‘Does Sam know you’re pregnant?’
‘No.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m considering having a termination.’
‘Okay.’ Another deep breath.
‘Just considering it.’
‘Tell me the advantages of the termination option.’
‘My life continues as is.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep.’
‘But your life’s not exactly perfect at the moment, is it?’
‘Better the devil you know.’
‘Laura, this could transform your life. What’s the point of dragging yourself along like you have been, feeling mediocre?’ I glance through the French doors to where the twins sit: two lumps slumped in front of The Simpsons. ‘Without those boys I’d never have made it through. They might look like a pair of lazy, parasitic pests, but believe me, they’re everything to me … Well, maybe not everything. You and the girls count for a lot too.’ I change tack. ‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘To experience pregnancy, birth and motherhood? I’m not sure.’
‘You’d be a brilliant mother.’
‘But I want to keep working.’
‘You have Sam. Wouldn’t he help?’
‘I guess he’d expect to be part of the package.’
‘You don’t sound very excited by the prospect.’
‘Well I’m not. Sure, we’ve been getting on okay and there’s even been the odd occasion when I let him into my bed, but I still can’t bring myself to trust him. I’m constantly checking locks, counting vials in my bag at home and in the safe at the surgery. I even find myself going through his things searching for evidence: needles and stuff.’
‘You’ve never found anything?’
‘No.’
‘And are your suspicions based on anything?’
She shakes her head.
‘No missing narcotics?’
‘No.’
‘No mood swings and aggressive behaviour?’
‘No.’
‘Have you told him how hard it is for you to get over your lack of trust?’
Laura bows her head. I realise she’s crying and immediately drop to my knees beside her chair and put my arms round her. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I soothe. ‘You’ll sort it out.’
‘I know, I know. But I hate myself for making him feel so bad.’ She tugs a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose, regaining a measure of control. ‘You see, I have told him that I don’t trust him. Several times. And it just about breaks him every time I say it. What kind of bitch am I to do that to a fragile person who’s trying their best?’
I reach for the champagne bottle and top up her glass. ‘Not a bitch. You’ve been through the sort of crisis that would bring most women to their knees, all the while soldiering on, pretending to be happy. Something’s got to give. And now look at you,’ I pat her tummy, ‘all flush with hormones and crying.’
I get a wobbly smile through the tears and she says, ‘Sometimes it’s useful being a woman. Blaming everything on hormones.’
‘Quite right too. They’re responsible for a great deal.’
Back in my chair, I suddenly feel like clapping my hands, for it seems to me that this pregnancy could be the solution to everything. ‘Has it occurred to you that through this baby you and Sam might rediscover what you’ve lost? Maybe Sam will surprise you. Fatherhood could be the perfect niche for him, it could be that chance for him to earn back your respect.’
‘Maybe.’ Laura sips from her glass, her meltdown apparently under control.
‘How many weeks are you?’
‘Ten.’
‘Ten! Then you were pregnant during the triathlon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course! That’s why you were ill!’
‘Yes.’
I give her a stern look, but don’t raise the question of why she competed if she knew she was pregnant.
‘You must have known for about six weeks! However have you managed to keep quiet for so long?’
‘I kept quiet because I was quietly going to have a termination. Tell no one.’
‘And now you’re having second thoughts?’
‘That’s right. Sort of fifty-fifty at the moment.’
‘Then you can’t possibly go ahead with the termination. If fifty per cent of you wants to have the baby, then you would be half heartbroken if you got rid of it.’
‘But if I have the baby, perhaps half of me won’t bond with it.’
‘I think that the moment you see the baby, all of you will want it. If I’m wrong and it takes a bit longer, there is Sam to make up the shortfall.’
She leans back in her chair, closing her eyes. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more. Thinking about it all the time is driving me crazy. Distract me, will you.’
I know what she wants. Her interest in my maybe-maybe not affair with the Black Douglas has had her riveted by hope from the start. ‘Very well. We’ll change the subject. Though there’s nothing to say. He’s hardly spoken to me since The Kiss, which is a relief.’
She opens one eye. ‘Truly a relief?’
‘Truly. Alec’s re-emergence didn’t exactly help his case, mind you.’
‘Another reason to damn him.’
‘Hearing his voice on the other end of the phone makes me want to crawl back into the womb and start life all over again.’
Suddenly Laura’s sitting forward in her chair. ‘You can’t let him have that effect on you. Every time your hand trembles on the phone or his memory makes you sick, it’s his victory.’
‘I guess so,’ I concede with some reluctance.
‘So just keep telling yourself that you’re miles above him in every imaginable way: you’re intelligent, funny, warm, honest and decent. You’ve got all those things, which he lacks, in spades. And remember, the best revenge is living well.’
I smile. ‘I don’t do so badly.’
‘You’re lonely.’
‘Ah, back to the Black Douglas. Look, I’ll admit he’s bright, friendly and amusing, he’s attractive and fit, but there’s something there: a petulance, a sort of … oh, I don’t know. Maybe that’s what you get in a man. I’m too out of practice to work it out.’
‘Maybe you’re right, maybe he’s not the one for you. You know best.’
‘Best? I don’t think so. I haven’t exactly proved myself to be a good judge of character in the past, have I?’
‘You pick your women friends well.’ At last, there’s that dolphin smile.
‘I do. Perhaps there’s hope for me after all.’
Laura tells the girls her news the next morning at the pool, and I take her act of telling as confirmation that she means to keep the baby. My relief is so great it hurts.
‘You were the one supposed to be getting pregnant,’ she says to Cate.
Cate smiles and kisses her. ‘Perhaps I’ll be next.’
I’ve been worried about Cate, worried that Laura’s news will make her ache that bit harder. Or perhaps it might make her more determined to stand up to Pete. ‘Are you trying?’ I ask her.
‘No. But thinking about chucking my pills in the bin. Maybe after Pete’s party.’
‘Good for you,’ says Laura. ‘By the way,’ she adds, looking from one to the other of us, giving her stomach a pat, ‘this is a secret. Sam doesn’t know.’
‘Well I think it’s amazing,’ says Karen. ‘The best news all year. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, about time. You’ll make a wonderful mother. Are you going to keep swimming?’
‘Of course. Though I’ll soon be looking like a baby hippo in my togs. Can you believe I’m going to put my body through so much at this age?’
‘Well worth the temporary distortion,’ I say.
‘But you weren’t even thirty when the twins were born, plenty of elasticity back then. I’ll probably end up with a stomach like a zebra-striped potato sack hanging down to my knees.’
Her words make us laugh
, but I’m aware of real apprehension behind her smiles. Not so much about the condition of her post-baby tummy, but about her age, and her other, deeper issues.
‘When are you going to tell Sam?’ I ask.
Laura turns her back, searching her bag for towel, shampoo, knickers, bra, anything, I suspect, to save her from meeting my eyes.
‘I take it you will be telling Sam?’ I prompt into the silence.
‘Mm.’ She pulls off her cap, the springy curls leap free. ‘No need to look like that,’ she says when, finally, she meets my eye. ‘I’m biding my time, monitoring his behaviour. He’s being really good at the moment, he’s even started painting again, but I don’t want him around as a father if I can’t trust him one hundred per cent.’
I sit down to dry my toes. Laura never did take kindly to being told what to do. The best tactic is to plant ideas in her head and hope she picks them up as her own. But faced with such a fierce intelligence, it’s not easy to get away with such scheming. Knowing this, I generally keep quiet about my own opinions. I want to keep quiet now, I try to keep quiet, but just can’t help adding, ‘You should tell him, Laura. It could be the making of him.’
‘Mm.’ She sounds sceptical, as expected.
But I have reinforcements at hand. ‘Perhaps,’ suggests Karen, ‘knowing he’s to be a father will boost his desire never to relapse.’
‘I agree,’ says Wendy.
‘Me too,’ says Cate.
‘Are you all ganging up on me?’ Laura demands, eyeing us suspiciously.
‘Not a deliberate collusion,’ I assure her.
‘Well maybe I will tell him,’ she concedes. ‘But I want to wait till I’ve had the full run of tests before I say anything. At my age a pregnancy can be a frighteningly fragile thing.’
Wendy, gathering her basket over one arm says, ‘Talking of tests, I have to go. I’m due down at the university for an information day.’
We wander out to the cars with her. A man is climbing out of a white Pajero. ‘You left your phone at home, love,’ he says. ‘Thought I’d drop it in to you.’
It is Wendy’s Graham. With the exception of Karen, none of us have met Graham the Stud before. Wendy performs introductions, and we are suitably humble in the presence of the King of Stamina. Graham is an innocuous-looking man: average height, slender like Wendy, balding slightly, with neat, clean features.
When he goes we collapse laughing.
‘The wiry ones always have the most stamina,’ says Laura. ‘They live longest too. He’ll still be at it when he’s ninety.’
Laura has every test in the book for older pregnant women. There’s the usual blood test, then endless other procedures with strange, unpronounceable names. She bears it all with fortitude, never bemoaning her concern for the health of her unborn baby. And the rest of us follow her lead, keeping silent on the subject, thinking about her constantly, but saying nothing. She’ll tell us when she knows.
‘All clear,’ she announces one morning when she arrives at the pool.
There’s an immediate huddle of cuddling, emotional women. Cate hears the commotion from the kiosk and bolts in. She doesn’t need to ask, our expressions say it all, and she’s hugging Laura, producing a few tears of her own.
When we settle down and coherent words are possible, I say, ‘Did they tell you the sex?’
‘I asked. Couldn’t help it.’
‘And?’
‘A boy.’ She’s trying not to smile, but she’s radiant.
‘He’ll have webbed feet,’ I say.
‘And gills,’ adds Wendy.
‘Dolphin Boy,’ says Cate. ‘I bet he’s in there swimming round in that amniotic fluid, practising his pull and kick.’
CHAPTER 21
I STARE AT THE unsatisfactory reflection in my wardrobe mirror, at myself in the scarlet strappy dress I’d once thought enhanced my fair hair and curves in a very Marilyn sort of a way. Suddenly it looks tacky. I snatch it off and chuck it on the floor.
Now I’m naked, which is even worse. My eyes shift away from the pale, reluctant creature in the mirror. Strange how sometimes the sight of oneself is almost pleasing, and on other days your reflection screams toad at you. Better get something on quick. Selecting the right underwear, in my opinion, should only be done after a decision has been made on the outerwear. The right colour bra and knickers: pale or dark, substantial or flimsy. All this depends on what’s going over the top. So, while I’m in dithering indecision, total nudity it must be.
There’s always the black dress I wore to Lee and Anya’s party. Suddenly it’s off its hanger and over my head. I love this dress, love its flattering, dependable lines. But I don’t want to wear it. Foolish, feminine reluctance not to be seen in the same garment twice. I take it off and return it to the hanger.
Naked again. I look at my watch. Mustn’t be late. Not for a surprise party. Especially as Karen and I have food to deliver before Pete arrives. A seed of panic enters the decision-making process. I grab a black skirt. Very safe. It’s knee-length, straight, slightly tight and inclined to shorten alarmingly when I sit down. But this is a drinks party, I’ll be standing all night. That sorted, I can finally put knickers on. Black, fine, not too snug, no tight elastic to create lumps and bumps. Shirt. My hand closes over a favourite grey silk blouse, then hesitates. Long sleeves. No good for midsummer. I toss it aside and reach for a camisole. It’s pale pink, ruched in the centre of the bodice: a pretty, silky garment that feels great against my skin. Shows a bit of flesh, but who cares? It’s a hot, humid night, there’ll be plenty of skin on display. A bit more lipstick, a ton of mascara, a comb through my hair that’s standing on end after all the dressing and undressing, then I’m ready to go.
As the only two single girls, Karen and I have decided to travel to Cate’s together. Knowing it could be a late night, I’ve organised a babysitter – to the outraged protests of Mikey and Dan – and with a kiss and a wave leave the three of them with a stack of pizzas and DVDs. Then I drive round to Karen’s house to collect her.
Karen’s place is less than ten minutes from mine, built on the edge of the escarpment with unbeatable views of the coast. The driveway is steep: a cool tunnel of subtropical greenery, studded with yellow allamanda and pink-throated, creamy frangipani flowers, set like stars in the mass of dark foliage. The house is cleverly constructed into the sheer hillside so that, although the verandah is some ten metres from the ground, the back door is at ground level. Suspended over the awesome drop, it’s like living in an eagle’s eyrie.
Karen is ready and waiting, looking tanned and glowing in a little white dress. I hop out to help load her share of the secret food stores onto the back seat of the car, then we’re off. There’s no time to spare, and with the briefest of waves to Karen’s mum and dad who are staying with the children, we accelerate away up the magical driveway.
We have to be dead on time because Pete’s son, Leo, has taken Pete out on some imagined errand, and they’ll be back by seven. All guests need to be inside, concealed, vehicles parked behind the neighbour’s dairy sheds, by quarter to seven. It’s almost twenty-to when we pull up at Cate’s to unload the food, and I’m terrified Leo and Pete will return early. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Cate, ‘we’ve got heaps of time.’ But her eyes flick nervously to the road as we work.
This is such a big night for Cate, we don’t want to blow it for her. Not only is it her first major hostess stint as Pete’s wife and the first time she’s met some of his more geographically sprinkled friends and family, but she’ll have the eyes of The Sister and Pete’s children, Sarah and Leo, on her every move. She has us too, however: a pack of loyal friends who are ready to sing her praises left, right and centre, and poised to punch anyone on the nose who dares to criticise.
With the food unloaded, Karen and I jump back in the car to drive behind the neighbour’s sheds and squeeze in among the other thirty or so cars already there. Then we stagger across the paddock in our high heels and duck under the fe
nce. As I stoop to wriggle between the strands of barbed wire Karen’s holding up for me, I’m wishing my skirt wasn’t so tight nor my camisole top so flimsy. I’m an inelegant tangle of thighs and boobs.
There are about seventy people crammed into Pete and Cate’s kitchen and living room. Lots of familiar faces, but plenty of out-of-towners too. I spot Laura and Sam across the crowd and wave. Then Wendy and Graham, Lee and Anya. There’s no sign of Doug.
The countdown is on. Someone shoves a flute of champagne into my hand. Lights are dimmed. Silence is ordered. There’s the odd giggle and whisper. I notice Sharon Lewis across the room. She sees me and lifts a hand to wave.
‘They’re coming!’ says Cate, looking every bit the goddess in a little black dress that ends about a yard above her knee, and leaps back from her spot at the window. I’m excited, nervous. Not my party, not my surprise, but the drama’s getting to me. I hold Karen’s hand. The front door opens. ‘SURPRISE!!!’ everyone yells.
Pete’s shock is genuine. He had no idea, no idea at all. Cate steps forward and gives him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ she says. There are tears in his eyes, he’s hugging Cate, scanning the room, getting one shock after another after another as he spots the guests.
It’s beautiful to see. They are beautiful together. I feel tears smart my own eyes. Tears of happiness for lonely Cate and bereaved Pete, who have found joy in each other. I’m still holding Karen’s hand. I give it a squeeze.
Someone hits the music. It’s Shania Twain. Our signature tune. I slurp my drink and start circulating. When I find Laura and Sam I give them both a kiss. The sense of calm and unity between them makes me want to laugh aloud or do a tap dance. Laura pats her stomach and sips her orange juice. ‘Congratulations,’ I say, hugging her again.
No doubt Sam thinks my congratulations are for my discovery of her pregnancy. Really they’re for Laura’s courage in telling Sam, for sowing the seeds of hope for happiness in both of their futures. ‘Talk to you later,’ she whispers, and I drift off.
The Swim Club Page 25