Chapter One
A few weeks before
I come to Lilac Park every day to look at babies. They are everywhere, as numerous as the squirrels. Two women are standing by the entrance gate, idly pushing their prams back and forth as they chat. A few metres away, a toddler is running circles around a tree. A young mother is walking towards me, pushing a bright red buggy and smiling into the late-afternoon sunshine. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I feel dizzy, as if somebody is spinning me around. Turning away, I pretend to watch the ducks in the pond, but my heart races as she trundles past, the buggy wheels squeaking cheerfully.
There’s plenty to see and do here: tennis courts; a children’s play area; a rose garden and ornamental pond; a bowling green; two football pitches where matches are played on Sunday mornings. And there’s the park café, of course. On weekdays mums flock there like pigeons, clogging up the space with their expensive buggies, fighting over the few available high chairs. They cluster around the tables in large groups, breastfeeding and chatting and sipping their organic chai lattes. Sometimes I sit at the counter and listen to them discussing sleeping problems and sore nipples, debating the convenience of disposable nappies against the need to save the planet. I hear their little ones crying for attention. I want to pick them up and give them a cuddle, but of course I don’t. Daren’t.
Nobody ever notices me. Why would they? I am a single person. Unattached, unburdened by baby equipment. They might have acknowledged me in the past, but now I’m of no interest. How could I possibly understand what it’s like to be a parent? How could I have any idea of what they’ve been through or what their life is like now? They assume I have no horrific birth stories or funny anecdotes to share, no tiny prodigy to boast about. I’ve been to the café countless times, but they never see me. I am invisible.
It’s not just the mums who ignore me, it’s the dads too, although not many use the park during the week. Dads tend to prefer papooses to pushchairs. I suppose they think it looks more manly and also more caring to carry their babies rather than push them about. They like to have them pressed close, sniffling and dribbling onto their jackets. They wear the stains of fatherhood with pride.
At the weekend the park is heaving with young families – mums, dads, babies, toddlers, school-age children – often with grandparents in tow. They gather around the edge of the play area, talking in gender-segregated groups, with one eye vaguely on their charges. Sometimes I sit on the wall by the sandpit and watch the children digging holes or making castles. There are arguments over plastic spades and attempted thefts of unattended scooters. I want to mediate, to explain about sharing. I want to help the toddlers climb the slide and catch them at the bottom, or lift them onto the see-saw and sit on the other end, but interacting with other people’s children is only allowed if you have one of your own.
Hanging around the park is torture, but I have to come here to check on Mabel. She lives with her mummy and daddy in the house opposite the main gates. Number 74. It’s a purpose-built Edwardian maisonette with its own front door and lots of original features – the sort of place that’s very popular with hipster types retreating from Hackney. The primary schools have better ratings here and there’s less pollution. Being further from the city centre, house prices are lower.
Amber and George’s flat is on the first and second floors. They have a loft conversion. I only know this because there are windows in the roof. On the ground floor, there’s a narrow entrance hall where there’s just enough room to keep the buggy. I’ve seen Amber struggling to get past with her shopping, running up and down the stairs with the bags, trying to get it all into the kitchen before Mabel wakes up. She has no idea that I’m in the park opposite, hiding in plain sight amongst the joggers and dog-walkers, the pram-pushers and duck-feeders. Watching.
Amber is clearly not enjoying motherhood. There’s no smug glow about her like the mums in the park café. Her expression is vacant but tinged with sadness, as if she’s grieving for someone, or something. A previous lifestyle, I’m guessing, although she must have known what she was letting herself in for. It’s obvious to anyone that she’s not coping. She can’t be bothered to brush her hair or put on make-up, and she wears the same grey joggers and purple fleece every single day. As my grandmother would have put it, she’s letting herself go. I wonder what George makes of that …
Her orbit is small, consisting of trips to the tiny supermarket at the end of the road, the pharmacy and the health centre. She always takes the same route, cutting across the park. Off she sets with the buggy, head down, eyes fixed on the path. Other mothers talk on their phones while they’re walking, or bump into other parents they know, or sit on a bench and take their babies out to play, but not Amber. She avoids making human contact with anyone. For her, leaving the house is a necessity not a pleasure. It’s as if she’s been ordered to have fresh air, but doesn’t want to breathe it in.
I’ve never seen her at weekends, not once. I think she must spend them in bed. She and George don’t go out together; you’d never know they were a couple. They share the childcare and there are no overlaps, no doubling up. George seems to like being a dad a lot more than Amber likes being a mum. He loves the park; he can’t get enough of it. He puts Mabel in a baby carrier, which he wears on his back, reminding him of his trekking days, perhaps, when he used to go travelling to far-flung places. Occasionally he takes her to the family-friendly pub on the high street, presumably to meet his mates and watch football. I don’t follow him inside, because that would be too risky. Too obvious.
I stare at number 74, willing the front door to open and Amber to emerge. I haven’t seen her for a few days. It’s worrying, not to say annoying. Soon the park gates will be shut. Time to make my way home, I decide.
It’s a short bus ride to my flat, which is in a less fashionable and therefore cheaper area than Lilac Park. I hate the place, but I needed somewhere to live at short notice and it was all I could afford by myself. The living space looks onto a brick wall and there’s black mould in the bathroom that I can’t get rid of, no matter how hard I try. The staircase is shared with other tenants, most of whom I’ve never seen, and nobody bothers to clean the common parts – least of all me.
I let myself in and climb the filthy stairs to the top floor. The door to my flat has a dent at the bottom where somebody has tried to kick it in. There’s one bedroom and an open-plan kitchen/diner/living room. The furniture is all cheap beech laminate, badly assembled, and the sofa is hard and uncomfortable.
I haven’t had the motivation to make the place more homely. There have been no jolly dinner parties, no weekend guests – no visitors at all, in fact. It has been my secret hideaway, my self-imposed prison. I don’t see old friends any more and have little desire to make new ones. I came off social media and got rid of my smartphone. I’m virtually off the grid; it’s easier that way. Nobody can ask how I’m feeling or what my plans for the future are. Nobody can track me down.
Hanging my coat on the peg, I walk into the living area and stare at my dismal surroundings. The coffee table is stained with mug rings. Boxes of books and ornaments are still stacked against the wall and my pictures remain in bubble wrap. When I moved in, I couldn’t be bothered to unpack, and now the boxes have become makeshift furniture, surfaces for dirty plates and junk mail or to rest my feet on.