Читать книгу Diane Jeffrey Book 3 - Diane Jeffrey, Diane Jeffrey - Страница 14

It wasn’t the same when I brought Callum home. Back then, I was on cloud nine. It really was the happiest time of my life, just as everyone tells you it will be. He was a calm baby and this gave me the impression I was getting everything right. To my delight, the pregnancy weight fell off my body in next to no time with a little exercise and no dieting whatsoever. Simon and I continued to see our friends, many of whom had children themselves. My best friend, Jenny, was expecting her first baby, too. Once she was on maternity leave, she popped round nearly every day to see Callum and me and, as she put it, “learn the ropes”.

I would spend several minutes a day just watching Callum sleep, marvelling at how perfect he was, this tiny human being that I’d created. I’d devoured at least half a dozen maternity books during my pregnancy, but nothing had prepared me for the tsunami of feelings that hit me with motherhood. Unconditional love like nothing I’d ever known before, but also such intense fear. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to protect him. He was my responsibility, a huge responsibility. From the instant I brought him into this world, he became my world and I became his. My beautiful baby boy, my life.

With Ellie and Amber, however, it was very different and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because Michael wasn’t as supportive and helpful as Simon had been. Or maybe it was due to my age. I was thirteen years older, about to fall into my forties. It might have been because there were two of them. I don’t know.

I remember vividly the first time I realised something was wrong with me. It when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sofa one afternoon. The woman looking back was unrecognisable. My hair was greasy and lank, my face blotchy and my eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. It struck me that I’d been wearing my pyjamas for at least three days and nights. The top had baby sick down the front. I couldn’t recall when I’d last taken a shower. I looked awful; I felt awful.

Amber – or maybe it was Ellie – started to scream. It was time for a feed. Instead of going to her, I headed for the bathroom.

‘Your mummy is smelly,’ I threw over my shoulder in a voice that didn’t sound like mine. ‘She needs a shower.’

I took my time, spending several minutes under the hot jet. Afterwards, I sprayed on some deodorant, put on a bit of make-up and dried my hair. Then I got dressed – into a maternity outfit – I couldn’t fit into my normal clothes yet, but at least I felt cleansed.

That feeling didn’t last long. It was quickly replaced by a crushing guilt as I came back into the living room and realised both girls were wailing now. Their racket would have been audible in the bathroom – except for when I was in the shower or when my hairdryer was on – and deafening from the bedroom, directly above, but I must have blocked out their cries.

I went through the motions on automatic pilot, laying them on nursing pillows so I could feed them each with a bottle at the same time, and then changing their nappies one after the other. When they’d calmed down and were strapped into their baby bouncers, I went into the kitchen and made myself breakfast. It was three in the afternoon.

Sitting at the wooden table, I remember glancing up at the clock and noticing it was now half past three. My porridge was still in the bowl, in front of me, untouched. I’d been staring at it. I had no appetite. What had been going through my head for the last half an hour? I had no idea.

It didn’t even occur to me to clean up the mess I’d made in the kitchen. I walked back into the living room, my legs heavy and unwilling, as if they’d been chained together. I looked at the twins. My baby girls. They were perfect. Amber had dark hair, like Michael and his daughter, Bella, and Ellie was fair like Callum and me.

I remembered waking up in a pool of sweat the previous night after a particularly vivid nightmare. In my dream, I’d fallen asleep, a baby in each of my arms, and they were about to fall to the floor. It wasn’t the first time I’d dreamt that. Far from it. It had become a recurring nightmare.

When I thought about the dream, two things occurred to me. Firstly, it reflected my fear that I was a bad mother. But I thought it also proved I cared about my girls. I didn’t want them to come to any harm. I found that reassuring because it meant there couldn’t be anything chemically wrong with me. Could there?

Looking at them jiggling on their rocker chairs, I could see how adorable they were. I just didn’t feel any bond. There was no emotion in me at all. I couldn’t connect. No matter how cute they were, or how much they smiled, the bottom line was I didn’t love my baby girls. Apart from a sort of detached numbness, I didn’t really feel anything.

I tried to discuss this with my husband. ‘Do you think I resent them?’

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I do too sometimes if I’m honest. After all, we didn’t exactly plan this pregnancy.’

That was true. It came about after I’d had a tummy bug. I must have thrown up my contraceptive pill. Of course, I only realised this about two months later – when it was too late – as I started throwing up again, this time with morning sickness.

‘Our sex life is pretty much non-existent at the moment,’ Michael added, looking at me in a way that implied he blamed me, more than the twins, for that.

‘It will get better.’

‘And we don’t see much of our friends anymore.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael. I can’t help it. I’m simply not up to socialising – I feel exhausted all the time.’

It wasn’t just that. I no longer seemed to have anything in common with my friends. Their kids were around the same age as my son, Callum, and my stepdaughter, Bella, and they were into terrible teens and GCSEs or A levels with their offspring, as we were, but unlike us, they were done with nappies and night feeds and baby paraphernalia.

‘At least you get to go to work,’ I said with a sigh.

Perhaps this was my main regret. I’d had a high-flying career in the police force. I’d made chief inspector at the age of thirty-six and I was heading my second major murder investigation three years later when I found out I was pregnant. In the end, I’d had to hand over the command for that particular case to take my maternity leave. Any aspirations of one day climbing another rung on the ladder had been put on hold. I hoped this was temporary, although in the weeks after the twins were born, I couldn’t imagine ever having the energy to go back to work.

‘Someone has to earn the bread,’ Michael said.

‘I know. I just feel a bit … housebound.’

‘Why don’t you go for a run? The exercise would do you good.’

I’d been completely addicted to sport before I found out I was pregnant. I ran two or three marathons a year, and did ultra trails. When I had the twins, Michael bought me a special buggy so I could go for a jog with them. But the winter was dragging on, Amber seemed to have a constantly runny nose and sniffles, and I was constantly tired. I hadn’t used the sports stroller once. I hadn’t done any sport whatsoever for ages. Michael’s suggestion was a good one, but I didn’t feel like it.

I wasn’t sure how to pull myself out of the dark abyss I’d fallen into. But then one afternoon, Jenny came for a visit. I thought she’d been avoiding me, but perhaps it was just her busy life that had got in the way and kept us apart, even though she only lived up the road, or maybe I was the one avoiding her.

Jenny hadn’t given me much notice and as she stepped into the house, I saw it through her eyes. The place was a pigsty. She made us a mug of tea and rang her cleaner. Ten minutes later, a young woman arrived on my doorstep and introduced herself in a strong Eastern European accent as “Irena the cleaner”. In other circumstances, her greeting might have sparked some amusement, but sleep deprivation had robbed me of my sense of humour.

‘Let’s get the girls ready,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll go out for some fresh air.’

So while Irena cleaned my house, Jenny and I took Amber and Ellie to the park. It must have been just after school finished for the day because there were lots of children. As we walked along the path, Jenny pushing the buggy, I saw a woman sitting on a bench. She looked how I felt, drained and dazed. She was unwrapping a chocolate bar for her little girl, who was jumping up and down impatiently.

But in the other direction a couple of women walked by, one with a pushchair and one holding a toddler by the hand. They were talking and laughing together, their animated made-up faces glowing with youthful energy. They made it all look so easy; they made me feel like a failure, as if I was inferior to these yummy mummies and would never be up to scratch. I burst into tears.

Using one hand to push the stroller, Jenny took my elbow with her other hand, and led me to a free bench a few feet away. She held me and rubbed my back while violent sobs racked my whole body. I’m not sure how long I cried. I was aware of passers-by staring at us, and I was embarrassed, but Jenny didn’t seem to be.

‘You need help,’ she said, when I’d finished, without asking me what was wrong. ‘You can’t possibly cope with two teenagers and twin babies by yourself.’ She fished a packet of tissues out of her handbag and handed me one.

‘Bella helps me out when she’s home,’ I said. ‘And Michael …’

What did Michael do exactly? An image came to me, then, unbidden – Michael raising his eyebrows disapprovingly. I couldn’t pinpoint an actual event to go with the image; he seemed to be giving me that look a lot lately. When he came home at a reasonable time and dinner wasn’t ready. Or when he came home late and the house was still untidy.

Jenny didn’t push it. ‘Wasn’t your mum helping you out?’ she asked instead.

‘She was, but we had a row.’ I didn’t go into details. It was a petty argument, caused partly by my inability to take advice and partly by my mother giving criticism and instructions rather than suggestions and assistance. I needed to pick up the phone and call her, but I wished just for once that she would make the first move.

‘I’ll have a word with Irena when we get back to your place,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll set up something permanent with her. Then we’ll make a doctor’s appointment for you. And from now on, you must have some time out for yourself. Some “me time”, as they say. Every day. To do some exercise, to have a haircut and a facial, or just to relax and breathe.’

I stared at Jenny blankly. I could hardly find the energy to get out of bed, or the time to do basic household chores. On an exceptionally good day, I managed to get dressed and clean my teeth before Michael came home in the evening. How on earth was I going to get out and do some sport or get a makeover?

Jenny answered my unspoken question. ‘You need a nanny. We’ll find you a nanny,’ she said.

I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or how Michael would feel about it. We could easily afford it, although Mike was tight with money – well, he called it “frugal” – but I had my maternity pay.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re a brick.’ I welled up again, thinking I didn’t deserve her.

‘Of course you do,’ she said firmly, and I realised I’d voiced that thought. ‘You have to stop thinking like that. You’re not yourself at the moment, that’s all.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Well, you might have sailed through motherhood last time with Callum, but I found it a bit of a struggle with Sophia.’

I knew that must be an understatement. Jenny wasn’t the sort of person to seek attention for herself and she wouldn’t have wanted me to feel sorry for her. I hugged her.

In the end, Jenny didn’t find a nanny; she found an au pair. With hindsight, of course, it was a mistake letting Clémentine into our home. But we couldn’t have foreseen how she would change our lives. Especially mine.