Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Important,’ I repeat, though not in the same tone. ‘Did one of the Kardouchians break a nail? Come on,’ I cajole when she doesn’t answer. ‘What’s so vital, so riveting this morning?’

  ‘According DMZ, Dylan Duffy’s getting married.’

  That feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and the carriage is balanced at the top? How I feel . . . that isn’t that. Not exactly. It’s the moment following when the carriage drops. When fear—not exhilaration—consumes every millimetre of space inside your chest, pressurizing vital organs and forcing a scream from your lips. But I don’t scream. Not even as hot liquid splashes my shins. I look down, seeing the remains of my cup spinning, unaware of the burn. I don’t even hear the dull thud as the cup hits the wooden floor. I only see the aftermath; the handle lies three inches from the smashed base, the body of the cup cracked in two.

  Just like my heart.

  Melodramatic bitch, I chastise because my heart isn’t broken; I can feel it beating almost painfully in my chest. Pain, I can handle. Broken, I silently refute. Because my heart must beat to sustain life for two these days.

  ‘Jesus!’ Nat is suddenly by my side, but I don’t look at her. I’m still looking at my shoes; at the splashes of tea on the tan canvas and the puddle leaking around my feet. ‘Hey.’ She takes my forearms in her hands, giving me a quick shake. ‘What day is it?’

  ‘What?’ I lift my gaze to hers. My voice is hoarse, synapsis operating on a delay, and the back of my throat is closing in on itself, silencing what—my scream? My tears?

  ‘What fucking day is it?’ She questions harder, giving my shoulder a solid shake.

  ‘It’s on your phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Buy a calendar, for fuck’s sakes.’

  Nat’s hands fall away, and her shoulders slump. ‘Thanks be to fuck. You can’t be having a stroke if your sarcasm valve works.’

  ‘I’m just clumsy. I think I maybe blanked out for a moment.’ Nat bends and begins to gather the remains of my favourite cup as I inhale deeply, preparing myself for what I fear I heard, though hope I heard wrong.

  You can do this. Hear this. For him—for yourself. My emotions simmer below the surface like poisonous brew. I screwed up. I ruined it for both of us. My hand goes to my stomach, the motion itself so ridiculous that my fingers curl and my hand drops away.

  ‘Who did you say is getting married—which celeb?’

  Exhale. Breathe. You can bear this. You have no choice, and you’re no longer lying to yourself.

  ‘Dylan Duffy, him that—’

  ‘Cleavage shots.’ I cut her off, the reminder neither necessary nor welcome as my hand grasps the back of a nearby chair. I find I’m nodding my head—exaggerated motions.

  ‘Did it say who—in your article?’

  What if it’s her; the walking coat hanger? Could I stand to share my child with her, even for visitation rights?

  ‘Georgia What’s-her-face.’

  Christ, it is her. On the surface, she’s overly perky and blonde, but underneath, she’s a stuck-up, condescending bitch. Her family is film royalty, which seems to have given rise to the development of a very high opinion of herself. Her dad’s a big shot producer and her grandmother is a famous actress from way back. Showbiz is a very L.A. thing; while in other towns and cities across the US, kids take piano lessons, play football, or become scouts, in LA, kids take acting and singing lessons as a matter of course.

  ‘Isn’t she, like, twelve or something?’

  ‘Twenty. He’s hardly an auld man himself.’ Nat scoffs, spinning the chair from under my hand and pressuring me backwards into it. ‘He’s only, like, twenty-seven.’ I don’t reply; of course, Nat would know exactly how old Dylan is. She probably knows his chest size and inseam measurement, too.

  ‘Twenty and married. Her PR will have a fit.’

  ‘It’s not gonna happen, Ivy,’ she replies, chuckling. ‘This is the rumour mill and the studios working.’

  ‘Yeah, I forgot. You think he’s gay.’

  ‘I might’ve, at one time, suggested she was his beard,’ she responds, the pieces of the cup chiming as they hit the bottom of the bin. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s a possibility. There are too many women he’s supposed to be shagging for them all to be legit. And he does dress so sharply. There’s something about him that’s just a wee bit too perfect, I’d say.’ The so many women bit pokes a tender spot, and I wonder if it’d be better or worse if he were gay. Maybe less painful than finding out he’s making plans to get married again. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah,’ I respond, my mind still working on delay. He is a little too perfect, or at least, he was a little too perfect for me.

  ‘Ha! I knew it. You know him—and you know he’s bi! He couldn’t possibly be only gay—it would be a tragedy to womankind! And besides, there was the video.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was . . . I didn’t say any of that. I meant that—that it’s a possibility.’ My shoulders slump.

  ‘What’s a possibility; gay or bi?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him.’

  ‘Aye,’ she says, chuckling. ‘I’ll ask him next time he pops ‘round for tea. Speaking of which, you stay there, and I’ll make you another. Only, try to keep this one in the cup.’

  ‘Funny,’ I retort as she leaves the room. I stare at the dark tea stains on my shoes again. I have no right to be feeling any of these things—

  Hang on just a minute! I sit up, the weight on my chest suddenly lifting. He can’t get married while he’s still married to me.

  Chapter 25

  Ivy

  After that morning in the salon—the news and broken cup—I’d told myself I had to get over it. Swallow the shock of his moving on. Smother the hurt and misplaced sense of betrayal—I had no right to any of those emotions. My love for him didn’t owe me a damn thing, even if it was still there and as real as the tiny thing growing inside. And those hurtful feelings kept me warm for a time. Kept my insides burning. Until I let go. It wasn’t good for me, and it couldn’t be good for the baby, so I had to try. And I did—I let go of my anger and fear, but I didn’t let go of Dylan. We were linked forever, he and I. Even if he didn’t realise.

  I told myself I’d wait a few weeks before sharing the news of my pregnancy with him. That a couple of weeks more wouldn’t hurt, and that it might even give me time to adjust. I didn’t want him to think I was some kind of crazy stalker—the kind of woman who’d fake a pregnancy when it had become obvious he’d moved on. And I was only two months in. I had lots of time. Most women keep their pregnancy under wraps until the third month anyway, don’t they?

  But month three turned into month four, and still, I couldn’t bring myself to contact him. To swallow my pride. Month four ticked over then, and at twenty-one weeks, I felt the first flutter of movement. Had it happened before? It was hard to say.

  ‘Might be indigestion,’ Fin had said. I was staying with her in London; I’d made a point to visit her every few weeks by train. ‘I can’t feel anything.’ Her hand fell away, and she sat up quick, shooting me a strange look as she pulled away. ‘Maybe it’s wind.’

  ‘I think I’m familiar with the sensation,’ I’d replied, rather curt. ‘I am, after all, related to Mac.’ As it was, Mac had driven me to London that time. He’d had business there.

  ‘And how is Mac the man?’

  ‘He’s fine.’ I’d taken to calling him the Folic Acid Police behind his back, but I wasn’t repeating it to Fin. I know the pair spoke via phone regularly. Probably fussing over my future like a couple of auld women.

  ‘I wished you let me visit you next time.’

  Yeah, like Mac would let her anywhere near Auchkeld. He’d become hell-bent on giving Fin’s ex a good thump because he still turns up almost every weekend. Like clockwork. He doesn’t come into the salon, though. Not anymore. He just hangs around the village almost like he lives there. Like, if he’s around, he’s bound to bump
into Fin at some point. That one of us will take pity on him—weaken our resolve. But that’s not happening because we’ve made sure she’s not coming back until she’s no longer hurting.

  ‘I’ve told you, I enjoy the break. Not to mention you’ve your own doctor here.’ Bea, her roommate.

  ‘A fat lot of good she’ll be if you drop it while she’s working one of her gargantuan shifts. Honestly, I don’t know how she stays on her feet.’

  ‘Drop it? Do you think that’s all it’ll take? Clearly, you haven’t read the book I sent.’

  ‘Hey, don’t try to talk me out of this now—you said I could be your birthing partner. No givesies backsies, but I draw the line at delivering little Vlad by myself.’

  My bump had become Vlad on account of the little bugger having sapped all the goodness out of me, according to June. I am tired all the time, but also according to June, my self-appointed doula, I’ll also be losing my teeth and my hair thanks to my pregnancy. Hence, my little bump had become a little vampire named Vlad.

  And Vlad, rather than Vladimira because at my last scan I was told I was having a boy.

  ‘If I have to be there, so do you,’ was my retort. ‘And I’m fairly certain it’s not going to happen without me, and that little Vlad isn’t just going to fall out.’ I’d sighed, long and protractedly folded my hands over my barely-there bump. ‘They deserve medals.’

  ‘Vaginas?’ Fin’s face had scrunched. ‘But it’s nature at its best, and they’re kinda elastic, aren’t they? Treat her well, and I’m sure she’ll be fine.’

  I shot her a look to convey my disgust. Tenfold.

  ‘Treat her well? Should I book us a spa day?’

  ‘Kegels,’ she’d answered with a sort of wide-eyed honesty. ‘According to Chapter Twelve, do them, and do them well, and she’ll bounce back.’ To add to the absurdity, she’d made a sort of vacuum motion with one hand.

  ‘I meant doctors, Fin. Doctors deserve medals.’ I’d sighed again, raising my eyes to the ceiling. ‘And I can’t think what would possess anyone to want to look up there.’

  ‘Look up where?’ Her eyes followed mine.

  ‘Not there! There.’ I’d tipped my head, gesturing to my lap. ‘What makes someone want to become an obstetrician?’

  ‘Hey, in that book, it mentions the possibility during birth of you poo—’

  ‘You’re banned,’ I said, holding up my hand. ‘Give me back the book. I’m booking a caesarean.’

  So while I’d talked myself into it and then talked myself out of telling Dylan about the baby, I’d told those closest to me before the rest of the village seemed to have found out by themselves. It’s not like I put an advert in the window—I’d even been careful of my doctor’s appointments and stuff. Silly, I know, because it’s not something I’m able to hide indefinitely. But as June likes to say, if they’re gossiping about me, they’re leaving some other poor soul alone. I suppose I’m keeping the gossips well entertained even if no one ever asks me about my baby daddy because the news was just too shocking for delicate ears.

  I’d kept my explanation simple; a one-night stand while I was in LA. Beyond the fact I didn’t know anything about him besides his name, what else was there to say? Nothing. No questions to ask, but I caught their glances. Pity from some, distaste from others. From my friends, I got none of that. Just acceptance and, lately, excitement on my behalf.

  Mac insists on taking me to my appointments, which means I regularly get to explain he’s not Daddy, which is special. Really special. Natasha and June hold down the fort whenever I’m gone, and I’ve also taken on a first-year apprentice, which has lightened my load. Stacey’s not the brightest button in the box, but at least I don’t have to bend over the basin to wash hair anymore. I still see my clients while Ted takes care of his and any walk-ins. And despite their near-constant bickering, I know Nat and he are becoming firm friends.

  Sort of like Mac and I; bickering buddies.

  And Fin’s doing fine, too. Her job isn’t exactly rocket science, but it’s keeping her busy, and busy, as I know myself, leads to too tired to think. And that, my friends, is a blessing. I miss having her tucked up in the wee room next to mine. I miss tripping over her million pairs of designer shoes and her quick wit. I miss her teasing, though not her tears. After years of living in different countries, being around her again was like slipping on an old pair of fluffy slippers or a dressing gown. Just comfortable, you know? She says she’s fine, and we talk often, sometimes late at night. We both have those evenings when, no matter how busy the day has been, we can’t get our brain to switch off. We talk about work, the salon, and the crazy stuff Natasha says. And she’ll tell me about her bitch of a boss, but we don’t discuss the important stuff. And we certainly don’t mention husbands. We don’t talk men. When she says she’s fine, I stay quiet because I’m not sure she’s being honest. In fact, I know she’s not. Fine is a title that fits neither of us.

  And in the meantime, with each day that passes, it gets more difficult to tell Dylan the truth. I mean how can I? Really? Georgia may not be my favourite person, but if he wasn’t with her, he’d be with someone else. Because he’s moved on. But their relationship is still new, and I can’t help think that, in telling him about our baby, I’d cause him more harm than good. Every time I catch a glimpse of them—pap shots, online, and in magazines—I can’t help but look at his smile. If she couldn’t handle the inclusion of our baby, I might be taking away the good from his life again. I worry that he might spiral into destructive ways again.

  Drunk and falling out of nightclubs.

  Snatching cameras from hands only to smash them.

  Destroying hotel rooms.

  That he wasn’t kicked out of the industry when we broke up is probably a testament to his talent. His transgressions were noted as the effects of being faced with sudden fame. That excuse wouldn’t work a second time. My news could ruin him, and I’m so conflicted. I know I must tell him—know it’s only right. But when should I tell him and how?

  Do I obsess?

  Are they getting married? Aren’t they? Is it just a publicity stunt?

  Our marriage may be over—well, it will be in a few more months—but it’s hard to know what the future will bring. I’d passed our divorce over to the hands of the lawyer, Mr. Mackenzie the younger, who tells me I must wait until we’ve been apart a full year. I like to think that in the delay, Dylan may avoid making a second marital mistake. Georgia’s young and flighty, and her name is always linked to some actor or another, or maybe I’m just being unfair.

  Or maybe I’m just beginning to think like a mother now.

  Neither he nor his legal team have been in touch, which is strange. And while I’ve complained plenty about small village mentality and nosy people burrowing into my private business, it seems the notion is a double-edged sword because word on the high street is that the elder Mr. McKenzie has given out some not so sane legal advice lately on account of advancing dementia. It would explain the rubbish legal counsel he gave me. I’m not surprised his nephew didn’t share that news.

  So Dylan is stuck with me for a while longer. At least, on paper. What choice do I have? I can’t file under the original grounds—my adultery—and I refuse to allow Dylan to shoulder the blame. I won’t do it to him. I won’t let him martyr himself. What if, in the future, the news got out? What would an admission of adultery do to his career? Then add to it the appearance of abandoning a pregnant wife? His fans might forgive a secret marriage and a divorce. But a child? He worked so hard to get where he is; I won’t be responsible for damaging his career with the industry or his fans.

  If I’d thought ignoring him and not pressing on with the divorce would force him to contact me, I’d be wrong. I know he never wants to see me again, but I guess that must extend to his legal team. I am, however, relieved that I don’t have to deal with it anymore because most days, I’m too exhausted to even think straight. I’m so tired. Tired from the hair on my head to the pai
nt on my toenails.

  But I work because of money. I read a little. Sometimes, I socialise. I stalk the pair on the internet. Sad but true. I buy all the magazines. They’re still being snapped—or pap’d—together, but there’s no sign of engagement rings or wedding dress shopping. There are just smiles—coy from her and bland from him—when the topic of their wedding comes up.

  The celeb magazines are for the salon and are tax deductible, I tell myself . . . even as I buy armfuls of the ones that feature the pair. Occasionally, one or two images of them together might be used as targets in a game of darts. And sometimes, I might give Georgia a drawn-on beard or moustache. Sometimes hillbilly teeth and eyeglasses. It depends on what kind of mood I’m in.

  No, I don’t think I obsess. It’s just a form of art therapy . . .

  One thing’s for sure; I’ll be the first to buy the magazine carrying news on their breakup. Not that I’m willing that to happen. Okay, maybe I am. Just a smidge. I am only human, after all. And she’s so gorgeous, as is he. And sadly, I’m still in love with him. My feelings haven’t changed one bit for that man. Iconic, really. No, that’s not right . . . I’m sure this pregnancy is draining me of brain cells.

  I don’t wish him ill, and I do want him to be happy.

  No—really.

  I do!

  But maybe just alone. And celibate.

  For him to take religious office on a tiny island somewhere.

  An island of men.

  What’s ironic—yes; that’s the one!—is that just an hour before I’d discovered he’d moved on, I’d convinced myself I had to see him—to tell him I love him. To apologise. To tell him about our baby. I was so sure the only path to take was the honest one. The thing is I still do . . . I just don’t know if I can.

  Chapter 26

  Ivy

  Pregnancy makes a person tired, and that, my friends, is the understatement of the year. In my case, I’m not sure if it’s pregnancy hormones, or the fact that little Vlad is sapping my energy in favour of his internal growth spurts. And it’s not even a lack of sleep; I go to bed at a decent time and stay asleep until my alarm rings. I think what I have is dream fatigue because I have a brilliantly active dream sex life. Every night, I dream vividly, in technicolour—with emotions and sensations and everything. No prizes for guessing who has the starring role in these nocturnal sexy times.