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Apple of My Eye. Claire Allan
Читать онлайн.Название Apple of My Eye
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008328764
Автор произведения Claire Allan
Издательство HarperCollins
‘Shall we stop this conversation before it gets heated?’ I ask. ‘And can we also get me some of that soup? I’m hungry.’
‘I knew my soup would tempt you,’ she says, beaming. ‘When you were a little girl, chicken soup always brought you round when you were feeling poorly. You could be looked after like this all the time if—’
‘Mum!’ I fire a warning shot and she shrugs her shoulders. Tells me she was ‘just saying’ before taking two bowls from the cupboard and ladling the soup into them.
I slice the bread, bring it and butter to the dining table. Sitting down, I look out through the bifold doors at the darkness of the lake. The rain is battering the glass, raindrops chasing raindrops down the windows. It’s going to be a rough night. I catch my reflection against the blackness. Mum’s right, I do look worn out.
She carries the soup over on a tray along with two glasses of water and when she sits down, she looks me straight in the eyes.
‘So, maybe you can tell me all about what’s making you so stressed.’
‘I’m not stressed,’ I lie.
‘Eliana Johnston, I know you better than I know myself. You called me and asked me to come down a day early. Now I know you love me dearly, but you never ask me to come down early unless something’s nipping at you.’
‘Hughes,’ I correct her, ‘my name is Eliana Hughes now.’ I take a spoonful of soup, blow on it gently before bringing the spoon to my mouth. It’s delicious. I try to distract my mother by telling her how lovely it is.
‘I know it’s lovely,’ she says with a smile, ‘just as you know you will always be Eliana Johnston to me. But that’s not what we’re talking about just now, is it?’
‘Just now I want to eat my soup, Mum. I’m too tired to think straight, you know?’
‘Okay,’ she says, but I feel her eyes on me as I eat.
She fusses around after, making sure I’m comfortable and relaxed. Only when I’m curled under a throw on the sofa in front of the blazing fire does she ask me again what’s wrong.
‘You know you can tell me anything,’ she says, her blue eyes wide.
My mother has the most beautiful blue eyes in the world, bright aquamarine. So vibrant. I’m incredibly jealous I haven’t inherited them and secretly hope my baby will.
I nod, but I feel a little silly and more than a little embarrassed. How can I tell her that her very-much-in-control daughter is struggling with pregnancy and worried the life she loves is about to disappear from under her feet?
‘Everything with the baby okay?’
The baby – always her first thought. I feel a pang of irrational something. Jealousy maybe. Whatever it is it’s followed immediately by guilt at having a negative feeling towards my own child.
‘The baby’s fine. Kicking and wriggling as normal. Still making me sick, so I’m pretty sure my hormones are still doing exactly what they should.’
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were concerned for the baby at all.’
‘Of course, Mum,’ I say.
And I mean it. My concern isn’t so much for the baby but more about how I’ll cope as a mother. Especially if I end up on my own. We’re not all like my mother. We don’t all thrive on our own.
‘Have you told Martin yet that you know the baby is a girl?’
I blush. I’m not at all comfortable with the fact that I know the sex of our baby and he doesn’t. But he wants it to be a surprise. I did too, until I started to feel so terribly ill and so worried that it’d affect how I bonded with her. So I’d figured that if I knew, it’d make her more real to me. That it might help.
I’m not in the habit of keeping things from my husband. Or I hadn’t been, but things had been different recently. I suppose I’ve been trying to justify it to myself, telling myself it doesn’t really matter. It’ll still be a surprise for him when she’s born, but I know that I’ve broken his trust. Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m even entertaining the notion he could be breaking mine, too. I know first-hand how easy it is to lie by omission, to hide what I know. I’ve even hidden a set of three pink onesies in a drawer upstairs.
‘No, Mum, and I don’t think I will. We’re close now anyway. I don’t think it’d do any good to anyone to cause upset now.’
‘Well, I can’t wait until it’s all out in the open. Then I can go legitimately mad in the shops and buy up all the pink in the world.’
‘You don’t have to go mad in the shops, Mum,’ I said. ‘You keep your money for yourself.’
‘Nonsense! I know I don’t have to spend my money on the baby, but I want to, and more than that, I’m going to. I’ve been saving up.’
‘Mum, you need your money. Save it up if you want but keep it for yourself. This baby’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘I’ve worked hard all my life, Eli, and if I want to spend my money on my grandchild, I will. And that’s the end of it. Sure, what else would I spend my money on? This is something happy! My first grandchild.’
‘And probably your last,’ I say with a grimace. ‘I can’t imagine ever going through this again.’
‘Everyone feels like that during your stage of pregnancy,’ my mother soothes. ‘You don’t know how you’ll feel after the birth, but I can tell you that even if you only have the one child, she’ll be more than enough.’
‘Did you always feel that way, Mum? Always feel I was enough?’ I ask.
She tilts her head to one side and those sparkling blue eyes look at me again. ‘From the moment I first held you, my darling, I knew that I’d never need or want anyone else in my life but you. If life had given me more children I’d have loved them too, of course I would. But I never felt anything but complete with you in my life.’
It’s too much emotion for pregnant me. I feel my chest tighten and I hug her. ‘I love you, Mum,’ I whisper into the soft curls of her hair on her cheek, the familiar smell of her Chanel No. 5 perfume comforting me.
‘You’ll be a great mother, Eliana. Don’t doubt yourself. Not even for a second. And I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.’
‘I know,’ I whisper.
‘And you can tell me anything.’
‘I know that, too,’ I say.
‘Like if there was any reason you asked me to come down a day earlier than planned.’ She raises one eyebrow.
She’s not one to give up easily.
‘I told you, Mum, it’s nothing. Martin was just going away for work and, well, it’s getting closer to the baby coming and all …’
‘If you’re sure that’s all?’ she asks.
I nod. Thinking that yes, it is indeed easy to lie or just not tell the whole truth. Much too easy.
It’s just after 9.30 p.m. when my mother, seeing how hard I’ve been trying to stifle my yawns, orders me off to bed. I don’t argue. I’m bone tired but thankful that I’m also feeling soothed by my chat with Mum.
I plug my phone in to charge, rest it