by Jo Kessel
“Adam!” I object.
I wouldn’t want to offend Paul. He was in a bad way when he realised there really was no getting back with Anna. After an initial phase of not wanting to be alone, cramming his diary full of arrangements, even ones he wasn’t interested in, just to be occupied, he went completely the other way. He became a social hermit, going out only to work, other than that, staying at home, wanting to be alone. In no small measure thanks to Adam, Paul’s finally come through and is starting to do more stuff, make more of an effort.
“It’s alright, it’s true,” says Paul gamely, taking a pen out of the same pocket from which he took his glasses. “Right,” he looks down at the paper. “One across. Nine letters. Country place for Frau’s home cooking?”
“So,” I turn to Kayla as Adam helps Paul work out the clues. “Did I tell you how lovely you’re looking today?”
“Only three times already, but don’t worry. It’s still valid currency,” she laughs.
She looks beautiful. Tall and leggy in her shorts, vest T-shirt and high wedge sandals, long black hair hooked around her ears by the sunglasses which are perched on her head. We are not, right now, mirror images of each other. I am a puffier version, although it’s more how I feel than how I look. At least that’s what Adam keeps saying. I’m coming up to five months now and it’s getting harder to hide. I’ve only got away with it this long because of my height and because my weight gain’s been minimal. We plan to tell the world at large about my pregnancy after I’ve had my twenty weeks anomaly scan in a few days’ time. I look at my watch. We’ve got to leave in half an hour.
“I don’t suppose you want to help me sort out what to wear?” I ask Kayla, pushing back my chair.
I’ve been putting this off all week. I dress in the clothes that disguise my mini bump every day for work, so I’ve got to find something different, but I can’t possibly get away with the slouchy tracksuit bottoms I lounge around in at home. People make an effort for Maxwell’s parties.
“Of course I will,” says Kayla.
She stands and follows me upstairs. I hate opening my wardrobe. Whenever it happens, I’m reminded I didn’t do that cull I vowed to do. Half the clothes haven’t been worn in years. The other half isn’t suitable. She runs her hands along the rows of jackets and skirts, through to the dresses. So much of the stuff is black, which isn’t the best of colours to wear on a hot day.
“This is nice.”
She pulls out the slinky black Diane von Furstenberg dress I wore for the Midsummer Ball.
“Yes, but I show in it.”
It’s a stretchy fabric and I tried it on a few days ago, just in case, although really, in any event, there are too many unsuitable memories associated with that particular garment.
“I bought this last weekend,” I pull out a paper bag from the cupboard. I’d forced myself finally to shop for maternity clothes, but only found one thing I liked. It’s a figure-hugging, three-quarter length silk sundress, with thin shoulder straps in a deep emerald green. I hold it up. It matches my eyes.
“That’s lovely,” says Kayla.
“Yes, but I show in this too,” I say, demoralised.
“Does it really matter?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Nobody must know until after the scan.”
This is the yarn I’m continuing to spin, when in truth, the only reason I’m not telling anyone is so I can skew the dates for Anthony.
“Put it on anyway,” she says, “I want to see you in it.”
I twirl this way and that, like a model, in front of the mirror. To hide the bump, which in Kayla’s opinion looks gorgeously sexy and should be worn with pride, she double wraps a long black chiffon scarf around my stomach, giving the dress a twenties feel. I put on a bit of lipstick and some black sandals. Kayla rests her hands on my shoulders as we both look at my reflection.
“Perfect,” she says. “Just perfect.”
Would she think I was perfect if she knew the complete truth?
“See, don’t you feel better now that you’ve done it?” she asks.
She’s talking about ending things with Anthony.
“I guess so,” I say.
I don’t elaborate, but I’d so love to, to have her know the complete, whole truth. I turn to leave. Now is not the time to admit all. Perhaps I’ll never have to. When I go down, the boys both go “whoa” and wolf whistle. I think they’re humouring me. Adam quickly heads upstairs to change out of his shorts into some chinos and a shirt. “By the way,” says Paul, showing us the crossword whilst we’re waiting, “country place for Frau’s home cooking was farmhouse. You see ‘cooking’ means the answer’s an anagram of ‘Frau’s home’. Clever isn’t it?” When Adam comes down, he puts on the alarm and we all dash out the house. Paul, as an afterthought, as we linger by our respective cars, shouts to Kayla that he’s got a spare ticket, does she want to go to the fair with him. She deliberates a couple of seconds and then I hear her say yes, why not, she’s got nothing else to do. Adam and I share a raised eyebrow and a smile as he opens the door, helps me in.
***
“Nice to meet you,” Anthony had offered his hand.
“You too,” Adam had shaken it.
I’d started to relax. I’d dreaded the concept of these two men coming face to face with such a vengeance that it was a relief to finally have it out the way. What, in the cold light of day, had I expected to happen? Was Anthony really going to blab? Was Adam really going to notice our chemistry? No, my fear had been more about me than them. It was about my feeling uncomfortable, embarrassed, forced to confront my demons, my guilt, head on.
This had all happened about an hour after we’d got there. Anthony had been late, which gave Adam the chance to down at least three glasses of champagne. The crowd is a mix of bigwigs, judges and titled folk with the token arty writer and thespian thrown in. The one thing they all seem to have in common is an unquenchable thirst for booze. Despite a fantastic buffet spread, food always comes secondary at these dos. Waiters are under strict instruction to keep the finest bubbles flowing. No glass is left empty, which is why I keep passing my flute to Adam behind my back.
It being such nice weather, the party has spilled out of the designer conservatory with sliding doors, onto the patio and the long, beautifully manicured lawn. A string quartet is tucked away in the corner, playing background chamber music, Bach fugues, Mozart sonatas and the like. I’d known exactly what to expect in terms of set-up and layout, because it’s the same year after year. What I hadn’t been banking on is how well Anthony and Adam would get on. They have much in common I realise, watching, as they converse with ease, two tall, striking, intelligent men. I’ve no idea how Anthony had felt at the prospect of meeting my boyfriend. If it hurts it doesn’t show, probably because he’s not come alone. He’s with a blonde so tall and skinny and attractive that I didn’t want to like her, when in truth, she’s friendly, with a nice smile. Anthony had made the introduction after he and Adam had shaken hands. “This is Louise,” he’d said, leaving her status wide open to interpretation.
“So,” I say to Louise, once Anthony’s got Adam on the topic of the proliferation of TV and how there’s never anything decent to watch despite having access to at least eight hundred channels. “How do you know Anthony?”
Even though Anthony and I are no longer and I know that I shouldn’t, I feel territorial about him. I feel like this Louise, a Solicitor in her early thirties, perfectly suitable girlfriend material, is treading on my turf. I want her off. I am irrationally jealous.
“He was a set-up,” she says.
“By whom?”
“By his ex-wife.”
“No!”
What ex-wife match-makes her ex-husband with another woman?
“She thought we were made for each other,” laughs Louise.
She carries on talking, at me, about him, and it’s all a bit too much. The build of nervous energy and tension has finally got to me. I’m no longer sure what she�
��s saying. Whilst I can see her mouth moving and my brain registers the all-pervading raucous buzz and tipsy, shrill laughter, I can no longer hear individual words. My face, my jaw, is tight, controlled, lips frozen in an upturned smile. Inside my stomach something is fluttering, I’m not sure if it’s nerves or the baby moving for the first time. A heat haze blows towards me from the direction of the string quartet and slowly, as it approaches, my world starts to spin, round and round, making me dizzy. Just as I’m about to tap Adam’s arm, to interrupt him, to whisper that I feel funny, a wee bit strange, my legs buckle, giving way to the weight of my body. I black out.
Everything’s more peaceful in my unconscious. It’s a safer place of sleep so deep it’s almost nauseating. Nobody or anything can hurt me here. This is a slumber so dark, so heavy, that there’s no thinking or dreaming or worrying or caring. There’s nothing, apart from being. I like it here. I’d like to stay, so it’s with regret that reality starts to seep into my underworld and lightness filters through. I try to block out the sound of the viola, the cello, the drunken brouhaha and the clink of cutlery on china. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, perhaps where I am will vanish into thin air.
“Ali, Ali.”
It sounds like Adam. I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Has she had too much to drink? Do you think she’s eaten something.”
That sounds like Anthony.
“No, no,” says Adam. Panic’s rising in his voice. “She hasn’t drunk anything. Oh Christ, I don’t think she’s eaten anything either.”
“I’m a Doctor, can everyone move back,” says a male voice I don’t recognise. A finger is laid on the side of my neck. “She’s not been suffering from any illnesses of late has she?”
“Oh no, oh fuck, oh God,” says Adam. “She’s not ill, well, not exactly. I think I know what it is. Oh God, oh fuck. She’s pregnant. Oh Christ, she’s five months pregnant. Do you think she’s alright?”
SEPTEMBER
Chapter 27
I’m lying on the sofa, pretending to watch TV. Adam’s back early, hands me a steaming mug of hot water with a slice of lemon. I take it, with a grunt but without a word. I’ve been in my own introspective zombie world since he let the entire gathering at the party in on the truth, barely speaking, except for the odd ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ and to give my drink order.
“Why didn’t you go into work?” he asks, all jittery in the doorway.
I’d dressed to go, but after Adam left I decided against it, feeling too awkward and embarrassed to face the music. So I’d called in sick, and have had all day to mull it over, to wonder what Anthony would make of the revelation. I’d been lying prostrate on the manicured lawn, slowly coming round, when I heard Adam utter ‘she’s five months pregnant’. I’d opened my eyes sharp, well, as sharp as a woman who’s just fainted can muster, to see who might have heard those fateful words. When I did, I wanted to shut them straight away and slip back off into my unconscious, because there, hovering above, were three sets of eyes. I panned across. Adam’s, all big, blue and worried were to my left. The man I presumed to be the Doctor’s, piggy, hazel and professional were in the middle. And there, on the right, were Anthony’s, wide, chocolate and alert. The imp in me had wanted to jump up with arms outstretched and yell ‘surprise!’ I didn’t though. I just smiled weakly, let the three men pull me to my feet and then two of them, Adam and the Doctor, had led me to a cooler room, indoors.
The Doctor had diagnosed dehydration and overheating, so I’d drunk a litre of water, eaten a couple of chicken drumsticks and soon afterwards Adam and I had left. In the car on the way back I’d said, “I wish you hadn’t said that,” to which Adam had apologised and explained that he’d thought it best to give the Doctor the whole picture. He’d added that he couldn’t really see what the big fuss was about, seeing as I’d been going to tell everyone in a few days anyway, after the 20 weeks scan. Objectively, of course he was right. He wasn’t aware of the implications, that I’d been planning to skew the dates for Anthony. I just stared out the car window for the duration of the journey. Adam probably thought I was still feeling iffy from the fainting episode.
“Oh,” I say vacantly. “Not much on.”
I can hardly give the real reason. I feel bad about not going into work. They’ve been so lovely. They’d told me not to worry, to take all the time off that I need, especially in this Indian Summer we’re experiencing. Then, late morning an enormous bouquet of lilies and wild orchids had been delivered, with a Congratulations card from all at chambers. In fact, it had been so big and so beautiful that I’d told the driver to hang on whilst I fetched some change for a tip. “When’s it due?” he’d asked, nodding towards my stomach, once I’d handed over a couple of quid. Surprised by the question, that he could tell, I’d looked down and realized that it was true. Suddenly, overnight, the bump had exploded. Now that the secret was out, now that everyone knew, there wasn’t a need to hold it in any more. Subconsciously, the baby and I must have let it go. “The beginning of January,” I’d answered, before dashing in to answer the phone. It had been Neeta, desperate for a chat, telling me I was a dark horse, that she couldn’t believe it, that she couldn’t believe I hadn’t told her, that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed and that Adam and I must be besides ourselves with excitement.
“Are you going to be this much fun all night?” snaps Adam.
It must be trying, living with a tri-syllabic to mute, hormonally charged woman.
I shrug in response.
“Because if you are,” his tone gives away his frustration, “I’ve got better things to do with my time. Other places to be, people to see.”
I grunt again. He digs for his keys in his pocket, jangles them in a half-clenched fist to show me he means business.
“Where are you going?”
I at last show some interest.
“Oh,” he says absently, walking out the room. “I’m, err, I’m popping round to Paul’s. He, err, wanted to talk to me about (pause) something.”
***
I decide to make a nice dinner, because I’m certain Adam will be back in time and he deserves it. He’s not put a foot wrong. The only part he’s played is the caring, sharing father-to-be. So I’m elbow deep in a whole raw chicken, wearing the bird round my fist like some freak glove puppet, washing the skin in preparation for roasting, only I can’t remember exactly how Adam shortcuts Jamie Oliver’s recipe. I shake the carcass off my arm, landing it mercilessly in the basting tray with a cold flesh thud. I wash my hands, pick up the phone and dial Paul’s. After asking for a quick word with Adam, there’s dead air for a couple of seconds, then I’m told I could speak to him if he was there, but he’s not. It’s unlikely, apparently, that I’ll even be called back by my boyfriend because, I’m informed, a smidgen awkwardly, he isn’t actually expected. Paul hopes against hope that he hasn’t stuck his foot in it. I reassure him that it’s clearly just some misunderstanding, crossed wires. I hang up, with more charm and chirp than a trained parrot, but it’s all an act. I know exactly what Adam’s up to and he’s gone too far. I calmly walk to the front door, lock it with the chain. Adam may not have taken his golf clubs to the driving range this time, but the Paul line was equally as transparent. I mean, Christ, if you’re going to give a false alibi, at least make it watertight. He might as well have told me straight up that he was going round to Charlotte Buchanan.
***
I’m mid clothes-cull when I hear a key going into the lock, the door fighting the chain. In light of what I myself have done I clearly can’t reprimand Adam with as much ferocity as I might, but I can still make life awkward for him, teach him a lesson, make him realise I won’t take this lying down. I’d reacted to his antics by going into a strop. To calm down, take my mind off things, I’d thrown myself fists first into my cupboard, sifting through the hangers, exercising the three year rule, chucking onto the floor anything that hasn’t been worn for that long. Trousers, jackets, entire skirt su
its, two pairs of jeans, some beige cords, ancient pale blue pedal pushers from way back when, they’re all lying in a heap on the carpet. The only garments that have lived to see another day, despite not being worn since my teens, are two sack-like grunge dresses. They’re outrageously hideous, rather like old-fashioned housecoats, but they’ll do perfectly for pregnancy. I can’t believe I’d forgotten them. Cupboard culled, I’d moved on to shelves. I’m now sitting, legs crossed, surrounded by a mess of rolled-up socks, knickers, bras, bodices, tights and whatnots, but I’m not actually doing anything. My body’s still, head tilted, tuning in. Adam’s bashed the door against the chain at least ten times now.
“Ali,” he yells through the letterbox. “Let me in.”
He rat-a-tats, hitting the brass knocker three times.
Silence.
He knocks again.
Silence.