by Jackie Clune
“Sorry, love—I’m booked.”
The woman stared at him crossly for a moment—obviously, she was used to getting what she wanted out of life, and two rebuttals in one night was startling—before continuing her march up the street.
“Nice night for a walk, though,” shouted Roy after her. “They say there might be a lunar eclipse, love!” The woman turned, momentarily confused, then flicked her hair over one shoulder and disappeared around the corner.
Roy clapped his hands with glee, then turned back to the matter at hand.
“Amy! Amy!” he hissed as he opened the cab door.
Amy shot up from under the blanket. “What? What time is it?”
“She’s gone. Quick! He’s on the doorstep now!” Roy tugged at her arm.
Before she could gather herself, she found herself half flung out onto the road.
Disoriented for a moment, she looked around to get her bearings before her eyes finally settled on Joe’s house up ahead. He was standing there. Alone. And for once in her life, Amy stopped thinking about anything. Her feet, once again with no permission from her head, began moving quickly toward Joe. He spotted her almost straightaway, his jaw dropping open but a smile spreading across his lips.
“What are you doing here? I mean, how did you find me?” he spluttered.
“How did you find me?” said Amy, breathless now that she was in front of him.
“You found a baby—” started Joe, before stopping himself. There was little point in going over old ground now. “Look, about that girl—I just wanted to get out of there, and she followed me, and we got chatting, and I thought you really had lost interest, so I thought I’d do what you said and just try and get on with things—”
“And did you—‘get on with things’?” said Amy, trembling now.
Joe sunk his head again.
“No. I couldn’t. All I could think about was you.”
It was Amy’s turn to look at the floor. He even had perfect toes. Should she jump or should she run?
“OK, then.”
“OK, then what?” said Joe, leaning against the doorframe like a grounded teenager.
“OK, then let’s see what happens,” said Amy, kicking at a stone on the ground.
“What do you mean? A couple of hours ago, you didn’t want to know. I thought you’d chucked me.”
“Well, things have changed. And for your information, no one says ‘chucked’ anymore. I haven’t ‘chucked’ anyone since I was fifteen.”
“It’s been a long time. I’m a bit rusty. So. Will you . . . go out with me?” said Joe, smiling now and enjoying the regression.
“Yeah. All right,” said Amy, joining in the game. “You can take me to the school disco.”
“Cor,” said Joe, reaching for her now. “Wait ’til I tell my mates.”
“But I’d rather stay in with you.”
“Result,” said Joe.
And there on the doorstep they kissed. They kissed like desperate kids with nowhere else to go. If they’d had half an ear on the outside world, they would have heard the jubilant sound of a taxi horn honking in celebration. They’d have heard the rattle of an upstairs window and two young girls mock-retching.
“Urgh! Dad’s kissing that lady! Yuk!”
“I preferred that blonde one—where did she go?”
But as it was, they had ears—and eyes, and hands—only for each other.
. 9 .
She’ll be here in under an hour and the icing isn’t set on the cake yet. I told you, Brendan, you should have done it earlier. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the saints, look at the cut of it.” Amy’s mum was in a prize flap. It had seemed like such a good idea to organize a surprise fortieth birthday party. Amy had been saying since Christmas that she didn’t want any fuss, that no one was to do anything special or go to any trouble. But if a mother couldn’t throw a party for her only daughter’s birthday, what could she do? Bad enough she had no grandchildren to dandle on her knee without Amy denying her this small pleasure. She sighed and brushed her hands on her apron for the hundredth time that day. Amy’s place looked nice, despite Brendan’s attempts to sabotage things by trying to erect a “Look who’s fifty!” banner across the front door, and despite the fact that trying to make an old tobacco warehouse look festive would try the patience of a saint. That anyone would want to live in an old shed was beyond belief.
“Calm down, biddy, and have a shot of the hard stuff, for God’s sake. It’ll all be fine. Anyway, no one’s here yet.”
“I’m here!” said Ang cheerily, tying a poorly inflated bunch of balloons to a retro arc lamp.
“That’s what I said—no one’s here yet,” said Brendan.
“Now, now, darling,” chided Oscar from behind the Telegraph. “What did we say about being nice to people?”
“Ang isn’t people—she’s just Ang,” said Brendan, ruffling Oscar’s hair. “But OK—I promise to be nice to people today. Just for you.”
“Not just for me, darling—they’ll never let you join the small-town cake-baking circle if you can’t curb that nasty tongue of yours.”
“Ooh, you know how to strike fear into a girl’s heart!” Brendan shrieked. No one had ever been able to tell him off with such authority and charm, and he marveled again at the turn of events that had led him to be living in a beautiful converted farmhouse in Somerset with a Tory MP, two spaniels, and a Range Rover, for God’s sake. They even had a houseboy! In time he was planning to do some volunteer work—they’d talked about fostering a gay teenager, and Oscar was already heavily involved with various equal-rights lobbying groups. Life was, he almost admitted to himself now, great. It wouldn’t harm him to be nice to baggy old Ang for once.
“Hey, chubs, have you lost weight?”
“No, Brendan, I haven’t, you cheeky bastard. And stop picking on me.”
“No, I mean it, you look really . . . well.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m putting on weight.”
“Ooh, tubs, you can’t really afford that, can you? But then I suppose your catwalk days are over. . . .”
“Brendan!” warned Oscar.
“Sorry. No, really, you look almost—glowing!”
Ang beamed.
“Oh, Christ, you’re not, are you?”
Ang nodded her answer.
“Four months! I haven’t told anyone ’cause of last time, but yes, it’s true. I’m having a baby!” cried Ang.
“Oh, God love you, Angela, congratulations!” said Mrs. Stokes, rushing over and hugging her tightly. “I’ll say a prayer to the Blessed Virgin that everything goes to plan this time—she’ll protect you.”
“Well done, Angela—many congrats,” said Oscar, getting up and patting her on the shoulder. “I think this calls for champagne. The Widow all right with everyone?”
Oscar cracked open the Veuve Clicquot.
“Where is everyone? I told them all to be here by quarter past, the useless bastards,” said Brendan, picking up the video entrance monitor and peering into the screen. Nobody there.
“Calm down, darling, they’ll be here soon. It’s not as if they don’t have good excuses these days.”
Brendan humphed.
“Soph and Greg have got the little twins to get ready, then they’ve got to pick up those awful big twins, then get round here,” reasoned Oscar. “And you know what Greg’s like with the babies in the car—drives like an old woman.”
“I suppose that is quite a lot for a man who needs a month’s workup to scratch his arse. How they’re going to cope I don’t know.” Brendan sighed, accepting a glass and downing it in one. Oscar refilled it wordlessly.
“And Jules has got to get herself and Harry ready—and we know how long that takes,” laughed Ang.
“Yes, ten minutes to bathe, change, and feed the baby, three hours to replaster and grout her craggy old face and heave her saggy body into something in a Lycra/concrete mix.”
“Not so saggy. She got them to do a t
ummy tuck at the same time as the C-section,” said Ang, conspiratorially.
“The Portland? Marvelous. Too posh to push,” said Oscar.
“Too much information,” said Brendan, sticking a finger into the cake to see if it was any nearer to setting.
“Leave! Don’t be putting your dirty fingers all over the icing, Brendan, God bless us and save us!” said Mrs. Stokes without turning round. Where cake was concerned, she had eyes in the back of her head.
The buzzer sounded.
“You’re late!” barked Brendan into the intercom, before buzzing them in.
“Hiya!” shouted Ang as Soph and Greg appeared dark-eyed at the door, each carrying an identical baby car seat.
“Sssssh!” they chorused.
“They’ve just got to sleep as we got here. We’ve been driving around for half an hour trying to get them down,” said Soph, sinking onto the sofa and lying down.
“Yeah, it was, well, boring,” said Cesca, emerging from the hallway and slouching against the wall.
“I thought it was cool,” said Laura. “I got to hold their binkies in.”
“I thought you weren’t having binkies?” asked Ang.
“Ah, that was in the dim and distant delusional past when we believed we’d have babies we could rock gently to sleep before going out for a meal, or having a proper conversation, you know, with sentences and everything, or just having an uninterrupted poo,” said Greg, grabbing a glass and filling it with champagne.
“I’d shove a French stick in their mouths if I thought it’d give me a moment’s peace,” yawned Soph.
“You love it, though, don’t you?” cooed Ang, peeking at the sleeping babies.
“Not yet. But I’m sure we will.”
“Eventually,” added Greg.
“Yeah, we love it,” said Soph. “A bit.”
The buzzer sounded again.
“Here they are!” shouted Laura. “Quick, hide!”
“Dur brain. It’s not them. That other woman with the baby’s not here yet. The scary one.” Cesca sneered.
“Jules,” mouthed Soph to Ang’s quizzical look. Brendan stifled a giggle and opened the door in readiness.
“Get me an effing drink!” shouted Jules from the hall. “And who’s got a fag? I’m gasping!”
“Breast-feeding going well then?” asked Brendan, shoving a large glass of champagne at her.
“You know you really shouldn’t be drinking if you’re breast-feeding,” said Soph, unable to hold in her disapproval any longer. She’d read all the books and did everything by them.
“Oh, spare me—I know you’re doing everything right, drinking herbal tea, eating your greens and organic compost, but I’m over it already. My nipples have had it. He’s on the evil baby formula.”
“Oh,” said Soph. “What a shame.”
“Not really,” said Jules, refusing to be guilt-tripped. “Means I can go out and get lashed once in a while, which can only be good for Harry in the long run.”
“I meant it’s a shame for him,” said Soph, adjusting her nursing bra. Two dark discs of leakage had started to spread their way across her pale shirt.
“I think it’s for the best,” said Brendan.
“Thank you, darling,” said Jules, handing him the baby and plonking herself down on the sofa.
“I mean, your boobs are hardly Mother Nature’s doing anyway—the poor little sod was probably only getting saline solution, weren’t you little man?”
“Piss off,” said Jules, laughing despite herself.
“Hey,” shouted Laura. “Don’t swear in front of us—it’s naughty.”
“Shut it, small fry,” snarled Jules. “Go and play with those Tamagotchi things I gave you—where are they?”
“Dead,” chorused the girls.
“Fine. Then go and play with the traffic.”
“They’ll be here soon will everyone have a quick tidy up and get that cake hidden, Brendan, or she’ll see it the minute she comes in should I make the sandwiches now or after?” muttered Mrs. Stokes, flitting around the kitchen island nervously.
“Calm down, missus, she’s bound to be late.”
“There’s Daddy’s car! Quick, everyone, hide!” shouted Laura, who had been keeping watch from the window ever since she arrived.
The children disappeared professionally, leaving the adults scrabbling around for halfhearted hiding places, Brendan and Oscar behind the sofa, Jules and Mrs. Stokes beneath the island, and Ang not quite tucked away under a hanging coat. A couple of minutes passed. Someone farted, and everyone giggled. Another minute passed.
“Where are they? This is boring,” tutted Cesca, before Laura’s hand clamped over her sister’s mouth.
Finally, they heard muffled voices on the stairwell, then the turn of a key on the lock. It occurred to Brendan then that they hadn’t agreed on a signal. No one knew when to burst out, shouting “Surprise!” or “Happy birthday” or whatever. They hadn’t even agreed on that.
There was an awkward pause, everyone clearly waiting for someone else to instigate the reveal. Amy spoke.
“Oh, look! Someone’s left us three babies, Joe! This is getting to be a habit with you and me.”
“Surprise!” shouted Laura, unable to bear the tension any longer. The adults followed lamely, and only at the last minute did Brendan remember the party popper he’d stowed in his pocket.
“Well, well, well. Thank you,” said Amy, having dreaded something like this all day. Now she was here, though, she felt suddenly touched by the shambolic and unsophisticated party they’d thrown together for her. Her mum’s customary buffet was laid out on the trestle table—shop-bought quiche going curly round the edges, a joint of cold gammon and some boiled potatoes in a Pyrex dish, a large trifle whose “Hundreds and Thousands” topping was already leaking color all over the whipped cream.
“Did you know about this?” Amy asked Joe. He’d been a bit preoccupied all day.
“No, I swear,” said Joe, unconvincingly. “Well, maybe just a bit. You’re not cross, are you?” Amy shook her head, wondering how anyone could be mad with such a gorgeous, kind, and gentle man.
“Happy birthday, darling,” said Jules, kissing Amy on both cheeks.
“Yeah—we did this for you,” said Laura, struggling to gain control of a large brown envelope that Cesca was hanging on to.
“Let me do it!”
“No! It was my idea!”
“Dad! Tell her!”
“Why don’t you both give it to Amy?” said Joe in a vain attempt to once again promote The Middle Way.
There was a scuffle and then the sound of paper ripping.
“Happy now?” said Cesca, throwing her half down on the ground. Laura started to cry and ran back to the window to strike a dramatic pose.
“It’s OK, I’ll stick it back together,” said Joe, handing Amy the two parts of the homemade card.
“It doesn’t matter—it’s just a stupid card,” said Cesca moodily.
“Let’s have a look at it, then,” said Amy, trying her best to be nice to the brat. Laura wasn’t so bad if you got her on her own, but together they were horrendous. How Joe could have sired such tiresome, spoiled kids was unfathomable.
Amy put the two halves of the card together. It was a painting. Two little girls stood, each holding on to their daddy’s hand. A big yellow sun shone in the sky, and an oversized flower sprung from the spiky grass. A typical child’s idealized view of the world. But another figure had been added. On the very edge of the paper, in a slightly rougher and less careful hand, Amy recognized a portrait of herself. Her mouth was slightly turned down, and she noted that they had put some wrinkles around her eyes. They’d even included her newly rounded belly. “Happy birthday,” read the simple misspelled inscription, although the subtext was a lot more eloquent. “You are not our mum. You are not part of our family. Keep off our dad.” Or was she being paranoid? Hardly. They’d made it clear on many occasions in the last six months that Amy was
at best an unwelcome interloper, at worst their arch enemy. They’d left vicious diary entries tantalizingly open for her to happen upon. They’d played up when she tried to take Joe away for a weekend, Cesca somehow managing to bring on chronic laryngitis and Laura claiming a brain tumor. It wasn’t in Amy’s imagination. But she knew it was early days, and if they didn’t like having her around, then the feeling was entirely mutual. She wasn’t going to get sucked into some kind of “love me” competition with two eight-year-olds. In time, they would just all have to learn to tolerate one another. Until then, she wasn’t going to show her hand.
“Thank you, girls, that’s lovely,” said Amy, putting the card carefully away in her handbag. She caught Cesca’s look of disappointment at the nonreaction. Ten points to Amy.
“Happy birthday, you old bag—have a pie,” said Brendan, shoving a pork pie at her.
“Although, by the looks of you, you’ve already had quite a few.” It was Brendan’s favorite new subject—Amy’s gently expanding girth.
“Oh, bless and save us, you’re not, are you?” said Amy’s mum, clutching at Brendan’s arm. Amy hadn’t had the heart to kill her mother’s newfound enthusiasm for a grandchild.
“No, Mammy, it’s not a baby—it’s just contentment,” said Amy, squeezing Joe’s hand.
“Well, plenty of time yet, Amy, you never know your luck,” said Mrs. Stokes, smiling madly.
“Yes, plenty of time yet,” agreed Amy, trying to mask the newly forming horror for the idea. “Although it’s more likely Mrs. Cummings is going to have a baby first.”
“Oh, she’s got one! I forgot to tell you—she came in the shop with a picture of this gorgeous fat Chinese baby—a little girl. She’s getting her next Thursday,” said Jules.
“Bloody hell. Well, good for her,” said Amy. Even Mrs. Cummings had ended up with a baby. “And they say money can’t buy you love. Now, what about all these babies? How come they’re all asleep? Have you given them a drop of gin, Mammy?”
Bang on cue, Jonty and Milo struck up their catlike wailing. There was no warning, no apparent cause, no initiator—they did everything in unison.