LITMIR.BIZ

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London, Amy Mortimer opened her wardrobe door. Two flights below, she could hear the dull, siren roar of her children wailing. She wavered, fighting the desire to waddle downstairs and sort everything out.

      No. The nanny was there. The whole point of the nanny was so Amy could be free to bathe and dress and even sometimes leave the house. That’s what they paid her for.

      Only nothing in her closet fitted any more. She stared at the clothes in front of her, half of them still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic; the only remaining evidence of her once, well-groomed, size-ten former life. It had been years since she’d been able to fit into them. They were a shrine to a self that had been completely obliterated.

      Amy sighed.

      ‘Mummy! Mummy! Muuuuuuuummmmmyyyyyy!’ Angus was screaming. She could hear him flinging his little body up the stairs and then the sound of the nanny intercepting; struggling to prise his fingers off the hall banister.

      ‘Nooooooooooooooooooo! Mummy! Noooooooooooooooo!’ He was like some tiny extra in Schindler’s List being dragged off by the Nazis.

      Amy made herself close the bedroom door. Why had nature designed small children’s cries to tear a mother’s heart in two? In fact, the whole business of being a mother was just one long exercise in guilt and compromise. Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, she began to cry. The harder she cried, the more the baby inside her kicked.

      With her luck, it was probably another boy.

      Kick, kick, kick.

      I’m hormonal, she told herself. This is normal. These are just buckets of hormones racing around my veins. Pull yourself together.

      Exhaustion dragged at her. She wanted to lie down but that was a whole half-hour performance: the placement of pillows under the bump, between the legs, something to wrap her arm around … she hadn’t slept in years. Why start now?

      So she forced herself up again, and looked around.

      The windows needed to be washed. She had the vague recollection of thinking the same thing the last time she was pregnant. Nothing had been done about it then and things were probably going to go the same way now.

      Opening Jonathan’s wardrobe, she selected one of his best, handmade shirts. Thank God he had a paunch. And retrieving her elastic-panelled maternity jeans from where they were crumpled on the floor, she struggled into them. There were some shoes somewhere … wait, what was this? A pair of bright orange beach flip-flops? Perfect. At least she didn’t have to bend down.

      Then she picked up a small notepad she kept by her bedside table and referred to a list she’d made last night.

      Amy was fond of making lists. In her heyday as an events organizer, she’d been able to plough through them, ticking off each entry with remarkable speed. Even when she was a little girl, her world had been clean and tidy, its parameters neatly marked by lists of accomplishments. She prided herself on being able to get things done, to face the mundane tasks of everyday life head on and emerge triumphant. But lately her lists had failed to deliver the same satisfaction. Instead of getting shorter, they only seemed to grow. And their contents overwhelmed her.

      This one began brightly enough. ‘Shoes for Angus, haircuts for all the boys, Dylan’s dental appointment, water filters, new nursing bras, nightgowns, and knickers …’ But then came, ‘Ring garden maintenance company, ask about infestation of big, black bugs (possible health hazards of small children eating fertilizer).’ Followed by, ‘Ask doctor about ADD link to fish fingers, vacuum sand from downstairs sofa, order extra-long rubber sheets for Felix and Angus, apologize to new neighbour about noise, flying dirt and Dylan kicking down lattice fence, DO LAUNDRY, DO LAUNDRY, DO LAUNDRY! Boys to clean their rooms [was she deluded?] and not to leave wet swimming trunks under beds!!!’

      And then, at the bottom of the page, just before she’d gone to bed, she’d written, ‘Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.’

      The Royal Academy?

      Leaning over, she grabbed her reading glasses from the bedside table.

       ‘Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.’

      It didn’t even look like her handwriting.

      The phrase struck her as so blatantly out of step with the reality of her day-to-day life as to be psychotic. It smacked of the kind of fatuous promise she sometimes made to her single friends: ‘Oh, yes! We must see the latest show at the Royal Academy! Shall I give you a ring next week?’ Of course, they both knew she was lying. But here it was, popping up, entirely independent of social artifice; the strange, forlorn desire to attend a cultural event.

      She sat down again on the edge of the bed and stared at the paper in her hand. It was the only thing on the list that was even remotely appealing.

      And for a moment she imagined herself, dressed in something other than maternity jeans and orange flip-flops, walking slowly through the grand rooms.

      Her breath slowed.

      The baby stopped kicking.

      Here was the catalogue in her hands; the satisfying weight of thick, glossy paper and years of scholarship. The smell of wooden floors and leather banquettes enveloped her, and there was space – space above and around; space between objects and people, between information and images; a luxurious sense of perspective that was so lacking in daily life. She was taking her time, moving slowly, forming opinions and feeling the gentle surge of energy as her mind contemplated something new; something beyond her narrow sphere of experience. She was peaceful, exhilarated; anonymous.

      And there was something else, another quality that evaded her …

      Then it came.

      In her vision, she was single.

      Not just single, but childless; wandering free, with no lists, no mobile phone; no presence pressing, jostling for position in her mind.

      Her heart beat faster; guilt seeped through her. But her imagination bounded forward anyway.

      She left the gallery, this new single self and, sitting happily by herself, took the bus home.

      Now she could see the darling little one-bedroom flat she lived in, somewhere near the canal in Little Venice. Here was the tiny, bright kitchen, just right for one, always clean … the living room with a cat, curled into the seat cushion of an old armchair, basking in a square of sunshine … an unashamedly romantic bedroom adorned with floral prints and mounds of soft pillows … A whole life unfolded before her; a peaceful, quiet, unhurried existence.

      Suddenly she was frightened.

      Did she really want a cat and a clean kitchen? She’d fought so hard, so long for her filthy South London home, bad-tempered husband and brood of children.

      Passing a hand over her face, she rubbed her eyes.

      Hormones. It was all hormones.

      She stood up. If she wanted to go so badly, she could ask Jonathan to go with her. They could easily book a babysitter and have lunch.

      And then she sat down again, quickly. Her heart contracted. She felt sick.

      That was exactly what she didn’t want.

      Quite unwillingly, she unearthed a nugget of truth she wished she’d left buried.

      It wasn’t just that Jonathan didn’t do visual art. Or that free time was at such a premium, he’d consider it a waste. But the thought of trying to jolly him along, of having to be extra bright and effervescent to weather another one of his inevitable bad moods, force-feeding him art, was unbearable. The dream had been about wandering around alone and free. And Jonathan, this man she’d pursued, won and married with the single-minded passion of a zealot, would ruin the day.

      In that moment, the full horror of her situation dawned on her.

      She was married to a man she couldn’t take to the Royal Academy.

      Then

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