by Jo Kessel
“Hi there,” she says, looking up when I pop my head round the lounge door. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say, taking off my coat. “I’m tired.”
She turns down the volume on the TV.
“How’s everyone bearing up?” she asks.
She’s alluding to Lewis and Adam and, I presume, Paul. She’s stayed away, not from lack of compassion, but to give Adam and I more privacy. And besides, she’s never actually met Lewis.
“Paul sends his love,” I tell her.
Kayla looks pleased.
“That’s nice,” she says.
I think she genuinely likes him. Quite a result, considering she hadn’t originally found him even vaguely attractive. She must be growing up.
“Is he ok?” she asks.
“He’s doing alright,” I reassure her. “I think he’d like to see you.”
She nods.
“And you and Adam?” she asks.
I shake my head, shrugging off my coat. I’ve been thinking about Adam all day on and off, wondering what I do or don’t want, reaching no conclusion.
“Oh, I don’t know Kay. I really don’t know.”
Chapter 33
Anthony comes into my office just as I put the phone down to Sebastian the computer geek. I’m alone, which is just as well. Neeta would probably have done a striptease in protest at just quite how sycophantic I’d been. The thing is, Sebastian might be nerdy, juvenile, cocky and standoffish, but I need him, must kowtow to him. I have to know who the sender of the obscene messages actually is. This knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing. I’ve taken my inability to schmooze Sebastian as a personal slight on my professional prowess. Not an outright cock-up, I did get the transcript after all, but I need more. Without knowing the author, the words, in this instance, are meaningless. With this in mind, I’d decided the best approach was to put the information gathering on hold. More important was to get Sebastian back on side. For him to like me, to trust me. So, I gave a virtuoso performance in brown nosing, apologizing profusely for pushing him too far, telling him, on reflection, that I respected his right to keep certain information confidential. I owed him one for being such a class act pain, I said, over and over, like a refrain in a symphony. “Even if I could set you up on a date with a supermodel, or Sahara herself, I don’t reckon that would be compensation enough,” I’d joked. Well, it was a half-joke. I’d idly wondered whether Scott Richardson could call in a favour from his ex, as retribution for making false allegations about him to the tabloids. Anyway, that was by the by, because Sebastian, slightly perked up by the almost flirty diversion our conversation had taken, confided that whilst Sahara’s boobs were great, the rest of her was far too skinny. He prefers the fuller figure. “In fact,” he’d lowered his voice, “I know it’s slightly unorthodox, but I’ve a thing for pregnant women.” He hadn’t known I was with child. That was pure fluke, but it was also my cue, if ever there was one, to pimp myself. So I asked, if he could bear to put up with me for a couple of hours, could I treat him to lunch at Mayfair’s finest French bistro, as a way of showing my appreciation. He’d said, yes, that would be fine, but he was off on holiday tomorrow for a fortnight, it would have to be when he got back. We go to trial in a month. Two weeks is really cutting it fine. I had no choice, however, so we made the date, I wished him a good trip and said goodbye. Now Anthony has my full attention.
“Got much on?” he asks.
“Not particularly,” I say. “Why?”
I haven’t read the case portfolio for a while. I thought I’d sift through it today, do some forensic on it, in case I’ve missed something, overlooked a possible clue. Sometimes the benefit of time helps you see things differently. It can wait though.
“I think you’ve earned a couple of hours off,” he says. “In fact, I think we both have.” He lifts down my big, glossy hardback yellow Selfridges change of clothes bag from its hook behind the door and hands it over. “Oh, and you might be more comfortable in these,” he adds.
We’ve been here before, well sort of. The last time I changed from office rags into casual garb we ended up in Regents Park together, then back in his bedroom. I’m sure that’s not where we’re headed now.
“You may not have noticed,” I try to fob him off, pulling out first the T-shirt, then the hooded cardigan, followed by the skinny designer jeans, which I wave in the air, a trophy of former fitness, “but these don’t fit anymore!”
He tells me it doesn’t matter; we’re going out all the same. I don’t object. Everything’s been a bit heavy of late. A couple of hours’ light relief could do me good.
***
We’re cruising on the open deck of a London tourist boat, ignoring the running commentary sounding through the speakers of what’s to the left and the right. It’s not quite a trip down the Seine, but it’s still pretty nice. Anthony has made the chivalric gesture of placing his jacket over my shoulders. Whilst it’s beautifully mild and bright for an October day, there’s a light northerly breeze blowing, gaining extra chill as it kicks off the water, which even extra baby weight isn’t insulating. I’ve never done this before and neither has Anthony, an outrage considering the quay where you embark is practically opposite our chambers. Were I not seven months pregnant I’d have considered this, us sat here, side-by-side, each cupping a take-away polystyrene Costa Coffee latte, as sweetly romantic.
I’m feeling popular at the moment. When I’d got to my desk this morning, there was another delivery waiting, from Adam, again. His father’s still in a coma. Thinking up gift ideas is obviously a welcome distraction. Today he’s trying to get to my heart via the stomach. Inside a little cardboard box was an individual-sized chocolate cake, iced with the words ‘EAT ME’ in red. It was too early to stomach straight away, but I’d popped it in my bag just before Anthony and I left, in case. I wasn’t sure what he had planned and didn’t want to be caught short. Chocolate, it just so happens, is my in vogue craving. Now, with a coffee in hand, I decide the two will complement each other nicely. I take out the little box, open it, break off a piece and offer it to Anthony.
“Here, try some of this.”
“I’m alright at the moment,” he shakes his head. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”
I pop the piece into my mouth, look around the deck. It’s pretty empty. There are a few tourists dotted around and a Japanese family, with two little girls, stood at the front. One of them starts jumping excitedly. I follow the direction of her pink camera, see St Paul’s Cathedral.
“This is nice,” I say.
“I remember chocolate doing the business when my wife was pregnant,” he smiles.
“Well, the cake is delicious, but that’s not what I meant,” I laugh, wiping the crumbs from my lips. “This, the boat, being here. That’s what’s nice”
There’s a natural pause. The commentary informs us there are 530 steps to the top if you dare to climb. On the way up is the Whispering Gallery, a circular walkway inside the dome. If you whisper something to one wall it can be heard against the far wall 112 feet away.
“By the way Ali,” he breaks our silence, “in response to your question the other day, the answer is no, Louise and I aren’t still together.”
I’m secretly pleased, although uncertain as what to do with this information.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
There’s another natural pause.
“Do you remember the last time we were on a boat together?” he asks.
How could I forget? That was when I’d dismally attempted to row on the lake in Regent’s Park, marooning us on the island in the middle. So much has happened since then.
“That feels like a long time ago,” I say.
“Six months,” he says.
I nod. I’m seven months pregnant. I’m fully aware of the time frame.
“Do you ever think about us?” he asks softly.
I turn to look at him, sigh inwardly as I lock on t
o his face. Nothing’s changed. Only circumstances, and my hippo-like proportions. I’m as attracted to him as I ever was, perhaps even more so.
“Yes,” I say.
I avert my gaze starboard, lest he glean more from my eyes than I want him to see. Even admitting out loud that he’s still in my thoughts gives too much away. The Union Jack on the front mast flaps violently as a sudden gust of wind sweeps over the deck. I shiver, crossing my arms. Anthony pulls his jacket tighter over me, warms me with his body heat. I feel comfortable in his proximity, tilt my head onto his shoulder.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in pregnancy, Ali Kirk?” he asks.
I’m not sure I do, so I shake my head. It’s so damn long since a man has said anything so damn nice, I could cry. If I were to turn my head a fraction, my lips would meet his. I’m so close, so tempted, that I quickly break off a piece of cake and shove that in his mouth instead, taking him and myself quite by surprise.
“Jeez,” he sputters, after a couple of seconds chewing, pulling the weirdest gurney I’ve ever seen, lips half open, one side of his face quite collapsed. He discreetly turns to spit out the contents of his mouth into a hand.
“What’s the matter?” I cry.
“What’s IN that thing? Are you trying to choke me?”
I clap a hand over my windpipe.
“What do you mean?”
He digs into the mound of half-chewed cake, pulls out a small piece of metal and rubs it clean from chocolate. It’s an antique style, Art Deco platinum ring, which sparkles as he holds it up to the sun. It’s got a row of chunky oblong diamonds, crowned by a slightly raised emerald. The Japanese family, now sitting opposite, applauds, in unison. “Honwahulashons,” the Mother smiles at us, with a deferential nod.
***
“Penny for them,” says Kayla. She finds me swinging in the hammock on the veranda in the pitch black of night, huddled warm, wearing a thick angora jumper, long winding scarf and matching bobble hat. To the side of the chair is what was a cup of fresh ginger tea. It’s long been emptied, but still I’m outside. I’ve been deep in contemplation.
“What’s up?” she asks. “It’s not Lewis is it?”
“No, no,” I reassure her. “There’s nothing to tell on that front.”
We’re all hoping no news is good news.
“Well, something’s on your mind,” she says, encouraging me to shift a little, make space so she can join me. “Spill.”
At first I think it’s stupid, there’s nothing to really tell, but then, seeing as Kayla knows almost everything anyway, I decide it would be nice to offload my troubled thoughts. So I recount the day’s events, Anthony and I and the boat trip, him not being with Louise anymore, the proximity, the temptation, the warmth, the possibilities. Kayla listens to it all without interruption.
“It’s not too late,” she says, hugging me, after I admit that Anthony’s still under my skin, itching like a bad case of scabies. “You need to tell him. It’s obvious he’s still interested. Who knows what the future could hold?”
“But you were the one who told me in no uncertain terms to end it with him.”
She looks apologetic.
“Well, that’s because I knew Adam was about to propose and I thought that’s what you wanted. Anyway, I hold up my hand. Perhaps I was too rash. Perhaps I didn’t think it through properly, but that was then, this is now. And like I said, it’s still not too late.”
I’m surprised by what I’m hearing. Perhaps she hasn’t thought THIS through properly.
“What happens if you and Paul work out?”
She nods, understanding where I’m coming from.
“Granted, family functions could end up a wee bit uncomfortable,” she admits, “but this is your life Ali. You only get one stab at it.”
That’s what Anthony once said.
“Whatever,” I tell her. “It is too late. It’s absolutely too late.”
Despite how it might have looked, it was Adam, not Anthony who proposed today. I’d called when I got back to the office. He asked, officially, if I would marry him. Yes, I’d said. Yes, I will.
NOVEMBER
Chapter 34
In all my childhood dreams of a fairytale wedding, Prince Charming would beam at me as I approached down the aisle and I would look, quite frankly, beauteous. A Princess in a designer frock to die for, preferably in ivory. I would probably slim for the occasion, watch what I ate for a couple of months, to ensure washboard stomach and model-like proportions. Never in a month of Sundays did I picture an oversized me. Never in a month of Sundays did I picture me, as a bride, a Mum-to-be about to drop. That’s not how it goes. That’s not how it’s supposed to look. And if even I am saying that, can you imagine what my Grandma would have thought? She’s probably squirming in her grave as we speak, which I’m well aware of as I step into the first wedding dress I have ever tried on.
The staff here, at this shop off Oxford Street, are all being really nice, trying to keep this occasion special for me. They do, after all, offer a maternity line, catering to people in my predicament, so they’ve got to be courteous. Apparently a fifth of their customers are expecting, so who knows why the other brides-to-be are being so snooty. One stick insect, who was flicking erroneously through my rail, gave me a ‘poor you’ look when she realized her mistake. Another girl who’d been paying up at the till shouted across the floor, “watch your waters don’t break!” Not that it’s that busy, it’s midday, just before the lunchtime rush, but everyone in the shop had turned for a good look at this point, smirking smugly when they’d seen the bump. I’d wanted the parquet to open up and swallow me whole, but I didn’t let it show. I got back to rummaging through the range, head held high. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, I reminded myself. Ours isn’t going to be a conventional ceremony. So what?
“See,” says the shop assistant, zipping me up, smiling at my reflection. “Bump doesn’t have to mean frump.”
It does, it has to be said, actually look quite nice. It’s an elegant, full-length ivory number with a lace bodice, V neckline, empire waist and long sheer sleeves. It’s simple, yet stylish. The bump is beautifully swathed in silk. If pregnancy chic were to hit the wedding scene, this would be it!
“I really, really like it,” I say.
The shop assistant, thankfully fairly young, around my age, watches me turn from side to side, making sure I look pregnant, not fat.
“When’s the big day?” she asks.
She comes to my front to check the fit, straightens the shoulders slightly.
“You mean the wedding or the baby?” I ask.
“Both,” she laughs, taking a step back.
“Well, it’s a risky strategy,” I say, still focused on the mirror, “but we’re getting married mid-December and the baby’s due the beginning of January.”
It’s a gamble, but we’re banking on the Scott Richardson case having finished before we tie the knot. It would be nice and neat to get work and wedding done and dusted before the baby comes along. It does, however, rely on all components playing ball.
“How lovely,” she says, passing no judgment on us leaving it so late. “A Christmas wedding.”
“Yes,” I say.
I hadn’t thought of that. For us it was more about getting a date in the diary that fit with the venue and a Registrar. Besides, despite Adam’s objection to the institution, I’ve always had a bee in my bonnet about being married before having kids, always hoping he’d change his mind in time and luckily he did. I didn’t want to wait till afterwards, which is why we’re rushing the whole thing through. We’re keeping everything low-key, ceremony followed by champagne breakfast in a country hotel with about forty close friends and family. I haven’t given much thought to flower arrangements, there hasn’t been time, but now the shop assistant’s brought it up, a spot of holly and some poinsettias would go down well.
“Do you think any of the other dresses will be as nice?” I ask.
N
ot that I want to forward wind this whole finding a frock lark, it is kind of fun, but time’s of the essence. I’m due to meet Sebastian the computer geek in Mayfair in fifteen minutes. On the peg this gown was by far and away superior.
“Do you know, nine times out of ten, a bride ends up buying the first dress she tries on,” informs the sales assistant.