My Book

by Alam, Donna

  But maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I need to maintain a dignified kind of distance because I need to remember we aren’t a couple—that we aren’t ever destined to be so. I can rely on him for some things, child-related things, but that’s where our partnering ends. With a fortifying breath, I pull away from the solid comfort of his chest.

  ‘I’m okay.’ Do I say this for him or for me? My stomach is tangled, and my voice still seems stuck in my throat as I back away from him. ‘I suppose I’d best chuff off now.’

  ‘Chuffing off anywhere in particular?’ he asks with the kind of inconsequence I’m coming to understand means something else entirely. Usually that he has plans.

  ‘I have a flatulent poodle in Paddington that’s probably waiting for his dinner.’

  This isn’t true. I’ve already been to the house to drop off my things where I fed, watered, and walked the little prince. But James doesn’t need to know that. He shouldn’t need to know that.

  ‘Join me for dinner first?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Because we’re not together and anything else just confuses things.

  ‘You don’t?’ I silently berate myself for chewing the inside of my lip as he adds, ‘Any particular reason?’ I’m on the verge of allowing the deranged details and fears to spill when the automatic doors whoosh open behind us and another couple steps out into the night air. I move to one side before I’m trampled because the pair are so wrapped up in the little black and white image that they’re each gripping a corner of, they’re oblivious to everything else.

  That’s what this moment should look like, my mind screams. Not spontaneous invitations to dinner before falling into bed for a spot of casual sex.

  ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’ The statement is like a volley of little bullets leaving my mouth. So much so, I’m surprised he doesn’t duck.

  His hands curve around my elbows as he leads me to the side of the building, away from the door and further disruptions. ‘Is this about the condom?’

  Something deep inside me clenches at the memory, a blooming burst of sensation that contradicts my stance. Sex with him is anything but casual. And after that night, if I hadn’t already been pregnant, would I now be?

  ‘Why?’ The latter isn’t a thought but an actual word, free in the air and requiring an answer. But from which of us?

  ‘Why am I asking?’ He pauses, and my expression twists. ‘Why did I . . .?’

  ‘Why did you take it off?’ My utterance is more gauntlet than velvet glove thrown at his feet. Why did you take it off and thrust yourself inside me with a look of such ownership?

  ‘Why did you agree?’ His answer is so blithe; I find myself crossing my arms across my chest as though to protect myself. The simple answer would be that it’s impossible to make a rational decision when you’re so turned on yourself. Maybe I’m wrong, but the moment felt more significant than that. Larger. More meaningful.

  Or maybe it was just evolutionary biology controlling us both. Nature’s urge driving us to procreate.

  ‘I—’ I halt, unable to go on without incriminating myself because I say this thing between us can’t happen, that a casual dinner or casual sex isn’t in my forward plans when, at that moment, I wanted to be consumed by him. I revelled in his touch and his power over me. I wanted him inside me, wild and without restraint.

  Of course, I can’t share any of that as an explanation.

  ‘I suppose it was a heat of the moment thing.’ I shrug, a sort of helpless motion. ‘An I’m already pregnant thing. A what does it matter thing.’ Or an I’m totally lying thing.

  ‘So it meant nothing to you.’ His voice is even, his gaze sharp. ‘Then why would it stop you from joining me for dinner?’

  ‘I worry about blurring the lines.’ Blurring my lines. Someone needs to manage my expectations because I like him more than I ought to.

  ‘Miranda, this will be one of many dinners I hope we’ll eat together, you and I and this.’ I physically start as his palm grazes my stomach. ‘I promise I’ll be perfectly civilised.’

  Would that be a first? James has a perfect veneer of civility, but I know what’s going on underneath those pristine suits. But in the end, it occurs to me I could treat a meal with him as exposure therapy. The more time we spend together, the easier it will become to be around him. Or, in other words, the less I’ll want to jump his bones.

  Maybe? Hopefully?

  And maybe exposure therapy is the exact reason I allow him to take my hand as we leave our cars in the parking lot and walk to a nearby Italian restaurant. The kind of establishment with red chequered tablecloths and candles sticking out of ancient wax-encrusted chianti bottles. We follow the waiter as he weaves through the clusters of tables until we’re shown to a table for two beside a window half covered by café curtains of yellowing lace. I decide it’s entirely the kind of place I’m at home in with its two-for-one Tuesdays and early bird specials and carafes of cheap house red. And probably why the place is so busy. Meanwhile, James looks as at home here as a Hermès scarf tucked into the back of a pair of dirty overalls. Not that you’d know from his demeanour. He looks as happy as a pig in the proverbial as he fights the elderly looking waiter to see who’ll pull out my chair. Wooden bistro style to match the aging décor, of course.

  James loosens the single button on his jacket before taking the seat opposite me, and the waiter then lights the candle sitting on the clichéd straw-covered bottle sitting in the table between us. With a flourish, he then produces a couple of laminated menus complete with photographs. You know, for those unsure what a plate of spaghetti carbonara looks like. As James peruses the menu, I save my gaze for him. Sitting there, he is the picture of urbane ease and supreme confidence. He wears a steel grey three-piece-suit and looks like all kinds of deliciousness as the candlelight gilds the scruff on his cheek. My instinct is to sigh—ah, me, like Juliet on her bloody balcony, gazing down at her Romeo—so I change it to a clearing of my throat instead.

  I certainly can pick a good-looking baby daddy. It’s just a pity I’m not in the position to say so.

  ‘What looks good, do you think?’

  Apart from you, you mean?

  ‘Carbs. These kinds of places are always good for carbs.’

  And as though to prove my point, the same waiter appears with a basket of bread and a little dish of oil and balsamic. He places both on the table between us before brushing the long strands of his combover back in place.

  ‘I take-a da drink order,’ he announces in possibly the worst Italian accent I’ve ever heard.

  ‘A Peroni, please,’ James answers equably. ‘Miranda?’

  ‘Just a sparkling water.’ My answer isn’t so calm, not as I roll my lips inwards to contain a giggle intent on escape.

  ‘Tuscany by way of Putney, do you think?’ My giggle rains free as the waiter retreats, quietening only as James reaches out to cover my hand with his. ‘That’s better. I hate to see you looking sad, particularly when I’m the reason.’

  ‘You don’t make me sad.’ My answer is immediate because it’s true. He doesn’t make me sad; the situation does. James has been nothing but accepting, honourable even, once he’d gotten over the initial shock. I realise it could’ve gone very differently.

  Me: I’m pregnant.

  The James I saw in my head: So when is the termination booked?

  ‘I don’t want to make things difficult between us, but I like you, Miranda. I like you an awful lot.’

  In lieu of an answer, I sigh properly this time. I feel the phantom touch of his hand as he pulls it away. ‘I like you, too. But this isn’t about us anymore.’

  And there lies the crux of this thing. The fulcrum of my dilemma, if you will.

  ‘Isn’t it? The way I see it, we owe it to more than ourselves to see what can become of this.’

  Before he’s even finished speaking, I’m already shaking my head.

  ‘There’s too much at sta
ke. You like me, and I like you, and I think that’s probably the second best way two people can bring a child into the world.’ Even if like is a poor second to love. ‘If we take a chance on seeing where this goes,’ I reiterate, making those annoying little air quotes, ‘there’s every chance it could go the opposite way. We’ll both love this child so much—I can already tell—so let’s not take a chance on turning our like to hate.’

  ‘That’s a very fatalistic view you have there.’

  ‘Do you think so? Really?’ I goad. ‘I kind of think it’s pragmatic.’ Protective, even.

  ‘Next thing you’ll tell me you don’t believe in love.’

  ‘I believe in—I do believe in love.’ All of a sudden, I’m the Cowardly lion of love. I do believe in love. I do believe in love. I do, I do, I do believe in love. Sort of. ‘I love my parents, and they love me, even if they hate each other. And I love Heather and my cousins, and that sort of thing.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’ He smiles rather indulgently, which just pisses me off, but the waiter appears suddenly, depositing our drinks on the table.

  ‘Ready to make-a da order?’ he asks, pulling out a pad from the pocket of his hunter green apron.

  As I’ve barely looked at the menu, I order the Italian restaurant staple of lasagne—the quality of a lasagne can make or break a restaurant, as far as I’m concerned. James joins me in the carb zone with his order of spaghetti alle vongole.

  ‘Where were we?’ Clams. Yuck. I try to suppress my shiver of revulsion. ‘Are you okay over there?’

  ‘Fine.’ I swallow almost convulsively against my stomach’s revolt at the thought of ingesting molluscs, though manage not to run for the hills. Or bathroom. ‘We were talking about how we’re not suited.’

  ‘No, I think you’ll find you were trying to convince me.’

  ‘Look, you like me, and I like you, but you and me? We’re fundamentally different. It would never work.’

  ‘Different?’ he repeats, his eyes narrowed yet amused. ‘You mean generationally, of course.’

  ‘You’re hardly old,’ I mutter.

  ‘That sounds like something you might say to placate an elderly aunt.’

  ‘You mean the one who never got married but led a colourful life?’

  ‘I hope you’re not drawing comparisons. I’m not some aging starlet.’

  ‘Not yet, you’re not.’

  ‘Call a sedan chair,’ he drawls, reaching for his beer. ‘This old man has to make his way home.’

  ‘Very droll. How old are you, anyway?’ It’s just curiosity, that’s all. I’m not imagining it on a marriage certificate or anything.

  He takes a mouthful from the bottle, pausing before he answers, the bottle hanging from between his long fingers. ‘I’m going to preface this with the adage, age is just a number. But I’m thirty-eight. And you’re almost twenty-three. November the nineteenth, I believe. And none of those numbers mean anything to me.’

  ‘How do you know when my birthday is?’

  ‘I may have had a look at your file while no one was paying attention. In Will’s office.’

  ‘You could’ve just asked.’

  ‘Where the fun in that? So I’m old but not too old. I don’t see how that leads to fundamental differences.’

  ‘We’re in different places in our lives. I’m just out of a breakup, and you’re talking about a relationship, aren’t you?’ Did that sound pleading? Hopeful? Fingers crossed, it sounded like none of those things.

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t try. Apart from the fact that I’m too, what? Old? Too posh? Too outside the Miranda-prescribed mould to consider seriously?’ He leans forward, his elbow pressed to the tabletop with his chin balanced on his fist. And those brilliant blue eyes positively sparkle with laughter. ‘Incidentally, what is the prescribed Miranda mould?’

  ‘I’m not boy mad,’ I protest.

  ‘Good, because it’s been a long time since I was anything but a man.’

  ‘We’re just not suited,’ I add, my cheeks burning, my response sort of flustered. ‘Why can’t we just leave it at that? You know,’ I add, my mind suddenly snagging on something a little more highbrow and a little more serious. ‘I recently read something that’s stuck with me. It said the greatest tragedy in life isn’t that we die, but that we cease to love. How sad is that? My parents have lived together for nearly thirty years, and I’m sure they started their relationship with nothing but thoughts of love and hope. Now, the only thing they’ll love is the thought of the soil that will eventually cover the other. How can love turn to that?’

  ‘Familiarity is the root of closest loves and most intense hatreds.’

  ‘So you’re saying love and hate are the opposite sides of the same coin?’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t buy that—it’s a massive contradiction.’

  ‘Your love for your ex hasn’t turned to hatred at his betrayal?’

  ‘It turned to apathy. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as love. That kind of love, I mean. It’s probably just chemistry. And sometimes chemistry experiments go wrong. What about you?’ I find myself asking like a masochist picking a scab. ‘Do you believe in love?’ What I really want to ask is has he ever been in love, but I’m not sure I’m that big of a masochist.

  ‘I do. I’ve seen it with my parents.’

  ‘Oh. Nice. How long have they been married?’

  ‘Well, my mother passed when I was barely a teenager.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Such trite words, but it’s hard not to mean them. To lose your mother when you’re so young must be terrifying. The only family member of mine who has passed is my gran. And she wasn’t particularly nice, so I really can’t compare the loss.

  ‘Would it surprise you to hear that, twenty-five years later, my father’s love for her endures? And not in any sense of a moping, maudlin love. He loved her so completely, enough for several lifetimes, I’ve heard him say. And he considers himself blessed to have had the time with her he did. And that’s blessed not in that terrible Instagram, millennial way.’

  ‘I knew what you meant,’ I deadpan.

  ‘My father is ex-military. He’s eighty years old, a great dad, and a good human, and extremely pragmatic.’ The last point he delivers with an added emphasis.

  ‘Not all experiences are the same.’

  ‘Your parents, I take it.’

  I nod, sitting back in my chair. ‘Let me tell you about my parents.’ I inhale deeply as though the garlicky air in the restaurant is somehow fortifying. ‘Last week, I woke to my mum’s tears. Our dog had gone missing. Smudge is technically my sister’s dog, but she moved to Sydney after uni, so he’s become more or less my mum’s dog, though still a family pet. He’s twelve, he doesn’t bark or bite or cause a fuss, and he’s never wandered off before. In fact, one time I accidentally locked him out of the back garden because I didn’t realise he was on the other side of the gate. And he didn’t wander off. He just went trotted around to the front of the house and stared through the window until one of us noticed him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear he’s lost,’ James offers as I take a sip of my water.

  ‘Oh, he’s wasn’t lost. Thankfully, he’s at home, probably sleeping soundly in one of his many baskets. But, that day, she was in a state. She called RSPCA, the local veterinary clinics, the not so local ones, the out-of-hours services, and the local pound. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she called every animal rescue place in London. Meanwhile, she gets a call from Battersea Dogs Home. They have Smudge at their Windsor unit. He was dumped there by someone who was described as looking suspiciously like my father.’

  ‘They’re separated?’

  My expression twists. ‘Not by proximity, unfortunately.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Me either, really.’ I place my glass down and look at the squares on the tablecloth, the door leading to the kitchen, at the evening sky through the window. In fact, I look everywhere but at him.
Why? Because I find I’m trying very hard not to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to go through this.’

  ‘We live in Wimbledon,’ I find myself adding. ‘And he went all the way to Windsor to try to dump the dog. And why? Just to hurt her. These are my parents. They used to be so in love.’ From heartsore to resigned, I feel my shoulders slump. ‘God, I have to get out of there.’

  ‘The house, you mean?’ I nod. ‘I must admit I’ve had my concerns about the way you’re living.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry,’ I respond tartly. ‘I won’t be living at home much longer. And the same for pet-sitting. A few more gigs and I’m thinking of giving my notice.’

  ‘That’s a relief to hear. Two jobs in your condition would be taxing.’

  ‘Pet-sitting isn’t really a job.’ It’s a good job Heather isn’t within listening distance after I’ve said the exact opposite to her—several times.

  ‘I was going to suggest I help you find somewhere more suitable.’

  ‘Define help.’

  ‘I have some property and—’

  ‘Nooo. No, thank you.’ That’s not happening.

  ‘That is half my child you’re carrying.’

  ‘Trust me, I know. I remember the conception.’ Oh, f . . . fiddlesticks. Am I now to add involuntary expulsions along with zoning out to my pregnancy brain now? But I’m not living in a place James owns. Blurred line city! No. I need to do some of this on my own. I’m not foolish enough to think I won’t need help, and I know James will be there in whatever capacity he can, but those kinds of living arrangements are a little too mistress-y for me. At least, right now.

  ‘I want to share these responsibilities.’

  ‘I know. And you will, but I’ve got this. Harry’s current accommodation is fine.’ I add a pat of my stomach as though to make my point, and then I realise what I’ve just called our child.

  ‘Harry Harrison? It has a certain ring to it.’