Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
good at doing flits, thought Simon with a sigh. His sister had announced she was emigrating to Canada about a month after their mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He kept telling himself it was a coincidence, but he didn’t know for sure. It was certainly an inconvenience, that he was certain of.
Millie adored all things frilly, pretty, floaty and twirling. Daisy had started her at dance classes just before she turned three. It’s not that Daisy was a particularly annoying, overly-ambitious mother, it was simply that Millie needed to channel her energy and desire to coil and whirl somewhere. It turned out she was very good, quite extraordinarily so. Her dance tutor said that in all her nineteen years of teaching, she had never seen equivalent talent, focus and drive in a child so young. Daisy was a teacher – not a dance teacher but a Year Six teacher at a state primary school – and she was aware of the value of that observation. She’d excitedly told Simon that teachers had to be very careful about what they said to parents, as parents all tended to get a little carried away. Everyone believed they’d produced a spectacular little miracle, when in fact most kids were within a recognised range.
Although, evidently Millie was a spectacular little miracle.
Simon’s eyes followed her around the waiting room; she was on her tiptoes scampering, arms aloft, like ribbons, chin jutting at an elegant angle. An adorable mix of childish abandonment and earnest concentration. Everyone in the room stared at her with an intensity almost equal to his, it was impossible not to. The emotions she triggered varied: amusement, delight, longing. Daisy looked torn, somewhere between jubilant and embarrassed. She’d said she thought it was tactless bringing a child to a fertility clinic, as though they were showing off.
‘We don’t need to rub their noses in it,’ she’d warned. Simon thought her turn of phrase was amusing, quaint. He thought Millie’s presence in the waiting room had to be inspiring. Other parents would be encouraged. There was no doubt, she was special. For sure, they had to go in for another one. Millie might very well become a prima ballerina at the Royal Ballet, why not? Who knows what else they could produce: an astronaut, the next Steve Jobs, the person who finds the cure for cancer. Or even, simply a pleasant person who was nice to their neighbours, remained faithful to their partner, became an interested parent. It was life. Life! What was more important than that? You had to try, didn’t you? You had to.
Millie danced every single day. She was crabby if she missed a class, even on holidays she carved out a couple of hours practice time. She was just six, but was that dedicated. It was astounding. Aspirational. Her existence was wall-to-wall pink tulle. When she started school she’d had meltdowns every day and, at first, Simon and Daisy had been confused and troubled as to why. ‘Do you have friends, Millie?’, ‘Is your teacher kind to you?’, ‘Do you like the lunches?’, ‘Can you find your coat peg?’ they’d asked, wracking their brains to imagine any possible irritation or upset.
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes,’ she’d spluttered through distressed tears.
‘Then what is the matter?’ Simon had asked, exasperated, tense. He’d taken the morning off work to be with Daisy when they tried to persuade Millie to go into her classroom.
‘The uniform is ugly!’ She’d howled. ‘It’s green. I want it pink.’ Her explanation, hiccupped out indignantly, had only made Simon laugh. Daisy ultimately solved the matter by sewing a pink ribbon all around the inside hem of Millie’s school skirt. An act that Simon always thought was a display of pure brilliance and devotion.
‘I feel very uncomfortable taking Millie into the consultation room,’ Daisy whispered. ‘She’ll understand enough of what we are talking about to be interested. I don’t want to get her hopes up that there’s a sibling on the way.’ Because Simon had just been thinking about the hand sewn pink ribbon, he was more inclined to indulge Daisy.
‘OK, well how about I go in first and hear what he has to say and then you pop in after me.’
‘Won’t that take twice as long?’ Daisy looked anxiously about her. There were two other couples in the waiting room. They may or may not have been waiting to see Dr Martell. ‘I’d feel awful if we overran.’
‘We’re paying for it, so you don’t have to worry.’
‘It’s impolite.’ Daisy had a heightened regard for being polite. Simon sometimes found that charming, other times he found it frustrating.
‘Well what do you suggest? Leaving would also be impolite.’
Daisy nodded. ‘I suppose.’
At that moment a smartly-dressed nurse appeared, she had a clipboard and clipped tones; she oozed efficiency. ‘Mr and Mrs Barnes?’
Simon stood up, kissed Daisy on the top of the head. ‘Don’t look so worried. This is the start of a wonderful adventure,’ he told her. ‘Love you.’
The moment Simon vacates his seat, Millie bounces into it, although she still doesn’t settle. Instead, she holds her legs out in front of her and repeatedly points her toes up to the ceiling, then stretches them out. I love her energy. She’s delicate and yet strong, a winning combination. I was a robust child. Hefty. By the time I was fourteen I hit five foot ten, not a lithe beanpole model-in-the-making five foot ten but large, ungainly, always-in-the-way five foot ten. My arms were as wide as other girls’ waists, my breasts seemed to loll around my tummy like some old woman’s. I hope puberty is kinder to Millie. I worry that she will inherit my height. That wouldn’t be ideal for a ballerina unless she dances in Russia, they like them tall there, but I don’t want her to go to Russia. I do worry that by encouraging her to dance I’m basically pursuing a fast-track path to body dysmorphia. But Millie is quite unlike me. As a girl I had glasses and spots, orange hair, freckled skin and the wrong clothes. Even when I had the right clothes they looked wrong on me. It’s just the way it is for some people. We can’t all be born beautiful.
The good thing about being forty-five is that all that angst about how I look is behind me. I’ve learnt how to accept myself, make the most of myself, that’s what women like me must do. However, I live in awe of my child. Sweet, yet certain. I look at her and I know I’ve done something right. No matter what.
Before Millie came along, we endured a decade of longing for a baby. Most young, happily married couples wait a few years before they turn their attention to baby-making, I was faster off the blocks. By the time I met Simon, my sister Rose was already the mother of two adorable boys – twins! I realised to make any impact at all on my parents, in terms of providing grandchildren, I’d have to get cracking and ideally produce a daughter. I’m joking, I wasn’t motivated to procreate by the innate competitiveness that exists between siblings, I simply adore children and I longed to be a mother. As a young girl I played with dolls, nothing else, I wasn’t interested in Play-Doh, colouring books or Lego, for me it was all about pretending to be a mummy. I started babysitting my little cousins when I was twelve and then for various neighbours by the time I was fifteen. I’m a primary school teacher. I like children, the cheeky, boisterous or mischievous types, the shy, arty or cuddly types. I’ll take any of them.
I threw away my pill packet the morning we got married. It was one of the most exciting things about the day. For the first few months, I didn’t allow myself to be at all concerned when I still got my period. I was busy putting our house together. We’d bought a one-bedroom flat in North London, I was occupied with hanging pictures, picking out furniture, getting a washing machine plumbed in. It was all so new and exhilarating. Back then, every dull chore seemed like such a delicious treat. Adulting was a novelty. I found it thrilling that I was allowed to slob around in pyjamas all day on a wet, wintery Sunday, that I was allowed to say the words ‘my husband’, and I was allowed to go with said husband to Tesco Metro at 9 p.m. to buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, if we so desired. We were