by Lindsey Kelk
‘I really didn’t want that in my mouth,’ I said, taking another swig of Future Cola to wash away the taste. ‘And don’t you dare say that’s what she said.’
He held his hands up to protest his innocence but with a huge smile on his face.
‘And what’s on the laptop?’ I asked.
‘Photos,’ he replied, climbing back onto the bed and pressing his body against mine. ‘Lots and lots and lots of photos.’
‘You’re going to show me your holiday photos?’ I asked, utterly delighted.
‘I’m going to show you my holiday photos,’ he confirmed as he rested his chin on my shoulder. ‘Shall we start with China?’
I nodded, far too excited for someone about to endure someone else’s travel pics. But this felt very different to Lucy and Dave’s three-hour-long honeymoon video from their trip to Sandals St Lucia. This felt like discovering they’d made three new seasons of your favourite TV show and bingeing on them all at once.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked, as Patrick began flicking through the photos.
He skipped back to a shot of himself, posing with his arm slung casually around the shoulders of a beautiful blonde woman. He was smiling into the camera but she was gazing at him with an expression I knew all too well.
‘That’s Judith,’ he replied.
‘She looks nice,’ I said in a bright, tight voice.
‘She is nice,’ Patrick said, matter-of-factly. ‘We met in Beijing. She teaches English out there.’
I took a sip of my Future Cola. It was already flat.
‘She still in Beijing, is she?’
‘She is,’ he confirmed, amused with my response. ‘And yes, we were seeing each other for a while but no, we’re not seeing each other now. I’m sure you haven’t been living like a nun for the last three years, have you?’
‘Nun-like,’ I replied. ‘Nun-adjacent.’
‘Nun-adjacent, I like that,’ he laughed lightly, sliding his legs underneath the covers. ‘When you get to the photos of the pretty brunette in Mongolia, her name is Shana and we went on three dates before she binned me off for an American footballer called Brad.’
‘You’re making that up,’ I muttered, clicking through the photos faster and faster. He stroked my hair, nuzzling into the back of my neck.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked as he slid his hand down my back until he reached the hooks of my bra. ‘She’s not here, eating my tough man milk sweets, is she?’
Quietly, I closed the laptop and placed the tray and the map down on the floor beside the bed before turning to face him.
‘I really did miss you,’ Patrick whispered when we were nose to nose, the oxygen burning out of the air in between us.
‘I really did miss you too,’ I whispered back, closing my eyes as I lay back against the bed.
One minute we were just talking, the next, we were together. There was no precise moment or second on the clock you could point to, we weren’t and then we were. His hands were hot on my skin as they followed familiar paths around my body, touching me in ways I’d only dreamed about for so long. The light seemed to fade, the bed got bigger and the room got smaller and everything became hazy at the edges as my body took over and my mind let go.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady,’ Lucy said, grinning at me over her massively pregnant belly.
‘You’re the one with your legs in stirrups,’ I pointed out, shovelling a packet of salt and vinegar Discos into my mouth in between yawns. They tasted like heaven. The sky was bluer, the birds sang more clearly, my morning cup of tea was like the nectar of the gods. I was even having a good hair day. At long, long, long, long, long, long last, all was right with the world.
Lucy pulled at the hem of her gown, attempting to cover things it was far too late to attempt to cover. ‘It’s back on, is it?’ she asked. ‘You’re a smitten kitten, all over again?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,’ I replied, too full of joy to come up with anything clever or funny. ‘I know none of you are going to be ecstatic about it but truly, Luce, it just feels blissful. All the time I was missing him, he was missing me and now we get another chance.’
‘What did Sumi say when you told her?’ she asked.
‘It wasn’t so much what she said as how she said it,’ I answered thoughtfully as I recalled our phone conversation from the night before. ‘Or rather screamed it.’
‘She’ll come round eventually. Remember how you all hated Dave when I first met him? And now you’re practically best mates.’
I stuffed my mouth full of crisps and looked out the window.
‘Anyway, I’m very pleased for you and insanely jealous.’ She held her hand out for a crisp and I dutifully handed over the entire bag. Her need was greater and I no longer needed the sustenance of food. I had achieved the impossible: I had reconnected with the one that got away and reeled him right back in. ‘I’ve had the raging horn for the last month and Dave won’t come anywhere near me.’
Classic Creepy Dave. Actually, was that less creepy or more creepy? I would have to check with the panel.
‘There are a lot of things I would do for you but that is not one of them,’ I told her, wiping my hands on the legs of my jeans and then wiping the crisp crumbs off my jeans and onto the floor. ‘And I don’t care how long it’s been for you, I know it’s been much longer for me because the evidence is about ten centimetres from staring me right in the face.’
She rested the crisps on the top of her belly and turned her head to look at me. ‘Go on then, tell me all the disgusting details, I know you’re dying to.’
‘Do you really want them all or do you want me to blush and say something like, there’s not that much to tell?’ I asked, already regretting handing over the crisps. Her needs were not greater, I needed to replace all the calories I’d burned over the weekend.
‘Give me everything,’ she nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘I can take it.’
‘Fine but remember you asked for it.’ I closed my eyes, my shoulders pinching together with the memories. I’d only left his flat a few hours ago and I was still tender if I pushed in the right places. ‘So, we met at the pub but there was a singer on and she was rubbish but then I choked on a mint.’
‘Ooh, it’s practically The Notebook,’ Lucy cooed, delicately placing a crisp in her mouth.
‘Shut up. So we left the pub and we were standing outside, sort of looking at each other in the sunset, and it was all intense and so I said, what’s going on and he said, I’m going to kiss you and—’
‘Ros,’ Lucy interrupted, looking down at my feet. ‘You do know your sandals don’t match?’
I looked down at my feet. One brown leather sandal, one leopard print.
Shit.
‘Do you want the story or not?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘It’s giving me heartburn.’
‘Too much salt is bad for you,’ I said, seizing the opportunity to reach across her and nab the Discos back.
‘This is the most wonderful part,’ she sighed, a dreamy smile on her face and her legs up in the air. ‘When it’s all shagging and talking and more shagging and breaking for snacks and then more shagging. Have you even slept? Are you utterly delirious?’
‘I no longer need sleep,’ I replied. ‘I am as a god.’
Lucy smiled.
‘And when are you seeing Mr God again?’
‘Don’t know,’ I said as I chomped. ‘We just spent two days shagging and he did not appear to be utterly repulsed, that’s good enough for me. I’m not expecting a proposal until at least next week.’
Although that didn’t mean I hadn’t spent every second since I left his flat staring at my phone and willing him to text me. But that wasn’t Patrick’s style. He’d once told me he considered his phone an ‘interloper on his sanity’ and I’d automatically covered mine with my hands so Siri wouldn’t be offended.
‘Then it all sounds wond
erful, very romantic,’ she said, folding her hands together on top of her belly. ‘I just want to make sure you’re going in with your eyes open.’
‘They’re wide open,’ I insisted. ‘They’re Clockwork-Orange-open. I know you’re worried about me but you don’t have to be, I promise you, I’m fine. We had this incredibly beautiful, honest conversation about what happened last time and then he went down on me until I thought I’d gone blind so I really think it’s going to work out this time.’
‘All right, that’s enough, that’s enough,’ she replied, slapping her hands over her ears. ‘I can’t take any more.’
‘The stars aligned,’ I declared, holding a completely round Disco up to the window in awe. ‘And so did our genitals.’
‘Hello, hello, how are we getting along in here?’
The door to the office opened and a rather large man in a rather brown suit let himself into the room. ‘Mrs Warren, is it? I’m Mr Appleton.’
Lucy raised a hand and gave a meek smile. ‘Is Dr Abara not here today?’
‘Off sick,’ the man replied with a frown as he snapped on a pair of medical gloves. ‘Right, what are we doing today? Thirty-five weeks and you wanted to do an extra scan, I see? Baby’s almost fully cooked, why are we doing the scan today?’
Even though Lucy was the world’s sweetest human, her parents were among the most anxious living beings I’d ever met and some of that had filtered into their only child. The downside of this meant Lucy couldn’t even climb a ladder at home alone without calling one of them before and after, but the upside was they’d offered to pay for her to go private with her pregnancy. They were not prepared to take any chances with their first grandchild, even though it was entirely unnecessary, according to Lucy. I’d scoffed at it when she first told me but now I was here, I couldn’t help but notice this place was more like a fancy hotel than a normal hospital. Much as I loved the NHS, I didn’t think I’d be able to turn something like this down either.
‘The nurse didn’t say Dr Abara wasn’t here,’ Lucy said in a slightly strangled voice. ‘Will she be back tomorrow? I could reschedule?’
‘No need,’ the doctor replied, leafing through some papers on the desk. ‘I’m here.’
It should have sounded reassuring but it really didn’t.
‘But I could come back tomorrow?’ Lucy said again, looking over at me. I slyly wiped my hands on my jeans and tucked the rest of my crisps into the tote bag resting by my feet. ‘I don’t want to be difficult, it’s just that we’ve seen Dr Abara at all the other appointments and her team is going to be delivering the baby so, um, I would quite like to stick with her. Last time I came in the baby was breech and she said I could come in again this week for another scan if I felt like nothing had changed.’
‘They usually move on their own, you mightn’t be able to tell if anything has changed,’ he said, completely ignoring her as he reached for an extraordinarily large bottle of lube, the likes of which you really didn’t expect to see outside of certain shops on Old Compton Street. ‘I can always turn you if need be.’
‘Oh no,’ Lucy gasped. ‘You don’t need to do that.’
I’d heard and seen enough.
‘I think we’d really prefer to come back tomorrow and see the other doctor,’ I said politely as he loomed over my cowering friend. ‘If that’s possible?’
The doctor stopped what he was doing and stared at me.
‘You’re the “other mother”?’ he asked, definitely thinking air quotes, even if he didn’t use them. It was hard to do bunny ears when you were manhandling an epic bottle of lube. ‘Didn’t see that in the notes.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,’ I said, smiling sweetly and not bothering to correct him. ‘Are you the nurse?’
Over in her stirrups, Lucy’s eyes widened.
‘I’m the senior obstetrician at this hospital and I can assure you I am more than qualified to perform a scan.’ He enunciated the word to make sure we were entirely clear that this appointment was beneath him. ‘I understand this is your first pregnancy and you’re probably confused as to what’s going on, but I have a full schedule today thanks to the absent Dr Abara and really don’t have time for this debate. Can we please get on with this, ladies?’
The first time I met Lucy was on the second day of university when she staggered into me and my three Smirnoff Ices after literally headbutting a disgusting boy called Vernon who was trying to take a photo up her skirt in the student union. Lucy was an iron fist in a velvet glove, wasted in peace time really, she would have absolutely shone during the war. And yet, here she was with one single, perfect tear trickling down her beautiful rosy, red cheek all because of this absolute twat in his dogshit-brown suit.
I wasn’t having it.
‘I’m sure you’re very qualified, but we’d be much more comfortable seeing our usual doctor,’ I replied. ‘Wouldn’t we, Luce?’
She nodded fiercely. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
Mr Appleton put down the lube with a look I imagined had passed over the faces of many men who had been made to put down lube when they really wanted to use it. He inhaled sharply through his nose, a sour look on his face.
‘I would be more comfortable seeing my doctor,’ Lucy reiterated, as I helped her out of the stirrups. Being really pregnant looked properly shit at times like this. Just when you wanted to make a speedy and dignified exit, you were forced to roll around on an elevated bed like an oversized Weeble.
‘Also, you’re very rude,’ I added. ‘Just so you know.’
Without another word, he snapped off the surgical gloves and tossed them in the bin, marching straight out the door and leaving it swinging behind him.
‘That was great but what if they don’t let me come back again?’ Lucy asked as she struggled back into her pants. ‘This little bugger could make an appearance any day, I don’t want to get blacklisted. This is the best maternity hospital in London, you know.’
‘So help me god, don’t you dare mention Meghan Markle,’ I warned.
She pouted. No one loved Meghan Markle as much as Lucy loved Meghan Markle.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I assured her. ‘If they kick up a fuss, we tell Sumi about the condescending doctor and have her write a threatening letter. Honestly, it’s like you forget you’ve got a lawyer for a best friend on purpose.’
‘You should get shagged more often, you know,’ she said as she forced her swollen feet back into her flip-flops. ‘I like this Ros.’
I smiled and held my arm out to my friend.
‘Thanks,’ I said, escorting her out the room. ‘I like her too.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three sharp knocks on my shed door woke me up at seven a.m. on Tuesday morning. I blinked at my Bart Simpson alarm clock, quite prepared to have a cow. Between reliving every moment of my weekend and stressing about work, I had barely slept a wink.
‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty,’ my mother opened the door and poked her head inside. ‘Are you still in bed?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, pulling a pillow over my face. ‘Because it is the crack of dawn. Please go away now.’
What was the point in being banished to the bottom of the garden like a common Womble if my parents could still let themselves in my room whenever they wanted? Surely that kind of intrusion warranted full-time washing machine rights?
‘I thought you’d want these,’ she said, throwing the door open wide and carrying in the most enormous bouquet of flowers in sunset colours. ‘They came yesterday but you got home so late and the lights were out by the time I looked in on you.’
‘They’re for me?’ I asked, bouncing out of bed. Flowers! I had flowers! But that didn’t mean the flowers were from Patrick, they could be from Lucy for kicking that awful doctor’s metaphorical backside or from that man on the 521 bus who put his hand a little bit too deep into his trouser pocket every morning when I got on. Not even a very meaningful glance at my #TimesUp badge had
put him off.
‘They’re for you,’ Mum confirmed, setting them on the collapsible dining table and handing me the little white envelope that only ever came with flowers.
There was no name on the card, just a quote.
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’ Let us go and make our visit.
A line from his favourite T.S. Eliot poem. No doubt about it, they were from Patrick.
‘All right then, what does it say?’ Mum asked, the same smile on my face spreading across hers.
‘It’s just a bit from a book,’ I replied, keeping the card safely in my hand. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘Gorgeous,’ she affirmed. ‘Whoever he is, I already like him better than the last one.’
I fluffed out one of the sunburnt orange blooms and said nothing.
‘I love dahlias. Grace, honesty, kindness, commitment and positive change,’ Mum said, pulling the language of flowers from some corner of her brain that hadn’t been corrupted with the names of all the different Instagram filters. ‘Your dad used to send me dahlias when we were first courting.’
‘And what do foxgloves mean?’ I asked, combing through the other flowers in the arrangement and wondering how much research Patrick had done when he was choosing the bouquet. Had he known all that or were these just the nicest bunch? Maybe they’d been on offer. Maybe it was the first bouquet he saw. Or maybe I could stop trying to ruin this for myself and just revel in the fact that Patrick had sent me flowers.
‘Mostly that foxes are snazzy dressers.’ She settled down on the arm of my tiny sofa and cast an eye across the room, taking in the pile of shoes, the dirty clothes next to the wash bin and the dishes in the sink. In my defence, I’d been very busy shagging all weekend and domestic tasks hadn’t been my top priority. Or any sort of priority. But I would have to tackle the washing soon or I’d be out of knickers and forced into a lunchtime trip to Primark. The worst of fates.