by Karen Cole
Abby takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just that I spoke to Mrs Baker the other day, and she happened to mention what happened last year . . .’
Tanseela’s eyes widen. Then she flushes angrily. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ she says stiffly, ‘but I don’t see what that’s got to do with you.’
Abby kicks herself. This isn’t the way this was supposed to go. But she presses on regardless. ‘She took you to the clinic, didn’t she?’
Tanseela glares at her with big, hostile brown eyes. ‘She had no right to tell you that. She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone.’
Thea is going to kill me if she finds out, Abby thinks. ‘No, well, she didn’t actually tell me it was you,’ she explains hurriedly. ‘I . . . guessed. I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’
Tanseela stands up and slings her bag over her shoulder. ‘Well, I don’t mean to be rude, miss, but it’s really not your business. You’re not my teacher anymore. You’ve no right . . .’ She turns to go, then appears to think better of it and sits back down. She stares at Abby, chewing her finger. Suddenly there’s a hint of the old Tanseela again – the timid little girl who sat in Abby’s class last year. ‘You haven’t told anyone else, have you, miss?’
‘No, Tansy, I haven’t,’ says Abby. ‘And there’s no reason why I would need to tell anyone. Not if it was consensual. I mean if you and your boyfriend both wanted to have sex . . .’
A strand of hair falls over Tansy’s face and she tucks it behind her ear. ‘Like I told Mrs Baker, me and my boyfriend, we haven’t had sex.’
Abby leans forward in her chair. ‘Come on, Tanseela, you’re an intelligent girl. You know it doesn’t work like that. People don’t get pregnant without having sex. It’s just not possible.’
Tanseela folds her arms. ‘All I know is that it happened to me,’ she says obstinately.
‘Do you think someone could have spiked your drink, maybe at a party, or maybe you drank too much one night?’
‘I don’t drink, miss.’ She clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Please, please, promise you won’t tell anyone. My dad’ll kill me if he finds out.’
Abby hesitates. Tanseela is sixteen now. Crazy as it seems to Abby, she’s old enough to legally have sex. But at the time it happened she was still underage. She’s fairly sure she’s supposed to tell someone. But Tanseela seems so happy now, and what good will it do, stirring everything up again?
‘I promise,’ she says. ‘That is, as long as you’re sure you’re okay?’
‘I am, miss, and thank you.’
After Tanseela is gone, Abby sits for a long time in the coffee shop, thinking. The funny thing is, she believes her. At least, Abby believes that Tansy believes she didn’t have sex, and she feels somehow that this fact is important – that there is some connection between what happened to her and what happened to this sixteen-year-old girl. But what?
*
Abby walks up the hill towards her house, still deep in thought. All the strange things that have happened over the past few months run through her head on a loop. She searches for a pattern, for some kind of link. But really, she’s no nearer to working it out. She sighs as she lets herself in through the back door and flings her keys on the kitchen counter. Maybe she would be happier if she forgot about the whole thing – forgot about trying to find the father of her baby and just accepted her situation. If Tanseela could get over this and move on, then so can she.
She makes herself a cup of tea and wanders into the living room. Rob is sitting with his feet up on the coffee table talking on the phone. ‘Ah, yes, here she is now,’ he says, beckoning to Abby. ‘Do you want to speak to her? Yes . . . yes, it’s terrible, I know.’
‘It’s your dad,’ he mouths, raising his eyebrows. There’s never been much love lost between Rob and Dad, and since Sue arrived on the scene their relationship has been even colder.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Dad says as Abby takes the phone. ‘I’ve got a meeting in Cheltenham Sunday afternoon. I thought I could come and visit you. Kill two birds with one stone.’
Shit. She knew this moment was coming. Even with the rift between them, she could hardly expect not to see her dad for nine months. There’s no way she can disguise her baby bump now. Dad’s going to get the shock of his life.
‘That sounds lovely,’ she says out loud.
‘Great,’ he says. ‘I’ll meet you at about one. I thought I could treat you and Ellie to a meal . . . and . . . Rob, if he wants to come.’
‘I’ve got some news,’ she says, taking a deep breath.
‘Oh? Good or bad?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you,’
‘Oh, okay, love . . . Well, take care and see you soon.’
‘What did he want?’ asks Rob when she hangs up.
‘Lunch Sunday afternoon.’ She wags a finger at him. ‘So, you’d better be on your best behaviour.’
‘What do you mean? I’m always on my best behaviour,’ he protests in mock offence. ‘Anyway, I think I’m busy Sunday. I’ve just remembered I said I’d go for a drink with Stu.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s convenient.’ Abby smiles. She flings herself down on the sofa. She feels suddenly exhausted. Absent-mindedly, she checks her mobile. There are a couple of messages. One from Danny asking how her doctor’s appointment went and inviting her to the cinema tomorrow night. And there’s a voicemail.
It’s Alex.
‘Listen, I’d like to see you tomorrow. We could go to the park. The forecast is good and –’ he clears his throat – ‘there’s someone I want you to meet.’
Eighteen
The park is full of teenage kids playing frisbee or sprawled on the grass soaking up the sun. Abby sits and waits on a bench by the old Roman wall, wondering if she should have come. She guesses that the ‘someone’ Alex wants her to meet is his son, Dylan, and although she’s flattered, she’s also worried. Is it a sign he wants their relationship to get more serious? She’s not sure she’s ready for that. Perhaps she should call things off with him, before they get too complicated. After all, she needs to get her own life sorted first, before she gets involved in anyone else’s. And right now, her life is about as far from sorted as it could be.
She watches as an elderly couple shuffle past along the footpath that runs around the lake. There’s a man fishing on the bank and a family with a toddler feeding the ducks. Nothing suspicious. Nothing to cause alarm. But, still, she can’t shake the idea that she’s being watched. Lately, everywhere she goes she feels like someone is observing her, monitoring her every move. What if they’re watching her right now? She turns and looks around. Behind her are the woods that separate the park from the dual carriageway. Even on this bright day, they’re dark and gloomy, and in Abby’s current state of mind there’s something sinister about them. How easy would it be for someone to hide there in the shadows?
‘Hello,’ says someone behind her, and she jumps and turns to see Alex, with an empty pushchair, a small, dark-haired boy clinging to his hand.
‘Oh, you gave me a fright,’ she says, trying to laugh off her reaction. ‘You must be Dylan.’ She smiles at the boy, and he smiles back shyly, hiding behind Alex.
‘I’m sorry we’re late.’ Alex flings himself down on the bench next to her. ‘Some wanker drove into the back of me at the roundabout, then drove off.’
‘Oh my God. Were you hurt?’
‘No, we’re okay. Just a bit shaken up. But the rear lights are broken and there’s a big dent in the back. I only just had it serviced, as well.’
‘Did you see the licence plate?’ Abby asks.
He shakes his head ruefully. ‘No, I was too busy making sure Dylan was okay. It was an SUV, black, I think. That’s all I noticed.’
‘How annoying.’
‘Yeah, you can say that again. Anyway. Never mind. It’s just
money.’ He pulls Dylan round to the front of him, putting his hands on his shoulders. ‘This little fella is Dylan, my son. Dylan, this is Abby, a friend of mine.’
Dylan gives her a long, assessing stare and tugs Alex’s hand, ‘I want to go on the swing, Daddy,’ he says.
‘Okay, mate.’ Alex ruffles his hair. ‘It’ll take him a while to warm up to you,’ he says apologetically to Abby as they head to the play park.
Abby smiles. She feels awkward with little kids. Teenagers she can handle, but small kids have always made her feel uncomfortable. That’s one of the reasons why it’s ridiculous to think she could ever be a mother.
In the play park Abby and Alex sit on a bench and watch as Dylan climbs to the top of the spider frame.
‘Is he okay up there?’ Abby asks, as he reaches the top and sits balancing precariously.
‘Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’s like Spider-Man, that kid, always climbing. Anyway, how are you?’ Alex moves closer to her, so their legs are touching. ‘I had a good time the other night. Didn’t you?’
‘Not bad,’ she says cautiously.
‘Not bad?’ He laughs. ‘Just not bad? I must be losing my touch.’
This would be a good time to tell him she wants to break it off, but his eyes have caught the sunlight and he’s looking at her with a half-amused, half-quizzical expression that weakens her resolve. She smiles back – she can’t help it – and, encouraged, he takes her hand and leans in for a kiss.
‘Not here,’ she says, looking around over her shoulder.
Alex cups her chin in his hand, pulling her towards him. ‘Why not?’
‘People will see us.’
‘So what? Let them watch.’
‘But . . .’ She breaks away. ‘Somebody doesn’t like us being together. Look, I want to show you something. Someone sent me this the other night when I was round at your house.’ She takes out her phone and shows Alex the message she received.
He reads it, frowning. ‘What do they mean, “a loser like Alex Taylor”? Who the hell sent you this?’
‘I don’t know. I thought maybe you might have some idea. Are you sure it’s not from Bethany?’
‘No, I told you, Bethany wouldn’t do that. She’s got a bit of a temper on her, but she’s not into mind games. She’d be more likely to punch you in the face than send you hate mail. No, this must be from one of your exes . . . What about these flowers you’ve been getting? I think . . .’
But he doesn’t finish what he’s saying, because at that moment Dylan comes running up and starts whining, tugging at his arm.
‘You’re tired, mate. Why don’t you have a kip?’ says Alex, and he tries to strap Dylan in the pushchair, but the boy kicks and screams wildly, so he reaches into his bag and pulls out a packet of biscuits.
‘If you get in your chair I’ll give you a biscuit, alright?’ He holds a biscuit above Dylan’s head, as if he’s a dog he’s training, and eventually Dylan climbs into his pushchair, gnaws at the biscuit and then almost immediately drops off to sleep, clutching the soggy biscuit in his hand.
‘He can be a little sod at times,’ says Alex as they walk back around the lake.
‘Mm, he’s cute when he’s asleep.’
He laughs. ‘Yeah.’
Abby is trying to work out how to tell him she thinks they shouldn’t see each other anymore, when he brings them to a stop on the other side of the lake in a patch of grass surrounded by trees.
‘This is a good spot,’ he says.
‘For what?’
‘For a picnic,’ he says. Pulling a bag from under the pushchair, he spreads a blanket down on the grass and starts unpacking an impressive amount of food.
‘Wow, you’ve thought of everything,’ says Abby, lowering herself down onto the grass. She’s touched by the effort he’s put in. He’s even made chocolate brownies. She’s never had a date like this – certainly not with Ben, whose idea of romance was a couple of pints and a curry.
‘The problem with Dylan is that his mum spoils him,’ says Alex, opening a Tupperware box of sandwiches and glancing over at Dylan, who is still asleep. ‘He used to be such a good boy, but lately . . . Christ, he can be a nightmare.’
‘Isn’t that normal for a kid his age? Isn’t that why they call it the terrible twos?’
‘Yeah, well, Dylan’s three already.’
Abby props herself up on her side and tugs at a handful of grass. She thinks about Carla’s twins. ‘Yes, but I think it can go on into their threes. Not that I know much about parenting . . .’
‘You’ll know soon enough,’ says Alex, shuffling closer to her and placing his hand on her belly. He gazes into her eyes. ‘Is this private enough for you? No one can see us here.’
‘Well . . .’ says Abby, weakening, and when he kisses her, she doesn’t protest, and when he pushes her backwards onto the grass she twines her fingers in his hair, kissing him back eagerly, giving in to the pleasurable sensation of being in his arms.
She’s not sure how long they’re there, chatting, eating and making out. It doesn’t feel like all that long before Alex stands up, shakes the grass off his clothes and looks at his watch. ‘I said I’d get Dylan back to his mum by five and I’ve got to sort out my car. We’d better get going.’
His car is in a parking space by the road, just outside the park. Abby inspects the damage. The rear bumper is caved in and one light is cracked. ‘You’re lucky you and Dylan weren’t hurt,’ she says.
‘Yeah, and I don’t think the other bloke’s car was damaged at all. The bastard.’ He lifts Dylan from the pushchair and straps him into the car seat. ‘After I drop off Dylan, I’m going to take it to the garage, see what they can do . . . But do you want to come round to mine tomorrow?’
‘I can’t,’ says Abby, half relieved to have a genuine excuse and half wishing she could take him up on his offer. ‘I’m meeting my dad for lunch.’
‘Oh, alright.’ He shrugs, looking disappointed, and gives her a peck on the lips. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
*
Despite his bad-boy appearance, Alex is such a sweet, thoughtful guy, Abby thinks as she turns into her street. Maybe they could make a go of it after all. She envisions a scenario in which she keeps the baby, and she, Alex, Dylan and the baby become a family unit. She imagines the two of them strolling through the park, pushing a pram, Dylan trotting along beside them. But she knows in her heart that it would never work.
‘Hey,’ Abby calls out as she comes through the front door. She hears Rob grunt in acknowledgement from the living room. Abby dumps her bag in the hallway, goes into the living room and sits down opposite Rob. ‘Is Ellie home?’ she asks.
‘She’s out for dinner with Carla tonight,’ Rob says, finally lifting his eyes from the TV to acknowledge Abby. Her eyes travel round the room and settle on the table by the TV. There’s a heart-shaped cactus in a small brown pot that wasn’t there before.
‘What’s that?’ she asks.
‘Your secret admirer again.’ Rob fiddles with his phone.
‘What?’ She says, heart sinking. She picks up the pot and finds the envelope attached. ‘Abigail’ is written on the envelope, typed neatly as before.
‘Is it real?’ she says. It looks plastic, but when she digs her nails into the flesh, a sticky substance oozes out.
‘Hey, don’t ruin it,’ says Rob, looking up. ‘Who’s it from? That bloke you’ve been seeing?’ It could be from Alex. She holds on to this idea. Please God, let it be from Alex, she prays, ripping open the envelope. But the attached message is unsigned and typewritten.
Abigail, you take my breath away.
She reads it twice, her heart in her mouth It must be a coincidence. It has to be.
‘Well?’ Rob says, staring at her curiously. ‘What does it say?’
‘Nothing much.’
She shove
s the note into her pocket and heads upstairs. In her room, she locks the door and then stands in front of the mirror, staring into her wide grey eyes, running her hand over the baby bump. Then she tugs at her leggings, yanking them down around her thighs, and runs her fingers over the small tattoo between her hip and the top of her thigh. She had it done three years ago when she and Ben were on holiday in Spain. They’d had a few drinks and Ben had suggested they get matching tattoos. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Thank God, she hadn’t gone ahead with the matching-tattoo idea. Instead she’d opted for a quote. A quote from her favourite poet, Maya Angelou: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
It seemed like a good motto for her life at the time – to live life to the full. After all, life is short – her mum’s death had taught her that. But now, with all the weird, crazy shit that’s been happening, she’s not so sure she wants to live a full life. A normal, quiet life would be great, thank you very much.
She pulls the note out of her pocket and reads it again, shaking her head. No, it’s a coincidence, she tells herself. It’s a coincidence. It’s got to be a coincidence. But the choice of words is disturbing. ‘You take my breath away’. It’s almost as if the sender knows – as if they’ve seen the tattoo.
She shivers. The thought of someone seeing something so intimate without her knowledge makes her feel dirty, as if tiny bugs are crawling all over her skin. She has a sudden urge to wash. Heading for the bathroom, she strips off her clothes and steps into the shower. She turns it on at full power, letting the hot water sting, and she scrubs herself vigorously until her skin is pink.
By the time she gets out of the shower, Abby feels a little calmer. It’s a common enough phrase after all – ‘You take my breath away’. It’s not necessarily a reference to the tattoo. She wraps herself in a towel, heads to her bedroom, locks the door again and gets dressed. She’s pulling on a baggy T-shirt when her phone vibrates in the pocket of her jacket. It’s probably Danny, she thinks vaguely, asking how her date went. Good. She wants to talk to him, ask him what he makes of the note. She takes the phone out and swipes the screen. But it’s not Danny. It’s another text, the number withheld.