And I see his love for Jono, fierce and absolute, stretched wide across his face.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he would.’
‘He’s a great dad,’ Janice says, with detached finality.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He is.’
I almost tell Janice about Mrs Reiber. As we walk, I am hunting for the words with which to mention her. Casually, of course; it would have to be casually, as a bit of an aside. You’ll never guess what , I’d have to start, or perhaps, A weird thing happened to me the other day.
But the story gets stuck before I can say it. There are too many connotations, too many layers.
What are you doing snooping around old ladies ? she might ask. And, If she says she’s not your friend’s mother, then she’s not your friend’s mother. Why are you so obsessed? Let it go.
She might well ask these things; after all, I ask them of myself.
She may not even remember Vanessa. In fact she may not have known about her at all. As children, our social lives were entirely separate, as they are now. And I can’t bring myself to have to explain. I can’t think how I would explain, not just about who Vanessa was, but about how important she is to me – now, as well as back then. I’d have to reveal the feelings that seeing her mother like that has stirred up in me, about the frightening parallels I see in our lives. I’d have to talk about the loss of my own baby daughter.
And I can’t do that.
When Andrew is back at work and Jono is back at school and the tree has been taken down, there is just me again, pacing the house. My thoughts dance in and out of my head like nimble demons, and I find myself back at that computer, typing in Simon’s name again. And up he comes, just as before: partner at Sutton and Wright. I click on the link and there are the details about his office: where it is, the phone number. Before I even have time to think what I am doing, I pick up the phone from the table beside me and I dial that number.
It is answered almost immediately.
‘Sutton and Wright Associates,’ chirps the female voice on the line. ‘How may I help you?’
My heart starts to thump. ‘Can I speak to Simon Reiber, please?’
‘Just putting you through.’ The line rings again, six times. With each vital ring I think to hang up; I think to chicken out. I ask myself, What am I doing? What am I going to say? Then the phone is picked up again and my heart kicks into overdrive.
It’s another woman. His secretary, I presume. ‘Simon Reiber’s office,’ she says.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, trying to sound like a client or something, like I do this all the time. ‘Can I speak to Simon, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’ she asks and my heart sinks.
‘Rachel,’ I say. ‘Rachel Thompson.’ I give her my maiden name, but Simon won’t remember me. I don’t actually know if he ever even knew my surname, and look how many years have gone by since then anyway. He won’t have a clue who I am.
‘Just a moment,’ she says, and I expect that to be the end of it. I expect her to come back and say he’s not available, or would I like to leave a message? And of course I won’t leave a message, I’ll just hang up and crawl away from all this, as I should have done in the first place.
But then I hear a faint click and a male voice says, ‘Simon Reiber speaking.’
I so didn’t expect to hear him speak. I so didn’t expect to be put through, and now that I have been, I don’t know what to say. I hesitate, and in those seconds I sense the fast impatience of a busy man.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks, and I am thrown just by his voice. It’s a confident voice, a professional voice; last time I heard Simon speak he was a boy still, his voice on the cusp, too deep for his body, too deep for his thin, awkward bones, till it lilted on a pitch and caught him out, cranking up on a high note and sending the blood rushing scarlet into his cheeks.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to call you like this. I hope you
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he would.’
‘He’s a great dad,’ Janice says, with detached finality.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He is.’
I almost tell Janice about Mrs Reiber. As we walk, I am hunting for the words with which to mention her. Casually, of course; it would have to be casually, as a bit of an aside. You’ll never guess what , I’d have to start, or perhaps, A weird thing happened to me the other day.
But the story gets stuck before I can say it. There are too many connotations, too many layers.
What are you doing snooping around old ladies ? she might ask. And, If she says she’s not your friend’s mother, then she’s not your friend’s mother. Why are you so obsessed? Let it go.
She might well ask these things; after all, I ask them of myself.
She may not even remember Vanessa. In fact she may not have known about her at all. As children, our social lives were entirely separate, as they are now. And I can’t bring myself to have to explain. I can’t think how I would explain, not just about who Vanessa was, but about how important she is to me – now, as well as back then. I’d have to reveal the feelings that seeing her mother like that has stirred up in me, about the frightening parallels I see in our lives. I’d have to talk about the loss of my own baby daughter.
And I can’t do that.
When Andrew is back at work and Jono is back at school and the tree has been taken down, there is just me again, pacing the house. My thoughts dance in and out of my head like nimble demons, and I find myself back at that computer, typing in Simon’s name again. And up he comes, just as before: partner at Sutton and Wright. I click on the link and there are the details about his office: where it is, the phone number. Before I even have time to think what I am doing, I pick up the phone from the table beside me and I dial that number.
It is answered almost immediately.
‘Sutton and Wright Associates,’ chirps the female voice on the line. ‘How may I help you?’
My heart starts to thump. ‘Can I speak to Simon Reiber, please?’
‘Just putting you through.’ The line rings again, six times. With each vital ring I think to hang up; I think to chicken out. I ask myself, What am I doing? What am I going to say? Then the phone is picked up again and my heart kicks into overdrive.
It’s another woman. His secretary, I presume. ‘Simon Reiber’s office,’ she says.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, trying to sound like a client or something, like I do this all the time. ‘Can I speak to Simon, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’ she asks and my heart sinks.
‘Rachel,’ I say. ‘Rachel Thompson.’ I give her my maiden name, but Simon won’t remember me. I don’t actually know if he ever even knew my surname, and look how many years have gone by since then anyway. He won’t have a clue who I am.
‘Just a moment,’ she says, and I expect that to be the end of it. I expect her to come back and say he’s not available, or would I like to leave a message? And of course I won’t leave a message, I’ll just hang up and crawl away from all this, as I should have done in the first place.
But then I hear a faint click and a male voice says, ‘Simon Reiber speaking.’
I so didn’t expect to hear him speak. I so didn’t expect to be put through, and now that I have been, I don’t know what to say. I hesitate, and in those seconds I sense the fast impatience of a busy man.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks, and I am thrown just by his voice. It’s a confident voice, a professional voice; last time I heard Simon speak he was a boy still, his voice on the cusp, too deep for his body, too deep for his thin, awkward bones, till it lilted on a pitch and caught him out, cranking up on a high note and sending the blood rushing scarlet into his cheeks.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to call you like this. I hope you
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