by Jo Kessel
The crowd cheers and claps. It would have sold more papers, been more exciting for them had he gone down, but the news hounds are acting with grace and decorum nonetheless, giving Scott Richardson the congratulations he deserves. Anthony puts an arm on my lower back and his mouth to my ear, shouting to be heard above the heckling and applause. He congratulates me again, tells me this is my moment, not Scott’s, despite how it looks. Anthony hasn’t got to know Scott like I have though. All this moment does is confirm that I can’t do anything right.
***
“It has to be champagne,” I say.
Anthony heads off to the bar. For once I don’t feel guilty about sharing a drink with him. We’re toasting my maternity leave and the end of the trial. Baby or no baby, a few sips of bubbles can’t hurt. We could have gone anywhere, once it was decided that we would. The locale is packed with boozers of all shapes and sizes, from spit and sawdust centuries’ old pubs to classy haunts that have cheese menus alongside their wine lists. I chose, however, because it was left up to me, to go back to Middle Temple. When push comes to shove, there is no better place. Our Inn of Court has its very own bar which, on a nice day, spills out onto the most fabulous gardens overlooking the river. It being the end of November means the al fresco option is by the by, but the view out the window more than makes up for it, as does the raging log fire. Here it feels you’ve tripped back in time, to a homely set-up. Not a middle-class pad. More a country manor owned by a Lord or a Lady or by someone else with a title. Here I feel nostalgic. About everything that’s ever been, about everything that’s yet to come. That’s probably why I chose it. It’s not just the early onset of post-trial blues. It’s that I’m scared of the free time looming.
Anthony comes back. He sets a bottle and two flutes down on our small wooden table, takes a seat, fills up the glasses, then hands one over and holds his aloft.
“Here’s to you,” he says.
We clink.
“And here’s to you,” I say.
We clink again.
It feels like there should be three toasts. Silence falls as we ponder. I’m not going to toast Scott Richardson, but we could cheers my weak bladder, to not giving up, to Anthony believing in me, to us behaving like grownups.
“And here’s to your baby,” Anthony gets there first.
We clink again, then raise the glasses to our lips. I haven’t touched alcohol for months now. It tastes even better than it used to. Deliciously dry, the bubbles dance inside my mouth, tingling on my palate and tongue. The sensation of deep warmth as it slides down the back of my throat is exquisite.
“Thank you Anthony,” I say.
He puts down his glass.
“Thank you for what?”
Where to start? Thank you for understanding. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for being so magnanimous. Thank you for your support. Thank you for being so big about everything. They’re all far too deep and ambiguous. This is a moment for levity. I’m already feeling far too emotional, far too on the brink, just looking at him, accepting that I won’t see him, be with him or have contact with him for months. I did, of course, get on just fine before he came along, but that was then. He’s become part of my framework, part of the fabric of my life. He shall be missed.
“Thanks for the champagne,” I joke.
He knows what was really meant.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
I’m feeling forward for once. I want to touch his arm or take a hand, make physical contact of some sort, but logistically it’s not possible. Although the table’s small, we’re sitting opposite one another. Even if we weren’t, it’s still a bit awkward being tactile here. It’s four in the afternoon, empty save for a few doddery cronies, but the barman knows me. It’s not just him though. It’s about Adam and the baby and what’s right. A line must be drawn sometime. I’m getting married in two weeks for Christ’s sake. My maternity leave should herald a new beginning. Anthony, however, isn’t playing by the same rules. He reaches over with a long arm and takes my hand.
“You did good Ali. You did yourself really proud. Well done.”
I’m not so proud of all I’ve done, but my cheeks rouge nevertheless. I cock my head, bashful. This time my hand stays resolutely where it is. It can’t be dragged away.
“Thank you,” I say again.
My responses are becoming horribly predictable.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” says Anthony. “And I want to tell you before it’s too late.”
He pauses, waiting for me to look up, engage my eyes with his. When I do, my heart bounces in my chest like a bunny rabbit. Is this the moment he admits undying love and lust, that he can’t live without me?
“The emerald on an engagement ring thing Ali,” he starts. He’s holding my right hand, not my left. I fiddle nervously with the stone. “It’s a fable, some ancient superstition. Don’t pay any attention to it. I’m sure you and Adam will be very happy.”
***
What had I wanted Anthony to say? Don’t do it Ali, don’t get married, you know he’s not the one for you? Let’s give us a bash before it’s too late? Yes, yes, yes, I’d have loved him to say all those things, to lay down his feelings and then whisk me off to Las Vegas. These things only happen in the movies though and probably even then not when the woman is carrying another man’s child. In any event, none of the above has probably even crossed Anthony’s mind and Christ knows how I’d even have reacted if he had laid it on the line. I’d have been totally thrown off-guard, no doubt blushed, gone coy, told him he was being stupid, there was no way it could work and ruined everything forever anyway. So, it’s just as well he kept quiet. No point confusing the issue any further. The line between where my dream ends and my reality begins is already starting to blur.
I know I’m being weak. I’m not a hundred per cent Adam’s my Mr. Right anymore, it’s just I’ve convinced myself he’s Mr. Right Enough and that should be good enough. If I were stronger, I wouldn’t need Anthony to lay it on the line, to give me a choice, to give me a way out. I would be perfectly capable of finding my own path, taking control of my own destiny. Or is that what I’ve already done by accepting Adam’s proposal?
***
Adam’s pacing up and down the hallway when I get back. He’s speaking on the portable phone.
“It’s your Mother,” he mouths.
That’s my cue to tell him that I either do or don’t want to speak. I nod that it’s ok. I haven’t spoken to Mum in ages. Now’s as good as any other time. I unhook my bag from my shoulder, wriggle my coat off, holding out a hand expectantly.
“Here she is,” he says, passing over the phone.
I transfer to the lounge, gently lower myself onto the sofa, resting my hands just above my buttocks, for support.
“Hi Mum,” I say.
“Hi honey,” she replies. “How’s it going?”
It’s nice to hear her voice, even if she has just called me honey. Every call there’s another giveaway that with each day that passes North America becomes more and more her home.
“Everything’s really great,” I say. “I don’t know if Adam told you but I won today.”
Adam was so excited. He saw the press conference go out live on Sky, said he could make out half my face behind and to the right of Scott. He taped it, so I’ll have a look later.
“Yes, yes, he did tell me,” she brushes over my success. “More importantly, what’s this I hear about Adam going to the States tomorrow?”
Adam’s producing this global food series about dishes that are named after the place they originated. He’s off to Kentucky to film the original fried chicken, to Mississippi to find the most decadent mud pie.
“What’s the matter with that?” I ask.
It’s not like Adam travelling is anything new. He’s only going for a week.
“Honey, have you thought this through properly? You’re due in a month.”
I’m actually due in f
ive weeks. Adam and I had discussed whether he should or shouldn’t go. To be fair, he’d wanted to pass the buck, send someone else, to err on the side of caution. If anything, I’d encouraged the trip.
“Don’t be daft. There’s plenty of time,” I say. “Besides, you were overdue with us and Grandma was overdue with all of hers. It must be in the genes.”
My Mum’s is the retentive side of the family. They don’t just hold onto their babies. Emotions and constipation are high on the list too.
“Anyway,” she carries on after a brief pause, “the reason I called is about the flights. I’ve been thinking. There’s not really any point going back to Canada between the wedding and the baby coming, is there?
Oh Christ. The wedding, the baby, my head begins to reel. I’m being forced to confront the imminent future much sooner than expected and it’s scaring the hell out of me. I heave myself up to standing, push the stripped, wooden door to. “Mum,” I start. “About the wedding-”
DECEMBER
Chapter 40
I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored! The thought of breaking up, having five weeks off, possibly more if the baby comes late, to come and go as I please, chill, do nothing but indulge in these last moments of freedom, had been, quite frankly, fantastical. I’d imagined long lunches, endless flicks, lots of falling asleep on the sofa. Only problem is, playing alone isn’t actually that much fun. After one solo trip to the movies and one restless attempt to enjoy cream tea and newspapers in the local park café, I’d had enough. Adam’s still in the States, Kayla’s graduated, now employed part-time as a Homeopath. Everyone else I know works regular hours. Nobody’s volunteered to skive. I don’t have any stay-at-home Mum friends with babies. In hindsight, I should have been more proactive, enrolled for antenatal classes weeks ago. Instead, I left it so to the last minute that the only course in how to give birth we could get onto was an intensive one the weekend after Adam gets back from the States. So, until then, I’m Ali no friends, with no network of heavily pregnant acquaintances, all in the same boat, looking for ways to entertain themselves, together.
Of course, I could have been highly constructive. I could have prepared and frozen a whole load of meals so when the baby’s born we won’t need to cook for a month. I could have started doing up the baby’s room, cleared out space in the cupboards, selected curtains, bought a cot. I could have taken myself for a pedicure, because I sure as hell can’t get down there and who on earth wants to show craggy feet to a room full of midwives? I could have read up on what to expect, because if truth’s to be told, I don’t have the faintest clue. There’s lots, lots, lots to be done, but instead I find myself back in chambers. It’s under the pretext that I left something behind. In reality though, I’m here for the company, for something to do. I couldn’t stay away. It’s too much an integral part of my life. Anyway, I’m pleased I’m here. It’s lovely to see Neeta again, to hear the latest on her full, traditional, no-expense spared New Year’s Hindu wedding. I’m dead excited. I’ve spent a small fortune on a posh maternity frock which will probably be worn just the once, so the baby better stay neatly tucked up within!
She looks at her watch, registering horror. I suspect our lengthy catch-up has put her off-schedule.
“Christ, I’ve got to go.”
She shoves a pink-tied bundle into her bag, unhooks the jacket from the back of her chair, stands up and puts it on.
“How about you Ali. Are you sure everything’s ok?”
She sounds concerned. I’d called her, like I’d called Max, like I’d had to call everybody on our elite little wedding guest list, to break the ever so slightly embarrassing news. Stop press, reporting as live, Adam and I are not getting married. At least, not yet. It wasn’t just that I was uncertain I wanted my mother living with us for two months, although I cited that as a reason when I broached the matter with Adam. I felt too much of a blimp, I’d claimed. I wanted to be thin, svelte and sexy on my wedding day. I wanted to be a bride with pride. It all felt too much of a rush. Let’s wait, I’d said, till after the baby’s born, till perhaps they’re big enough to be a pageboy or a bridesmaid. Let’s wait, I’d said, till I can look like a Princess. Let’s wait, I’d said, so we can do it properly. I only want to get married once, I’d said. I’d like to get it right. There hadn’t been any tantrums and testosterone from Adam. He’d said whatever I wanted was fine by him.
I flick the back of my hand at her, motioning that of course I’m ok, that there’s nothing to worry about.
“Off with you,” I smile. “You’re going to be late.
***
It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t pre-wedding jitters. Perhaps I’m not trying hard enough to put a finger on it. Perhaps I’m in denial. It was just a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that something wasn’t right. Everything felt so suffocating. It felt like I was constantly tripping over myself, when all my body wanted to do was slow down. At the end of the day, a wedding band was irrelevant. Plenty of people have children out of wedlock. Plenty of people get married after they’ve had their brood. The order is a question of choice. All I know is that as soon as the decision had been made, I felt lighter and freer. The tense tightness in my jaw eased instantaneously.
My stomach grumbles loudly. The Roman numeral hand-face on my wrist confirms that it is indeed lunchtime. I’d like a quick chat with Maxwell Hood QC before I grab a sandwich, make my way home for a date with Sky Movies and the settee. I haul myself out the chair, take a last look round the office. I really won’t be back now till after the baby’s born. I sigh nostalgically.
“Ali?”
I turn around. He’s holding onto the brass knob, swinging the door gently back and forth. My heart trips a fox trot. He’d not been in when I’d arrived. I’d expected to go home without our paths crossing which, I’d reasoned, was probably for the best.
“Anthony,” I cry. “What are you doing here?”
I sound as surprised as if we’d just bumped into one another outside the Taj Mahal.
“More the point,” he says, “what are you doing here? I thought you were on maternity leave.”
He wags a stern finger, smiling.
“I’m not working,” I say. “I just came to pick something up.”
At least it’s only a half-lie. He takes a couple of steps into the room, sizes me up.
“Wow, you’ve really exploded,” he remarks.
This sort of comment would normally be offensive, but in this instance it’s true. I can see it. More importantly I can feel it. It’s like walking with twenty bags of flour stuffed up my jumper, dragging heavy weights with my feet.
“And so have you,” I say. “I saw that article in The Law Journal. That’s bloody brilliant.”
There’d been a blown-up head and shoulders photo of him next to a flattering feature on how this young, criminal Barrister, so prominent in the Black Bar, had been elected to take silk. The same magazine also carried a snippet on Scott Richardson fronting a special two-part documentary recently commissioned by Channel 4 on the history of London’s gangland scene. ‘Four Finger Freddie’ was acting as Consultant.
He glances at his watch.
“I’m sorry Ali. I’ve a date with a crook. I’m going to have to dash.”
His tone is apologetic, as is his face. He comes right up close, plants a hand on each of my shoulders, leans in, kisses me lightly bang in the middle of my forehead.
“Good luck Ali,” he says.