hadn’t known what to say to her then. It had seemed easier not to say anything at all. For years.
But here she was, invited back to the very bosom of Melanie’s life, on the back of just one email after seventeen years. It was almost too easy. So, Mel hadn’t been able to resist throwing her doors wide open, despite holding them fast shut for so many years. Was it because Abi was famous? People loved her celebrity. Or was it pity? Guilt? Abi had laid herself open in the email. It would have taken a hard woman to ignore the plea for friendship and support, at such a difficult time. Mel had never been hard. She’d been determined, resilient, sometimes even selfish, but not hard. Abi had counted on it.
Yes, here she was, in the very heart of the family. Naturally, Abi had friends in Los Angeles who had families, but they also had nannies and pools and space. Melanie had none of that. Abi’s senses had been assaulted all evening as she was absorbed into their home. The house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic. There were things everywhere. Just so many things. Toys, books, ornaments, cushions, candles, pens, cards, pictures and clothes, which came in every variety – clean, dirty, ironed, crumpled. Hilariously, Ben said Mel had been manically tidying in anticipation of Abi’s visit; she couldn’t even imagine what it must have looked like before. They didn’t have much money to throw about, that was obvious. With the notable exception of the hallway, which had been recently (badly) decorated, every other wall was in dire need of a freshen. Carpets were worn thin on the stairs, there was a stain on the sofa, the crockery was pretty but she’d spotted two bowls with chips.
Also, it was so loud. The TV was always on, even when no one was in the sitting room, the same went for the radio in the kitchen; besides that, the girls squealed, shouted, sang, argued or laughed pretty much all the time, literally non-stop. Mel and Ben took it in turns to yell up the stairs as they tried to capture someone’s attention; only Liam had any sense of serenity. And the smells. Obviously, Mel had lit a few candles before Abi arrived but underneath that were the scents of the family bashing and clashing up against each other in the house. She could smell the baking that had taken place in her honour, the tomatoes, basil, fried mince in the bolognese sauce, the substrate in the hamster’s cage, the urine in the cats’ tray. She could also smell the people. The little girls’ bubble bath, Ben’s aftershave, Mel’s hairspray, Liam’s youth. Abi was dizzy with the energy in the family home. The mystery as to why Melanie didn’t post much on Facebook had been solved though: there was nothing much to brag about.
Except.
Well, they all looked good. Not Mel. She had once been pretty but was now diminished; she didn’t take care of herself as she ought. Ben, however, was quite something. Undeniably handsome. And the son. Beautiful. Youthful. Perfect. The girls were a treat to look at, too. Adorable. And while the house was shabby, cluttered, noisy, chaotic, it was also so obviously fun. Happy. Loving. While it was noisy, the sound that was heard most often was laughter. And the smells: a vibrant, potent contrast to the sterility of her own home, that rarely smelt of anything other than cigarette smoke or cleaning fluids (on a Tuesday and Friday when the maid visited).
Melanie’s house was ugly. Yet, on some level Abi loved it.
Melanie’s house was beautiful on so many levels. Abi hated it.
I was never ashamed that I had sex. It wasn’t like Liam’s father was my first – he was my third as a matter of fact, if you’re the type that counts. I was more ashamed at the carelessness I’d demonstrated by having fruitful sex. There was no need for an accidental pregnancy in October 1999. It was the turn of the millennium. We had science and everything on our side.
‘Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ My brother spat out this question, unable to meet my eye – whether through anger or his own embarrassment, I was never certain. It was a fair question.
I was also ashamed that I couldn’t soften the blow by introducing a lovely boyfriend into the mix, someone who was willing to stand by me and at least show up at the prenatal scans or, better yet, make an honest woman of me as my mum so blatantly wanted.
And it was awful, the way it happened. I hate thinking about it. Even now, all these years on when the result of the dreadful night has turned into such an overtly wonderful thing: a decent, intelligent, kind young man. Just thinking about that night always makes me start mentally humming random tunes so that I don’t delve too deeply into my thoughts. Into my memories. He didn’t force himself on me or anything awful like that. Liam wasn’t a product of rape. He was the product of selfishness and irresponsibility. On both sides. Honestly, he deserves a better providence story.
I was drunk. And, he – well, he was hot. It was as simple as that. So drunk and so hot that I thought that withdrawal seemed a reasonable option. I was the one to suggest it. He’d have been happy with a blow job. Of course he would: biology is designed to give men a leg up and to stomp on women. It was me who pushed for more. I wanted him inside me. However fleetingly, I wanted it absolutely.
I remember my dad pleading, ‘But you must have a name. Can’t you tell us his name?’ I really wished I could.
On about the hundredth time he asked, I finally replied, ‘Ian.’ I know my tone was snippy. Awkwardness often manifests itself that way with me.
‘A surname?’ He probed gently, fighting his frustration, yet sensing a breakthrough, sniffing at it like a bloodhound. Aware if he moved too suddenly, he might scare me off; a terrified rabbit.
‘I didn’t catch it. It was a loud club,’ I muttered sulkily.
Dad hung his head in his hands. Rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, he aged in front of me. Suddenly, his head snapped up, fortified by a new idea. ‘But he’s studying at your university. We could get in touch with the chancellor, or what have you, and demand they look at their records. We could track down all the Ians that are registered.’ He seemed momentarily hopeful. It was sad, in the true sense of the word, not the way Imogen uses it now.
‘What and do an identity parade?’ I snarled, sarcastically.
‘Do something!’ Dad yelled. Dad is not a shouter, so this upset me, but I couldn’t let him pursue this warped version of Cinderella, chasing across the kingdom of Birmingham University to see if the shoe fit. I did the only thing I could think of that would put an end to the business.
‘He doesn’t go to my uni. He said he was visiting a friend. Freshers’ week, you know. It’s packed. People float through. He came from down south somewhere. I don’t think he ever said exactly where.’ It was safe telling my father that the man responsible for my downfall was a southerner. An intelligent man and reasonable in most ways, largely devoid of prejudices, my dad was and is irrationally unsettled by the south: its size, its smugness, its slickness. It suited him to believe all forms of trouble came from down south. Why would this trouble be any different? Still, he pursued the matter.
‘What friend? Did he at least give you the name of the friend?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
Dad sighed – it was like all his breath was coming out of him. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been much talking,’ he commented sadly.
‘No, not talking,’ said Mum, eyeing my tightly-rounded belly with poignancy. I couldn’t drag my gaze to meet hers. In fact, I spent months looking at people’s shoes.
Abigail
