by Donna Alam
‘It’s only a hairbrush,’ she snipes in response, springing from the chair and causing him to stumble. ‘I bet you ten quid that if I left you alone for five minutes in my treatment room, you’d be abusin’ yourself with my massage oils.’ Nat digs me in the arm with her elbow. ‘Wouldn’t he?’
‘I hope not,’ I say on the breath of a sigh. My feet are hurting, and I’ve a horrible headache coming on. ‘What was it you were talking about when I came in?’ If nothing else, refereeing these two will be practice for when—for when. Well, you know. Offspring. Child. Don’t they have an answer for everything at some point? I certainly remember my own mother saying so at—
Oh fu—fudge.
I’ll have to tell her.
She’ll shit a brick.
I think.
Maybe I can tell Dad, and he can tell her?
Maybe if I promise him a safe house afterwards.
‘Are you listening?’
‘What? Sorry, I was thinking.’
‘Thinking?’ questions Ted. ‘You looked more like you’d swallowed a razor blade concealed in a nugget of poo.’
‘Poo!’ scoffs Nat, clasping her hands under her chin. ‘My, aren’t we a delicate wee flower. It’s shite, y’bawbag. It’s no wonder you can’nae get a date. You might look like a bear, but you have the personality of a prig.’
‘I can too get ma’self a date! I’m just discerning. Unlike some people I could mention.’
Nat pulls a face in answer before actually answering. ‘Then maybe next time you start your griping, I won’t help.’
‘The cheek of her!’ Ted exclaims, turning to me as though to find a sympathetic ear. ‘You know what she did to me last week?’
I shake my head, not really interested in hearing, but feeling as though I should try. Try to sound interested, at least.
‘We went for pizza Monday night, and she introduced me to a man—a friend, she said.’
‘Hang on a minute. Where was my invite?’ I ask, suddenly a bit put out.
‘We knocked on the way past,’ Nat replies. ‘There was’nae any answer. Then we saw your car heading out of town.’
Oh. I was going to the doctor’s. This is a prime example of how impossible it is to keep secrets in this village. Or as Nat might say . . . what exactly does she say? Something about farting and everyone knowing about it before the smell.
She has a way with words, that girl.
I didn’t say it was a great way.
‘Never mind about that now,’ Ted says, grabbing my arm. ‘She,’ he says pointedly, throwing Nat a mildly evil glare, ‘tells me her friend is in property and that he lives in a gated community.’
‘Sounds like a catch.’
‘That’s what I thought! And then I found out he was a burglar—a bloomin’ house thief!’
‘Oh.’ I purse my lips, trying not to laugh. I suppose that’s sort of into property, isn’t it?
‘Mmmhmm.’ Ted’s mouth twists in one corner. ‘Go on, tell her what kind of gated community he lives in.’
Nat’s shoulders begin to shake, which isn’t a good sign. Moments later, the answer is expelled from her mouth, a little like a bullet from a gun.
‘Prison!’
‘He was on weekend release,’ Ted adds, unimpressed.
‘Oh, Nat,’ I admonish, my attempt at not laughing entirely unsuccessful. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’
‘Nice? I’m a gem. He was a hottie! And it didn’t stop him from going home with the crim.’
‘I asked him about ma’ house’s security, thank you very much! Anyway, nothing happened. I never put out on a first date.’
‘But did you let him put it in?’
‘Away with you, you dirty wee scrubber.’
‘So,’ Nat asks, once she’s stopped sniggering. ‘Same time tomorrow night? Same pizza joint?’
‘Aye, of course,’ Ted responds.
‘You in, or have you somewhere else to sneak off to?’ she asks me.
‘I wasn’t sneaking.’
‘No, of course not. You’re the picture of innocence, the soul of transparency.’ Looks like Nat missed her calling. With her theatrics, she should’ve been on stage. ‘Because you’ve got nothing to hide, have you?’
I narrow my gaze. ‘Why don’t you just . . . ’
‘Piss off, shall I?’ God knows where she produces it from, but Nat begins rattling a money box, that appears to be made of tin, under my nose. ‘My swear envelope was getting full,’ she says with a smirk. ‘It’s a wonder the air in here isn’t blue!’
‘Yes, why don’t you do just that,’ I respond with as much dignity as I can muster . . . while also swallowing a million very rude words. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ivy
The question of when to announce my current state is more or less taken out of my hands the following week when my lack of appetite becomes something else entirely.
I begin to vomit.
Morning sickness, my bum.
Try all day sickness.
Try catching-a-whiff-of-something-that-turns-into-projectile-yellow-green-goo sickness.
Then try hiding it from everyone. Staff. Friends. Clients who look at you like you’re infectious when you make a run for it, slipping and sliding across the wooden salon floor.
It’s Nat who, in the kitchen, takes me to one side, suggesting I find my way to tell people, so they don’t look at me like I’m carrying the plague.
So, I do. I tell Mac, my brother, first, who looks like he’d rather be hearing that I do have the plague and that I’m dying from it.
‘Holy fuck.’
The first words out of his mouth are hardly reassuring. In fact, they sound like a plea for mercy. There’s no enveloping hug in response, just a stark astonishment.
‘What are you gonna tell the mother-monster?’ he manages shortly afterwards.
Our mother isn’t really a monster. She’s just a wee bit overbearing. Thankfully, she and my father are on the other side of the world, living in a motorhome while travelling the length and breadth of Australia. They’d originally planned to make their trip based in the States, but after I moved back to Scotland, they’d decided on Australia instead.
‘Well, what I’ll not be telling her is that this is the result of a one-night stand.’ My brother winced like I’d smacked him over the head. ‘Don’t start that with me,’ I’d responded with a clear warning in my tone. ‘I’ve had years of girls crying on my shoulder over you. You think they spared me the gory details?’
‘I can’nae be held responsible for other people.’ He shook his head with vehemence.
‘And you tried to get into the knickers of my best friend—that’s like sanctimonious or something.’ I had known before I’d closed my mouth, I’d gotten it wrong. Again.
‘Definitely or something.’
‘Sacrilegious—that’s it!’
‘Come on! I was drunk—and young. And you,’ he’d said, pointing a finger at me, ‘promised you’d never mention it again.’
‘I didn’t tell Mum.’ According to her, you’re never too big or too old for a skelped arse. I think she would’ve more than walloped his backside for that. She would’ve probably called a priest. For an exorcism. ‘I supported you then. I think it’s your turn now.’
‘Of course—Jesus, Ivy. You think I’d turn my back on you?’
‘No, but it’s not even the call, exactly.’
‘I’m not calling her,’ he quickly added.
Ignoring him, I pushed on. ‘Look, this baby isn’t going to have a daddy.’ At least, it might not. And I can’t stand to think about that right now. How I’ll tell Dylan. How he’ll react. Bugger it—I’m not dealing with those thoughts right now. ‘But he or she will have an uncle in his place—an involved uncle, I hope. A really awesome one . . .’
Mac frowned, looking like the worries of the world rested on his shoulders. ‘Of course, I’ll be there,’ he’d said. ‘For you both. I’ll
be the best bloody uncle there is, only . . .’
‘Only what? Spit it out,’ I said.
‘You’re sure there’s no way you can find the man? It seems awful unfair that he doesn’t get to know.’
‘What part of anonymous don’t you get? I met him in a nightclub, and he was on holiday—I can’t even remember where he said he was from! It was just a night of really hot, sweaty f—’
‘Aye, aye!’ Mac winced again, patting the air with both of his hands. ‘I get the picture. No need to be so . . . explicit, yeah?’
But that was the point. By making him uncomfortable, I could get him to shut up.
‘Explicit? Really? We can go there if you like? I mean I miss talking about this sort of stuff with Fin, with her gone and all. And I suppose you still owe me for me not telling Ma about you beating one out in the front room a few months ago.’
Fin and Nat had walked in on Mac in our childhood home; jeans around his ankles and porn on the big screen. Hardly his finest moment, though Natasha was certainly titillated.
‘You’re a hard girl, Poison,’ he’d said, shaking his head.
I didn’t even bite at my childhood nickname. Back then, he’d called me poison as an antidote to everyone else thinking I was sweet. Wonder what they’d all think now?
Probably the same as Dylan; Edera Velenosa.
‘Really? Hard? Freudian slip, much?’
‘Enough!’ he’d said, doing that weird patting thing with his hands again like he could ward off my words. ‘I’ll do it—do whatever you want.’
‘Good, because I’ve booked a Skype call.’
‘For what?’ This hit the air more like fir wit?
‘To tell the olds they’re about to become grandparents.’
Mac didn’t answer. He just groaned.
‘Could you no’ have worn a t-shirt?’ Mac complains, as my father’s hairy paunch comes into view followed by a grating wave of static.
It’s late Monday evening, and Mac and I are sitting at my kitchen table, laptop in front. I feel sick—no surprise there—but this time, it’s accompanied by my stomach on a nervous spin cycle.
I can do this. I’m a grown-up. And a business woman. And . . . I don’t want to disappoint them.
That’s what it boils down to. The essence of it all. I prefer to be the nice girl; the daughter who causes no problems. The daughter who is nothing but a success.
‘Stella—we’re on!’ My dad’s voice carries across the ether, followed by my mother’s admonishment to sit down.
‘I suppose we should be happy he’s got trousers on,’ Mac says sotto voce.
‘I heard that,’ Dad replies. My father is a man of few words, which is just as well, because if talking was an Olympic sport, my mother could represent Scotland.
‘Now all we can see is the top of your heads. Angle the laptop screen down.’
‘It would be much easier to do this by email,’ says Mac from the corner of his mouth. ‘I told you that’s what you should’ve gone for.’
‘What?’ my mother interjects, sharply. ‘What’s going on? Is there something you don’t want to say?’ Neither Mac nor I answer. ‘Ivy?’
That’s right; go for the weak one.
‘I . . it’s nothing,’ I reply, all wide-eyed innocence directed at the screen. ‘Ow!’ My head swings to Mac. ‘What did y’do that for?’ I ask, rubbing my leg in the place he’s just pinched.
A line draws between his brows as he glares down at me then, as quick as a flash, he presses a button on my laptop—the one that enables, or in this case, disables the Wi-Fi connection.
‘Listen,’ he says seriously. ‘You’re a grown-up already. It’s time to start acting like one.’
‘What do you mean,’ I bluster. ‘You’re the one cutting them off.’ I gesture back at the screen as Mac makes a very Scottish noise from the back of his throat.
‘Stop worrying about what people will think for once in your life. You don’t need anyone’s approval. They’re your parents, for God’s sake.’ He uses both hands to point at the screen of my laptop. ‘If you can’t tell them the truth, you’re fucked. There’s no shame in being imperfect. They’ll still love you.’
I blink back the sudden sting of tears, and for the first time where Mac is concerned, I don’t have an answer. Not a comeback, rebuttal, or a snipe because his knife was honed and well-aimed. And the truth just fucking hurts.
‘Deep breath,’ he says, taking my hand in his. ‘You’re about to join their ranks—becoming a parent, I mean. Think of all the payback you’re due.’ Mac presses the button to reconnect the Wi-Fi, and the ridiculous connecting tone for Skype immediately begins to play.
‘George, sit down. There’s nothing wrong with the power cord; it’s just the wifey connection.’
‘It’s Wi-Fi, Stella,’ my dad corrects.
Mac sniggers, and I suddenly see myself in my mother. Christ. It’s started already.
‘I told you you should’ve paid a bit more for one of them dongle things. Oh, look—there they are!’ My mother’s dark hair and round face fill the screen.
‘Ma, sit back,’ complains Mac. ‘You’re so close; your face looks like a road map.’
‘Macormac,’ my father admonishes in a subtle warning tone. He sits next to my mum, the brilliant Australian morning sunshine lighting the room behind them.
Mac squeezes my hand again. ‘Parent-ites,’ he announces, ‘Ivy has something she needs to say.’
‘Oh, me first!’ says Mum, excitedly.
Mac frowns, but I jump on that bad boy of a reprieve for however long the ride will last. ‘What’s your news, Mum?’ Because mine is going nowhere. Not for a few months yet.
‘We went to Uluru—such a fab place, wasn’t it, George?’
‘I’m sure I got that email,’ Mac replies, poker-faced.
‘The people looking after the sacred site—the Abordiginald tribe—were so welcoming.’
‘Aboriginals, Stel,’ my dad corrects again.
‘Was that no’ what I say?’ she says, turning to him with one eyebrow raised. As usual, Dad opts for discretion over valour. Or in other words, he has more sense than to argue. ‘And I’m sure I heard Gordon.’ Her face gets larger on the laptop screen, suddenly looming nearer, like she’s about to impart a secret. ‘That wasn’t his tribal name, by the way. Anyway, Gordon said his tribe preferred the title ingenious.’
‘Indigenous,’ Dad says quietly, as both he and Mac struggle not to laugh.
‘Listen, Ma, put it in an email again, would you? I’ve got a flight later tonight, so my time’s limited for being moral support.’
With my free hand, I pull the fine hairs on his arm.
‘Jaysus! What was that for.’
‘Traitor,’ I hiss. ‘You haven’t got a flight.’
‘No, but I also haven’t got all night.’
‘What is going on wi’ the pair of you?’ asks Mum. Meanwhile, Dad has assumed his foreboding father position, arms now crossed.
‘Ivy,’ Dad says. ‘You’ve got something you want to tell us?’
More statement than a question, I nod once. No more hiding. I take a deep breath, and as I breathe it out, I make a strange, nervous sound.
‘My news. My news is . . . a wee bit more shocking, I’m afraid.’ So afraid. Afraid of disappointing them, at the very least.
‘Oh, my God, George.’ Mum clutches Dad’s arm. ‘She’s ill!’
‘No, no, I’m not, Mum. Calm down. Although I do feel sort of wretched, but I’m told it’s temporary. A sort of nine month thing.’ I titter nervously. Even from this distance, with this connection, I watch the blood drain from my mother’s face. Watch her hands fall away from my father’s arm.
‘You . . . you’re?’ See, even she can’t bring herself to say it. ‘But you don’t even have a boyfriend.’
‘You don’t need one o’ them to get pregnant,’ scoffs Mac.
My mother deflates physically before me. And me? I’m probably doing the sam
e from the other side of the screen. I feel so small. So insignificant. Such a fuck-up.
Seeming to come back to herself for a moment, Mum asks, ‘Is it anyone we know?’
‘No.’ One word to convey a thousand. One word that has the potential to paint me as a bit of a slut.
‘How did it happen?’
Okay, so maybe that one word didn’t quite manage to convey quite a thousand.
‘I know it’s probably been a while,’ interrupts Mac. ‘I din’nae ken—but maybe you don’t remember? But when a girl and a boy like each other enough to—’
‘Enough,’ says my father, speaking for the first time, though I’m thankful to Mac for diverting her line of questioning. ‘The man—the father—I take it he doesn’t want to know.’
Or maybe not so much . . .
‘Something like that.’ I duck my head in shame.
‘And you’re well, Ivy? You’ve seen a doctor, and there’s nothing wrong?’
‘Other than the bit where I’m pregnant, she gave me a clean bill of health.’ God bless my dad, even if his words make me want to cry.
Dad nods, satisfied. ‘You’ll be okay on your own for a few weeks more?’
‘Hey, you’re not cutting short your trip. This was your big dream.’
‘And being a grandfather is my other one,’ he says, all matter-of-factly.
My dad. A man of few words. A man who knows how to make them count.
And God, I start bawling.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ivy
It takes some persuading to ensure my parents continue with their holiday. Not really my dad—he’s inclined to treat me more like an adult. But Mum—well, she cries a little while pretending not to for the camera. Then she began to fuss, saying she’d need to be there to support me, to hold my hands at the appointments. What appointments, I’m not sure, but if she thinks she’s coming into the delivery room with me, she’s mistaken. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I can have this baby with my absence in there, too. What stopped her complaints and fretting, or rather who, is when Mac announced, as clear as you like, that he’d take care of me until they returned. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mum stunned into silence. You see, Mac and I aren’t particularly close. I mean we love each other and all, but it’s just that when we are close—in proximity, at least—sparks fly. And not the good kind. We tend to argue and snipe and generally get on everyone’s nerves. Always have.