But she keeps saying that if I find the bump too big or unattractive, we can be intimate in other ways. So she might think the request for a precision blow (job) is a pointed one. That sex is no longer fun.

  So instead, I just nuzzle her neck and tell her she is wonderful.

  “We’ll be good parents, won’t we?” I ask her.

  She nods her head. “We’ll still be you and me. So we’ll be the best.”

  “You already are the best,” I tell her. “But I really do need to do some work on my lecture before my parents come over.”

  Ellie looks at me. “Really? Post-coital work? That’s a first.”

  “It needs to be done,” I say. “Just like you did.” I kiss her and gently nudge her from my lap. I ease past her out of the room. “I’ll take the bedroom, if that’s OK?”

  “Such bad sleep hygiene,” she says. I can hear the roll of eyes in her voice.

  “So are babies,” I retort.

  “Touché,” says Ellie, with what must be a smile.

  Good. Banter situation normal. No blame for my crib-breaking (which is good of Ellie because, really, spending £400 on a crib only to break it is not ideal).

  I shower, get dressed, then prop myself up on the bed, surrounded by my papers…and nothing really happens. I’m still annoyed with myself about the crib. It’s silly, really. Such a small thing. And it can’t have been a very good crib if me hitting it with a shoe damages it. Really I was just health and safety testing it. Imagine if little Leo, banging it with a plastic beaker (because that’s what they do, isn’t it, babies, bang things?), had been able to break the nail-housing, and the nail had sprung out and blinded him. Or the side of the crib had given way, letting him roll out, then roll down the stairs – unthinkable. The ultimate parental nightmare. So really I should be pleased with myself. And just buy another crib. Or take it back. Say it was defective.

  But before that, I really must try to work on my lecture. I’ll kick myself if I’m up on the podium, staring out at the audience, and just thinking back to the afternoon when I couldn’t be bothered to work. I have some of the bullet points already. I just need to flesh them out, then add the extra research my student is doing.

  ‘Intro – Natasha Richardson’ the first bullet says.

  Fine, I can deal with that. I speak softly to myself, practising.

  “The world was shocked when actress Natasha Richardson – wife of Hollywood legend Liam Neeson – seemed perfectly fine after a skiing fall, carried on acting normally and then, hours later, died. That phenomenon, which we are studying today, is known colloquially as ‘talk and die’, medically as epidural haematoma, and is my area of specialism. It occurs when a head trauma leads to blood building up between the skull and the dura mater, causing pressure on the brain and, if unrelieved, that pressure can be fatal. In Natasha Richardson’s case, it was. She was unusual, though, because hers was caused by a skiing accident. The vast majority of cases in reality are caused by a violent act – so your classic baseball bat or hammer-blow to the head.”

  Or a hit with a shoe, I could add. But it’s not a comedy. And I can’t dumb the thing down any more. It’s already pretty simplistic – film star’s wife, skiing… Maybe I should just invite them to eat popcorn. But the faculty head said I had to make it accessible. Start with a human interest story, reel them in. Which is what I’m doing. And I chose skiing specially – one of the jollier examples. Well, not jolly exactly – I still can’t watch films with Liam Neeson in without feeling sorry for him. But a skiing accident is in a sense jollier than the usual causes of our friend epidural haematoma – the domestic row between husband and wife escalates to a saucepan on the bonce, or the burglar gets carried away with his baseball bat. At least with skiing, no one is inflicting the pain. I chose well. So why the self-doubt? Have I been working too hard? I suddenly feel tired. Exhausted actually. Overwork and tiredness, that’ll undermine anyone’s self-confidence. I have had pretty disrupted sleep, I guess, over the last few months, what with Ellie getting up in the night, then all the tossing and turning as she tries to find a position comfortable for sleep. And sex, you know, is tiring – I read that men are hormonally conditioned to be sleepy after sex. Plus maybe I tired myself out from that other hammering too, with the shoe. I don’t know where that came from – all that energy, all that force. Maybe sexual tension. Maybe Ellie knew I needed some kind of release. Wherever it came from, it’s not there now.

  So I put my papers to one side, and curl up in foetal position on the bed. Max Reigate’s music floats back to me from the car journey, and all those other times we have listened to it. That moment, after the climax, the great build
-up, where everything is calm again. The chords are in harmony, surrounded by happy little triplets of notes lilting about, rather than the aggressive earlier accents. And all is resolved. That’s what I need. To absorb that calm, from the CD. But then Ellie will know I’m not working. So I’ll just have to curl up here and secretly let the imaginary music calm me. Even though the refrain in my head will be hard to drown out. The refrain that says: ‘You don’t know how to be a father. You don’t know how to deliver a public lecture. You’re not equal to what lies ahead.’

  Chapter Four

  -Will-

  I’m woken by Ellie shaking me.

  “Come on, lazy bones,” she says, flooding the room with light. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

  REM is still with me. “There was a piano,” I say. “And some hands, and I don’t know, maybe some water and…”

  “You probably just needed to go to the loo,” Ellie says. “I always dream about water when I need to go. Always wakes me up, thank goodness – nobody wants the Yellow Sea in their bed.”

  She kisses me, then leaves the room. I try to recapture the dream, but it’s too far away from me. So I come back into the now. I stretch out and look at my watch. 4pm! I’ve been asleep for two hours and my parents are indeed due. I feel a bit groggy, in need of some sugar, before we entertain. But no – there’s the doorbell. I pull myself off the bed, rake a hand through my hair in a bid to make it look a bit less like I’ve been in bed all afternoon – whether through sex or slumber – and canter downstairs.

  Ellie hasn’t let them in. Apparently that’s my job. I take the chain off the door, open it up, and we’re both immediately engulfed in celebration.

  “Congratulations darlings!” Mum says as she launches into the house. She gives me a hug and a kiss, waves at Ellie’s belly, then does a kind of air-hug at Ellie herself. “Don’t want to squash the son and heir!” she says. Her beaming face suggests she is over any angst about being a grandmother. She’s even wearing the dark-green linen ‘occasion jacket’ (I used to call it the ‘snazz jacket’) that she always wore for important client meetings.

  Dad follows, less loudly, but with a firm handshake and a slap on the back. “Well done, Ellie. Well done, Will,” he says.

  Mum leads the way through to the dining room. From her bag she produces twenty-week scan cupcakes and Appletiser (apparently that’s the done thing in Surrey these days). And she is beaming at us.

  “Such happy news! Do let me see the scan.”

  Ellie of course obliges, and we get into the family resemblance discussion again.

  “Doesn’t he look like Will, though?” she asks, rhetorically.

  And they agree, my parents, because they have to. If Ellie’s parents were here too, then maybe there’d be more debate. But of course, they’re not.

  Then Ellie makes me hold the scan photo and stand next to Dad, so that the three of us Spears family males are in a line. She puts her head to one side.

  “Hmm, don’t see it you know. Will and baby maybe, but not getting the cross-generational resemblance thing,” says Ellie.

  Dad peers at the photo. “Ah, you know what it is? The baby already has more hair than me.” He rubs his balding head ruefully.

  And then Ellie does her party trick. I should have seen this coming, really, she’s been going on about it so much.

  “But I tell you who I do see a resemblance with,” she says. She goes over to the CD tower and pulls out the familiar red box, that she retrieved from the car earlier.

  “Ellie,” I say, half-chiding her, but she is glowing and wonderful, so I can’t really reprimand her.

  “No, no, it’s so funny, I have to show them. Drum roll please – we’ve found Will’s doppelganger. He is the spitting image of: Max Reigate, concert pianist.” And she flourishes the CD box proudly, holding it next to me and the baby photo for comparison.

  I turn to Mum and Dad with a mock eye-roll, my half-apologetic smile already prepared.

  But the smile dies. Because Mum and Dad are staring at the CD box without any hint of a smile on their faces. In fact, the old cliché that they look like they’ve seen a ghost could not be more true. Mum has turned pale. Dad is shooting anxious glances at Mum. I look at Ellie. She is still holding the box and grinning, but the grin has a fixed quality now. None of us speak. Then Ellie does her usual humour escape route thing.

  “No, you don’t see the resemblance? OK, no offence taken. Specsavers have some great deals on right now, though.”

  Mum seems to recover herself. “Don’t be daft, Ellie. Will’s just got one of those faces – resembles everyone. Or at least we both think so because we love him, hey?” She gives Ellie a ‘women-together’ sort of nudge. Ellie moves away.

  “Yeah, I know they say love is blind but I have actually retained my 20-20 vision, Mrs S.” Oh dear. She’s using her haughty voice. A definite warning sign. Time to move things on.

  “It’s true, I’m a mongrel,” I say. “I look like all sorts of people. Brad Pitt, David Beckham, Max Reigate… It’s a real curse.”

  Ellie rolls her eyes at me. “They say new dads feel extra-confident, but Brad Pitt? Really? You’re not even blond!”

  “But you look like every bit the Angelina, my darling,” I tell her, giving her a kiss.

  But maybe Mum feels a bit nauseated by all the smooching, because she’s back on Max Reigate.

  “Where did you get that CD, anyway?” Mum asks.

  I look at Ellie. I don’t know where we got it. Ellie just produced it one day. “Look what I found,” she said. “Spooky, right – look at the nose, the eyes, the hair. It could be you. Or, like, your long-lost brother!” And we’d listened to the CD, which actually turned out to be pretty amazing, this romantic piano concerto full of clashing chords and little haunting riffs of melody. It starts off being all orchestral, and you’re just waiting in suspense for the piano to take over in its solo brilliance, because you know it will. Then once it does, you know nothing will be same again. It just haunts you, by its presence and its lack.

  Ellie looks at Mum. “I borrowed it from your place,” she says to Mum, her voice level. “While we were watering your plants, when you were away, I came across it. I hope that’sOK?”

  “You came across it?” Mum asks. Her voice is tight.

  Ellie shrugs. “Yes.” She holds Mum’s gaze. It’s like a challenge.

  I feel like I’m missing something. I look at Ellie but she is busy examining the CD case. Then she looks up.

  “Let’s play it!” she says, brightly (defiantly?). “We’re meant to be celebrating, so let’s celebrate.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Ellie love,” says Dad. “You’re meant to play babies whale music, aren’t you, not Ma – not this stuff.”

  “My baby,” begins Ellie, then joins hands with me briefly, and corrects herself. “Our baby, is going to take after Will’s doppelganger and be an amazing musician. Not mess around with skeletons and brains like his nerdy dad. It’s all decided.”

  Mum and Dad don’t look too pleased. But Ellie is already advancing to the CD player. And I get an outbreak of the goofy grins again at the thought of being a dad. Plus it is, as I’ve said, pretty amazing music.

  “Put it on track three,” I say. “It’s the best bit.”

  Ellie rolls her eyes. “Will always likes to get straight to the climax.”

  I try to blush but I guess my parents kind of know we’re having sex. The evidence is protruding from Ellie’s belly. If not my tousled hair. Plus it’s like they’re not in the room. This is mine and Ellie’s and little (almost baby) Leo’s moment. We can do what we like. Mum is holding the Appletiser glass so tightly I am worried she might break it. Maybe I should offer her something stronger.

  But then the room is filled with Max Reigate’s amazing sounds. The piano builds up in a wonderful rhythm of threes – ya da da, ya da da, ya da da – with chords separating then combining, unrelentingly crescendoing until my brain feels li
ke it’s filled with blood, and with each beat of the piano hammers against the strings, there is more blood, pulsating to escape. And then –

  “This is the best bit,” I say, waving my arms around, twirling about the room, in a way I know Ellie thinks is attention-seeking, but it’s how the music moves me. “Listen to how the violin and the piano are almost talking to each other, like a love affair, together coming closer and closer towards the climax, that wonderful pianorgasm and – ”

  The music stops. But it’s not the end. Mum is standing next to the CD player, her finger on the stop button. Her back to the room.

  “Mum, did you stop it? Sorry, did ‘pianorgasm’ offend you? It just…”

  I trail off. Because Mum turns to face me. And she has tears in her eyes.

  Chapter Five

  -Will-

  “Mum? Is something wrong?” I ask, rushing to her.

  She is shaking her head wordlessly.

  “Gillian, you OK? Do you need to go home?” Dad puts his arm around her.

  Mum takes a deep gulp and manages to add some words to her head-shaking. Too many of them.

  “Home? Don’t be silly. We’re celebrating! Isn’t it wonderful news about the scan? Ellie, have another cupcake!”

  “Mum, honestly, are you OK? Do you want to sit down?”

  “I’m fine, Will.” Mum replies. “Just being silly. The music’s beautiful, and you’re having a little boy. I’m just so pleased.”

  I look up at Dad. He is standing mutely behind Mum.

  “Aren’t we pleased, John?” Mum asks him.

  Dad takes his cue. “Delighted. I might even have a cupcake too.”

  Good. Some kind of normality is restored, I guess. I help myself to a cupcake. Not sure what the blue icing is made of, but it’s pretty tasty. I wonder if Mum had some pink cakes in reserve.

  “Great. So. What shall we do, to celebrate?” I ask.

  “Let’s get the photo albums down,” says Ellie. “Go mushy over pictures of us when we were little.”