Diane Jeffrey - The Guilty Mother

When Jenny arrived, though, self-doubt consumed me in one big gulp. ‘Sleek’ and ‘slim’ were the words that sprung to mind when I looked at her. In comparison, I could only come up with ‘fat’ and ‘frumpy’ to describe myself. The same age as me, Jenny didn’t appear to have aged at all since I’d known her whereas I would need to apply a whole bottle of foundation to stand any chance of masking my wrinkles. And although she was normally the same height as me, in her kitten heels Jenny towered two inches over me in my slippers.

‘Ooh, your hair looks fantastic,’ were the first words she said when I opened the door. Good old Jen. She always said the right thing.

As she, Rob and their daughter, Sophia, stood on the doorstep, I noticed with a prick of envy that Rob had his arm around Jenny’s waist. It was months since there had been any genuine affection between Michael and me. I thought the twins would bring us closer again one day, but for the moment the unexpected upheaval in our lives had driven a wedge between us.

Michael shepherded everyone into the living room and served pre-dinner drinks. I was already feeling detached from it all, as though I was on the outside looking in. I made an effort to laugh in the right places, but it didn’t sound like my laugh; I attempted to make small talk, but it was stilted, as if I were trying to string together sentences in a foreign language.

At the table, at least three discussions were going on at the same time and I couldn’t follow a single one. The chatter grew louder and everyone’s words merged into a confused din in my head. Once or twice there was a slight hush and I realised someone had spoken to me and was waiting for my response. It all felt as if I’d walked onto a stage and had to play a part, but I was missing my cues and hadn’t learnt my lines.

I’d decided against breastfeeding – it just seemed easier not to and I felt too old to do all the nightly feeds myself – so I could have a drink or two, which I’d been looking forward to. I knocked back the expensive wine without even tasting it, hoping it would loosen my tongue, or at least loosen me up. I was relieved when everyone had finished their starters and I could busy myself with clearing the plates and serving the main course.

Everything was forced – my contribution to the conversation, my smile, which stretched into a rictus across my face. I felt like a fraud. I was faking it, feigning an interest when I had no idea what was going on around me. After a while, I couldn’t keep up the pretence. When the baby monitor crackled, I leapt to my feet, seizing the opportunity to get away for a few minutes.

But Clémentine got there first. ‘It’s Ellie,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

‘She’s terrific, isn’t she?’ Jenny said.

I was so grateful to Jenny for finding Clémentine to help with the twins and Irena to clean the house that I sat down again, nodded at Jenny and left Clémentine to it. I checked the baby monitor every few minutes, willing Amber to wake up, too. I turned up the volume, although it was unnecessary. Whenever Amber screamed with hunger, you could hear her even without the baby phone.

After the meal, Bella packed the dishwasher while Callum sloped off to his room, Sophia in tow, to play on his console. Blaming the wine, I popped to the toilet before flopping down on the sofa in the living room next to Jenny.

Clémentine was already sitting in an armchair holding Ellie. Her eyes fixed on the baby, she didn’t notice me studying her. She was wearing a low-cut white top and a short black skirt. Earlier I’d thought, rather unkindly, that she was a frilly apron short of a French maid’s outfit, but now I found myself jealous of the way her clothes showed off her cleavage and shapely legs to perfection.

Bella came into the living room to join us, perching on the arm of Clémentine’s chair. I observed my stepdaughter reaching across Clémentine to stroke her half-sister’s fair head. Bella was only a year or two younger than Clémentine and they got on well at the time.

Rob and Michael had been talking animatedly about something – I had no idea what – and there was one of those abrupt silences you sometimes get at parties when everyone stops speaking for a moment. It was broken by the noise of Ellie guzzling from her bottle.

‘I think we need our own bottle!’ Michael said, opening a bottle of Armagnac. He arched his eyebrows at me when I asked for a glass, but he poured me some without comment. It must have been a very small measure because when I picked up my glass a minute or so later, there was no brandy left in it.

Turning to Jenny, I whispered so Michael wouldn’t hear, ‘Have you got any fags?’

‘Of course,’ she said and stood up, grabbing her handbag from the floor by her feet and slinging it over her shoulder.

Jenny always carried a packet of cigarettes on her for emergencies and evenings out. I sometimes accompanied her outside and smoked passively while she puffed away, but it had been a while since I’d felt like a smoke myself. Holding the baby monitor in one hand and the cigarette in the other, I relaxed a little for the first time that evening.

When we came back in, stinking like ashtrays, Rob winked at us while Michael scowled at me.

‘I think I’ll go and check on Amber,’ I said. ‘It’s not like her to sleep through a feed.’

‘No, she ’asn’t cried for a while,’ Clémentine said, her French accent more pronounced than usual. ‘She’s usually so ’ungry.’ She turned to look at Michael with her dark brown eyes, and he chuckled.

Bella offered to go for me and Jenny offered to come with me, but I declined both of them and made my way across the room and up the stairs.

I walked along the landing on slightly wobbly legs, wondering if I was in a fit state to carry my baby and taking deep breaths to try and sober up. The door to the nursery was open and I froze on the threshold, my head suddenly clear, as if someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water over me.

I knew before I walked into the room that something was very wrong. I never told the police that, of course, or anyone else for that matter. But as I stood in the doorway, the room somehow seemed unnaturally still. I strained my ears, but I could hear none of the gentle grunting sounds Amber usually made when she slept.

I can’t recall walking towards the cot. I can’t remember looking down at my baby, if she was face down, or if her face was purplish or pallid. I obliterated those seconds from my memory and left it to my imagination to fill in the blanks.

I remember collapsing to the floor. I remember someone screaming. I didn’t realise it was me until everyone else rushed into the room. Kneeling down next to me, Bella, Jenny and Callum all held me. The colour had drained from Callum’s face and I thought he might need support more than I did. Bella made him sit down. She was pale, too.

Clémentine lifted Amber out of the cot and thrust her into Michael’s arms. I wanted to call out and tell Clémentine to be gentle with my baby, but I said nothing. I knew it was useless. So I just watched as Clémentine put her mouth over Amber’s mouth and nose, and then pushed down on her little sternum with two fingers. Rob rang the ambulance from his mobile, although I heard someone – I think it was Michael – say that there was no point. Amber had been dead for too long.

‘She wouldn’t tell me her name,’ Kelly says. I’m standing behind her, leaning on the back of her chair as I read the article over her shoulder. ‘I found her at Pero’s Bridge on Harbourside begging for small change.’ I’ve just read this sentence word for word on Kelly’s laptop screen.