Like I said, routine helps.
Chapter Two
Hannah
‘Please. God. Tell me you’re joking.’
Vicky and I are sitting opposite each other at one of the six tables in the café we meet at every week. It’s on a back street in Penzance. The walls are light blue, in need of a touch-up, and there are paintings of birds and huge Cornish skies done by local artists. When it’s warm enough, the door is wedged open and the small space floods with natural light, sea air and the cry of gulls. It’s cheap and basic, the type of place Nathan wouldn’t be seen dead in. Which is, of course, why we meet here.
Vicky shakes her head in disbelief. ‘But why?’
Her blonde hair is tied back in a scruffy bun, and even without a scrap of make-up and four-year-old twins who never sleep, she is as pretty as she always was. Her skin is smooth, religiously moisturised, and the lines around her hazel eyes so delicate it’s as if they’ve been painted on with the finest of brushes.
The waitress places our pot of tea on the table, with a slice of coffee cake for Vicky, and toast and jam for me.
‘Guess that means you won’t be coming along to cheer for him?’ I lift the lid of the teapot to see if it’s brewed enough then pour two cups.
‘No, I bloody won’t. I mean… really? An award? Why would the council give a lawyer an award?’
‘I told you. Citizen of the Year.’
She groans and mutters something under her breath.
Vicky makes no effort to hide her dislike of my husband. When I told her Cam and I were finished and I was with Nathan she was having none of it. We’d known each other since nursery. Our mums were friends and we played together for happy hours while they gossiped and drank tea. From primary school through secondary school we were inseparable. We went to our first gig together, got drunk together, smoked our first cigarette together – stealthily swiped from her mother’s pack of Benson & Hedges – and went to as many parties as we could, invited and uninvited. Vicky knows me better than anybody else and there was no way she would ever believe I’d fallen head over heels for Nathan Cardew in only a matter of days. All she did was shake her head.
‘No,’ she’d said, refusing to believe it. ‘No. There’s something you’re not telling me.’
She also wouldn’t accept Cam had just upped and gone in the night without even a goodbye. Her interrogations were exhausting. I’d struggled to keep strong, because all I really wanted to do was curl myself into her arms and tell her the truth. All of it. Every last, filthy detail.
Would things have turned out better if I had? Could she have helped me? Sitting in front of her now, I have yet another overwhelming urge to confide in her. But I can’t risk it. The fallout would be devastating. I’ve kept the truth buried for long enough. I’m not going to unearth it now.
When I found out I was pregnant things got even harder.
‘You have to tell Cam. He’ll come back. Of course he will!’
This was when the real lies began.
‘Don’t you see?’ I said, sobbing into my hands. ‘I did tell him. That’s why he left. He wants nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with the baby. He’s moved on and says he’s never coming back to Cornwall. He told me he never loved me. I didn’t tell you because I was scared. Of the baby. Being pregnant. I hoped it would… go away. But… it didn’t.’
Lies, lies, lies.
Lying to Vicky made me feel sick. But though the idea of the baby was terrifying, it finally gave me the perfect excuse for Cam’s sudden disappearance. I dropped my head, unable to meet her eyes.
‘Bastard,’ she breathed. ‘The fucking bastard.’
I didn’t correct her.
‘Does Nathan know?’
I nodded. ‘He wants to get married.’
‘And he’ll accept Cam’s baby? Just like that?’
I glanced at her but didn’t reply.
‘No. Surely no?’ Judgement and shock in her whispered words. ‘Hannah, you can’t…’
Then I straightened my shoulders and took a bolstering breath. ‘Women have done it since forever.’
‘But it’s not—’
‘I don’t want to have a baby on my own,’ I said resolutely, stumbling unwittingly into the truth. ‘What kind of life is that for either of us? I owe my child more than a bedsit and benefits. Nathan can give us a decent life.’
Her disapproval physically hurt.
I took her hand in mine as tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell anybody. Please, Vicky. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want my baby to grow up without a father.’
She went with it reluctantly, but when Nathan started to push my friends and family away, when he began to isolate me, her dislike of him grew into hatred, almost as strong as the hatred she has for Cam, the man who, as far as she is aware, abandoned her pregnant friend without a backward glance.
I unwrap one of the small packets of butter and spread some thinly on one of the triangles of toast.
‘What does Citizen of the Year even mean?’
‘He does a lot for the community. You know that. Apparently it was the first time in eighteen years that a nominee was universally voted through.’
She scoffs. ‘And, what? You have to go and stand at his side and play the dutiful wife?’ She breaks off a piece of cake and puts it in her mouth.
‘Of course. I want to be there.’ My attention is caught by a group of girls on the street outside, fourteen or so, dressed in school uniform, skirts rolled up to mid-thigh, giggling and pointing at something on one of their phones, the case decorated in pink diamante which catches the sunlight, fingernails painted in colours I’m certain their head teacher would disapprove of, eye make-up heavy, lips shiny with cheap pink gloss. Bunking off. These are the kids for whom school is a dull inconvenience and life outside its gates so much more enticing. Nostalgia prods at me like an annoying child. I tear my eyes off them and look back at Vicky. ‘Apparently, some VIP from the council is going to do a speech.’
Another groan. ‘Don’t tell me they’re giving him a bloody trophy.’
‘A brass plaque in the town hall.’ We exchange wry smiles and she laughs with another shake of her head.
The waitress clears our empty plates and asks if we’d like anything else. She’s a striking girl with dreadlocks tied back in a floral scarf, a nose ring, and a puffy-eyed tiredness from partying. She reminds me of myself at the same age, smiling through a hangover whilst dropping pasties into bags for sunburnt tourists and beer money.
‘How’s your mum?’ Vicky asks then.
I smile. ‘She’s OK. Sleeps a lot but seems fine.’
‘And Alex?’
I press my finger on to some toast crumbs on the wipe-clean tablecloth and brush them on to my plate.
‘He’s fine. He’s—’ I stop myself.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
I take a breath. ‘He’s growing up, that’s all. Getting argumentative.’ I hesitate. ‘With Nathan.’
‘Good for him.’ She lowers her eyes, perhaps aware that her comment could be taken as a criticism of me for not standing up for myself.