‘Well sure, he may not want to get involved, but …’ I hesitated.
Pippa stiffened. ‘Polly! You’re not going to tell him you’re pregnant, are you?’
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Er, it had occurred to me. Don’t you think I should?’ I hazarded guiltily.
‘No. I don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘It would certainly get him on the phone double-quick denying all responsibility, but –’
‘Exactly!’ I interrupted, eyes shining. ‘My thoughts exactly!’
‘But,’ she carried on sternly, ‘what if it is his? What if it’s his baby after all?’ She shook her head firmly. ‘No, Polly, you can’t do that. You’d just be fooling yourself, fooling him, fooling everybody, in fact. No, you’ve got to wait until you know for sure who the father of this child is. Don’t breathe a word of this to Sam or Nick, until you know.’ She leaned forward and took a bite out of my toast.
‘But how am I ever going to find out?’ I wailed, dropping my toast and feeling sick with fear now. ‘It’s all very well for you to say that, but how am I ever going to know?’
She helped herself to my abandoned toast and chewed away, looking rather blank for once. We gazed at each other. We were a bit out of our depth here. None of our friends were even remotely pregnant yet. I was very much a trailblazer.
‘Can they tell before it’s born, d’you think?’ I said hopefully. ‘Do blood tests or something? Or what about this new DNA thing, isn’t that supposed to sort out who you are?’
‘I think that’s more to do with fingerprints,’ said Pippa doubtfully, ‘and I’m not sure a three-week-old foetus even has fingers, let alone prints, and, anyway, how would you get to them?’
‘Well, all right,’ I conceded, ‘perhaps not DNA, but blood tests then, or urine samples or – yes I know – one of those scan things.’
Pippa looked at me incredulously. ‘Those “scan things” just show you an ultrasound picture of the baby. You don’t think you’re going to spot a family resemblance, do you?’
‘Well, Nick’s got an awfully big nose – that’s bound to show up.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He grew that much later! He probably didn’t have it as a baby, let alone as a foetus.’
‘Well, you think of something then!’ I cried desperately, on the verge of hysteria now.
Pippa licked some honey off her fingers thoughtfully. ‘Trouble is …’ she said slowly, ‘I may be way off beam here, but I have an awful feeling they can’t really tell until it’s actually born.’
‘No! Don’t say that – that can’t be true! Think of all the things they can do with unborn babies these days – heart surgery in the womb with laser beams, kidney transplants – all that kind of thing. There was a programme about it the other night. I mean, if they can do that then surely they can discover a tiny little thing like who the father is, surely that’s not too much to –’
‘Oh!’ Pippa suddenly grabbed my hand. She went a bit bug-eyed and trance-like. ‘Hang on!’
‘What? What is it?’ I pounced eagerly.
‘I’ve got a brilliant idea! Of course, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’
‘What?’
‘Go and see Mr Taylor!’
‘Who’s Mr Taylor?’
‘He’s the most divine gynae in the whole world. I went to see him ages ago when I had a dodgy smear test – he’s fabulous, Polly – you’ll adore him. He looks just like Peter Bowles!’ Her eyes glazed over with lust.
I groaned. ‘Pippa, I’m not really in the market for falling for Peter Bowles lookalikes, I just want to know who the father of my unborn child is.’
‘Well, if anyone can tell you, he can. He’s written loads of books about infertility and that sort of thing; he’s a real authority –’
‘Pippa, I’m not infertile – I’m sodding pregnant!’
‘I know, but same field, honestly, Poll. I promise you he’s brilliant. He’ll probably be able to tell just by glancing at you. I’m sure if you can work out the exact dates you had sex with both Nick and Sam he’ll be able to tell whose it is just from the size of the foetus.’
I went cold. ‘You mean … I’ll have to tell him? About – you know – there being two men and everything?’
‘Well, how else are you going to find out?’
I cringed. ‘He’ll think I’m a dreadful tart.’
‘Probably, but you’ll never see him again so what does it matter?’ She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out airily. God, it was all right for her.
‘Where is he then?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘Croydon or somewhere?’
I had visions of a ghastly back-street abortionist, right at the top of some dirty lino-covered stairs, probably with one of those beaded curtains for a door. Inside a grotty little room with peeling wallpaper would be a low rickety bed covered in a blood-red blanket, and all around the room, hanging from the walls, would be a glistening array of lethal-looking tools of the trade. I shuddered.
‘Don’t be silly. He’s in Harley Street, he’s absolutely kosher. I’ll make an appointment for you tomorrow.’
I sighed. ‘OK. I suppose I ought to go anyway to find out when it’s due and what I ought to be doing. I expect he’ll say I have to stay in bed and eat most of the time, won’t he? I probably should be eating now – you know, for two and all that. Got any biscuits, Pippa?’
‘I haven’t actually, and anyway,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I’m not sure that’s right. I have a feeling they like you to exercise these days rather than lie around. My cousin went up Scafell Pike when she was six months pregnant.’
‘Really?’ I sat up in alarm. ‘Christ, I’m not doing that!’
‘You don’t have to, you idiot, it’s not compulsory, she just wanted to.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Anyway,’ she said briskly, getting to her feet and pulling her dressing gown around her, ‘go along and see Taylor. He’ll tell you all you need to know. Meanwhile, I’m going to bed, and so should you, it’s nearly two o’clock, you know.’
‘Is it? Gosh.’ I looked at my watch. ‘So it is.’ I got up wearily. ‘Thanks, Pippa. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
She grinned and put her arm round my shoulders. ‘Don’t mention it, all part of the service at this exclusive little hotel.’
We went slowly upstairs.
‘You know, Pippa, this should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Of our lives,’ I added quietly. ‘Nick and I have been waiting for this for so long. Imagine how thrilled he’d have been if – well, if everything had been different.’
She gave me a hug at the top of the stairs as we got to the spare room. ‘I know, but try not to think about that, just get some sleep. Everything’s going to be fine, really it is.’
I nodded gloomily, wishing I could share her optimism. I crawled under the duvet and shut my eyes, and as usual drifted off to sleep almost immediately, but unfortunately it wasn’t the deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep I’d hoped for. In fact it was a complete nightmare.
I dreamed I was in the kitchen at Trewarren – at least, I think it was me, I was so huge with pregnancy I hardly recognized myself – but yes, there I was, an immense, bloated monster of a woman, staggering and reeling around the kitchen, one hand lodged in the small of my back, the other clutching on to the furniture. We were talking big with child. As I manoeuvred my enormous bulk around I suddenly stopped short, gasped, clutched my huge stomach and sank with a piercing shriek into a ginormous heap of blubber on the kitchen floor.
‘Help!’ I bleated. ‘Somebody help! I’m having contractions!’
Sure enough a ghastly rumbling sound like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt heralded a shuddering and shaking from my enormously swollen belly. It began to vibrate violently like a washing machine on final spin.
‘H-e-l-p!’ I shrieked feebly, holding on to the table leg as I vibrated around the kitchen floor. ‘Help me, I’m having a baby! Somebody help!’
Just the
n I heard the back door fly open behind me – thank God! Someone was here! I peered over my shoulder, but – oh no, it was Mrs Bradshaw! She stood over me, arms folded, eyes glinting dangerously, as I bounced around painfully on the quarry-tiled floor.
‘What seems to be the trouble, Mrs Penhalligan? Tummy ache? Something you’ve eaten, perhaps?’
‘N-no!’ I gasped, throbbing away like a pneumatic drill now and hanging on to both table legs for fear of shuddering right out of the back door. ‘I’m h-having a b-baby!’
‘Oh, is that all?’ she said with a sardonic little smile. ‘Let’s have a look then.’
She knelt down and rolled up her sleeves in a businesslike manner. A horrifically loud rumble greeted her as the tummy mountain went into vibration overdrive. It looked like a huge possessed blancmange that any minute now would explode and decorate the walls in a riot of glorious technicolour.
‘Help! Get it out!’ I shrieked.
‘Now hold still, Mrs Penhalligan,’ she said, hoicking up the marquee that passed as my skirt. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got in here.’
I shut my eyes tight.
‘Brace yourself!’ she cried cheerfully as, like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, she reached up and pulled something out.
‘Aaargh!’ I shrieked.
‘Oh look,’ she observed, dangling it under my nose by its feet, ‘it’s a little boy!’
I stared. It was indeed a little boy, but little only as compared to a grown man. This boy was about six years old, dressed from head to toe in prep-school uniform complete with cap and satchel, and the living image of Sam Weston.
‘Aaagh!’
‘Now now,’ admonished Mrs Bradshaw, ‘he’s just a mite overdue, that’s all. Let’s have a bit of stiff upper lip, shall we. You’re not the first woman in the world to have a baby, you know – oops, hold still, I think there’s another one in here!’
Sure enough, within a twinkling, she’d produced another identical six-year-old.
‘Twins!’ she announced joyfully, before thrusting her hand up again. ‘Triplets!’ She pulled out another. ‘Quads!’ And then another, and another, until eventually the whole kitchen was knee deep in grinning mini Sam Weston lookalikes.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘No more! No more!’
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Bradshaw assured me, eyes gleaming sadistically, ‘plenty more where they came from.’
‘No! Please, no more!’ I shouted as my shoulders began to vibrate too. I felt as if my head was going to pop off. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at Pippa who had me by the shoulders and was shaking me awake.
‘Polly! Polly, wake up!’
I was sitting up in bed, screaming like a banshee.
‘What’s wrong, what is it?’ she cried.
‘Oh God,’ I groaned, flopping down on to my pillows, ‘what a nightmare! I’ve just given birth to twenty-four Sam Westons!’
‘Good Lord, you never do things by halves, do you, Polly? Never mind, you just lie down and take it easy, I’ll go and get you a cup of tea.’
She disappeared and I pushed the covers off. I was boiling hot but sopping wet. A few minutes later she returned with the tea.
‘Bad dream then?’ she said cheerfully.
‘You could say that,’ I muttered, hoovering up the tea gratefully. My mouth was totally devoid of saliva and I felt as if someone had squirted my eyeballs with vinegar.
‘You’re dressed,’ I observed, eyeing her smart suit and make-up incredulously.
‘Well, it is nine o’clock,’ she said, looking at her watch, ‘and, actually, I really must go. I’ve got a meeting this morning and I’m going to be late. How d’you feel?’
‘Oh, awful,’ I groaned, ‘absolutely awful. Wrung out, knackered, exhausted.’
Pippa looked puzzled. ‘But you’ve only just woken up, how can you be tired?’
‘Pippa, you’d be tired if you’d just given birth twenty-four times, and of course I am pregnant, remember, so naturally I feel sick too.’ I lay back on the pillow looking weak and delicate.
She frowned. ‘Polly, you don’t think you’re getting this pregnancy lark a bit out of proportion, do you? I mean, you’re effectively only a few weeks pregnant, you don’t think your symptoms might be, well – psychosomatic? I seem to remember my cousin didn’t feel sick until she was at least –’
‘Oh, your bloody cousin!’ I stormed, sitting up abruptly. ‘I expect she was scampering up Everest, baking flapjacks and running a multi-million-pound conglomerate at the same time as giving birth, well, bully for her, but we’re not all superwomen, you know – in fact, if you don’t mind I’d rather not hear any more about your sodding cousin; she’s making me feel worse by the minute.’ I flopped back down on the bed, feeling extremely sorry for myself.
Pippa didn’t even bother to answer. She smoothed her skirt down, then adjusted her hair in the mirror. ‘Right, well, I’ve got to go to work now, but I’ll ring you from the office and arrange for you to see Taylor, OK?’
‘And Sam,’ I whispered, gazing up at her beseechingly, ‘I’ve got to see Sam.’
‘OK, and Sam. I’ll try to put lunch with you in his diary. Oh, and don’t forget why you came up in the first place, will you?’
‘Why?’
‘To see Bruce, of course.’
‘Oh help,’ I groaned, ‘I’d forgotten about him.’
‘Well, do try to see him. It would really help him a lot.’
I raised my eyebrows at her. ‘Oh, it would, would it?’ I dragged myself wearily out of my pit. ‘Oh well, I’m glad about that. I’m glad I’ve got time in my fun-packed life to lend a helping hand where it’s needed. It’s really not important that my own little world is falling to pieces around me, no no, there are plenty of other people with far more screwed-up lives – poor deserving souls – and help them I must. Dib dib dib, dob dob dob, lend a hand, Mother bleeding Teresa, that’s me.’
I staggered to the bathroom and brushed my teeth with a vengeance, spitting the toothpaste out viciously. Pippa was already thumping away downstairs, sensibly ignoring my tirade.
‘Have fun!’ she yelled cheerfully, slamming the door behind her. I scowled into the mirror.
An hour or so later the telephone rang. I dragged myself out of a hot bath, grabbed a towel and ran dripping down the stairs to answer it. It was Pippa with my itinerary for the day.
‘Right, got a pen?’ she barked. God, she was efficient.
‘Er, yes.’ I scrabbled around in my bag on the hall chair and found my eyeliner.
‘Good, now listen. Mr Taylor will see you at three o’clock, seventy-two Harley Street, got that?’
‘Today? Already?’ I scribbled away in black kohl. ‘Not exactly in demand then, is he? Hasn’t exactly got all the pregnant women in London beating a path to his door.’
‘He had a cancellation,’ said Pippa patiently. ‘It’s either today or in three weeks’ time, take it or leave it.’
‘OK, OK,’ I mumbled. I was dimly aware I was behaving badly. ‘Thanks, Pipps.’
‘And Sam’s in a meeting at the moment, but he says he’ll meet you for lunch. One o’clock, Daphne’s, Draycott Avenue, OK?’
‘Really? He agreed? Did you tell him why?’
‘Oh yes, I said you were carrying his unborn child and you had some paternity papers you’d like him to sign – of course I bloody didn’t, what do you take me for?’
‘All right, all right – and Bruce?’
‘Forty-two Sugden Street, W6.’ She reeled off a telephone number. ‘Got that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Got to fly now, see you tonight. Busy day, eh?’
‘Just a bit,’ I said grimly. ‘Thanks, though.’
I put the receiver down. Right. I looked at the names and places on the piece of paper in front of me and sighed. I really didn’t feel like coping with any of it this morning. I made a cup of coffee, then threw it down the sink in case caffeine was bad for the bump, and made some disgusting r
osehip tea instead. I took a sip, gagged, threw that down the sink too, then looked at the piece of paper again. Bruce had to be dealt with first. I picked up the phone and dialled his number.
It rang for ages and ages and I began to feel heady with relief. He wasn’t in, he wasn’t there, but at least I’d tried. I was just about to put it down when he answered. Damn.
‘Yes? Who is it?’ he bleated in a tearful whisper. I softened immediately. He was in a bad way.
‘Bruce? It’s Polly, Polly Penhalligan.’
‘Polly!’ He gave a strangled sob and then burst into tears. ‘Oh, Polly, please don’t hate me, it’s all a terrible mistake, please don’t hate me!’
‘I don’t hate you, Bruce,’ I said gently. ‘Calm down. I just wondered if I could come and see you, to see how you are. Would that be all right? Would you like that?’
There was a pause. ‘Really? You want to see me? Yes, I’d like that, I would.’
‘D’you want to meet me somewhere? For a coffee or something?’
‘Um, I’d rather not, Polly, only I don’t like to go out much at the moment. I feel safer here, you see. Could you possibly come to the flat?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I said, forgetting what I’d promised Hetty. ‘I’ll be over in about an hour then, shall I?’
‘OK. Oh – but Polly, n-no bully boys or anything like that? Just you?’ He was frightened, really frightened. I remembered the ghastly threatening letters.
‘Of course not, Bruce, just me. Get the coffee on, or even something stronger. I have a feeling we’re both going to need it.’
Chapter Eighteen
It took me ages to find Bruce’s flat. There was a tennis tournament at Queen’s Club and West Kensington was choked with traffic, so I had to leave the car miles away and perform – even by my standards – some pretty creative parking. The space I eventually found would have been more suitable for a three-year-old’s tricycle, and I got very wet under the armpits as I pulled and pushed at the wheel, desperately trying to squeeze Rusty in. Eventually I succeeded – albeit with two wheels on the pavement – got out, slammed the door and legged it, keen to distance myself as quickly as possible from the improbably parked heap of rust.
Going Too Far Page 26