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  Transforming my body was a way of hiding from me; my real, disgraceful self. And so began an obsessive quest to make myself unrecognizable from the person I was before I lost you. The logic being that if I could somehow change my outward appearance, then perhaps I could fool myself into thinking I was no longer me, and therefore no longer the person who had lost you, who had behaved in the appalling way I had. It has become an addiction, I suppose. I seem to be prone to them. And like any addiction, it is dangerous and unhealthy. Both Miranda and Janine berate me for it. I have a feeling they talk about me on the phone. I’m not angry with them. It’s not like they’re conspiring against me. They’d never do such a thing. They’re my friends, and it’s only natural they’d worry about me and my obsessive nature which will probably prevent me from hitting old age. But what they can’t seem to grasp is that I don’t care. Why should I care about reaching old age when you, my darling baby girl, may have been denied the chance to reach adulthood because of my own selfishness?

  * * *

  You and I were in Peter Jones on the King’s Road. It was an unusually hot late-summer’s day and we’d ducked inside the air-conditioned department store to seek sanctuary from the heat. Like me, you were wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, only yours was dotted with pretty multicoloured butterflies, while mine was plain blue-and-white striped. I knew even then that you were a girly girl. You would giggle when I decorated your hair with ribbons and sparkly hairgrips, and you would always point to the pretty pastel-coloured dresses in the shops and in my glossy women’s magazines, not to mention delight in opening my handbags, testing every cosmetic inside, often with very messy results. You would play for hours on end with your dolls, smoothing down their hair, giving them hugs when they were sad or scared, attempting to change their nappies, feeding them milk with your plastic baby bottle. And you would sit upright on my bed, watch me with fascinated eyes as I sat at my dressing table and applied my lipstick, or arranged my hair in the style I wanted for that day. You were my princess. But you were also a daddy’s girl.

  The joy on your face was priceless on the rare occasions Greg came home early from work and scooped you up in his arms, spinning you round until you were dizzy and showering you with kisses as you giggled uncontrollably. I can still remember your unaffected laughter, the way your face broke out into the broadest of smiles, the pure, natural elation of being loved. It is one of my fondest, yet most painful, memories.

  That day – the day you were stolen from me – you had just turned two-and-a-half. That unbelievably cute age; chubby cheeks, chubby arms, chubby legs, loveable little phrases that would melt my heart. And when I looked at you, I’d have this urge to wrap you up in my arms and squeeze you tight, because you were just too goddamn gorgeous and it was almost hard to believe you were mine. You came from me, and I’d wonder how I had existed, truly lived, before you.

  You had a delicious mop of chocolate-brown curls, just like your father, the dinkiest of milk teeth interspersed with a few adorable gaps, fat little legs that kicked about in the buggy as you took in your surroundings with glee, curious about everything, your big brown eyes filled with wonder, along with pure, unconditional love for the one with whom you felt most safe. The one person who attended to your every need. Who, more than anyone, you could trust to keep you safe.

  If only that had been true.

  Chapter Five

  Christine

  Before

  August 1996

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t see me any more?’

  I’m already feeling hot and flustered from getting on and off the bus in thirty-degree heat, not to mention all the added paraphernalia that goes with travelling with a toddler. The change mat, the baby wipes, the drinks, the snacks, the distraction toys, the whopping great Maclaren pram/pushchair contraption Greg insisted on buying that gets in everyone’s way. I didn’t drive because I resent paying the extortionate parking charges in and around Sloane Square, but now I’m sorely regretting taking the cheap option. Air con and a boot would have made life so much easier.

  Heidi was getting crotchety on the bus, too, and I can’t say I blame her, poor love, even though I lost my rag at one point and yelled at her to stop crying because Mummy was doing the bloody best she could. That made her scream even more, tears rolling down her plump, increasingly red cheeks, and I felt so bad, like the worst mother in the world, and it was as if everyone on the bus was looking at us as we manoeuvred our way off the number 22 onto Sloane Street. What a bitch, they must have thought, shouting at her poor innocent child. Shouldn’t bloody well have kids if she can’t deal with them! I’m certain such thoughts raced through their judgemental minds.

  What they didn’t know was that I’d been up half the night, trying to get her back to sleep – she’s been having nightmares on and off for a week or so – and I’m dead beat. But it’s so hot inside the house, I had to get out. I told all this to Miranda, who happened to call as I’d just boarded the bus. Not great timing, phone wedged under my ear as I attempted to haul the pushchair onboard with my right hand while showing the driver my travelcard with my left. The phone in itself drew enough of an audience, let alone my shouting. Greg’s so protective of me and Heidi, he insisted on buying me the same model he uses for work, the Nokia 880, just in case I run into trouble. Even though I managed OK for the first two years of Heidi’s life without one. It’s typical of his caring nature, and I feel incredibly spoilt compared to other mum friends forced to rely on payphones. Not least because Greg’s not the only one to have bought me a phone. You did, too. A different model, in case I mix them up. Just so it would be easier for us to contact one another, as you’ve just done. We’ve realized we can’t be as spontaneous now that I’m a mother. It’s registered in your name, though, to your work address. Obviously, I can’t have bills being sent to my home in case Greg sees them. Even so, I’m constantly panicking he’s going to find out, despite guarding the phone like a hawk.

  Anyway, Miranda wasn’t to know it was bad timing. She was just calling for a quick catch-up during her break from a client charity event she’s attending today. Funnily enough, it’s quite close to Sloane Square, at a hotel in South Kensington, and while she was on the phone she asked if I fancied meeting up later for a cocktail at The Berkeley, around eight-ish. Boy, how the other half live. How I would have loved to have said, Yes, I’ll be there, 8 p.m. sharp, wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just like the good old days. But I knew that by the time I’d finished up here, and made the arduous journey home, fed and bathed Heidi, not to mention phoned Greg to make sure he could race home in time to relieve me, all I’d want is to be able to put my feet up in front of the TV with a glass of wine and a take-out. Not exactly the rock and roll lifestyle I’d always imagined for myself, but in truth, I’m not complaining. I wouldn’t trade my life with Heidi for my old life for the world, even though Miranda may not have believed it at the time, just because I kind of yelled at Heidi to be quiet so I could bloody well talk to Auntie Miranda. I hope she doesn’t think I’m a bad mother. I hope she realizes I just said it in the heat of the moment. The last thing I want is to stir up bad memories from her own childhood for her. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her growing up without a mother; with only a father who treated her unkindly. The old codger’s still alive, and as much of an arsehole as he was back then. She just about persuaded him to attend her wedding, but he refused to stay on afterwards for their reception. Claimed he had to get back for Casualty. Poor Miranda was devastated, although she did well to hold it together. Probably another reason she looked so glum for part of the speeches at my wedding. My father’s speech – the wonderful things he said about me at our wedding breakfast – reduced me and everyone else to tears. But her father couldn’t even be bothered to show up to hers. I’d feel resentful about that.

  Anyway, thinking about it more deeply, I’m pretty sure Miranda doesn’t consider me to be a bad mother. She’s seen me enough times with Heidi to realiz
e I’d go to the ends of the earth for her. Point is, she was fine about me passing up on her offer of a drink, probably expected me to, and made a light-hearted joke about how she’d much rather be shopping with me in Peter Jones than attending her boring client event with a bunch of tedious colleagues. I couldn’t help but laugh when she said this, and it made me realize how much of my old life I don’t miss. Then we rang off and agreed to touch base later.

  There’s another reason I ventured out today, besides needing to escape the heat of the house. I need something for Janine’s surprise birthday party this Saturday. Mum and Dad are coming up to babysit, and although I adore my baby girl, I’m looking forward to an adults’ night where I can let loose a bit, have a proper conversation without the fear of being interrupted. It’s been hard keeping the party a secret. I’ve nearly let it slip on several occasions, but thankfully I caught myself in time.

  In the short while we’ve been in Peter Jones, I’ve managed to find a dress. Heidi was very good actually, watching me try on several items as she played with her Care Bear, giving me gorgeous smiles and squeals of approval every now and again as I turned this way and that, checking out my bum, my boobs, making sure my mummy belly didn’t protrude too much. It’s been thirty months, and I’ve finally lost all the weight, and then some. I walk everywhere with the pushchair and am probably in better shape than I ever was, although that extra skin around my abdomen is never going to disappear completely without surgery, no matter how much walking, or how many crunches I do.

  You said you don’t mind, that you find it kind of sexy. Those were your exact words last week when we met after I told Mum I had a hairdresser’s appointment and could she please watch Heidi for a few hours. Christ, I felt so bloody guilty, especially when Heidi started sobbing her eyes out as she watched me leave. But the guilt swiftly faded the minute you swept me up in your arms, kissed me long and hard, then threw me onto the bed and started ripping my clothes off. I love it when you’re inside me, but you weren’t letting me have my way, not at first. You stripped me to my bra and knickers, then slowly slid the bottoms off, teasingly, toying with me, before going down on me, making me arch my back with pleasure, making me come so bad it was like I was being electrocuted. And then you came up for air and kissed me, and I could taste myself on your lips. Later, I got my way, and when you came inside me, it was a real boost to my ego. Knowing that you still found me sexy and desirable, that I still turned you on.

  I know it’s unforgivable that we have continued our affair, but we can’t stop ourselves. Or so I thought, until today. Because now, out of the blue, just as I’m in the lingerie department picking out something naughty to wear for you, you’ve dropped this bombshell that we have to stop, and I feel sick, like my world has ended.

  ‘We have no choice, don’t you see?’ you are saying. And although I do see, because you’ve just told me your reasons, reasons which are clear, logical and cannot be argued with, our passion was never clear or logical, it was bloody stupid, insane. But that’s what made it so great, so addictive. All I can think is, How can I possibly function without it?

  I almost can’t breathe as the room starts to spin, your words playing on a loop in my head, making me deaf, dumb and blind to the world around me. I know you don’t really want to end things, I can hear it in your voice, the underlying reticence, and that’s some consolation. I just wish we could meet, talk things through face-to-face. Heidi has started to whimper, but I can’t deal with that right now and so I do what I vowed never to do when she was born and stick a dummy in her mouth so we’re not interrupted. She’s far too old, it took us forever to wean her off them, but I still carry one around in case I get desperate.

  I try to steady my breathing. Ask you again if you really mean it, suggest that perhaps we could meet and talk about it, just for old times’ sake. But you are adamant and it’s a crushing blow, and I wonder if you’ve gone off me after all. Maybe you’re having an affair with someone else? I mean, I wouldn’t put it past you, you’ve always been a bit of a cad. I am silent for a while, locked in my own turmoil. And then, as I look up to the ceiling, phone still pressed against my ear as I hear you say my name, ask me if I’m still there, it occurs to me that I have walked away as we talked as the signal wasn’t so good where I’d been standing. But, without thinking, I have wandered further than I intended. I’m in a different department, and my chest is suddenly tight, my throat constricted as I look around and realize Heidi is not with me any more. In fact, she’s nowhere to be seen.

  And then I am saying, then crying, ‘Heidi, oh fuck, where did I leave you, where are you, Heidi?’

  And as I do, I vaguely hear you say my name, ask me what’s wrong, but I let the phone drop to my side and start racing down the aisles, calling my daughter’s name, but I can’t find her, and I want to vomit as I realize that someone may have taken her, and I may never see her again.

  Chapter Six

  Christine

  Now

  Before you, I had been the consummate career girl; a high-flying litigation associate at a top City law firm. I was going places, the world was my oyster, and nothing and no one was going to stop me. Children didn’t factor into my thinking, even when Greg and I got married. But all that changed the day you entered my world.

  In my head, I have this romantic notion of you being a honeymoon baby, but I guess that’s not strictly true. I cried when I discovered I was pregnant. Sitting on the toilet lid, staring at the third successive test I’d done, I’d bawled my eyes out. But they weren’t tears of joy; they were tears of utter despair because all I could think was that you were going to ruin my precious career, my social life. My sex life. And I couldn’t help wondering whose baby you were. I thought about not telling Greg, getting a discreet abortion, after which no one would have been the wiser; neither Greg, nor him. But in the end, I suppose what little conscience I had prevailed, and I reluctantly broke the ‘happy’ news to an ecstatic Greg.

  So that’s two reasons why I believe losing you was karma. Karma for the fact that I had an affair, and karma because I didn’t want you at first. Whenever I mention the second to Greg (less so now, but I did so frequently in the early days of your disappearance) he tells me I’m being ridiculous, that karma is superstitious nonsense, that once you were born I changed completely and loved you with all my heart and soul. He’s right, in that I did fall in love with you the moment you came out and were put to my breast. You were the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen, and I was consumed by love and a desire to protect you, come what may. A love that was both thrilling and terrifying, I recognized that even then.

  But how was I to know that, before your third birthday, I would experience a mother’s love for her child at its most brutal? For surely there is no greater loss than the loss of a child. Only in my case, it’s that much worse because losing you was of my own making, the result of my own self-indulgent weakness.

  After taking a year’s maternity leave, I gave up my job; something I could never have imagined doing before you were born. The six-figure salary and lavish lifestyle didn’t come close to the time that could be spent with you. It was the easiest decision I’d ever made. I wanted to be around for every cuddle, every tear shed, every smile, that first step, first word, first tooth. I was the one person you’d be able to count on, the one who would love you with a fierce, burning love that would never peter out. A love so strong I would have given my own life for you, should it ever have come to that.

  Greg – who worked even longer hours than me – supported my decision. Well on the partnership track, he made more than enough money for the both of us and leaving you with me every day took the worry and the guilt off him. The guilt of leaving you with a stranger, the worry of something bad happening to you in his absence. It was a comfort to him. At least, it should have been. But I failed him, like I failed you.

  For a time, the various psychiatrists I saw over the years helped, I guess. Or perhaps it was the placebo effect –
my head telling me I was paying these people a fortune to treat me, and therefore it had to be doing something, right? But the fact that I am sitting here with Dr Cousins is proof that none of it has worked. It’s never long before I revert to my grief. A grief that’s overwhelmed me lately, knowing you would have turned twenty-five this month, the day before yesterday, in fact; a day which I spent most of in bed. I’m always at my lowest around your birthday. I know it’s been playing on Greg’s mind, too, although, like most things, we haven’t discussed it.

  It’s been nine months since I was last in therapy. Dr Montgomery was pleasant enough. We’d talk about my feelings, the pain of losing you, the toll it’s taken on my marriage. But in the end, it was never going to cure me, because I hadn’t unburdened myself completely. Hadn’t told her what lies at the crux of my guilt. The reason I keep punishing myself, feel that I don’t deserve peace.

  * * *

  ‘Try to relax, and just talk to me, Christine. Tell me about yourself, what you are feeling.’

  The brown leather couch I am reclining on is so soft I have to fight the urge to fall asleep, and instead make a conscious effort to remain alert and focused. My best friend from uni, Janine, or Jani as I often call her, recommended Dr Cousins to me. Over the last few months, she has helped Janine deal with the death of her husband, Nate, whom she found hanging from the ceiling in his study. Pressure of work, they’d assumed. But that surprised me as I had never considered Nate, an ex-colleague of Greg and mine, the type to buckle under pressure. In fact, he’d always seemed to thrive on it.