by Lindsey Kelk
Our Park Slope place was still a fair bit different to all the other family homes on the block. Before Alex invested every penny we had, it had belonged to a music producer friend and our cavernous basement had been turned into a fully functioning studio. It was a muso boy’s dream come true. Less awesome if you were the wife of said muso, and liked walking around in your pants of an evening. But thanks to the wonders of soundproofing, I never knew who was down there with him.
Post-yak, I washed my face and stuck my head around the studio door, just to say hello. Alex and Graham were locked in what looked like a very serious conversation behind the glass. Graham was still sporting his travelling beard, I noticed. It was a bold choice. Alex cradled his vintage Fender Stratocaster in his lap. I’d barely seen it out of his arms ever since he arrived home – I’d have been jealous if I wasn’t carrying around my own actual human baby; he acted as though he had missed it more than he missed me.
I stared at the soundboard in front of me, dozens of dials and switches blinking with little red and green lights in the darkness.
‘One of you turns the sound on,’ I said, sighing as I tried to remember exactly what to press.
I was certain Alex only knew how to use half of these buttons, just like me with the dishwasher, but it made him feel like a very special boy to have such an important toy. Somewhere on there was a two-way mic, flick it one way and I’d be able to hear them, flick it the other and we’d both be able to hear each other.
‘Ah-ha.’ I spotted a dial covered in glittery nail polish and turned it all the way to the left. Alex and Graham’s voices echoed over the speakers. Clearly my husband also remembered the night I’d spent five minutes screaming at him through the glass because our Chinese had arrived and I didn’t have any cash on me to pay for it.
‘I’m not against licensing out the music,’ Graham was saying, smoothing down his moustache as he spoke. He looked like Charles Manson, it really had to go. ‘But not to these guys. I don’t want people to think about processed chicken every time they hear one of our songs.’
‘But you do want my kid to get a shitty education?’ Alex countered. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Gray, but I’ve got to think about these things now. I can’t afford to make all my decisions based on your artistic integrity.’
I held my breath, hoping that they hadn’t noticed me. I was definitely not meant to hear this conversation.
‘If you want to whore yourself out, go ahead,’ Graham replied. ‘I heard Justin Timberlake bought an actual island with the money he got for a McDonald’s commercial, but you’re not selling our music to these people.’
‘This isn’t McDonald’s,’ Alex protested, holding the guitar in front of him like a shield. ‘Craig’s fine with it.’
‘Then maybe you should record the next Stills record as a two-piece,’ Graham said, hopping off his stool. ‘I’m super psyched about you having a kid, Alex, but I’m not prepared to sell out so you can buy diapers. Why are you trying to destroy the band? You already cancelled all the summer festival shows without even consulting us. I always knew this would happen; I just figured Craig would be the one to accidentally knock up some chick, not you.’
‘It’s not like I planned this, it’s not like I’m ready,’ Alex shouted. I jumped back in the dark. Alex never raised his voice. ‘There’s a whole bunch of shit I’m gonna have to leave on the to-do list whether I like it or not. She’s pregnant, Graham, and I have to deal with it.’
I reached out and flipped off the switch, burning with an entire selection box of emotions. Alex had been so happy about the baby. From the second I told him, he’d done nothing but smile like a loon. He was constantly plumping up my pillows, rubbing my feet, asking how I felt. Not once had he said anything about not being ready.
‘Daddy didn’t mean that,’ I whispered to my stomach, hoping it was true. Why couldn’t I have been born super rich? Or at least super stupid. Stupid people didn’t worry about anything.
Graham snatched the door of the recording booth open and made a small, shocked sound when he saw me lurking in the shadows.
‘Oh, hey,’ he said, not quite managing to look me in the eye. ‘I guess congratulations are in order.’
‘It is traditional,’ I said, sliding a smile I didn’t feel onto my face. I didn’t want him or Alex to know I’d heard their conversation. ‘Sweet beard.’
‘You like it?’ he asked, stroking the ends with a smile.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s awful.’
‘I’m headed out,’ he said, looking back at Alex who was tuning his guitar in the booth. ‘I have a ton of things to do today but it was great to see you.’
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Bye, Graham.’
Picking up the canvas messenger bag that sat on the knackered old sofa behind me, he nodded before jogging up the stairs and out the front door. Inside the booth, Alex looked up and smiled. I waved, pointing to my ears when he started talking to let him know I couldn’t hear. And hopefully convince him I hadn’t heard any of it.
‘Hi, beautiful.’ He emerged from the booth and slid his hands around my waist, bending down to kiss the bump. ‘How’s it going up there?’
It was as if the other Alex had vanished completely. There was nothing in his eyes or his voice but pure love. If he really was angry or upset, he was doing far too good a job of hiding it.
‘I came down to throw up,’ I said and he pulled away from a kiss, sticking out his tongue instead. ‘Graham went off in a bit of a rush. Everything OK?’
He bopped his head from side to side, his long hair skirting around his eyelashes.
‘The company that wants to license “Night Song” is not to his liking,’ he said. Pinching his shoulders together, he let out a light sigh. ‘But they want to pay us a ton of money. Like, a really filthy amount of money.’
‘Retire-to-the-Bahamas money?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Retire to the Bahamas and set up our own drug-running business,’ he nodded. ‘But they’re not the most morally sound group of individuals ever.’
I liked to think of myself as a morally sound person but he still hadn’t really said exactly how much money we were talking about.
‘Have I eaten there?’
‘Babe,’ Alex said. ‘You’ve eaten everywhere.’
Good point.
‘Well, have they ever killed anyone?’ I asked.
‘Not directly as far as I know,’ Alex replied. ‘But they’ve got some pretty shitty hiring policies when it comes to people who aren’t straight white dudes and I totally understand why Graham isn’t jumping for joy about selling them the song.’
‘Then don’t do it,’ I said simply. ‘You’ve been offered stuff like this before and you said no. The record label won’t be massively shocked.’
‘Yeah, but we weren’t expecting a baby before,’ he reminded me. ‘I got to thinking about everything the baby is going to need, not just school. Did you know diapers alone cost more than a thousand dollars a year? And it’s not like we can toilet-train that little sucker any earlier. A grand! Just so it can poop itself.’
‘You could hold it over the lav for the first eighteen months,’ I suggested. ‘I can’t imagine you’d be terribly productive but if we’re saving the thick end of two grand …’
It was meant to be a joke but the crumpled look that had taken over his usually easy expression cut me off.
‘You do what you need to do,’ I told him, placing his hand on my little, round belly. I’d spent our entire relationship trying to keep his hands away from that area; I wanted to make the most of this while I could. ‘It’s not as though we’re that hard up for money.’
Unless I lose my job. Unless your next album doesn’t sell. Unless there’s a recession and the economy crashes and people stop buying magazines and paying for music and, oh shit, both of those things are already happening.
‘I’m not worried,’ he said. Even as he spoke, I sa
w a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and I didn’t like it one little bit. ‘Everything is OK.’
‘Everything is going to be so beyond OK,’ I told him, resting my hands on top of his. ‘Everything’s going to be fantastic, Alex Reid. And you’re going to be the best dad in the world.’
‘Angie!’ Jenny yelled from the top of the stairs. ‘There’s someone at the door!’
‘Answer it, then!’ I bellowed back as Alex pulled away, shielding his ears. ‘Probably just stuff for the wedding,’ I reasoned. ‘Or baby stuff.’
‘More baby stuff?’ he asked.
He looked pointedly at the pile of boxes I’d already stashed in the studio. Ever since we cleared twelve weeks, I hadn’t been able to help myself. We’d agreed we wouldn’t tell anyone other than the people we had to until I knew what was happening with work and we’d filled in our parents but that didn’t mean I hadn’t put some quality time in on BabiesRUs.com.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Alex bent over and picked up what looked like a bulletproof vest. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a breast pump bustier,’ I explained, readily whipping it out of the box. I unzipped the front and slipped my arms through the sleeves. ‘See? You wear it like a sports bra and then you clip two automatic breast pumps to these slots in the front and it literally milks you.’
I clipped in the pumps and held out my hands for him to inspect my latest purchase.
‘It looks like a torture device from Star Trek,’ Alex gasped in horror. ‘Why are you smiling? This is horrifying.’
‘It’s amazing,’ I said, parading up and down the studio with my hands on my hips. ‘I can milk myself like a cow while still playing Candy Crush and you’re taking care of the baby.’
‘Angela!’ Jenny yelled again. ‘I think you ought to get up here!’
‘I bet Jenny will like it,’ I said, heading up the staircase, ready to show off my lactating leisurewear. ‘Oi, Jenny, I think I’ve got my bridesmaid dress sorted.’
‘Angela Clark, what the bloody hell are you wearing?’
Standing in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by suitcases and sporting almost offensive tans, were my mum and my dad.
‘It’s a breast pump bustier,’ I said slowly, as Alex climbed the stairs behind me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Surprising you, obviously. We’re here for the wedding,’ Mum said. ‘Why are you wearing a breast pump bustier?’
‘Because I’m pregnant,’ I replied.
‘Who’s surprising who, amirite?’ Jenny asked, her face stretching into an enormous open-mouthed smile as she bumped my leather-faced father with her hip. ‘Mr Clark? You OK?’
‘You’re what?’ Mum dropped her handbag and four little Nespresso pods rolled out onto the hardwood floor.
‘Angela is pregnant,’ Alex said, bending over to recover Mum’s treasures. ‘We’re having a baby.’
‘You’re pregnant?’ Dad asked.
We both nodded.
‘With a baby?’
‘God, I hope so,’ I said, pulling a worried face at Alex.
‘And this isn’t just one of your jokes?’
‘Yes, Dad, it’s a joke,’ I replied, pulling up my T-shirt to show them my slightly swollen stomach. ‘I thought it would be hilarious to put on a stone and walk around the house wearing a breast pump bustier just on the off chance that my parents, who don’t even live in this country, might decide to pop round on a Saturday afternoon to surprise me.’
‘Well, there’s no need for that attitude,’ Mum muttered. Her lips had disappeared into one bright fuchsia slash across her dark brown face and her hands were shaking. ‘You’re really having a baby?’
‘I’m really having a baby,’ I said. ‘I’ve weed on fifteen tests, seen a doctor, and had a sonogram done from outside my belly and inside my vagina. I’m definitely having a baby.’
‘You don’t need to be crass about it,’ she replied, bursting into tears. ‘My baby is having a baby!’
‘And I’m going to be a granddad!’
Roaring at the top of his lungs, my dad grabbed hold of Jenny and began to waltz her around the living room, whooping at her, while my mum charged Alex with a hug that almost took him off his feet.
‘Well, that’s saved me a phone call,’ I said, wiping away a tear of my own in the middle of the madness, hands resting on the bump, boobs squeezed into a breast pump bustier, heart absolutely bursting.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d had better food,’ Dad said, huffing and puffing as he dragged his tiny carry-on into the spare bedroom. Behind him, Alex heaved two giant suitcases through the door. ‘You wouldn’t have liked it one little bit.’
‘They had everything,’ Mum shouted from the settee. ‘Everything you could possibly want. Don’t listen to it, Angela, you’d have loved every minute of it.’
Dad furrowed his brow, furiously trying to come up with something to prove her wrong.
‘They didn’t have sausages,’ he replied, triumphant. ‘Or cheese and onion crisps. Come on, Annette, how can you call yourself all-inclusive if you haven’t got sausages or cheese and onion crisps?’
‘You and your bloody crisps,’ Mum muttered, raising her teacup to her lips and critically analysing the living room. ‘What’s different in here?’
‘Nothing?’ I replied, absently stroking Alex’s back as he went by to get the rest of their luggage. ‘Why?’
‘This isn’t a new settee?’ she asked. I shook my head. ‘Hmm. It seems smaller in here than last time. I always forget how poky things are in New York.’
‘Everything’s the same as it was the last time you were here,’ I said, yanking my cardigan over my skinny jeans. The baby was really starting to mess with my wardrobe. My fat jeans had already become my skinny jeans and I was certain it had nothing to do with the amount of ice cream I’d been inhaling on a daily basis. The baby loved ice cream. ‘The apartment hasn’t shrunk.’
‘Probably life on the open seas,’ Mum sighed as she flopped onto the settee. ‘Nothing but sea and sky as far as the eye can see. I don’t know how anyone can live like this, all piled on top of one another. You’ll need more space for the baby.’
‘Babies are very small, at least in the beginning,’ I assured her. ‘I reckon it’ll cope with living in a two- bedroom apartment in New York until it’s at least twenty-two. Do you need anything, Dad?’
‘Earplugs?’ he muttered, taking himself off into the kitchen. ‘I can’t find the Yorkshire Tea, where’s it hiding?’
‘We haven’t got any,’ I called while Mum repeatedly poked my stomach. ‘They didn’t have any in the English shop when I went so we’ve only got Tetley’s.’
He stuck his head into the living room and both my parents gave me the same look as when I’d told them I got a C in GCSE Maths. I’d let them down, I’d let the school down, and most of all I’d let myself down.
‘Jenny looks happy?’ Mum said, a question rather than a statement.
Jenny could have answered for herself but the second my dad put her down from their dance, she grabbed her coat and scarpered, claiming she needed to get ready for her bachelorette. I suspected it was more to do with the fact that my parents turning up on my doorstep unannounced was entirely her fault. They had been included in the flurry of emailed invitations, but rather than RSVP, they decided the very modern thing to do would be to just show up, as though they’d just popped around the corner for a cup of tea rather than abandoned a cruise ship somewhere in Mexico and flown eleven hours without so much as a text message to warn me.
‘Jenny is happy,’ I replied. ‘Mason is awesome.’
‘Awesome? Hark at her,’ Mum said, abandoning my bump and sniffing her tea. She carefully removed her shoes and placed them neatly at the side of the settee. ‘There was a woman on the cruise, looked just like her. Mexican, I think she was.’
‘Jenny is a Puerto Rican,’ I said, reminding myself to breathe. ‘Not Me
xican.’
‘Well, quite.’ She waved away the distinction with a flip of her ever-so-slightly racist hand. ‘She must be excited about the wedding. We were getting a bit worried, weren’t we, David?’
‘No?’ Dad placed a fresh mug of tea on the side table next to me even though the one in my hand was still warm.
‘Woman her age, not married, no kids?’ Mum clucked. ‘Very close to being left on the shelf. It doesn’t matter how pretty you are, it gets to a point where people start to wonder what’s wrong with a woman.’
‘But not men?’
‘There’s something wrong with all of them,’ she replied, ‘but nobody gives a monkey’s.’
It was a fair, if not especially reassuring, statement.
‘And what’s going on at work?’ She moved down the sofa as Dad dumped himself happily on the end. There was the smile of a man who was glad to see dry land. ‘What have they said about the baby?’
‘It’s been a bit crazy, actually,’ I said. ‘Bob Spencer, who started the company, he retired and now his granddaughter Delia has taken over—’
‘Delia? Isn’t that the nice blonde girl we met at your wedding?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I nodded.
‘Very polite for an American,’ she said approvingly. ‘Lovely manners.’
‘Well, she’s president of the company now—’
‘Neck like a swan.’
‘And she’s brought in all these new people to run all the divisions, so I’ve got a new boss. He’s kind of—’
‘I can’t believe you’re having a baby,’ Mum said, biting her lip and looking at me with cow eyes. ‘Thank goodness we abandoned ship, eh, David?’
‘Thank goodness,’ he agreed. ‘I’d much rather be here on granddad duty.’
Alex stood behind me, massaging my shoulders. I looked up to see him smiling blankly at my parents and wondered if he’d been self-medicating while I wasn’t looking.