‘I hadn’t realised Marisa was making herself so indispensable!’ Kate tries to sound breezy, but the words are shrewish in spite of herself.
‘No, no, no,’ Marisa murmurs softly. ‘I haven’t at all. I’m so grateful you’ve had me to stay here, truly.’
‘It’s been lovely to have you around,’ Annabelle replies. ‘And you’ve been very helpful with all the village fete preparations.’
‘That was nothing …’
‘Nonsense. There’s not too many people patient enough – or talented enough, for that matter – to draw posters and flyers. The vicar wasthrilled.’
Chris, topping up Kate’s glass, says waggishly, ‘And we all know how important it is to please the vicar.’
Marisa and Annabelle erupt into peals of laughter.
‘Sorry,’ Annabelle says, waving her hands in front of her face. ‘It’s too complicated to explain.’
Jake, the corners of his mouth twitching vaguely in a way that could, if necessary, be construed as a smile, reaches forward for the cake knife.
‘Shall we cut this thing?’ he says abruptly.
Cut their fucking throats, Kate thinks.
‘Yes, yes, go ahead,’ Annabelle replies. ‘The plates and napkins are just there.’
Kate watches as Jake slices decisively through the cake. The point of the knife enters at the top of the ‘B’ for ‘Baby’ and thuds when itreaches the solidity of the tray beneath. He slides individual triangles of cake onto each plate and hands them out. The cake is overly sweet and fluffy, more air than sponge. The icing is the fondant kind that has the texture of wallpaper paste. The sugar jolt hits Kate squarely between the eyes and her head aches as it does when thunder is about to break.
Of all the things she imagined might happen when they asked Marisa to be their surrogate, this is a scenario she could not possibly have anticipated. The fact that Marisa had stopped taking her meds and had deluded herself into believing she was in a relationship with Jake before attacking Kate in the hallway of her own home was almost easier to handle than this charade. Annabelle, the woman who had never fully welcomed Kate into her home, who had always made it clear that she felt her beloved son could do so much better, was now laughing and chatting away so easily with Marisa, it was as though the two of them had known each other for years. Kate watches them communicating with private jokes amid the comfort of their mutual familiarity, and she sees how Marisa seems to come alive under the beam of Annabelle’s attention, and how Annabelle, too, is transformed by this interaction, appearing younger and increasingly vital in her movements. And Chris, also, seems more involved – leaning forwards in his chair to hear better, asking Marisa if she’s comfortable enough or maybe she needs another cushion?
Kate wants to catch Jake’s eye and share a conspiratorial glance of horror, but she can tell he is avoiding her. She sees his mouth moving and realises he has joined in the conversation but there is a rushing noise in her head and she can’t hear what anyone is saying. She tries to steady her breathing but her lungs feel as though they are being wrung out like a sponge. On the wall behind the sofa there is an oil painting of a clifftop, waves crashing against the grey stone, and she focuses on the brushstrokes until the panic subsides. Her legs buckle when she stands. She steadies herself by reaching for the back of the chair.
‘Goodness, we haven’t drunk that much, have we?’ Annabelle says, watching her.
‘Are you all right?’ Jake asks.
‘Yes, fine,’ she lies. ‘Just going to the loo.’
She makes her way out of the room into the welcome coolness of the hallway. In the toilet underneath the stairs, she splashes her face with water and holds her hands under the cold tap. She dries her hands on the monogrammed towel hanging by the basin. Kate opens the lavatory door and she can hear the four of them talking, their voices slipping towards her like skimming stones across water. She feels as she did as a child, when her parents had friends over for dinner and she was meant to be in bed but instead would creep to the edge of the staircase, poking her head through the banister to see what was happening in the dining room below. Sometimes her mother would find her and pack her off and Kate would pad back to bed in her bare feet and be unable to sleep, tormented by the fact that she was not involved in all the fun happening downstairs and that they were not including her.
In the hallway, without warning, is Annabelle.
‘There you are,’ Annabelle says. In the half-gloom, she gives the impression of having grown several inches. Kate steps back.
‘We were wondering where you’d got to.’
Annabelle is unsmiling, her formidable profile turned to its three-quarter point. The silk of her dress shimmers in the half-light like melting ice.
‘Sorry,’ Kate says. ‘I hadn’t realised I’d been so long.’
She forces herself to look Annabelle in the face, refusing to show she is cowed by her presence.
‘I’m going to get some more elderflower for Marisa,’ Annabelle says. She sweeps past Kate into the kitchen, but Kate follows, unwilling to let her go. She wants to say something but she isn’t sure what. She is so angry at this woman, so repelled by her interference that she has to cross her arms to stop herself from physically lashing out.
Annabelle opens the fridge door and takes out a bottle of San Pellegrino, then reaches to the cupboard for a glass which she fills with ice from the rubber tray. She moves with grace, her arms expanding like wings, and she pays no attention to Kate who stands in the doorway, one foot on the kitchen flagstones, one foot on the hallway tiles. She is not sure what she’s going to do or say but then it comes out without Kate having to think.
‘Annabelle,’ Kate starts. ‘If you think you can unsettle me with this little power-play you have going on, then you’re very much mistaken.’
Annabelle stops what she’s doing. The half-poured bottle of San Pellegrino hangs from one hand. Her face is immobile, denuded of expression.
‘I don’t knowwhatyou’re talking about, Kate.’
