Claire Seeber - Never Tell

Liam was now swinging Effie wildly over his shoulder to screams of huge delight.

‘My turn, my turn …’ Freddie hopped up and down like a small jumping bean. ‘My turn, Uncle Liam!’

James pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and three glasses out of the cupboard. ‘We’re going through to the studio.’ He winked at me. ‘All right, petal?’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Come on, Liam, put her down. You’ve got to listen to this new mix. And Don’s sent the new plans through. They’re fucking wicked.’

‘James!’ I admonished, but he just gave me a look.

‘Why don’t you all have some dinner first?’ I offered hopefully. I could do with the company. I wanted to hear Liam’s news and Star’s views on podium fashion and world politics – anything, really, rather than be stranded high and dry with my own thoughts. The radio stared at me malevolently.

‘You must be hungry. Did you eat on the way? I could knock up some pasta, if you like.’

‘That’d be grand,’ Liam began, but James glowered at him.

‘No time to eat, mate,’ he said. ‘No rest for the wicked!’

Liam shot me a look that said he wasn’t arguing. My heart sank. I knew this was the last I’d see of James till at least midday tomorrow. I made a final attempt.

‘Oh, come on, guys. You must be starving after your trek up the M40.’ I was almost pleading. ‘It’s no trouble. How about a nice carbonara?’

‘Rosie, love.’ James kissed me on the cheek, his voice dangerously low. I could smell whiskey on his breath. ‘I don’t think you need any more slap-up feeds right now. Know what I’m saying?’

I turned away quickly before they caught the glint of tears, knocking my notebook off the counter by mistake. I used to be at ease with my body, like Star seemed to be – once, before I’d had the children. James picked the notebook up. Idly he flicked it open at the last page, the page I’d scrawled on earlier, and began to read aloud in a stupid voice.

‘“I feel savage, and I can’t be, not here. I am confined by the honey-coloured stone, the sheer niceness of it all, the pretty houses, the postcard perfect village, the cricket green shorn to within an inch of its life, the twitching net curtains that are snowy white. It’s all perfect and yet I am not. It is perfect and it’s killing me.”‘

‘James, please,’ I said, trying to grab it back. Mortified, feeling like I’d just been horribly exposed, I couldn’t bear to look at the others as James held the book out of reach high above his head; with sinking heart, I saw he was poisonous with drink.

‘Oh dear, Rosie darling,’ he pouted. ‘Bit bored? Poor you. The perfect idyll and you’re suicidal.’

‘I’m not at all suicidal.’ I was flushing violently now. ‘It’s just an idea for a story.’

James chucked it down on the side. ‘Don’t give up the day job,’ he said with malice. ‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t have one any more.’

‘Come on, mate,’ Liam muttered. Star seemed oblivious, thank God.

‘James!’ I mumbled. ‘Please, don’t.’

As quickly as he switched, he switched back again.

‘I’m only teasing, darling,’ he said, stroking my face. His eyes were black with something. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it. Come on, guys.’

‘You’re gorgeous, babe.’ Liam squeezed my hand as he left the room. ‘Ignore him. He doesn’t know he’s born.’

‘I like your house,’ I heard Star saying as they disappeared in James’s wake, off to the studio built in the old garage. ‘Is it real?’

As the door shut on them, I opened the biscuit tin and crammed two Jaffa Cakes down in defiance before sharing the rest with my delighted children. I wasn’t gorgeous any more, if I ever had been. I knew that.

‘Right, you lot. Bed.’

We’d moved from London just after I’d had the twins. I’d been in a stupor of sleep deprivation and cracked nipples, and possibly undiagnosed post-natal depression, worrying about Alicia and whether she felt pushed out, worrying that I didn’t have enough time or love to split fairly between three children. I did have enough love, it turned out – more than enough – but I didn’t have enough time. That had become clear quite quickly.

My mother had come to stay for the first month, unpacking boxes, heating bottles and washing an endless rotation of small babygros. My father watched the golf; sometimes I slumped beside him on the sofa, wondering how a woman who’d once partied for England, ridden in army helicopters above battlegrounds and regularly flown into places like war-torn Sarajevo for work could be so utterly pole-axed by two tiny babies and a boisterous three-year-old. Occasionally I also wondered what the hell I was doing in the middle of the Cotswold countryside, pretty but reminiscent of the rural life that I’d left behind in the Peak District as a teenager – and far too near Oxford for my liking. But I was victim of James’s whim after he’d shot a music video at Blenheim Palace and fallen in love with the place – apparently. Worried about the nightmares and the depression, I’d let myself be roller-coastered by his enthusiasm.

I’d given up everything for my kids, willingly; one of us had to and there didn’t seem to be any question that it would be me. I’d certainly never argued. I’d simply switched off my computer and left the paper, my city friends and my beloved flat in Marylebone for my children and the country air they needed. There wasn’t enough room for the pram on the pavement any more and, crucially, I didn’t want to foist them onto a nanny whilst I continued tearing round the world unmasking controversy in often dodgy situations. It was time for domesticity, I’d accepted that quite readily. I was tired of running – that was the truth.

When the children were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table and poured myself a small glass of wine. I opened the laptop, attempted to write something about Edna’s allotment – but giant marrows kept popping into my head. I saw myself through James’s eyes: I was just like a benign shepherd. Not even that, a well-trained and obedient sheepdog. I rounded my children up and chased them gently through the day, and even when they or I were asleep, one ear was always cocked, one ear pinioned by my duty. Gone were the days when I went leaping to the challenge of a good story. Now my role was to stay close, although James was apparently still free to roam, and I was too exhausted to argue.

After about twenty minutes of desultory typing and deleting, typing and more deleting, I checked my emails for distraction.

There was one from Xav with biog details of Hadi Kattan, which I perused quickly. He was a fascinating man. He was born in Iran. His parents and sister had been incarcerated under the Shah’s regime; he was the only survivor from his immediate family, thanks to being away at school in Britain. After their deaths he’d stayed here for some time, under an uncle’s wing, educated first at Rugby and then Cambridge. He had famously denounced Islam in his thesis, part of which was published to great acclaim and controversy in The Times , after which he’d rejected the literary career so many had predicted and had gone on to make his reputation as a brilliant but ruthless trader on the London and New York stock exchanges. He briefly headed the Equities division of the World-Trident Bank before moving into the art world and retiring early with a huge fortune. His wife, Alia, had died five years ago, leaving him two children. The rumours of political intrigue, and an al-Qaeda connection seemed unlikely to me, given Kattan’s political and religious background.

Below Xav’s email was another, forwarded from Tina at the Chronicle .

‘ASH KATTAN: HOPE FOR THE FUTURE,’ the header said, and there followed a message from Tina: ‘Hadi Kattan is hosting a party at his place on Tuesday to mark the launch of his son’s political campaign: we’re invited. Perfect opportunity to ingratiate ourselves. Grab that lovely husband of yours and get a babysitter.’