The No-Kids Club Read online

  ‘Just tea for me, please,’ Clare said to the waitress hovering over them.

  ‘So how have you been?’ her dad asked, taking a sip of his drink.

  Clare met his gaze, wondering what he’d do if she said she was pregnant. Probably fall off his chair after spurting hot tea all over the table. ‘I’m fine,’ she said finally. ‘Busy. The usual.’ She tried to make her voice sound happy, but instead it came out kind of . . . flat. Life right now was anything but usual.

  ‘Think you can come for a weekend sometime soon? Tam was just saying she’d love to have you over for a night or two—she’s redecorated the guest bedroom and is absolutely gagging for some visitors. And, of course, we’d love if you spent more time than a few hours here and there. Seems forever since you’ve stayed longer than an afternoon.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Clare said, attempting to remember when she’d last stayed overnight. Maybe Christmas? No, she’d been with Edward then, and they’d holed up in his flat. She tried not to recall how they’d made love just after midnight Christmas Eve, then opened their gifts by candlelight in the first minutes of Christmas Day.

  ‘I’ll check my schedule and let you know when my next weekend off is. I’d love to come stay.’ She reached out and squeezed her father’s hand. Even though she was all grown up now, his palm still seemed huge to her. Despite the constant tension hanging over her, something inside eased slightly at the thought of getting away from everything. Of course, she reminded herself, by that time the situation would be resolved. It would have to be.

  Her father squeezed back. ‘There’s my girl. You know how much Tam loves you. And me too, of course.’ He waggled his bushy eyebrows, and Clare resisted the urge to remind him to pluck them.

  ‘I love you too, Dad.’ She longed to crawl onto his lap, safe in the knowledge he’d make everything all right, just like when she was a little.

  ‘Have you given any more thought to seeing your mother?’ The words came from nowhere, and Clare jerked in surprise.

  ‘What? Um, no.’ And she didn’t plan to anytime soon. She fiddled with the side of the menu. ‘Why? Is Tam asking?’

  Her dad grinned. ‘You know your stepmum. She’s like a dog with a bone when she gets something into her head.’ He bent over, rifled through a rucksack at his feet, then drew out a yellowed scroll. ‘I brought this for you.’

  Clare squinted, trying to figure out what it was. ‘What’s that?’ she asked finally.

  Her father used his teacup to anchor down the top end, then unfurled the scroll part way. ‘It’s your family tree. I don’t know if you recall, but back in Year Five, your teacher made every pupil put one together. You near drove us mad with all the questions about your relatives!’

  Clare smiled as she examined her shaky handwriting and the uneven lines. She could sort of remember creating this, but the memory was hazy.

  ‘Look.’ Dad pointed to the box containing his name. ‘There’s me, and there’s your mum, and there’s’—he moved his finger down the paper—‘you.’ Clare followed his finger, taking in her name hanging by a tenuous thread underneath her father and her mother.

  Her dad grinned. ‘You insisted on using our full names, even mister and missus, and by the end, you’d run out of room!’

  ‘Why did you want to show me this?’ she asked, meeting her father’s gentle gaze.

  He took her hand again. ‘Clare, no matter how much you might try to forget, your mother is a part of you, and she always will be. The sooner you make peace with that, the better.’

  Anger leapt inside, and Clare scraped back her chair. ‘How can you say that? She left us; she turned her back on this family. She’s no more a part of me than, say . . . Bon Jovi,’ she finished lamely, unable to think of a better example.

  ‘Oh, but she is.’ Her father nodded gravely. ‘I see her in your eyes, in the way you tilt your head. She’s the snap in your voice when you’re angry, and the way you curl your hair round your fist. And Clare, you may have forgotten she was a brilliant mother, actually. And a good wife, too.’ His shoulder heaved in a sigh. ‘But in the end . . . ’

  ‘In the end, she abandoned me. Us. End of story.’ Clare shook her head so hard her ponytail whipped her in the face.

  ‘Oh, Clare.’ Dad’s eyes were sad. ‘It’s not that easy. It’s never that easy. I made mistakes, too. I wasn’t the world’s best husband—or father.’

  ‘But you were!’ Clare cried. ‘You were always there.’

  ‘I was there after Mum left,’ he nodded. ‘Because I had to be. But many times your mother asked me to look after you in the evenings so she could take courses at uni—she wanted to learn accounting, to do something to get back to work eventually—and I wasn’t keen. I didn’t say no, but I certainly wasn’t supportive.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘What can I say, I was a selfish bugger. I wanted that time to relax.’

  ‘I’m sure you had your reasons.’ She refused to believe Dad had anything to do with Mum taking off. And even if he had, no one left a child and a family over unrequited coursework.

  So why had her mother left, then? Clare met her father’s eyes, realising she’d never understood. In the days that followed Mum’s departure, Clare had asked Dad over and over when she might return, and the answer was always the same: ‘I don’t know.’ It hadn’t been until a few years passed—and it was obvious ‘when’ was ‘never’—that Clare realised she’d never asked why her mum had left. And by then, she’d told herself she didn’t care. Dad had remarried, and the subject had been firmly closed. Clare had been only too happy to leave it that way.

  ‘Anyway,’ her dad continued, ‘I’m not here to debate who did what—or not. But Clare, you can’t run from memories, from the past. It’s connected to the present, and that’s something you can’t change.’ He ran his finger over the family tree. ‘And that’s why I think you’d benefit from seeing your mother. It might help you let go of the bad and remember the good again.’

  Tam must have given him a tutorial before he’d come here, Clare thought. His words were almost the same as hers back at the house that day. Sadness flooded in as she remembered forcefully rejecting Tam’s words, then shoving Edward and his email from her mind in a bid to prove her stepmum wrong—that the past should stay the past, and the key to moving forward was to keep things simple and uncomplicated. She’d tried that with Nicholas, and it certainly hadn’t made her happy. In fact, it’d made her even lonelier.

  A puff of air escaped Clare’s lips. Were Tam and her father right, after all? She glanced down at the family tree again, tracing the line that lead to her unknown future spouse. And then—she squinted—what was that going vertically from both their names? Gradually unfurling the document, she followed a line that branched out to show . . . a son and daughter.

  Her mouth fell open as she examined the boxes. She’d always thought she’d never wanted kids, yet here was evidence she had. Clare cast her mind back to Year Five—she’d only been nine, and Mum was still an integral part of the family. That was before she’d realised families didn’t always live happily ever after. Okay, so she might have wanted children at some point. But what little girl didn’t? It was how you were trained to think, before your own sense of self came into play.

  Before Clare knew what she was doing, her hand slid down to her belly. An unexpected jolt of emotion hit as Dad’s words ran though her head: the past was connected to the present, no matter how much you denied it. Was that why having children scared her? Was she letting her mother’s actions affect her present—and her future?

  Dad cleared his throat again, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Have a think about what I’ve said, will you? Or at least tell Tam I convinced you. She keeps asking me if you’ve seen your mum yet.’

  Clare forced a smile, picturing Tam’s relentless prodding. When that woman wanted something, she went for it. Dad always joked that was how she’d got him to ma
rry her.

  ‘I will.’ Gingerly, she touched her mum’s name on the family tree. Try as she might, she couldn’t blot out her mother. And maybe now, it was time to face Mum and all the emotions that went along with it—and to know why she really left.

  If that didn’t help Clare see things more clearly, God knows what would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Poppy dragged herself through the front door of her flat Friday night, the pile of post greeting her like a reproach. Alistair was usually back before her, and he always sorted the mail when he returned. The flyers and leaflets clogging the entrance each day made her heart sink with the realisation that he still hadn’t come home.

  For the last two days—ever since she’d decided to pursue adoption—she’d tried frantically to reach Alistair. First, she’d left voicemail after voicemail, then sent text after pleading text. He’d finally responded saying he’d get in touch soon, but to please respect his need for space.

  Poppy bit at her thumb as she considered for the hundredth time what to do. If she kept trying, it’d seem like she didn’t respect his wishes. But she desperately needed to convince him she was ready to move on to other options! In fact, she’d stopped the injections and had starting reading online about the adoption process. Alistair was right: it was all straightforward, and if everything went well, it wouldn’t take long to have a child in the house! Her heart flipped at the thought of a baby gurgling and cooing in the nursery. She would finally be a mum. The heartache at not getting pregnant would always be there, but she realised now that pregnancy was only the start of the journey.

  The sound of the key scraping in the lock made her heart leap with hope. Alistair was home! Poppy turned towards the doorway, her pulse racing.

  ‘Hey there,’ she said tentatively, watching as he scooped up the post and sifted through it. She wanted to race over and throw her arms around him, but by the coldness of his face, it was clear he didn’t feel the same.

  ‘Hi.’ His voice was almost robotic, and her heart dropped. ‘I thought you’d still be at work. I’ve just come to get some things.’

  ‘All right,’ she croaked to his back as he walked up the stairs. Shit. He hadn’t even looked at her! She swallowed hard against the rising fear. Okay, she’d messed up. Royally. But they could either recover and go on, or . . . Determination flooded into her. The longer this lapsed, the harder it would be to move ahead. It was time to put their marriage back together.

  Poppy hurried up the stairs, her resolve growing with each step on the faded carpet. When she reached the bedroom, she was almost bursting. Inside, Alistair was neatly removing a bundle of socks from a drawer.

  ‘Alistair,’ she said, crossing the room and touching his shoulder. ‘Please. I really have to talk to you.’

  He swung around to face her, and her heart melted at the familiar floppy hair and stubble. ‘Poppy, I’m sorry, but I told you: I need a break from all of this. Please let me have that.’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘No, Alistair. I won’t. Because I don’t think being apart is a good thing. We’ve—I’ve—let our marriage fade into the background to focus on getting pregnant, and more time away from it won’t help.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready now to look at other options.’

  ‘So you’ve said in your many messages.’ Alistair raised an eyebrow. ‘But do you mean it this time? Really and truly? Because I thought you were before, too. Are you only saying this now because you want me home again?’

  Poppy dropped her head. She could see why he might think that. ‘No,’ she said, inching closer. ‘I want you to come back for you. I miss you. I miss what we had together.’

  Alistair ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe you should have thought of that before deciding to go behind my back. Having a child is supposed to be about us, not you.’

  ‘I know,’ Poppy said softly. ‘I realise that now.’ She paused, daring to lay a hand on his arm, nearly melting with relief when he didn’t shake it off. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The silence in the room was deafening as Alistair’s grey eyes met hers; Poppy could barely breathe.

  ‘I’m not doing the injections any longer,’ she continued. ‘I’m ready to move ahead.’ She shook her head. ‘Let me rephrase that. I’m ready to move ahead with you.’

  A huge grin split Alistair’s face and he held open his arms. Poppy scooted into them, leaning her forehead against his chest and breathing in his fresh clean scent. God, she’d missed him. He’d only been gone a few days, but it felt like ages.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ Alistair said as he stroked her hair.

  ‘It’s good to have you home.’ Poppy swivelled out from under his arm. ‘Nothing felt right without you in my life. No matter what happens, I need you here.’

  Alistair drew in a breath. ‘How would you feel about delaying things a bit on the adoption front?’

  Poppy studied his face. ‘What do you mean? I thought you wanted to get started straight away.’

  ‘Well, I did. But I’ve been doing some thinking, too.’

  ‘Okay,’ Poppy said slowly, wondering where he was going with this.

  ‘We both agree pregnancy overtook everything else in our lives. I think we should have a breather. Take a little time together, just the two of us, before we get ready to meet our child.’

  Get ready to meet our child, Poppy thought, her heart filling up. What a wonderful way to put it. Although she wasn’t keen on waiting, she knew in her heart Alistair was right. Parenthood was going to be a long road, and they needed to work as a team. Plus, now that he’d mentioned it, she was looking forward to living again—drinking wine and coffee, and maybe even going on holiday!

  Poppy threw her arms around Alistair, burying her face in his neck. Then, she pulled back and grinned. ‘That sounds brilliant.’

  And as they fell onto the bed together, for once she wasn’t thinking of anything to do with a baby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Clare took a deep breath and pulled open the door of Carluccio’s. After all these years, she could barely believe she was minutes from seeing her mother.

  The second she’d returned home from meeting Dad at the café, she’d pawed through her handbag to find the contact information Tam had passed on weeks ago. With shaking fingers, she’d dialled the number, almost hoping her mother wouldn’t answer and she could put it off for another few years.

  But no, she told herself, listening to the tinny ring of the phone. She couldn’t delay this any longer. Although her mother had been physically absent for ages, Clare could finally see the emotional connection had lingered. And now, she had to face it . . . if only to make her own future clearer.

  ‘Hello?’ Mum’s voice had echoed down the line, and Clare sucked in her breath. With just one word, a powerful cocktail of emotions swept through Clare so strongly she had to sink onto the bed. That was the voice that had kissed Clare’s hurts better—and the voice that had said she was leaving. Tears gathered in Clare’s eyes at the memory of how she’d awoken early one morning and come downstairs to see her mother dressed and sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Clare had yawned, plopping onto a chair. ‘And I can have some toast before you go?’ Even now, she cringed at that memory.

  Her mum had reached out for Clare’s hand. Clare remembered how her mother’s fingers had closed around her warm ones, squeezing them until they hurt.

  ‘Mum!’ Clare had tried to pull away, but then she’d noticed the liquid glistening in her mother’s eyes . . . and the suitcases in the hallway. ‘Mum?’ she’d said, much softer and slower this time, confusion sweeping through her. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Clare, honey.’ Her mother paused, then breathed in deeply. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Go?’ Clare had rubbed her eyes. What on earth did she mean? ‘Where?’

  ‘Away. On my own
for a bit.’ She stood, then came around to where Clare was sitting and hugged her tightly.

  ‘When will you be back?’ Clare gazed into her mother’s face, panic creeping in at the expression she saw there. ‘Mum?’ Clare had asked, clutching her mother’s arm. ‘When will you be back?’

  Mum drew her in even closer, then pulled away from Clare’s pincer grip and stood. ‘I love you,’ she said, looking down. ‘Just remember, I love you.’ Her lips had trembled as she gathered up her cases, and one tear had dropped from her chin. Then, she’d turned and was gone. Clare had raced barefoot out the door and onto the walkway to see her mother climbing into a taxi. She’d watched, frozen in place, as it drove down the quiet suburban street. Mum hadn’t even looked back.

  Now, Clare was finally going to hear why she’d left. Her mum had agreed to meet Monday night, and here they were. Or rather here Clare was, she thought as she scanned the restaurant. Still no sign of her mother. Was she even going to come? Maybe she’d bail on this, too.

  Clare ordered an espresso, tapped her fingers on the metal table, then smoothed her hair and brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of her jumper. She’d stood in front of the wardrobe for ages this morning, trying to decide what to put on. What did one wear for a meet and greet with the women who’d abandoned you thirty years ago?

  ‘Clare?’

  Clare glanced up from examining her sleeve, her mouth falling open as she took in the person before her. Far from the slim brunette with the chic swinging bob that had remained in Clare’s mind, this woman sported a short grey crop and was pleasantly rounded, lines criss-crossing her face. In a million years, Clare never would have guessed this was her mother. The thought gave her a jolt.

  ‘You still look like the little girl I knew,’ the woman said in a familiar husky voice as she settled into the seat across from Clare. Her heart panged that after such a long time apart, her mum hadn’t even tried to hug her. ‘Although a much more grown-up version.’ Her mother smiled, and Clare recognised the slate-blue eyes, though they were hooded now. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’