The Perfect Mother. Margaret Leroy

back. He sinks rapidly into sleep, his breath warm on my shoulder; I haven’t even turned off the light.

      I lie there for a while, but sleep feels far from me. The light of the lamp falls on the bedroom walls, which are ragrolled and opulently red; the hatstand and the hat with a plume that I bought in a junk shop cast extravagant shadows. I had a fantasy in mind when I planned and painted this room, as though it were an opera set, perhaps for La Traviata, which Richard once took me to see. We have a French cherrywood bed with a scrolled head and feet, the floor is darkly varnished, the red of the walls is rich by lamplight, though rather oppressive by day; and there are heavy curtains patterned with arum lilies, and a poster from an exhibition of designs for the Ballet Russe, that we went to see when Sinead was doing a ballet project. The poster shows a kind of erotic dance, and when I bought it, just glancing at it quickly and knowing I liked it, I thought there were two figures there, entwined in some sexual ritual; though when I got it home and took it out to frame it I saw it was really a solitary figure, neither male nor female, at once muscled and voluptuous, bejewelled and draped in lavish folds of cloth—and the other shape was a scarf red as flame that twisted and curved close, gauzy, without substance, yet moving like the body of a lover.

      I get up silently, and take Richard’s dressing gown from the foot of the bed and wrap it round me. Mine is silk, and in this weather putting it on just makes you feel colder.

      I go down to the kitchen. I make some toast, but the butter is hard and won’t spread. There’s some wine left in the bottle we drank with dinner: Richard is keeping to his resolution to drink less whisky in the evening. I pour myself a glass; in the cold, it has no scent, but I feel a sudden easing as it glides into my veins.

      The room is untidy, the girls’ things scattered around—Sinead’s flower scrunchies and copies of Heat, and drawings Daisy has done, sketches of injured animals, and her box of magnetic fridge poetry. She hasn’t done a new poem for weeks; her pre-Christmas offering is still on the door of the fridge. ‘The gold witch crept to the top.’ In the stillness and cold, untidy but with nobody there, the kitchen has the look of a room abandoned in a hurry, by people who’ve been warned of some disaster or called away. When I see myself in the mirror over the fireplace I realise I haven’t washed my hair for a week.

      There’s a holiday brochure that came in the post, showing villas in Tuscany. I sip the wine and flick through, seeking to lose myself in these fields of sunflowers and cities of blond towers, but worry has its claws in me, it can’t be pushed away. With a sudden resolve I take a piece of paper that’s lying there and a purple felt-tip of Daisy’s. I write ‘To Do for Daisy’ at the top of the page, then ‘1. Go to GP. 2. Make a food diary—allergies? 3. Clear out her room—take away all rugs, cuddlies etc. Dust mites? 4. Homeopathy/herbalism—ask Nicky.’ Nicky got to know lots of alternative people during her transient passion for aromatherapy; tomorrow I shall ring her. I stick the list up on the fridge, next to Daisy’s poem. I am in control again: there’s so much I can do. I tell myself that Richard was right, that I have been over-emotional, that it will soon be over, and Daisy will be well. I picture myself chatting about it with Nicky at the Café Rouge over some nice Pinot Grigio. Honestly, I was sure that Daisy had something serious—but look at her now… I gulp down the rest of the wine and feel the fear edge away from me.

      On the way back to bed I look in on Daisy. She’s sleeping quietly now, the duvet pulled up high and lifting with her breathing. Her room feels warmer than the rest of the house; above her there’s a glimmer of stencilled stars. Nothing can harm her here.

      I go back to our bedroom and slip in beside Richard, and lie awake and hear the bark of the fox, moving rapidly across the long line of gardens, careless of hedges and fences, as though this whole wide territory were his.

      CHAPTER 5

      There’s a postcard for me. At first, I don’t see it: it’s hidden under a letter from Richard’s parents, thanking Sinead and Daisy for their thank-you letters. I’m smiling to myself, at these flower-chains of gratitude and obligation that could go on for ever, when my eye falls on the postcard. I pick it up with care, as though it could hurt me. I’m glad that Richard has gone to work already. He doesn’t need to know.

      There are four pictures. I look at them for a moment, not wanting to turn the card over. They’re conventional, touristy scenes. I read the captions. The Reichstag. Charlottenburg Castle. Kurfürstendamm. Unter den Linden. These places sound familiar, though I don’t know how to pronounce them. Charlottenburg Castle is white and opulent under a vast summer sky; Kurfürstendamm and Unter den Linden are shown by night, with lots of neon. The caption says, ‘I love Berlin.’ The dot of the ‘i’ in Berlin is a little red heart.

      My heart pounds. I turn the card over. I can see the thought that went into this, how it was undoubtedly all planned, composed on a piece of rough paper, then copied out so carefully in this neat, rather childish handwriting.

      Darling, I do wish you’d write. It’s been so very very long. And I hear you’ve got a lovely little girl of your own, now. It’s honestly no exaggeration to say that I would adore to see her.

      And then the address, as before.

      Darling. Like a lover. Like somebody who loves.

      I have a brief moment of hope, a hope as glittery and enticing as a shard of coloured glass: you could cut yourself on it. Then rage that this comes now—rage at this wretched timing, when Daisy is ill, when I’m so full of this desperate anxiety. I hide the card at the bottom of the bin.

      CHAPTER 6

      Daisy is a little better. She dresses, eats some toast. When she cleans her teeth, she sounds as though she’s going to be sick, but we take some deep breaths together and the worst of the feeling passes. She doesn’t cry on the way to school, though she’s limping and she says her legs are hurting.

      My confidence of last night is still with me: I’m sure I can solve this. I do all the things on my list. I ring the GP and make an appointment for this afternoon after school. I spend the morning cleaning Daisy’s room, moving all her cuddly animals out, as you’re meant to do if your child has asthma, and taking away her rug in case it’s been treated with pesticides, and steam-cleaning the mattress to immolate the dustmites. A sense of virtue opens out in me; I know her room is safe and pure and clean.

      At lunchtime I ring Nicky.

      ‘I’ve got just the guy for you,’ she says, when I tell her about Daisy. ‘Helmut Wolf. He’s a kinaesiologist—you have to hold these little glass bottles and he tests your muscle strength to see if you’re allergic. It’s weird but it works. He was wonderful with my migraines. Trust me, he can help Daisy.’

      I write his number down.

      ‘Neil thinks he’s nuts, of course,’ she says.

      Somehow this makes me less sure about Helmut Wolf, though that’s certainly not her intention.

      We talk about her boys. Max is doing brilliantly with his reading; his teacher is starting to hint he may be gifted. And Callum came downstairs last night wearing nothing but Nicky’s silver sandals and announced he was Postman Pat. Nicky herself is feeling rather smug: she’s given up smoking again and is on a detox diet. She says I wouldn’t believe the things she can do with a chickpea.

      ‘And how are—things generally?’ I say then, using one of those carefully vague phrases we use to hint at that separate, secret part of her—which for now means Simon at Praxis, and the illicit e-mails.

      ‘Fantastic.’ Her voice is lowered, with a whisper of risk. ‘But, look, I can’t talk now.’

      We fix a date for a drink at the Café Rouge.

      At three-thirty, I park down the road from the school gate. I open the car door and the rain comes down. I don’t have my umbrella. At first I fight against it, turning up my collar, but soon I’m soaked, so I lift up my face and let it fall on me, and it feels surprisingly pleasant, drenching me through. The whole street is musical with water, and outside the church