The Sunday Lunch Club Page 4

  ‘Ten years,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Ten long years,’ laughed Sam.

  Isabel asked, ‘Why’d you split up?’

  Anna stared at Sam and he stared back.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Sam.

  ‘Just, you know . . .’ For Anna, the pertinent question was why did they get married. ‘It didn’t work out.’

  ‘Plus my feet smell,’ added Sam.

  ‘Is there afters?’ Storm, hunched over the table, was deadly bored with the grown-up chatter.

  ‘Isabel’s made a Nutella cheesecake,’ said Sam.

  ‘Nutella and cheesecake?’ burped Maeve. ‘Together?’

  ‘They should serve this at world summits,’ said Neil, as the dish was brought to the table. ‘There’d be no more war.’

  ‘You’ve found the perfect woman,’ said Santi, back now with Paloma in her second outfit of the day. ‘What did I miss? Is there custard?’

  ‘He’d never tasted custard before we met,’ said Neil. He smiled soppily at his husband. ‘We’re making a real Brit out of him.’

  ‘No way.’ Santi’s black brows beetled. ‘Chips and curry sauce? No gracias. I’ll keep my paella and my tortilla.’

  Josh held out his arms. ‘I can, you know, take Paloma if you want.’

  Surreptitiously, Anna watched her brother with the child. Josh’s beauty was outrageous, shimmering, with those bread-knife cheekbones and full mouth, yet he kept himself shut away, always in shadow, as if ashamed. She had seen many people do double takes at Josh; his reticence made him easily ignored, but on closer inspection he was both lush and delicate. A hothouse flower.

  Seeing Josh spontaneously reach out for Paloma brought a swell of optimism. Anna kept waiting for Josh to connect; Neil told her she was setting herself up for disappointment. It is what it is, was his take on Josh. Anna wanted to dig down deep, solve the mystery of her brother’s isolation. She scolded herself; human beings aren’t puzzles to be solved.

  ‘There’s loads more cheesecake, if anybody wants seconds.’ Isabel’s shoulders went to her ears. ‘I made two.’

  ‘My darling, I like you more and more,’ said Neil, his mouth full.

  ‘I could go another plateful.’ Dylan stood up with his plate.

  Anna did the same, pushing Maeve back into her chair with a firm ‘Sit!’ as she passed. In the kitchen, as Dylan hunted out the dessert, Anna’s heels squeaked on the floor. He turned at the noise.

  ‘Looking for an action replay?’ Dylan lunged, cheesecake forgotten.

  ‘No, God no.’ Anna put up her hands, keeping her voice low, and glancing neurotically at the open kitchen door. ‘Dylan, something happened.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’ Dylan was all wicked glee, manoeuvring her into a corner against a folded ironing board. ‘You were awesome, Annabel.’

  ‘Anna.’ She pushed him away. ‘Seriously, Dylan, I don’t – stop – get off!’ She finally convinced him that their romp had been a one-off and he stepped away, arms by his sides.

  ‘Hell, sorry, I thought . . .’

  She felt sorry for him. Dylan looked about seven years old when he hung his head like that. ‘Listen, something’s happened. I’m—’

  ‘Mad about me?’ said Dylan, suddenly goofy.

  ‘You didn’t even remember my name,’ Anna reminded him. ‘I’m . . .’ There were plenty of ways to say it. With child. Expecting. Up the duff. Anna went for simplicity. ‘Dylan, I’m pregnant and please don’t ask; yes, of course it’s yours.’

  He didn’t say a thing. He turned and walked to the front door, let himself out and flattened some daffodils in his haste to be elsewhere.

  ‘What did you say to Dylan?’ Maeve appeared, her face accusing.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Anna automatically. ‘Actually, I did say something.’ She took her sister’s hand. It was small, the fingernails bitten; Maeve was such a child next to tall, long-limbed Anna. ‘Come on. I have an announcement to make.’

  In the sitting room, with all faces turned expectantly to her, Anna said, ‘I’m nine weeks pregnant.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Neil.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Maeve dreamily. ‘I felt it here.’ She clutched her chest.

  ‘Congratulations.’ Sam rose slowly out of his chair as if fighting gravity. His gaze asked a hundred questions. ‘Who’s . . .’

  It all came out. The assignation in the utility room. The pregnancy test. The departure of the father-to-be as if his hair was on fire.

  Maeve stroked Anna’s arm as the others gathered round.

  ‘This is brilliant, Sis,’ said Josh, his sweet face curved into a massive smile. ‘You’ll be a brilliant mummy.’

  Santi said, ‘We’ll support you, querida. It’ll be a cousin for Paloma!’

  ‘Neil?’ prompted Anna. His opinion mattered. ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’

  ‘You’re stark staring mad.’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ Santi swatted at Neil with Paloma’s dimpled hand. ‘No more mad than us.’

  Storm looked appalled. ‘But you’re so old,’ he said.

  ‘Your auntie’s in the prime of her life,’ scolded Maeve. She said this about all women, no matter what age they were. ‘Mind you, Sis, you have no idea, believe me, what you’re letting yourself in for.’

  The teasing about utility-room sex would probably never end. Family in-jokes are the most durable; Anna was doomed to go to her grave with ‘Don’t let her get you near the tumble dryer!’ ringing in her ears. As Neil dropped her home in the enormous 4×4 that tiny Paloma somehow made necessary, he kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘You owe me a litre of fabric conditioner, you trollop.’

  Alone in her house, the evening closing in, Anna flopped on the sofa, still in her coat. Her head teemed; much like her womb.

  The quiet Sunday dusk felt like a breathing space, and Anna crawled into it, grateful for the chance to bring some order.

  They were all on her side, that teasing, mocking crew of hers. Even Sam, who only had eyes for his shiny new girlfriend, had privately asked how she was, how she really was. She was able to tell him that she was fine. They both stumbled, as if learning a new language; they’d never used words where babies were concerned.

  It was true; Anna was fine. She was calm at last, after weeks of swinging from euphoria to despair. That’s an exhausting journey to make twice a day. A baby! How wonderful! she’d think, only to stuff her fist in her mouth later. A baby! I can’t, I just can’t.

  ‘I can.’ That was her mantra today. She could do this and she wanted to do it. No baby should have the responsibility of healing their own mother, but this new Piper would square a circle it didn’t even know existed.

  At the thought of Dylan, she wilted. She hadn’t expected much, but even so . . . The baby was a shock, yes, but it had been a shock to Anna as well. It takes two to tango – or bonk on a washing machine – but unlike Dylan, she didn’t have the luxury of running away.

  That was a new thought. Wherever she went, her chick would go too. Her shadow. Her responsibility.

  That sent a current of electricity through Anna. More profound than the orgasm she’d experienced among the white goods, it jolted her forwards in time to the day she’d hold somebody in her arms, somebody she’d made. By accident, admittedly, but the baby was her doing, and she pitied Dylan for not grasping the wonder of it.

  Her life was now a No Bad Vibes zone. Neil’s disbelief, Sam’s concern, the thinly veiled censure she expected from her parents, none of these would be allowed past the front door.

  ‘I’m in charge,’ murmured Anna, moving gently around the room, lighting a candle, removing her coat, savouring the sanctuary.

  Early to bed allegedly makes a man (and presumably woman) healthy, wealthy and wise, so at ten o’clock Anna was already in a dressing gown, mixing up a milky something in her kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ A ghostly voice wafted through the letter box.

  ‘Who
’s there?’ asked Anna uncertainly.

  ‘Me.’ The ghost turned out to be Dylan. His exuberant hair was flat, his smile tentative. ‘We should talk.’

  Bang went her early night. Anna sat him down in the tiny front room, where he made the furniture look doll-sized.

  ‘I’m sorry about, you know, fleeing.’

  ‘I understand. At first I felt like fleeing myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t very manly.’ Dylan hung his head.

  ‘Who cares about manly? You’re a person first and foremost, Dylan. Do your friends call you Dylan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right.’ She knew nothing about this man, other than he was extremely good at impromptu sex. ‘I’ll call you that, then. Because we should be friends, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dylan.

  ‘How old are you?’ It was rude to ask so abruptly, but this was a unique situation. Anna tensed herself for the answer and almost threw up when he said he was twenty-one.

  ‘How, you know, old . . .’

  ‘I’m forty,’ said Anna.

  ‘You’re a cougar,’ smiled Dylan, instantly regretting it and rebooting his expression. ‘Sorry. I didn’t . . .’

  ‘How’d you find my address?’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  ‘Look,’ said Dylan, with an emphatic air. This was evidently rehearsed. ‘If you want to keep this baby, that’s cool. It’s your body, you know? But I can’t have a kid now. I have to be honest. It’s too soon. And you and me . . .’

  ‘We’re not love’s young dream.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Dylan seemed encouraged by her acceptance of the situation. ‘It was just a bit of fun. And by the way, it was epic.’ Dylan put his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m a bit of an idiot, Anna. I’m not really an actor, and I’m not really a barman, I’m still finding myself, you know?’

  Anna smiled at his earnestness. She liked him, she realised. That was a relief.

  He went on. ‘I’m broke. I’m always broke. I kip on people’s floors. I smoke weed. Lots of weed. I can’t keep a relationship going.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  Now Dylan smiled. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘I don’t expect a thing from you, Dylan. Not a thing. I’ll bring up this baby, I’ll look after it, I’ll be a single parent. But it’s important to me that you acknowledge it.’ Anna swallowed, her composure buckling for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘This child must be welcomed.’

  ‘God yeah, sure!’ Dylan bounced, energised at being set free. ‘I’ll be its dad, you know, the fun dad who takes it to Disneyland and teaches it to play the guitar and goes backpacking in Thailand with it!’

  A small voice inside Anna said, This baby is going nowhere near Thailand with this man-child. ‘Be around when you feel like it. There’s no need to pretend we’re a normal family. I can do the heavy lifting. You show up for birthdays and stuff. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Dylan sprang up and wrung her hand. His skin was warm, robust and sent a zip of sexual heat through Anna.

  Dousing it speedily, she said, ‘We should swap numbers. Bit late, but there you go.’

  As they exchanged details, both looking down at their phones, Dylan said, ‘Jeez, thank God you’re being cool about this, Anna. My mum’s gonna kill me.’

  It was clear that Dylan was incapable of going more than a couple of sentences without making Anna feel like a geriatric cradle-snatcher. As she saw him to the door – there was an aura of crushed expectation about him, as if he was ready to scamper up to bed with her – she said, ‘We know where we stand, Dylan. You’re the father, but this baby is mine.’

  ‘I can love the little dude, though,’ he said, his hair a halo in the porch light.

  He’d probably never know how grateful she was to him for that. Dylan might be an idiot – he couldn’t open the front gate without her help – but he had heart. And hearts trump brains every time.

  ‘Goodnight, mother of my child,’ he sang, hands in pockets. He half turned back and said, ‘Hey, Anna, how’d you get to forty without having a baby?’

  ‘Next time,’ said Anna, meaning Never, as she closed the front door.

  Chapter Three

  Lunch at Josh’s

  STEW

  POSSIBLY ICE CREAM

  It was an unusual name. Anna rarely heard it. When she did, she jumped.

  ‘So, our next caller,’ said the radio presenter as Anna’s car idled at the lights, ‘is Bonnie from Merton.’

  Anna never heard what Bonnie from Merton had to say. She was jolted back to when she said goodbye to the Bonnie in her own life. She’d tried to explain, apologise, but it felt pointless. I knew what I was doing.

  A horn honked impatiently. Anna raised a hand – sorry sorry – and jerked away from the lights.

  It came and went, but never quite left her, the feeling of loss. When she saw an illuminated letter ‘B’ in a gift shop. Green eyes. The scent of vanilla. The loss was tainted, made darker by guilt.

  The car slowed to pull into the car park and she wondered what Storm would make of his auntie if he knew the cruelty she was capable of. He wandered towards her – Storm never hurried – in trackie bottoms and a zip-up jacket, bag slung over his shoulder, attitude intact.

  ‘All right?’ he said, climbing in. ‘There was no need to come to Clapham Junction. I could have got the tube to yours.’

  ‘It’s no bother.’ Anna knew that Maeve gave the boy a lot of freedom, but London was a bigger, badder place than Brighton. She wondered how her own child would cope with the alarming levels of protectiveness that came so easily to her. ‘Ready to work your ass off?’

  Storm fluttered his eyelids. Among his pet hates was adult members of his family swearing or trying to be cool. Anna’s comment ticked both boxes. ‘Yup,’ he said.

  Back at the shed, Anna waved him in, telling Sam, ‘Behold, our new assistant.’

  ‘First things first,’ said Sam sternly. ‘Elevenses.’

  The day’s work experience was part of a new initiative at Storm’s school. Anna felt he was a bit young at thirteen to be thinking about a career, but had been chuffed when Storm asked to see how Artem Accessories was run.

  Sam had a sadistic urge to wear out the teenager. He set him photocopying, running to the post office, stuffing envelopes, washing mugs, printing labels. They stopped him answering the phone as he could only mumble ‘Artem ’cessories’, and answered the simplest query with ‘I dunno’.

  Looking up from the digital mock-up of her latest design, Anna took pity on Storm and motioned for him to come and sit beside her. She walked him through the process of creating a piece. ‘This one, the Cassandra, looks simple, but they’re the ones that need most work. It’s a flat, plain-looking messenger bag, but I’m adding pockets for keys and mobile phones and stuff. No point being pretty if you’re not practical.’

  The template on the screen dragged Storm in. Soon he was suggesting refinements.

  ‘Actually,’ said Anna, ‘that’s not a bad idea.’ She sketched a small rectangle. ‘A travel-card holder that’s attached by a chain . . . I like it.’

  When Storm was proud of himself, he was the image of his father. Another person for Anna to miss; she hadn’t seen Alva in over a decade.

  When Alva and Maeve got together, it had been love, wild crazy love. With Maeve, it always was. He’d been scrawny then, a wisp of a boy from a strict, chaotic, loving Caribbean family, so different to the ordered home life of the Pipers.

  College had been scrapped in favour of a squat in the pre-hipster East End of London. Anna remembered visiting with her mother and being amazed to find there was no loo; they had to nip next door to the pub when nature called. But the place pulsed with young love. Maeve and Alva were joined at the hip.

  Then, at twenty, Maeve had missed a period. She hadn’t been sure what to do, had sobbed to Anna about her ‘options’, but Alva knew exactly what to do. First a jo
b, then a flat. With no qualifications, he fell into IT.

  It was a perfect match. Galvanised by upcoming fatherhood – Alva wouldn’t hear of ‘options’ – he learned from the bottom up. He was a natural entrepreneur, and by the time Storm was two years old, Alva branched out on his own as a consultant. The squat was swapped for a pristine two-bedder in the suburbs.

  Maeve loathed it. Something in her pined for hardship, or at the very least peeling lino. When she left, in the middle of the night with Storm tucked under her arm like a handbag, it was Anna and Sam she’d fled to.

  They’d tried to mediate, to stress what a wonderful partner and provider she had in Alva, but Maeve had fallen out of love as abruptly as she’d fallen into it. Anna suspected there was somebody else involved, but she kept such dark imaginings to herself.

  Alva recovered as best he could, and now supplied scaffolding to his son’s rackety life with Maeve. He paid for his schooling, took care of the rent and some of the bills, provided the iPad and iPhone that are essential kit for any self-respecting modern teenager. He picked him up every other Friday evening and delivered him home on a Sunday, and colluded with Storm’s insistence that he be known as ‘Stephen’ at school.

  In short, he was an excellent dad. Anna realised it was Friday. ‘Is your dad picking you up from here?’

  ‘Nah.’ Storm was a natural spy; he never gave up information willingly, so Anna had to ask why not. ‘I haven’t been to his for a couple of weeks.’ And that was that. No further data. He sloped off at the sound of the doorbell, a two-note warble that Anna recognised as the postman’s.

  Anna tidied as she waited for that day’s bills and junk mail to be brought to her. She constantly battled the mess on her side of the shed. The timber office housed two desks, lots of filing cabinets and shelves, plus a draughtsman’s easel where Anna sketched handbags and purses. It was the heart of the Artem empire; Sam baulked at that word, but Anna countered that empires can be small.

  Storm returned with a large box.

  ‘Gimme gimme!’ Anna was already drooling at the thought of what was inside; not edible goodies but still delicious, these must be the Italian leather samples they’d ordered. Opening up packages full of hides always felt like Christmas. Artem was considering a move from vegetable-tan leather to chrome-tan; Sam focused on cost, whereas Anna was seduced by the feel, the depth of colour, that musky smell of a new skin.