I’ve managed to commit this number to memory and it rings once before being answered. ‘McCarthy Systems, may I help you?’
‘Is Hector there please?’
‘I’ll see if he’s in. Whom shall I say is calling?’
I smile at this. I’m imagining an old lady sitting in some draughty hallway, or in a corner of the room that Hector rents for his office. She’s probably a relative, an aunt maybe, or a cousin straight out of school, helping out by answering the phones to make the company seem more impressive. Whom shall I say is calling! I tell her my name and wait a few seconds while she checks, probably by peering over a partition or shouting out his name with her hand over the receiver – ‘Hec! Are you in? There’s a call for you!’ – and then she comes back and tells me he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed for several hours.
Another bloody meeting! I’m amazed that he ever manages to make any money at all, the amount of time he spends in meetings. When does he do any actual installing?
I leave the Telesales number and click off. Before I switch my turret over to ‘F’ for ‘Free’, I pause a moment. Did Hector say yesterday that he was in a meeting with Rupert de Witter? I was so drowsy when he rang. He said he was installing a new computer system for him, didn’t he? But that doesn’t make sense – you don’t need a professional installation company to put a new computer in for you, you can just pick one up off a shelf in Dixons. Or get one of the sales staff to do it for you. Maybe it’s something to do with a home security system, or something then. Hector certainly gives his clients good service.
It’s very strange to think about Rupert de Witter being one of Hector’s clients.
I flick over to ‘F’ and instantly my turret bleeps and flicks to ‘I’ to receive the incoming call.
‘Good morning, Horizon Holidays, Rachel speaking. How may I help you?’
‘If I book a holiday with you, will you come with me?’
Don’t panic, it’s all right, it’s Hector, not a filthy caller. Although I’ve had my share of those. There’s a procedure laid down in the staff handbook that you have to follow whenever you get one. Basically, it involves disconnecting the call immediately. We don’t always follow the procedure though – it’s a good laugh to keep the guy going for a while.
Anyway, this isn’t one.
‘Hector! I thought you were in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed for hours.’
‘Well, that was the plan. But I’ve just come out so I could call you. How are you this morning?’
‘Fine.’ I decide, in the interests of feminine mystique, not to tell him about the cat food. ‘Actually, I’m quite excited. And I’ve thought of a way you can make it up to me for last night.’
‘Oh, Rachel, I’m so sorry about that. It was so inconsiderate of me. Inexcusable. What can I do to make amends?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a favour, actually. I’ve got this appointment, for an ultrasound, when they kind of look inside you to see if the baby is the right size and things. I had one done at the hospital after the accident, just to make sure it was all right, but I couldn’t see it because of the neck brace. So this will be the first time I’ll see little Plum and I wondered whether, seeing as you’re the only other person in the world who knows about the baby and therefore the only person qualified to be there without saying, “What in God’s name is going on here?”, if you’d come with me.’
There’s an elongated silence. Yet again, I’m worrying that he’s getting uncomfortable with how this is going, although this is no more than one friend might ask another. I’m chewing my lip while I wait for an answer.
‘Erm, well, if I’ve understood you correctly, and I’m not entirely sure that I have, then I’ll have to say, because of the fact that it’s going to be quite a personal and private appointment and, if I know anything about obstetrics and sonography, might be fairly intimate, and us being virtual strangers and all, that wild horses won’t be able to keep me away.’
What a tease! I thought he was going to say no. ‘Well, that’s not saying much. Wild horses are notoriously bad at security.’
Here I am now, on Scan Day, spending ages on getting ready, much like the old days. I told Jean it’s Granny’s funeral today, and then made a mental note to go and see Granny soon and make it up to her. I’ve got very little idea of what to expect, so what to wear is proving a problem. Most of my clothes are too tight round the middle now, so I’m left with a knitted woollen dress Mum gave me once that’s little more than an act of penance, and a black lycra skirt that’s always been a bit loose on me.
The only way to decide between the two is to enact the scan by lying down on my back on the bed. Immediately I can see that the dress is a no-no. I would have to raise the whole thing up from the hem so everyone in the room – i.e. Hector – would see my knickers. The skirt then. Now for a top. This is a bit easier because my top half is much the same as ever, except for an extra D on my cup size. In the end I settle on a red V-neck T-shirt that hugs in all the right places but is stretchy enough over my enlarged boobs. I have a look at the whole outfit in the bedroom mirror, with jacket on and off, and I’m as satisfied as I can be. Now all I have to do is pop down to the sports centre and drink the swimming pool without peeing. Right. I’ve got an hour and a half before I have to leave, so I fill up a measuring jug and sit down to flick through Parenting while I slurp through it.
Did you notice the new direction my choice of magazine is taking? Cosmopolitan and Elle seem largely irrelevant now, and these parenting magazines hold an intense fascination. I can’t stop looking at the photographs of women giving birth, even though I always slam the magazine shut and have to breathe deeply for a few moments afterwards to calm myself down. My overriding feeling about those pictures is amazement that anyone would agree to be photographed doing that.
Two o’clock and I’m heading out the door, even though it’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. My car, by the way, is good as new – all sorted out by the insurance company while I was off sick from work. They even collected the car from my flat and delivered it back there afterwards. I was very impressed with the service, although, as I’ve mentioned before, I do tend to get good service if it’s a man.
Anyway, I’m really worried about finding a parking space near to the hospital. Have you ever filled your bladder to its utmost capacity so that it feels like stepping on a small pebble will cause it to explode? Well, it’s a first for me too. I have walked beautifully in some very difficult shoes in my time, but they were nothing compared to this. I feel like I have to glide along the ground, keeping my legs permanently bent so that I don’t bob up and down at all. Fortunately, I find a space only twenty-five yards away from the door, which is better than I was expecting.
I’m meeting Hector here, but there’s no sign of him. I make my way to the ultrasound clinic and check in. I’m fifteen minutes early, and the clinic is running fifteen minutes late. I’ve got to wait for half an hour.
‘But I need a wee!’ I blurt out.
‘Yes,’ says the receptionist, not looking up.
The waiting room is full of women slamming Parenting magazines shut. They’ve all got men with them, solicitously bringing them more water or lemon squash from large jugs on the table, asking them how they’re feeling, reassuring them that it won’t be long now. They’re like worker ants, bringing nectar to the queen bee.
I wish I’d known I could drink some of the water here, while I’m waiting. I’m starting to feel real pain. I find myself thinking that I’ll know better next time.
Next time?
Five minutes later, ten minutes early, a familiar voice says, ‘Hello, you there, am I late? I haven’t missed it, have I?’
I’m so relieved to see him, particularly as he takes one look around the waiting room, sees my agonized face and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. It’s quick, automatic, the kind of kiss I imagine gorgeous six-foot-two husbands give to their wives all the time.
‘
Are you all right, bubbalugs?’ He’s slipping into this role so easily, it’s just a heartbeat’s work for me to imagine what it would be like if it was real.
‘Yes thanks, Pooh Bear. Just bursting for a wee, and still twenty-five minutes to wait. But I’ll live.’
‘Well, I passed a Ladies on the way in. It’s right outside—’
‘Oh get behind me, Satan.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to have a full bladder. It helps them get a clearer image of the baby.’
‘Oh. I forgot about that.’ He looks at me, then reaches for the jug of water and a cup, fills the cup and drinks it straight down. He immediately refills the cup and drains it just as quickly.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
‘I’m putting myself in your shoes,’ he says. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to understand what this is like for you.’ He drinks down another cupful of water, then immediately refills it.
All the other women suddenly look disappointed.
On the wall near the ceiling is an electronic board that scrolls out messages like ‘Please turn off your mobile phone,’ and ‘Donate your unwanted cutlery’. Every so often there’s a beep and a name flashes up; then one of the other women gets up and leaves the room. One by one, everyone in the room, including me and Hector, has fallen mute, as we stare up at this board, transfixed.
Beep. Helen Roberts.
All eyes scan the room looking for the lucky Helen. She gets up and waddles painfully away.
Beep. John Lithgoe.
Everyone is stunned and we all start looking around us quickly. Nobody had noticed that there was a man on his own in our midst, sitting in the corner reading Men and Motors. He puts the magazine down and gets to his feet somewhat self-consciously. We stare at him as he walks the length of the room and goes out into the corridor towards the examination room.
‘Gall stones,’ someone says, and everyone does a collective, ‘Oh,’ of understanding.
Beep. Roslyn Pike.
‘Oh, Jesus, thank crap for that!’ Roslyn shouts out in a broad Australian accent as she heads for the door.
‘Lovely, lovely lady,’ Hector says quietly after she’s gone, closing his eyes and nodding.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I warn him. I have a groaning dam inside me and one good laugh will collapse it.
‘Sorry.’
Beep. Lara Croft.
‘No way!’ someone actually says out loud. We all turn eagerly to find out who is getting up. It turns out to be a heavily pregnant young woman with a scruffy blond ponytail and glasses.
‘Don’t laugh. I was Lara Croft long before she was,’ she says to the room as she gets up. ‘It’s a bloody curse.’
‘She’ll be gone long before you, though,’ Hector says kindly as she walks past.
‘You think? She’s already died once, but came back. How many more times?’
She walks through the door to the examination room and we hear the muffled sound of her giving her name to the sonographer. There’s another muffled sound, and then poor Lara has to say her name again, as if the sonographer didn’t hear her correctly, or at least thought he didn’t. Or maybe he’s having a giggle at her expense.
Beep. Rachel Covingt.
Apparently there isn’t enough space on the electronic display for my whole name. I glance around the room quickly, to make sure that Rachel Covingt isn’t getting up, but she isn’t so we head off into the examination room.
‘Are you baby’s father?’ the scan machine operator asks the room, not taking his eyes away from his equipment. It’s very dark in here; evidently his eyes have adjusted so well to years of working in such poor light that he can even see behind him.
The silhouette of Hector looks at me and I nod almost imperceptibly. He clears his throat. ‘Yes I am.’
Hector comes to the bed and sits down on the chair by my head. He takes my hand and leans down to me so his head isn’t so far above mine. His right arm and shoulder are pressing against me.
The machine operator does some fancy things with his machine that we can’t see, and then he says, ‘OK, here’s baby.’ And he turns the monitor round so the screen is facing us.
And there’s my future, in two shades of green. Look at that. The scan man is pointing out all these things and I can see them all. There’s the spine; there’s a hand, with five stumpy little fingers; there’s a foot; and there’s the face. It’s turned on its side and is facing right towards us now, as if it can see us on the other side of a window. I can make out two dark green hollows in a pale green oval, a faint outline of a nose and another hollow underneath.
‘He’s like you,’ Hector murmurs, eyeing the inhuman skull-like image.
‘Yes, he is beautiful, isn’t he?’
‘Who’s his dad, the incredible hulk?’ He’s joking around, but he can’t take his eyes off that screen, can he?
‘It was a profoundly beautiful and intense moment.’
‘Well, I want a divorce. He’s clearly not mine.’
‘It’s really very difficult to tell at this early stage what the child will look like,’ the sonographer interjects. ‘The green hue is nothing more than the LCD screen the image is displayed on.’
Hector and I stare straight-faced at each other, both of us governed by our full bladders.
‘Would you like a picture of baby?’ the scan man says at the end, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
Hector and I use the facilities while the picture is printing out. There are few pleasures in life that equal the sensation of emptying your bladder when it’s been full for two hours.
When I come out of the Ladies, I see that Hector has finished before me. Look, there he is, standing by the door to the scan room. That’s the humourless scan man, giving Hector a small square of paper, then retreating back into his shadowy domain. Look closely at Hector’s face as he turns from thanking the scan man to look down at the picture he’s holding in his hand as if it were made of spun sugar. His eyes widen, his mouth smiles very faintly and as it lies there on the palm of his big hand he raises his other hand, very softly lays his fingers down upon the image and strokes it gently.
Chapter Fourteen
WHAT DID THAT mean? Does he love my baby? Does he want my baby? Is he going to smother me to death with a pillow one minute after giving birth then snatch the baby and run off to Cyprus and raise it as his own?
It’s a lovely thought, but somehow I doubt it. Much as I might like to fantasize about it, Hector is not the father of this baby, and never will be. As far as I know, no procedure exists that can unravel a pregnancy and start it again with a different sperm. But he looks like a father, doesn’t he, standing there waiting while I put my coat on. Have you ever seen anyone look more like a father?
Just over three weeks have gone by since then and tonight, Friday 8 December, is the night of the Horizon Holidays Christmas Party.
These are usually really good dos, with a bar and disco, lights, fog machine and loads of blokes – some of them even halfway decent. Just between you and me, though, I have already been there with most of the decent ones. I never like to go back over old ground, but at least it means I don’t have to buy my own drinks.
Here I am, in my room, throwing size-ten clothes into a pile on the floor with no hope in hell of getting into any of them. Finally I understand what it feels like to be uncomfortable in clothes. I have got a new top to wear though, so all is not hopeless. While I have a quick shower, let me fill you in on what’s happened since the scan.
Immediately afterwards, Hector took me out for some lunch, which was lovely. Nowhere posh, not like that Madeleine’s place in Fieldwood Park that we know he goes to. But I wouldn’t really be comfortable there. He did suggest La Bougie but I don’t think I want to set foot in that place ever again.
‘Why not?’
‘I went there with Nick once, back in August. It would just bring back memories.’ I’m thinking about that brutish fri
end of Nick’s with the scary tattoo and the anorak, and I close my eyes and shudder a bit. Hector’s looking at me and as I shudder we can just see him pressing his lips together and frowning.
‘Fine, not La Bougie then.’
My eyes open and focus on him, but he’s looking away now, impatiently jangling his car keys.
‘I don’t know about you, but I could go for some salad,’ I suggest. ‘What about Pizza Hut?’
He turns to me, his features softened, and smiles. ‘Oh, Rach, I don’t want to take you there. It’s not remotely—’
‘Not remotely what?’ I’ve got this strange feeling he was about to say ‘romantic’.
‘Classy. I mean, is it? It’s lunchtime so they’ll have the buffet out and you won’t be able to move for gargantuan fat people troughing off the food table. It’s like a study in gluttony.’
Of course he wasn’t going to say romantic. Why would he say that? We’re ‘just good friends’. Nothing more.
‘I am prepared to throw a tantrum over this,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘One day, when you’re pregnant, you’ll know exactly how it feels to fancy something and not be able to have it.’
‘But . . .’ I’ve got the strange feeling he’s going to say, ‘But I already know how that feels, every time I look at you.’
‘But I won’t ever be pregnant, will I?’
Dammit. What’s the matter with me, for fuck’s sake? He is not going to seize me by the shoulders and tell me in a pained voice about the torture he’s in, how much he wants to be with me, how it kills him every time he looks at me, and even though I am carrying another man’s child he doesn’t care and will accept the baby as his own when it’s born.
‘. . . car. Rachel? Rachel, are you in there?’
He’s bending over to bring his face level with mine and I realize that he’s been talking about something and I’ve been away in Mills and Boon land.
‘Sorry, sorry, just feeling a bit distracted. What did you say?’
‘I said, “Not unless medical science comes up with an amazing external womb for men to carry around with them, attached by an umbilical cord to their bellies so the foetus can get nourishment that way. But even if medical science did come up with a contraption like that, a.) the father would be unlikely to get all the same cravings and desires as pregnant women do because it wouldn’t be such a tremendous strain on the body, and b.) I think I would walk a million miles before I tried it. I’ll go and get the car.”’
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 21