Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  Thank you for your attention.

  I blink at the page a few times, then read it again. Is this real? Has Nick Maxwell actually gone into print and circulated a memo to the whole of Horizon to inform all three-hundred-odd staff how totally unbothered he is by this rumour? I snort out one fat laugh, then a few more come.

  ‘Methinks he doth protest too much,’ Val says suddenly. I turn to look at her.

  ‘Well, I think he’s a cock,’ I say, and we both collapse into undignified giggles.

  Chapter Twenty

  SEE THAT STRANGE asymmetrical mountain of white jelly quivering over there? That’s me. I’m in another ante-natal appointment and Katy is checking the baby’s heartbeat.

  I’ve decided to work until the end of March, which is in just under two weeks. Just two weeks to go at work. It’s so strange to think how going to work used to be everything to me – well, apart from all the parties, shopping for shoes, having my highlights done and the fortnightly waxing – and now I can’t wait to stop going there. After Plum arrives, I’m going to work part time and use either a child minder or my mum, depending on whether I want the child minded or my lifestyle criticized. Katy says that mums need social interaction with other adults to keep them sane. I think she means that with their only human contact for four years being a person who only eats, sleeps and shits, a woman would go mad. Presumably that’s why two out of four marriages end in divorce.

  Katy is very good at her job, isn’t she? She reaches around my very own Taj Mahal, threads the monitor straps behind me, velcros them together, locates the heartbeat, measures it, checks the digital display showing beats per minute, assures herself that it’s fine, writes it down, unstraps me, wheels the monitor machine away and helps me up, all while she’s asking me if I’m keeping well.

  ‘Not really. A friend of mine has been going through a tough time so I’m staying in her spare room at the moment. It’s OK though – I don’t think I would be able to sleep any better in my own bed.’

  Katy is looking serious. ‘It’s not just about the sleep, though, Rachel love. Are you managing to put your feet up during the day?’

  ‘Well, I’m still working full time. And then I help Sarah out with her little boy most evenings. And mornings. And I’m helping her keep on top of her ironing pile. And the hoovering and dusting. And I cook a couple of times a week. But, you know, only spag bol or something. Nothing fancy.’

  Katy takes hold of both my hands in hers and rubs them together. ‘It’s time for you to go home now, Rachel,’ she says, and you can see on her face how serious she is. ‘I’m not trying to be funny but you’ve got a massive, painful, physical trauma ahead of you, which is going to flatten you and leave you drained and exhausted, possibly depressed and tearful and feeling totally shitty. But you are not going to be able to recuperate properly because you are going to be the sole person in charge of a tiny, vulnerable and needy baby, which will terrify you.’

  Why would I think she was trying to be funny?

  ‘You won’t get another chance to be selfish for a very long time,’ she’s saying, but I almost don’t hear her. Look at my bloodless face and wide staring eyes – I’m seriously traumatized here.

  But her words do eventually filter through, only because I recognize them. It’s almost exactly what Hector said. My eyes are refocusing gradually and I am coming back into the room. I see Katy picking up my pink folder, now thick with eight months of notes, tests and graphs.

  ‘Now then, today is the nineteenth of March. I’ll need to see you every week from now until she’s born.’ He, I correct her silently. ‘I’m afraid that she’s still head up, and probably won’t turn round now, so you’re going to have to make a decision, poppet.’

  Is this the choice to end all choices? Have a baby the size of a basketball pulled through a ‘canal’ (at this point its name changes from ‘vagina’ to ‘birth canal’, just so you are in no doubt at all what God made it for) the width of a mobile phone; or have three thicknesses of your abdomen – and that means skin, muscle, womb, the lot – sliced open and introduced to the world, leaving you in agony and paralysed. Hm.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about this. A lot. Almost every moment.’ Those pictures in Parenting magazine flash past my eyes like police evidence – exhibits A to M, a case for the defence. ‘I’m pretty sure I want to go for the caesarean.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘No. No, actually I’ll have a vaginal delivery.’

  She frowns at me. She thinks I’m messing around. ‘Rachel?’

  You know, at this point I’ve decided I’d rather not do either one. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really want to have this baby after all; I’ll just leave him up there.

  ‘Caesarean.’

  ‘Good, all right then, come back and see me again next Monday and we’ll check to see if she’s turned. If she hasn’t, we’ll book you in for the caesarean. You might have your baby in two weeks, Rachel.’

  Terrific. I don’t think I’ll be ready in two years, let alone two weeks.

  So I go back to work knowing that whatever happens, caesarean or not, Friday of next week will definitely be my last day there. Until afterwards, that is. At the moment, the birth itself is so huge in my mind that I can’t see past it. It feels like I’ve just got to get through this one unpleasant thing, and then it’ll all be over, like having your tonsils out. I have to keep reminding myself that after the birth is when everything starts.

  I’m at my desk, look, and I’m on the phone you’ll be pleased to note. Don’t look too closely or you’ll see an ‘O’ in the display window, telling you it’s an outgoing call, to social services. I ask the woman to send me a list of registered child minders.

  ‘While you’re at it, can you send me information about having a baby put up for adoption?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just kidding.’

  There’s a sudden small pressure inside me as if Plum has anxiously pressed his little hand against me. ‘It’s all right,’ I say to him softly, rubbing the place he pressed, ‘you’re staying with your mummy.’

  Skip forward to me arriving home – or rather, back at Sarah’s – at half past five. You can see that I’m looking anxious and the reason is that I’m dreading Sarah’s reaction to the news that I’m moving back home. She’s so miserable at the moment, with only me and Jake for company, so when I’m gone she’ll only have Jake. I’m not sure she will be able to handle not having me around.

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  I’m trying really hard not to feel pissed off about that. ‘Sarah, listen, there’s a very good chance I’m going to have to have a caesarean delivery—’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘He’s upside down. Anyway—’

  ‘I had a Caesar with Jake.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I wanted to ask you—’

  ‘Bloody agony. People who have natural deliveries think that we caesars have it easy, but they don’t know the half of it. It feels like someone’s shoved a white-hot pitchfork into your belly and they’re twisting your insides round like spaghetti. You feel like, if you stand up straight, you’ll tear at the seams; if you cough, you’ll blow apart . . .’ (just look at my white face a moment while she’s talking!) ‘. . . and every move you make is like knives. Getting up at two o’clock in the morning is bad enough, without the searing pain across your entire abdomen when you try and get up or pick the baby up or hold the baby on your lap. And I bled for twelve weeks afterwards, you know.’

  My throat’s working, trying to get up enough fluid to moisten it. ‘I know, Sarah. That’s partly why I wanted to ask you—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking about having an epidural so I can stay awake, which means I get to have someone to come in with me to hold my hand. Obviously, it won’t be the father, so I wondered . . . Will you come into the operating theatre with me and watch while they slice me in half?’

  And that is why I’ve asked her: she’s smiling
for the first time in ages. ‘Really, Rachel? You want me in there with you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’d love to!’ She gets up off the sofa and comes over to me for a hug. ‘Thank you so much for asking. This is going to be amazing.’

  Move your gaze away from Sarah and me embracing a moment, and look at the other person in the room. He’s on the sofa, sprawling on his side where he tumbled when his mum got up suddenly. Sarah and I are now talking quite animatedly about the horror and bloodshed we’re both excited to be a part of, so we can’t see Jake’s dark, troubled eyes watching us closely, following Sarah’s every move, brows drawn together with hurt. Why do you think he’s so upset? I think it’s because all he’s seen for weeks and weeks is his mummy either crying or mute and all he wants is for his mummy to hug and kiss him and love him like she used to. And now she’s hugging someone else and not him and not daddy either. He wants to be the one who makes his mummy smile; he wants to be the one being hugged. He is sure that when his daddy comes home, everything will be all right again. His mummy will smile again and love him and Daddy can play Star Wars with him like he used to.

  ‘I love you, Jake,’ comes a growly voice. ‘I love you, Jake. I love you, Jake. I love you, Jake.’ Jake presses the bear again and again, holding it up to his face as tears fill his eyes. Unseen, he gets up and rushes silently from the room.

  It’s easy to pack my few clothes away ready to go home. Sarah’s given me some of her old clothes, which should see me through the last few weeks before the birth. Her maternity clothes are all far too big for me, but a pair of her old stretchy trousers fits me perfectly. She’s a few inches taller than me too, so the waistband sits nicely under my boobs and they’re still a good length. She doesn’t look too happy, does she, that a pair of her everyday trousers would fit someone who is eight months pregnant.

  At work, no one seems to expect very much from me, which is insulting but terribly convenient. I do have a few things to sort out while I can still think without being interrupted, not least of which is what to do about Nick.

  I have spent some considerable time over the past eight months wondering what role Nick should play in Plum’s life. I don’t really want him to be a father figure, and I suspect that he won’t want that anyway. I fully expect him to deny that he’s in any way connected to the baby, or me. The simplest thing seems to be just not to tell him and keep the two of them apart for ever and that’s what I’ve been sticking with. But lately, as Plum becomes a bigger and bigger part of my life and makes his presence more and more felt, I’ve started thinking that not telling Nick is not right. Not for Plum. Frankly, I don’t really care what Nick thinks about the whole thing – whether he is horrified, or it ruins his marriage, or he laughs or denies any responsibility, it’s all the same to me. Unless he ever hurts Plum. I can’t allow that. In the end, though, I think it’s Plum who needs to decide what contact he wants with his father, not me, and not Nick.

  Katy says every baby has a right to know its origins, and that means its mum and dad. ‘Secrets staying secret only do damage in the long run.’

  Penny at work is adamant I should not tell him. ‘God no. Have nothing to do with him. Cut him out of your life. Never let him know he has a child. Involving a man will only lead to stress and unpleasantness. We women can manage perfectly well . . .’

  ‘Better,’ says Siân, coming up behind Penny and touching her arm.

  ‘. . . better, then, on our own.’ Penny turns towards Siân and smiles at her affectionately and they walk out of the room hand in hand. I think that perhaps their opinion is a bit biased.

  I’ve asked Sarah what she thinks.

  ‘Yes, you bloody well should tell him,’ she spat. ‘He thinks he’s got away with it, the low-life, shit-eating waste of space that he is. Banging some overdressed bimbo behind his wife’s back. That’d teach him a lesson he’ll never forget, wouldn’t it? Slimy, piss-faced little worm wanker.’ She pauses for breath. I think she’d momentarily forgotten that I was the overdressed bimbo that was banged. ‘And, you can screw him for every penny he’s got, can’t you? You’ll need financial support, you won’t be able to work any more, so first you should tell him and destroy his life for ever, then make him pay. Make him pay.’ I expected her to throw her head back and laugh maniacally to the sound of cracking thunder, but birds continued to sing and cars drove past outside.

  I think that perhaps her opinion isn’t as objective as it might have been.

  I’ve been to see Susan in her shop to see what she thinks. I thought she was bound to be more objective than Siân, Penny and Sarah. In fact, she was so detached, she wouldn’t even tell me her opinion.

  ‘Rachel,’ she says, folding up a gigantic bra, ‘I could not possibly presume to advise you on that one.’

  ‘What?’

  She looks at me. ‘This is one of the most momentous, important, life-long decisions you will ever have to make. What you decide to do now will affect you and Plum for ever and ever. And that is why I think you should make it completely on your own.’

  I think that perhaps Susan is so convinced she herself made the wrong decision all those years ago, she doesn’t want to be involved in any more decisions. Ever.

  So here I am now, floating about in the pool, mulling over what everyone has told me. I haven’t bothered to ask my parents – they’ll probably just say, ‘You must do what you feel is right, Rachel,’ which, if you’ve ever needed sound, objective advice from people you respect who are older and wiser, you’ll know is useless.

  In fact, as I bob aimlessly around the pool like a mini iceberg – except that there’s much less of me under the waterline than above it – I know that there’s only one person who I know would give me really good, sensible advice, without trying to persuade me one way or the other, and that’s Hector. Of course. I haven’t seen him since he told me all about Miranda and that was about three weeks ago. Now that I’ve moved back home there’s no chance of seeing him at Sarah’s any more, and I don’t phone him and he doesn’t phone me. He did say I could call him whenever I wanted anything, so I could, but it’s uncomfortable. I still can’t get the idea out of my head of him rolling his eyes as he puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, shakes his head and whispers to his colleague ‘Sorry, it’s this crazy woman who won’t stop calling me and I don’t know how to put her off. She’s having a baby,’ before saying cheerfully, ‘Hi, Rach! How are you?’

  I do all my thinking in the pool. I can breathe more easily and Plum’s weight is largely supported by the water, so I’m much more comfortable there. I lie on my back and drift about, trying to imagine what Nick’s reaction would be, if I tell him.

  ‘Oh, so that’s why you’ve got so fat,’ is one possibility, although I’m sure Paris must have told him the happy news by now.

  ‘So what?’ is a possible. I think I can probably deal with that one too.

  ‘Wahey, I knew I had it in me. What a stud,’ also seems fairly likely, although to be fair, I don’t really know the guy, so I might be doing him a disservice.

  I kick a foot as I float a bit too close to the side, and I’m propelled backwards, diagonally across the middle of the pool, rotating as I go. I just assume that other swimmers will get hurriedly out of the way when they see me hove into view.

  There is one thing that worries me about telling Nick and that’s his wife. She may be so plain and boring that her husband has to seek fun in another’s arms the whole time, but she is innocent in all this. How will it affect her? Does she even suspect that her husband is as faithful as an internet surfer? Well, that’s not my concern. Besides, she needs to dump him, big time. Once she finds out . . .

  Yikes! I’ve hit something. There’s a sickening jolt and I’m sure I feel, just for a second, the softness of an eyeball coming into contact with my elbow.

  ‘Ugh, oh God, oh,’ I’m half shouting, arms flailing, trying desperately to tread water before realizing that this is proving difficult because I
keep banging my feet on the ground. I stand up and look round to see what I’ve hit.

  It’s Hector.

  Incredibly, wonderfully, breathtakingly Hector!

  In this part of the pool, the water is up to my armpits, which I’m glad about. On him, it only reaches up to his ribs, which I’m very glad about.

  Can we pause a moment here, please, and have a good look at him in his trunks. He’s a big bloke, isn’t he? Compare this to Nick Maxwell, emerging from my shower seven months ago. Makes Nick look rather, I don’t know, puny, really, doesn’t he? My eyeline is just about at the level of his chest and I’m trying not to look at his nipples. Although I do love a hairless chest. And those broad shoulders. And well-formed arms.

  Oh, sorry. Where was I?

  Right. Hector hasn’t realized it’s me yet as he’s got both hands clapped to his left eye, and his right eye is streaming in sympathy. And I’m just standing there, gawping.

  ‘That’ll teach you for stalking me,’ I say eventually, when the five-second silence is starting to become awkward.

  His head snaps round to the sound of my voice. ‘Rachel? Is that you?’ His lips produce a smile, in spite of his obvious agony.

  ‘Yeah, freak. I’ve got a gun and it’s pointed at your head.’

  He smiles more broadly. ‘Yep, that’s Rachel. How are you?’

  ‘Swollen beyond all recognition. You?’

  ‘Temporarily blinded. You look good to me.’

  ‘Thanks. You, on the other hand, look terrible. Do you want me to take a look?’

  ‘Yes please.’ He bends down and prises his eye open. I move forward and try to look up into his face, and our bare arms touch accidentally. Christ, we’re both nearly naked. There’s a huge amount of exposed flesh here and I know that all of mine is tingling self-consciously. Or is it lust? He feels something too, because he’s moving away from me at the same time.