Mad Alice Lane

Chapter One

Martha

I count down the seconds until the alarm clock goes off; seconds until Richard gets up and leaves. It is not yet six o’clock and another December day has arrived. It’s still dark outside but soon the soft grey cashmere throw will already be losing the heat of his body. I lie perfectly still listening as he prepares for the day ahead. There is no need to open my eyes for his routine never changes; the duvet will be pulled straight, the pillows fluffed, and the hideously expensive throw will be neatly folded. Putting on his freshly pressed suit and professionally laundered shirt is a matter of minutes, the Windsor knot which comes so easily after years of diligent practise is achieved in a heartbeat. Breakfast is a bowl of muesli; the bowl, spoon and cereal packet put in place by myself the night before, although he alone must venture to the fridge to discover the milk.

                Barely straining my ears, I hear the soft click of the front door closing. I wish I could go back to sleep for the whole day stretches in front of me, yet in a few moments I remember that today is my birthday. I switch the bedside light on, and swing my feet out from the bed, an identical twin to that pushed against the opposite wall and so recently vacated. I’m not so worried about the overnight emergence of wrinkles and lines; it is instead my stomach that demands my attention.

I lift the expensive nightie above my waist, gathering the end and looping it down between the neckline to create a kind of crop top. I face the mirror, before turning to the side. There is a definite swelling now, the bump standing clear. I tentatively stroke it and send shivers across my skin. I'm growing a human. It seems so foreign that it could almost be happening to someone else. I'm not sure what to think about it, this peanut inside of me but at least it means the days ahead of me, great swathes of time lying unclaimed, will not be spent entirely alone.

There was so little time between our meeting and marriage that everyone assumed I was pregnant, but they were wrong; it simply seemed like the obvious thing to do. Richard was a visiting professor at Oxford, and I, a soon to be graduate. He was looking to settle down, and I was flattered by his attentions. Handsome, successful and charming, he had no shortage of admirers, but it was on me that he turned his gaze. He wooed me during a heady month of dinners in expensive restaurants and daily bouquets of flowers. My flatmates were envious, I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do after university, and with one simple proposal Richard solved that problem. My mother was pleased; I was pleased she was pleased. An intimate wedding followed, only 200 of our closest friends and family, and everything in the best possible taste. There was an announcement in The Times. The bride and groom honeymooned in the Seychelles. A few short weeks after, I discovered I was pregnant. Richard was pleased; I was pleased he was pleased.

It’s been two months since then and only two weeks since we moved from our elegant townhouse in Fulham up to York after a promotion that thrilled Richard. I wonder if he has remembered today is my birthday and it is the work of mere seconds before my eyes alight on a tasteful bunch of cream roses, which almost fade into the muted décor of the room. A card leans against the crystal vase, and I slip it from its envelope, feeling its luxurious heavy weight, its silky smooth surface and discreet whiff of class: an export from London, his personal stationers. "Darling M,” it reads. “Many Happy Returns. Rx " There is a tiny spot of black ink underneath his initial. The roses, already expertly arranged, a delicate blush bloom to their very hearts, are scentless.

I hear the front door open, announcing the arrival of our daily, Mrs Gilbert. Such an antiquated notion and I’m usually a fan of times gone by, but in this I feel uncomfortable and yet Richard insists. Indeed it was specified as part of his contract; not only a flat be found for us, but also some local help. Efficient, brisk and respectable, Mrs Gilbert is everything a daily should be, and I have yet to warm to her. I can’t bring myself to face her unarmoured and in my pyjamas. I dash to the en-suite, and send a jet of hot water spurting from the showerhead.