by Peter James
Edouardo had a sideline as a children’s entertainer for which he normally wore this clown outfit, although personally she had always found clowns sinister.
He raised his arms up and down, as if weightlifting. ‘I clown in gym!’ he said. ‘I keep-fit clown! I try to make you happy!’
‘By scaring me to death?’
‘I want surprise you! I do runs for charity, in this suit. People love it! I want to surprise you tonight!’
‘You did that, all right.’
She swung the beam to the wall, found the switches and turned all the lights back on.
‘You not looking happy this week,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make you happy, to smile.’ He sounded hurt, disappointed, the clumsy clown lips turning down in genuine dismay. ‘I sorry if I scare you.’
She stared at him, at the slightly dishevelled (and, to be honest, smelly) clown suit, the white paste on his face, the big red smear of lipstick, and felt very sorry for this strange, lonely man. ‘You did all this to make me smile?’
‘I like to see people happy,’ he replied, simply. Then made a big clown-looking-sad face.
A toilet flushed behind her, momentarily startling her.
‘OK, thanks, Edouardo, that was a nice thought. But I think I have my client here.’
‘Man in Mercedes? Five minutes ago, he in changing room.’
‘Right. Well, you make a good clown.’
‘Another time, I make you laugh, yes?’
‘That would be nicer than frightening me! By the way, we have a leak in 237. I’ve called the plumber out but you might want to put some towels on the floor.’
Edouardo put the dumbbells down, bowed as if he were in the circus ring with a wave of the hand, and hurried out of the room. As she politely clapped, her client, Michael Longcrane, who was on his second weekly session, strode out of the changing-room door in yet another of the fancy designer tracksuits he wore. He gave her an odd look, as if questioning why she was applauding.
‘The caretaker,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘You always applaud him?’
‘You didn’t see him when you came in? Dressed as a clown?’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’ve been dealing with clowns all day. Ready to rock and roll?’
‘Yep! We’ll start with a five-minute warm-up on the cross-trainer.’
Obediently, he clambered aboard the machine, carefully planting his feet, while Georgie zeroed the five-minute egg timer.
As he began striding and pushing with his hands, Georgie adjusted the level.
Longcrane was panting and grunting away. From where she stood, several feet away, she could smell alcohol on the man.
‘Nice lunch today?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Green Island. Been there?’
‘Roger and I love it.’
Continuing on the machine, he puffed his cheeks and exhaled. ‘Oysters and grilled lobbies. Very nice.’
‘Unless you were one of the oysters or lobsters,’ she teased.
‘I’m sure they all died happy in the knowledge they were appreciated,’ he said.
‘As did all the grapes in the wine you drank with them?’
‘Totally.’
‘Do you really think you’re going to get fit arriving here after a boozy lunch?’ She grinned to soften the critique, though wasn’t sure she’d kept the irritation out of her voice. And should you have driven here? she nearly added.
He looked at her apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I had clients over from England. Had to entertain them. They always insist on going there. And having a jar or two. I only had a small glass myself.’
‘Right. We’re going to do the ski machine, leg presses and then rowing. One-minute sessions each. And were they? Entertained?’
‘They were, I think,’ he puffed and walked gloomily across to the ski machine like a condemned man.
Georgie showed him the right grip, told him to flex his knees and start. She turned the first egg timer over. But he hesitated, then said, ‘Nice outfit you’re wearing, Georgie.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, politely, watching the sand trickle down.
‘Fancy a drink one night, after our session?’
‘That would be very nice, I’m sure my fiancé would love to join us.’
Before he could reply, her phone rang. She grabbed it and looked at the display. It was Marcus Valentine. She was curious as to what he wanted but it was her rule not to answer any calls when she had clients, so she diverted it to voicemail.
27
Wednesday 19 December
Marcus Valentine, standing in his tracksuit in the darkness outside the gym, holding his phone in his hand, looked at Georgie through the window. He felt the stab of rejection in his belly. He started listening to her recorded message then killed the call.
Georgie, I was being polite, I wanted to ask if I could join in your session – as you invited me to at our dinner party. I didn’t want to interrupt if it was a private one. That’s why I called you.
Why did you just reject my call?
Rejection. He knew how it felt. He saw the disdain in her face, he was a nobody to her. A bitter taste in his mouth, he turned away and started to jog slowly back down to the promenade, heading to St Brelade’s Bay and home. Thinking, thinking about Georgie. And then, an idea forming. Yes. He stopped in his tracks, turned swiftly on his heels and headed back up to the gym. Now was his moment. He paused to catch his breath a little, then rapped on the gym door and walked confidently in.
Georgie looked up, surprised, but a little relieved that she was no longer alone with her client. ‘Oh hey, Marcus! You look ready for action!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I can see you’re busy. I did just try to call you.’
Looking innocent, she said, ‘Oh, did you? Sorry, I’ll be another ten minutes with my client, if you want to wait—’
Annoyed at her fib, he answered, holding her gaze. ‘It’s OK, I’ll get my exercise on my run back home. I’ll call you.’
She smiled back. ‘Sure.’
After an awkward pause in which he seemed about to say something else then changed his mind, he left, fumbling clumsily with the door handle and nearly tripping over the step.
Longcrane gave her a knowing look. ‘Sorry to be the gooseberry!’
‘What?’
‘With you and Mr Tubby.’
‘Gooseberry?’ she quizzed.
Gym Class Heroes’ ‘Cookie Jar’ was booming out of the speakers. Longcrane mouthed the suggestive ‘can’t keep my hands out the cookie jar’ lyrics. He gave her a knowing stare.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘He has the hots for you.’
‘No way.’
He raised his eyebrows.
28
Friday 21 December
‘Marmalade?’ Roger said, snuggled up beside Georgie on the sofa. ‘Seriously? You’ve always hated marmalade!’
‘I know, it’s strange – it’s like my taste buds have reversed – or become totally confused. Or my brain!’
‘Obviously it’s a boy!’
She gave him a sideways look. ‘A boy? What makes you say that?’
He tapped his chest, grinning broadly. ‘He’s carrying my genetic memory and saying to you, “Mummy, gimme marmalade please”.’
‘Rubbish!’ She punched him, playfully. ‘And, smarty-pants, if our baby is lucky enough to have inherited all your clever genes and none of mine, how come he – or she – has turned me off your absolute favourite food?’
Something she and Roger loved doing was to have a takeaway Thai curry and watch something on Netflix. It had been their plan for tonight, but the idea of a Thai now revolted her.
‘Touché! So that’s what you want for supper tonight? Just marmalade?’
‘On toast.’
‘You had it for breakfast!’
And lunch, and tea, before my evening gym sessions, Georgie thought, but did not say.
‘So you’ve gone off
pickled onions?’
‘Yechhh!’
‘We’ve got six jars to eat that I bought you a few days ago. You asked me to get them.’
The thought of them made her feel ill. ‘No way!’
‘OK,’ he said, handing her the remote. ‘Find us something to watch and I’ll go and make you marmalade on toast.’
‘Really thick,’ she said. ‘The marmalade. You don’t have to eat it too, my darling.’
‘I’m not planning to. Nothing personal against marmalade. I’ll find something in the freezer.’
She gripped his hand. ‘You don’t mind?’
He kissed her. ‘My angel, our baby’s telling you he – or she – wants marmalade on toast. You’ll both have it!’
‘Do you want to know?’ she asked suddenly, holding on to his hand tightly.
‘Know?’
‘The gender. Sex. Of our baby.’
Roger shrugged. ‘How do you feel about knowing? All we have to do is open the envelope Kath Clow’s mailing us.’
Georgie stared through the huge curtainless window at the light of cars travelling along the road and the bitumen blackness of the sea in the bay beyond. How did she feel about it, she wondered? She wasn’t sure, was the honest answer. She really wasn’t sure.
The only thing she was sure of at this moment was how grateful she was to be pregnant. After all the years of desperation, it was finally happening, even though she was still very anxious and would be until they passed the twenty-week mark. She had looked up a few websites, as Kath had suggested. The one she’d found easiest to navigate, What To Expect, had told her that her hormones would settle down then.
‘Kath said knowing the sex is helpful, in planning. We’ll need to start thinking about names.’
‘Maybe,’ Georgie said. ‘But it seems like tempting fate – to start coming up with names – you know – in case it goes . . . wrong.’
‘At twenty weeks you’ll be through the danger period.’
She nodded. ‘I guess – I’m scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘All the years I’ve been trying for a baby. And now, suddenly, it’s happening, it’s real. But twelve weeks is very early, there’s a lot that can still go wrong. I – I’m scared as hell.’
He hugged her and kissed her on the end of her nose. ‘Nothing’s going to go wrong. We’re going to have the healthiest, most amazing baby ever in the whole world.’
She gave him a hug back. ‘I think my hormones are all over the place. Yes, I want to believe that too, but – I don’t know – I keep feeling some dark shadow lurking out there.’
‘Shadow? What do you mean?’
She thought for a while before replying. ‘I suppose because it just feels too good to be true, to be real. It may sound silly, but I used to have a terrible fear throughout my childhood every time something good happened, or was about to happen, that I would be stricken with a terrible disease and die.’
‘Because of what happened to your sister?’
She closed her eyes. Thinking back to that terrible day her sister died. A week before her tenth birthday when her parents were going to take her and Liv to Disney World for her birthday treat. Liv was one year younger than her, and they were so close, best friends. Liv had gone to run an errand for their mother, cycling from their cottage to the local farm shop to get some eggs. A van driver, dazzled by the sun in his eyes, hadn’t seen her and had killed her outright, hitting the rear of her bike, sending her hurtling, head-first, into a tree.
‘Yes, I suppose. After that I always felt scared of looking forward to anything too much.’
Roger kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘You poor darling. I can’t even begin to imagine how you felt afterwards. And then to lose your dad so suddenly, you’re bound to feel like this.’
‘It made me think that when anything good comes into my life, something will take it away. I know it sounds silly, but—’ She fell silent. Feeling very vulnerable. More vulnerable than she could ever remember.
‘Our baby is going to be fine. Nothing bad’s going to happen. I’m going to make sure of that, OK?’
She nestled her head against his chest, feeling his warmth, his strength. ‘You make me feel safe,’ she murmured.
He caressed her hair, then her cheek. ‘And you, me. You’re a strong woman,’ he replied. ‘I’m right behind you and we’ll do this together. I love you to bits.’
‘I love you, too. I’m sorry this isn’t normal me. I know it sounds irrational, but ever since I found out I’m pregnant I worry about you flying. I worry every time you go up in that fragile little machine.’
‘Don’t, it’s a great aircraft with a terrific safety record. It has hooks in the sky!’
‘It’s not you, I know you are a great and careful pilot. It’s the thought of – I don’t know – one of your pupils doing something stupid.’
‘I’ve got dual controls. If any of them did anything I wasn’t happy with I’d take over immediately. You honestly don’t need to worry.’
‘I know I don’t.’ She gave him a pursed smile. ‘But I can’t help it.’
Lowering his hand to her tummy, he pulled up her jumper and T-shirt beneath, exposing the bare flesh of her belly, then he leaned forward and kissed it. ‘Hi, Bump!’ he said. ‘Hi, marmalade-loving Bump!’
He sat back up, leaving her belly exposed, about to kiss her on the lips, then suddenly, stiffened.
‘What?’ Georgie said, sensing something wrong.
‘Look!’
‘At what?’
‘Your tummy.’
She peered down. ‘Am I getting fat?’
He shook his head, frowning. ‘I just saw a green dot on your tummy.’
‘A what?’
‘A green dot. It was dancing around your belly.’
Assuming he was joking, she said, ‘Oh, right, a green dot? So now we’re not having a boy, we’re having a Martian?’
He gave her an uneasy smile.
‘Lucy always says that if we think Martians are little green men, what do the people on Mars call us? Oh, by the way, did I tell you she was totally blown away when I told her about our baby. She’s already got a list of names!’
‘I’m serious, darling. There was a green dot on your tummy.’
She turned to look at him and, for a fleeting second, saw a green dot on his forehead before it vanished. ‘It’s—’
‘What?’
A shiver rippled through her.
She pulled herself free, jumped up and ran across to the window. Staring out into the night, she could see only the darkness of the sea out in the bay. The street lamps. Lights of cars.
Was someone out there with a laser pen? Some stupid kids pranking around?
Or someone with a proper laser, attacking them? Attacking her baby? A nutter?
She barely slept that night. Thinking. Wondering. Nightmare following nightmare.
In one dream she saw Liv pedalling away from the cottage on her sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a shopping basket in front of the handlebars. As she turned to wave goodbye, Georgie saw a green dot on Liv’s forehead.
29
Wednesday 9 January
A green dot danced around the black-and-white image of a cervix, which was projected onto the large screen behind the speaker at the podium. In the lecture theatre of Southampton Hospital, the hospital’s General Manager addressed the group of thirty-five consultant obstetricians from around the Channel Islands, as well as Southampton and local area medical centres, at their bi-monthly symposium.
The image of the cervix was replaced by another slide showing the name MARCUS VALENTINE, FRCOG.
‘We are very fortunate today to have one of the most respected surgeons in his field, Jersey-based consultant gynae-oncologist, Mr Marcus Valentine, who is going to give us a talk on the latest advances in cervical cancer detection and surgical intervention.’
Following a ripple of applause, Valentine walked onto the stage, notes in hand. He shook the G
eneral Manager’s hand, thanked him and stepped up to the podium. He checked the time on his watch and on the clock on the wall, laid his notes out in front of him on the wooden lectern and clicked the PowerPoint remote, bringing back the image of the cervix.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to talk to you about the prevention of cervical cancer by cervical screening for human papillomavirus – and also by not smoking, which can promote the development of cervical cancer. What you are seeing on the screen behind me is the tragic result of failure of early diagnosis. I’m able to show this photograph thanks to the kind permission of the lady’s husband. Sadly, she died just seven months after this picture was taken. Her death was completely unnecessary and entirely preventable had there been earlier intervention following this scan in her first trimester.’
He pulled a laser pen from his breast pocket, switched it on and aimed it at the screen. An instant later a green dot jigged around the base of the cervix.
‘This tiny shadow, barely visible to the naked eye, was the tumour in its early stage – and it was, understandably, missed by her consultant. By the time of her second trimester scan, the tumour had metastasized and spread to her lymph nodes, and pretty much everywhere in her body. Had it been diagnosed sooner, the foetus could have been aborted and preventative treatment commenced, which would almost certainly have saved her life.’
He took a sip of water and peered around the audience. Looking for one face in particular to see if she’d been able to get here despite all her hospital commitments. And saw her. Kath. She was looking attentive, of course. Good.
30
Thursday 10 January
Georgie awoke with a start, feeling a deep sense of dread. Panic. Her pillow was sodden. She was drenched in perspiration. The Christmas break with Roger’s elderly parents, away from the island and her work, had had its stresses but she’d forgotten about her other anxieties. She’d forgotten too about the strange experience with the green light, but now it had surfaced again in her dream, darting about frenetically, making her feel dizzy with fear. She couldn’t quite remember any of the details of her receding dream, but clearly she had been subconsciously fretting about her baby. This tiny creature growing inside her, totally oblivious of the world beyond. Utterly dependent on her. Was it OK? What was it doing – moving, sleeping, or just lying still, staring? Were babies’ eyes shut or open in the womb?