Eighties’ grey-and-red zigzaggy wallpaper still miraculously intact, tossing and turning under her old Snoopy duvet on that single bed until her belly had been like a distended, vein-riddled space hopper.
Even then, she’d held out hope, through the last waddling days of pregnancy and right through the agonizing blur of labour. She kept expecting he’d stride into the delivery suite, clutching flowers, chocolates, helium balloons, soft velvety teddy bears. ‘I’m her husband,’ he’d announce to the midwives in his rich actor’s voice, his eyes moist with emotion. ‘I’m the father.’
But no. No such announcements. No plush teddies or balloons. It seemed as though being husband and father was too much for Jake to take on board. He hadn’t shown. Not through the messy screams of the birth (and all that blood! Alice was quite glad he hadn’t witnessed the full-blown gore of it. He’d never have wanted sex with her again). Not through the sweet moment of triumph when the midwife had placed Alice’s warm wet baby into her arms and said, ‘It’s a girl!’ And not for all those days and weeks after the birth, when Alice and her daughter had clung together, overwhelmed and bewildered, like sole survivors on a shipwreck.
She’d called him with the news, obviously. Well, tried to, anyway. She had left the news on his voicemail because he never took her calls. She’d sent him a card too, and some photos of her beautiful girl ( their beautiful girl), face like a fuzzy peach, eyes tight shut, dreamy milky smile playing around her lips. Alice knew – absolutely knew – that once Jake saw just how gorgeous, how utterly enchanting their daughter was, he’d be back.
He wasn’t.
She’d waited until the last possible day to register Iris’s birth because she’d hoped Jake would sweep in at the final hour – his greatest romantic lead role yet – so that they could discuss baby names together. She felt unqualified to bestow a name on their daughter without his help. What if she chose a name and he didn’t like it?
‘Then it’s his hard cheese, isn’t it?’ her mum had sniffed. ‘He’s had more than enough chances. How about Sophie?’
It had plunged Alice into despair, the naming business. It seemed such a huge responsibility to choose a name for another person. What if she got it wrong? ‘Jake used to have a golden retriever called Sophie when he was growing up,’ Alice had replied dolefully. ‘I can’t call her that.’
‘Hmmph, and I bet he treated that dog a damn sight better than he’s treating his own daughter,’ her mum had muttered. ‘How about Rosie, then? That’s pretty.’
Rosie was pretty, admittedly, but what if she went on to be a lawyer, a politician, an engineer? Was Rosie substantial enough a name? Besides, ‘Rosie’ always made her think of the Websters’ daughter in Coronation Street and Alice found herself saying it ‘Rurzeh’ as Sally Webster did, to rhyme with ‘jersey’.
The name Iris had come to her at the last. Yes, okay, if she was honest, it was partly because Jake had given her a bunch of irises on their first date. (Alice could still remember the way they’d dripped down her skirt through the soggy paper at the bottom of the bouquet. She’d pretended not to notice at the time.) It was partly the Jake connection, even though she doubted he’d get the link, doubted he even remembered where they’d been on their first date (a sweet little pub just round the corner from the National Theatre).
Flowers aside, there was also something wild and free and romantic about the name Iris. That was what Alice wanted for her daughter. Maybe not so much the wildness (she was already dreading the teenage years – Iris had a ferocious enough temper on her at the age of eight months). Freedom – that was what she hoped Iris would have. Freedom and romance. Two of life’s most wonderful experiences. Until everything went pear-shaped, obviously.
The only thing she’d
Even then, she’d held out hope, through the last waddling days of pregnancy and right through the agonizing blur of labour. She kept expecting he’d stride into the delivery suite, clutching flowers, chocolates, helium balloons, soft velvety teddy bears. ‘I’m her husband,’ he’d announce to the midwives in his rich actor’s voice, his eyes moist with emotion. ‘I’m the father.’
But no. No such announcements. No plush teddies or balloons. It seemed as though being husband and father was too much for Jake to take on board. He hadn’t shown. Not through the messy screams of the birth (and all that blood! Alice was quite glad he hadn’t witnessed the full-blown gore of it. He’d never have wanted sex with her again). Not through the sweet moment of triumph when the midwife had placed Alice’s warm wet baby into her arms and said, ‘It’s a girl!’ And not for all those days and weeks after the birth, when Alice and her daughter had clung together, overwhelmed and bewildered, like sole survivors on a shipwreck.
She’d called him with the news, obviously. Well, tried to, anyway. She had left the news on his voicemail because he never took her calls. She’d sent him a card too, and some photos of her beautiful girl ( their beautiful girl), face like a fuzzy peach, eyes tight shut, dreamy milky smile playing around her lips. Alice knew – absolutely knew – that once Jake saw just how gorgeous, how utterly enchanting their daughter was, he’d be back.
He wasn’t.
She’d waited until the last possible day to register Iris’s birth because she’d hoped Jake would sweep in at the final hour – his greatest romantic lead role yet – so that they could discuss baby names together. She felt unqualified to bestow a name on their daughter without his help. What if she chose a name and he didn’t like it?
‘Then it’s his hard cheese, isn’t it?’ her mum had sniffed. ‘He’s had more than enough chances. How about Sophie?’
It had plunged Alice into despair, the naming business. It seemed such a huge responsibility to choose a name for another person. What if she got it wrong? ‘Jake used to have a golden retriever called Sophie when he was growing up,’ Alice had replied dolefully. ‘I can’t call her that.’
‘Hmmph, and I bet he treated that dog a damn sight better than he’s treating his own daughter,’ her mum had muttered. ‘How about Rosie, then? That’s pretty.’
Rosie was pretty, admittedly, but what if she went on to be a lawyer, a politician, an engineer? Was Rosie substantial enough a name? Besides, ‘Rosie’ always made her think of the Websters’ daughter in Coronation Street and Alice found herself saying it ‘Rurzeh’ as Sally Webster did, to rhyme with ‘jersey’.
The name Iris had come to her at the last. Yes, okay, if she was honest, it was partly because Jake had given her a bunch of irises on their first date. (Alice could still remember the way they’d dripped down her skirt through the soggy paper at the bottom of the bouquet. She’d pretended not to notice at the time.) It was partly the Jake connection, even though she doubted he’d get the link, doubted he even remembered where they’d been on their first date (a sweet little pub just round the corner from the National Theatre).
Flowers aside, there was also something wild and free and romantic about the name Iris. That was what Alice wanted for her daughter. Maybe not so much the wildness (she was already dreading the teenage years – Iris had a ferocious enough temper on her at the age of eight months). Freedom – that was what she hoped Iris would have. Freedom and romance. Two of life’s most wonderful experiences. Until everything went pear-shaped, obviously.
The only thing she’d
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