by Amy Bratley
Bella shrugged and shook her head slightly, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Your dad was the kind of man who could talk to anyone and get to the bottom of them straight away,’ she said. ‘He would have taken the bull by the horns and confronted Leo, I know he would.’
‘Yes,’ said Mel. ‘I’ve been thinking about doing that, but every time I pick up the phone to call him, I fill with a mix of indignation and dread. If he doesn’t even have the inclination to phone me when I’m literally about to give birth, why should I convince him to come back?’
‘I know what you mean, love,’ said Bella. ‘I’d feel the same, but I don’t know what’s got into him.’
Mel picked up her phone and looked at the blank screen. She was just about to throw it on to the sofa when it began to ring. She checked the screen again and stared up at Bella, open-mouthed.
‘It’s him,’ she said, flushing.
‘Answer it then!’ said Bella.
Mel answered it and took a deep breath.
‘Hi, Leo,’ she said, widening her eyes at Bella, who stayed where she was, her hands on her hips, listening in.
‘Mel,’ said Leo, ‘I need to tell you something. It’s big, and you’re not going to like it, but I want to get this off my chest before the baby is born. It’s only fair, to be honest. Meet me on the beach?’
Mel’s knees weakened at Leo’s words. She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Yes,’ she said warily. ‘In an hour?’
Putting down the phone, she walked into Bella’s outstretched arms and leaned her head on her shoulder as best she could with her bump in the way.
‘He says he’s got something big to tell me,’ she said. ‘Something I won’t like. I’m meeting him in an hour.’
Bella rubbed Mel’s back and kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be here for you when you get back.’
Mel saw Leo before he saw her. He was the only person on the beach, under a blue sky bloated with grey clouds. He stood facing the sea, rough and foamy, the wind whipping his hair and scarf away from his head and his grey overcoat and trousers against his legs. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his collar pulled up. She thought he was watching the kite-surfer who was doing crazy tricks in the sea, but he bent down to pick up a stone and tossed it into the water with absolutely no vigour. Mel pulled her hat down over her ears, squinting in the March sunlight. Trudging towards him across the pebbles, even though the waves were crashing, she couldn’t possibly take him by surprise. Hearing her struggle across the stones, he turned. She lifted her hand in greeting and saw a brief but genuine smile pass over his face.
‘Hi, Leo,’ she said, holding her hair back from her face with both hands. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘Yes,’ he said, his expression tense. ‘How are you?’
It was miserable trying to talk and walk along the beach when she could hardly walk now anyway, so Leo suggested they stop and sit down for a moment. That was pretty difficult, too, and while he stared into her face and, apparently, soundlessly communicated his feelings Mel began to feel irritated. She was exhausted, cold, uncomfortable and had no idea what this was about. What could possibly be so difficult to tell her?
‘Leo,’ she said, as the first drop of rain hit her cheek. ‘This is your chance to tell me what’s going on. I’m days away from my due date and the baby could come at any moment. It would be nice to know, before it turns up, what the fuck is going on. I’m kind of over this mysterious act you’re pulling.’
‘You’re annoyed,’ said Leo solemnly.
‘Of course I’m bloody annoyed,’ she said. ‘This is supposed to be one of the most exciting times of my life – of our lives – and you’re off sulking at your brother’s house about something “big” I’m not going to like. You say you still love me, but I have to doubt that, Leo. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m constantly in tears, I don’t know what’s going to happen when I give birth, or how it’s going to—’
Leo had gone very pale. He held up his hand, gesturing for her to stop, so, with a sigh, she did as he asked. Leo put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, which he handed to her. She frowned.
‘Why are you showing me a photograph of you when you were a kid?’ she asked, staring at the photograph of Leo in a pair of trousers and yellow T-shirt, holding a white teddy bear. Leo was almost touching her, and she could feel that he was trembling. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘This is Jacques.’ He paused and looked out to sea, then back at Mel.
‘Who’s Jacques?’ asked Mel, fearing that deep down she already knew the answer. This was the “big” deal. A person. He had a son.
‘This is a big thing I’m about to tell you. But Jacques . . . Jacques is . . . he’s my son,’ Leo said in a quiet voice, his mouth contorted as he struggled not to cry. ‘He’s nine years old and, up until a few weeks ago, he lived in France. His mother, Coco, and I met when I was eighteen and living with a family there for three months to learn the language before I went to university. Coco was only sixteen and I got her pregnant. Her family were Catholic and wouldn’t entertain the idea of abortion, so she went ahead and had the baby. Her parents hated me, said I’d ruined her life. I felt terribly ashamed and had no idea what to do. They wouldn’t let me see Coco and, though I tried to write a few letters, I soon gave up. After Jacques was born, Coco sent me a picture and a short letter and has done every year, on his birthday, to keep me updated. But I’ve had nothing to do with him at all. I stayed out of his life completely, but he’s still in here.’
Leo pointed to his head and then his heart. Mel stayed silent, too shocked to react.
‘Every day and every night, he’s been in my thoughts,’ he said. ‘When you told me you were pregnant, I had all these feelings of guilt and shame. How could I be a dad to our child, when I already had a son that I totally ignored? Worse still, I’d never even told you about Jacques. I always knew I should and promised myself I would before our relationship got any more serious than it already was, but you got pregnant before I had the chance.’
Mel shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing and tried sounding it out in her head to make it seem more real. Leo had a son. Leo was already a dad. Two years of getting to know him, and she didn’t know this. Pretty fundamental fact about a person, no?
‘A part of me thought I’d tell you once the baby was born,’ he went on. ‘But it felt wrong. I needed to sort it out before the baby came, so, about six weeks ago I contacted Coco and told her about you and our baby. It coincided with her having moved to London. I’ve met up with her and Jacques once, and she’s staying in Brighton for a few days, because I wanted you to meet her, just to clear the air. I’m sorry. I should have been upfront with you from the start. I know how this looks—’
Mel was speechless. Trying to digest the information, she gulped. Leo used his thumb and first finger to wipe away tears that were welling up in his eyes. He sniffed loudly and puffed out, as if he’d been holding his breath.
‘So she’s here now?’ Mel said, her stomach churning and her forehead creased. ‘So you’re playing happy families with your ex and your child in Brighton, while I’m going through hell on my own? Leo, I’m completely shocked.’
Her head was swimming. It was too much to take in. All those nights lying in bed together in the dark, sharing their most intimate dreams, and Leo had withheld this? And now, he was with her? They were spending time together while she was all alone, about to give birth?
‘We’re not playing happy families!’ said Leo. ‘On the contrary. I’ve only seen them once while they’ve been in Brighton, but she wanted us all to meet, to kind of clear the air. I told her that I had walked out on you and she was horrified. I don’t know why I walked out – I think I was scared of what you’d say, or what kind of man this all makes me. I’ve been stalling because I didn’t know what to do for the best.’
He shook his head and choked on his tears.
> ‘I’m sorry, Mel,’ he said. ‘I love you, but I had all this to tell you. I didn’t know what to do. I know this is terrible timing—’
This time, he was properly crying, and the sight of him choked Mel. She couldn’t watch him suffer. She put her arms around his neck and pushed his head into her chest.
‘Do you have any feelings for Coco?’ Mel asked, still in shock. ‘Now that you’ve seen her again?’
Leo pulled away from her and shook his head. ‘I hardly know her,’ he said. ‘When we met, she was sixteen, French and quite pretty. She taught me how to smoke and got me drunk on red wine. It sounds awful, but she was just the first girl to take an interest in me, and I was grateful. I was an idiot teenager. I lost my virginity with her and look what happened. Now, she may as well be a complete stranger, but Jacques is different. I feel a bond with him. I am so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘So you keep saying,’ said Mel, closing her eyes and blinking away her own tears.
‘You must need time for this to sink in,’ Leo said, before holding both her arms in a firm grasp. ‘Mel, I love you. I want this baby, our baby. I want to come home, I want it all to be all right again, but I’m not sure you’re going to want me to be its dad after everything I’ve told you. I’m sorry.’
Mel felt like she was caught in a bad dream. She opened her mouth to respond, but didn’t know what to say. ‘And what about Coco?’ she asked despondently. ‘How long is she staying here? Does she want you back?’
Leo shook his head. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘She’s got a place in London. She came down here wanting to meet us all. She was shocked to hear that I’d walked out on you. She wants to meet you. She’s over there in the car. Would you be willing? Then it’s all done with and we can move on—’
‘I don’t want to meet her!’ Mel said, starting to walk away from Leo, feeling too angry with him even to look at him. ‘I want nothing to do with her. Or you.’
‘I love you, Mel—’ Leo started, his voice shaking, but Mel cut him off.
‘Just fuck off, Leo,’ she said, striding away from him. ‘Just leave me alone—’
‘I don’t know what else to say,’ he said, aghast. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mel carried on walking away, instructing herself not to cry. ‘I don’t care,’ she said, holding her bump protectively. ‘Just go away.’
Mel glanced back and saw Leo put his head in his hands and rub his eyes. Dropping his arms down to his side, he looked up at the sky and stared after her.
‘Mel!’ he shouted after her, but she didn’t turn round. She didn’t want him to see her tears. ‘Come back!’
Chapter Twenty-three
Rebecca stared longingly at the photograph of the Bridge of the Immortals in China which her friend Ella had posted on Facebook. It was the world’s highest bridge, and the thought of it made Rebecca breathless. Imagine the freedom. So close to the clouds, far away from home. For a moment, she imagined it was she who had taken the photographs, she who was standing in the mountains even higher than clouds, following in the footsteps of Taoist immortals. Then she had another contraction.
‘What time will the midwives get here?’ asked Lenny, interrupting her breathing. He was pacing the front room, his arms folded, checking the road outside the window every other second.
‘Later,’ she said. Now the contraction was over she was laying out the polka-dot plastic shower curtains she’d bought to protect the landlord’s cream living-room carpet. They were cheaper than the plastic sheeting recommended for home water births, though she hadn’t had the heart to tell the shopkeeper at the pound shop what they were actually for when he was showing her various patterns.
‘I wish they’d just get here,’ he said.
‘Lenny, stop fretting!’ she said, standing for a moment to massage her lower back as it throbbed with a dull ache. She had already attached the TENS machine, which buzzed ineffectively, and had taken a couple of paracetamol. Lenny flopped down on a chair which they’d pushed to the edge of the living room to make space. Music was playing; something folksy Lenny had chosen, and the fairy lights Rebecca had draped around the bookshelves were twinkling in the low light of the morning. There was a silver birthing ball, and blankets, too, colourful crocheted patchwork ones she’d bought from a charity shop for if she felt cold, though the heating was up high enough for a reptile enclosure. Briefly, she thought about Katy and the glamorous red labour outfit she’d had designed especially for labour. She’d probably had a team of interior designers making over the hospital room before she entered, wore full make-up and those feathered mule slippers old movie stars wore. Rebecca smiled at the thought. Unlike me, she thought, in my black, oversized T-shirt bearing the slogan of Lenny’s band and my slipper socks. Mustn’t forget to take those off. Rebecca looked around the room. Who needed glamour? This was beginning to feel exactly like a nest.
‘We’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Millions of women have babies every year, don’t they? I’m sure their partners get through it just fine. Don’t start panicking, or you’ll get me all wound up, too.’
The fact that 130 million babies were born worldwide each year helped Rebecca relax. If 130 million women could deliver babies, then surely she could be one of them.
‘I’m not panicking!’ he said. ‘I just mean, we don’t want to do this alone, do we? You know I’ll faint if I have to see the blood. Oh, God, just the thought makes me feel dizzy. You know what I’m like when I cut my finger, but the umbilical cord? Don’t make me cut it, Becs, please.’
A memory of a baby that was found abandoned by a paperboy in a basket outside a pub in the village where her parents lived flashed into her mind. The baby’s mother, thought to be fifteen or sixteen years old, was never found. The baby was wrapped in a blood-stained T-shirt, which must have belonged to the mother. The village had become obsessed with finding out her identity for the sake of the foundling, and Rebecca’s own parents had been outraged, but Rebecca had always felt strangely protective of the girl’s anonymity. She could never get the thought of her giving birth on her own out of her head. What had she been through, to end up dumping her baby outside a pub? Where had she gone to have the baby? To the woods, in the middle of the night? How had she cut the cord? What must that girl feel now, three years later? Rebecca shivered.
‘Lenny, stop!’ she said. ‘I’m the one actually having the baby! You’re supposed to be making me feel more relaxed. Not the other way around.’ Her lip wobbled.
‘And I’m the one watching!’ he said. ‘It’s hard on me, too, babe.’
Lenny picked up a white muslin square off the pile Rebecca had prepared and blew his nose on it. She pulled a face.
‘They’re not handkerchiefs,’ she sighed. ‘Oh, Lenny, do you think you should take a Natracalm? I’ve got some in the bathroom cabinet.’
Lenny stood up again and looked out of the window, leaning against a tower of towels and buckets they’d stacked, ready for the labour. A seagull landed on the windowsill, opened its beak and screeched at the top of its lungs. Lenny knocked on the window to scare it away, but it didn’t move.
‘Those horse pills are not going to help,’ Lenny said pitifully. ‘I need proper drugs. Actually, I might go and smoke a spliff to calm my nerves. When did you say the midwives are coming again?’
Rebecca sighed more deeply. Ever since her waters had broken in a trickle during the night and she’d been checked out at hospital and it was confirmed that labour was beginning, she’d spent time preparing for the birth. The enormity of what was about to happen was in turn exciting and terrifying. The baby was coming. One question repeated itself in her head: could she be a good mother? Would she be in the same situation she was in with her own mother in twenty years? Not speaking. Opening a letter from her child, shocked by its handwritten revelations? No. She wouldn’t be like that. They would be friends. They would talk. Rebecca wouldn’t suffocate her child, no matter how wild they wanted to be. Would she?
&nb
sp; ‘We have to call them when the contractions are strong and steady,’ said Rebecca. ‘They’re not even bad yet. Pass me that yellow bag, will you? And, Lenny, you can’t smoke weed with the baby around. It’s absolutely not allowed.’
‘What’s going to happen to the baby if I smoke a spliff out the window?’ he said. ‘Jesus, Becs, don’t go all God-fearing on me.’
‘“God-fearing”?’ said Rebecca, years of childhood church attendance flashing through her mind. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not allowed to be near the baby after you’ve smoked. It says in my pregnancy book.’
‘But the baby’s not even been born yet!’ he said. ‘Give me a break!’
‘Give me a break!’ she said.
Lenny exhaled noisily and turned away from the window. He dragged the yellow bag, the size of a rubbish-bin sack, which a midwife had dropped off a couple of weeks before, to Rebecca. She opened it and peered inside to find disposable mats, metal instruments wrapped in airtight clear packaging, sterile gloves and other mysterious objects. Lenny peered over her shoulder, his hair tickling her cheek, whistling in mock horror through his teeth. Rebecca elbowed him gently, and he gently elbowed her back. He caught her hand and kissed it. Rebecca turned and they grinned at one another.
‘What do you think the baby’s going to be like?’ Lenny asked, suddenly softening. ‘We’re going to meet him soon. I hope he’s like you.’
He stroked Rebecca’s stretched belly, and seconds later she had another contraction. She leaned into him and let him support her weight. His hands rubbed her lower back, and he kissed her forehead. From that wordless connection, Rebecca felt oxytocin flood through her body. She kissed Lenny full on the mouth then, slowly, they parted and Lenny mounted the birthing ball and bounced over to where the birth pool was, collapsed and deflated in a heap.
‘Shall I start blowing up the pool if I can’t smoke?’ he said, pushing his hair back. ‘Is it too soon? Maybe we could have a go with my remote-control boat.’