by Donna Alam
Some might call it sibling rivalry, and I might agree. He’d always been a wee bit jealous of me.
‘They’ll be fine, Stella,’ my dad placates while, over the Skype connection, Mum leans closer to the camera, as though attempting to discern the reason for Mac’s words.
‘What do you mean you’ll take care of her?’ she repeats, almost suspiciously.
Mac laughs. ‘Tempting, Ma, but I think if I was gonna murder her, I’d have done it before now.’ Folding his arms, he leans back in the chair. ‘She’s my little sister. My annoying little sister, aye—’
I begin to splutter. ‘Annoy? You’re the annoying one. You’re a complete pain in my arse!’
‘Erse?’ Dad repeats. Arse, Scottish style. ‘Did that girl just say erse?’ he asks Mum, incredulously.
‘Yes.’ I don’t wait for her answer or provide an excuse for my language as my eyes flick from Mac to the screen and back again. If anyone was annoying, it’s the great lump sitting next to me with his delusions of perfection.
‘Well, you’re like a thorn in my arse, and you’re lucky you’re still alive.’ He answers a touch too sardonically for my liking. ‘The number of times I’ve wanted to throttle ye!’ he said, making some motion of sliding his hands around my neck.
‘Yeah?’ I spit back. ‘Well, well . . . I once had a dream that you’d died and woke in the middle of the night, crying and feeling so sad that I had to check on you. I pinched your nose to see if you were breathing, and you know what? When you began to snore and flail, I left the room disappointed. Yes, disappointed that you weren’t really dead, so there!’
The room falls quiet as what I’ve admitted suddenly dawns. I’m not going to win any sister of the year awards with that admission. And my poor parents look horrified, but then Mac bursts out laughing—a great bellowing guffaw.
‘Talk about keepin’ it real. See, I knew there was a reason I’ve called you Poison Ivy since we were wee.’
My cheeks flamed red, but I know what he’s getting at. It doesn’t matter how perfect you try to be—pretend to be—someone will always see through the façade. Nobody’s wholly perfect, and who better to know than the one you’re always compared against.
Macormac, sit down. Macormac, come away from that. Why can’t you behave like your sister?
How my goody-two-shoes persona must’ve driven him mad at school.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Mum complains. ‘You two and your bickering drive me ‘round the bend.’
‘It’s what kids do, Ma,’ replies Mac with a shrug. ‘But it never stops us from lookin’ out for each other.’ He looks at me then, reaching out for my hand.
‘You’re not going back to London?’ My brother lives and operates his chain of twenty-four-hour gyms from there.
‘Well, I’ll have to do a bit of travel, but I’ll base myself out of Auchkeld until they’re back from their gallivanting.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I ask, stunned. When I said I’d needed his support, I really meant for making this call. I know he loves me, and that he’d help—be there for me—if I really needed him, but I didn’t imagine it’d extend beyond a few phone calls to check in. ‘You’d put your life on hold for me?’
‘Aye, aye,’ he replies, waving off the emotion in my words. ‘I can if you can manage not to bawl all the time.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I protest, wiping the corners of my eyes with my fingertips before turning to the laptop and my parents again. ‘Guess I’ll see you in November, then.’
With my family now in the pregnancy loop, I move down the list to those who also need to know. Now that Mum and Dad are aware of my . . . my impending arrival, I have someone else—actually, a few someone elses—I need to inform.
And first on the list is Dylan, my husband. At least, he is my husband for a little while longer.
After Mac had left last night, I’d fallen into bed exhausted. More an emotional sort of tiredness rather than anything pregnancy related; I was just worn out. And possibly beyond the optimal window for sleep because I’d spent the most of the night watching the shadows creep across my bedroom walls. I’d spent the night thinking, and while I’m sure Fin would say no good could come of this, I’d have to disagree. And as I walk down the stairs into the salon this Tuesday morning, I feel lighter because I’m reconciled. Resolved. I’ve decided I’m going to tell Dylan today. Tell him about the baby. Tell him that I’m sorry. Explain to him how my own insecurities ruined our marriage. Tell him how I feel. That I still love him. Say what I know to be true; how I know it’s much too late for any kind of reconciliation, but that I need to start being more honest. Including with myself. I need him to know that I don’t really hate him. That I never did. That I’d just buried my love under a blanket of anger and blame, attempting to lay the failure of our marriage at his feet even though I knew my actions were the real cause.
Maybe I was afraid he wouldn’t love me now that he was famous. Or maybe I’m just not a nice person after all.
Whatever the reason, as I enter the salon, I know I’m telling him today. Sure, I feel nervous, but it’s the excited kind. But how? Do I try to call him? Would he answer? Does he still even have the same number, or might he have blocked me from his call list? Maybe I should reactivate my social media accounts—send him a message, asking him to call me? An email?
‘Morning.’ Natasha’s already on the salon floor, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, as she leans against the counter. Light from the vintage brass table lamp set on the reception counter glints from her new Monroe piercing.
‘Morning, boss lady,’ she says, barely glancing up. ‘You’re in fine fettle this morning.’
‘Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying, Ivy, you no longer look like death warmed because you’ve brushed your hair and put a bit of lippy on?’
‘I’m sure your hair hadn’t seen the spiky end of a brush all week.’ A smile grows on her face along with her retort. ‘You look . . . better.’
‘I feel pretty good. Apart from the appetite and vomiting bit.’
She looks again, her gaze examining me. ‘What’s changed?’
‘I told the olds.’
Expression softening, she places her cup down, and her attention shifts more solidly from her phone. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Surprisingly well. Mac . . . helped.’ She doesn’t appear worried at all by that, and I begin to wonder—not for the first time—just how well she knows him but stop myself from asking. Instead, I tell her, ‘I’m feeling . . . better.’ And as the words leave my mouth, I realise this is true. ‘You’ve been busy.’ I turn away from her inspection, feeling suddenly and inexplicably emotional. Christ, am I gonna be crying at the drop of a hat these next few months? It’s like my tear ducts have been unplugged. Behind me, the linen shelves are already full of freshly folded towels, and on the other side of the counter, the low table houses this month’s selection of glossy magazines.
‘I picked up the mags and some milk on the way in,’ Nat says, her gaze returning to her phone. I don’t offer her thanks—she wouldn’t appreciate the attention—though I silently resolve to show it some other way.
‘So.’ I flip on the recessed lighting and make my way to unlock the front door. ‘What’s going on in celeb city today?’
‘I haven’t looked yet. I’m looking at one of the supplier websites.’
‘Yeah? What are you looking at?’ Nat looks after the beauty side of my business as the treatments manager. She’s basically a manager without staff, though I have high hopes; the salon is doing fantastic for a new venture.
‘Vajazzling supplies. There’s this Hello Kitty design I’ve got my eye on.’
‘So your kitty can be all . . . Hello Kitty? Is that like an ironic welcome or address?’
‘If it was a welcome I was after, I’d grow back my pubes, tint them brown, and make them a welcome mat.’ She takes a sip of her coffee before completely changing the topic of conversation. ‘June sent you some tabl
et in.’
My mouth immediately waters so bad I can almost taste it. Scottish tablet is the business. It’s basically what Fin calls fudge, though so much more. It’s sweet and gooey, though sometimes crumbly, and tastes like my childhood. It’s so much more than fudge because it has the bonus of—
‘It has whisky in it.’
Yes, that.
As she looks at me, I realise the point she’s making. Without words.
‘No more than a dram. Surely, that won’t hurt?’
‘If you’d told June about the baby, she’d probably have made it without.’
‘But then it wouldn’t be the same.’ My shoulders deflate. June’s tablet is almost legendary.
‘Or maybe she’d tell you it’d do no harm.’ Nat raises one taunting brow. ‘Suppose it’s up to you if that’s a risk you want to take. Besides,’ she adds, returning to her phone, ‘you can’nae eat sweeties for breakfast.’
‘You reckon,’ I retort.
‘It’s a bit early to use the excuse eating for two.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Little pickers wear big knickers, hen.’
‘There are times in a girl’s life when only big knickers will do.’ Nat sets off laughing again as I turn my back, heading for the kitchen. ‘Besides, they can’t be bigger than maternity ones, surely?’
Please, oh benevolent God, don’t make me so large I have to wear knickers small children can camp outdoors in.
Once inside, I flip the kettle on and draw out some loose-leaf chamomile tea, popping it into the strainer. The nausea has settled for the most part this morning, meaning I’ve already worshipped the porcelain bowl, but I know it’ll be back in a few hours. I make the most of my brief reprieve by cutting one of the yummy tablet squares in half. The piece I’ve cut would fit on a teaspoon; I can’t imagine there’s much more than a millilitre of whisky inside. Besides, the alcohol content surely burns off during the cooking process.
Am I gonna spend the next seven months obsessing over stuff like this and having silent conversations with myself?
‘Ah, bugger it!’ I shove the lump into my mouth and pour the heated water over my tea.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ I tell Nat as I carry the fragrant cup back into the salon. ‘Please tell June it was delicious and that I’m up for tablet, with or without booze, anytime.’ Nat doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look up. ‘You and that bloody phone,’ I grumble. ‘I bet you don’t even put it down while you pee.’
‘Shush. Imma checking in on my people. Stalking my sites. There’s important shit going on this morning.’
‘Important,’ I repeat, though not in the same tone. ‘Did one of the Kardouchians break a nail? Come on,’ I cajole when she doesn’t answer. ‘What’s so vital, so riveting this morning?’
‘According DMZ, Dylan Duffy’s getting married.’
That feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and the carriage is balanced at the top? How I feel . . . that isn’t that. Not exactly. It’s the moment following when the carriage drops. When fear—not exhilaration—consumes every millimetre of space inside your chest, pressurizing vital organs and forcing a scream from your lips. But I don’t scream. Not even as hot liquid splashes my shins. I look down, seeing the remains of my cup spinning, unaware of the burn. I don’t even hear the dull thud as the cup hits the wooden floor. I only see the aftermath; the handle lies three inches from the smashed base, the body of the cup cracked in two.
Just like my heart.
Melodramatic bitch, I chastise because my heart isn’t broken; I can feel it beating almost painfully in my chest. Pain, I can handle. Broken, I silently refute. Because my heart must beat to sustain life for two these days.
‘Jesus!’ Nat is suddenly by my side, but I don’t look at her. I’m still looking at my shoes; at the splashes of tea on the tan canvas and the puddle leaking around my feet. ‘Hey.’ She takes my forearms in her hands, giving me a quick shake. ‘What day is it?’
‘What?’ I lift my gaze to hers. My voice is hoarse, synapsis operating on a delay, and the back of my throat is closing in on itself, silencing what—my scream? My tears?
‘What fucking day is it?’ She questions harder, giving my shoulder a solid shake.
‘It’s on your phone.’
‘What?’
‘Buy a calendar, for fuck’s sakes.’
Nat’s hands fall away, and her shoulders slump. ‘Thanks be to fuck. You can’t be having a stroke if your sarcasm valve works.’
‘I’m just clumsy. I think I maybe blanked out for a moment.’ Nat bends and begins to gather the remains of my favourite cup as I inhale deeply, preparing myself for what I fear I heard, though hope I heard wrong.
You can do this. Hear this. For him—for yourself. My emotions simmer below the surface like poisonous brew. I screwed up. I ruined it for both of us. My hand goes to my stomach, the motion itself so ridiculous that my fingers curl and my hand drops away.
‘Who did you say is getting married—which celeb?’
Exhale. Breathe. You can bear this. You have no choice, and you’re no longer lying to yourself.
‘Dylan Duffy, him that—’
‘Cleavage shots.’ I cut her off, the reminder neither necessary nor welcome as my hand grasps the back of a nearby chair. I find I’m nodding my head—exaggerated motions.
‘Did it say who—in your article?’
What if it’s her; the walking coat hanger? Could I stand to share my child with her, even for visitation rights?
‘Georgia What’s-her-face.’
Christ, it is her. On the surface, she’s overly perky and blonde, but underneath, she’s a stuck-up, condescending bitch. Her family is film royalty, which seems to have given rise to the development of a very high opinion of herself. Her dad’s a big shot producer and her grandmother is a famous actress from way back. Showbiz is a very L.A. thing; while in other towns and cities across the US, kids take piano lessons, play football, or become scouts, in LA, kids take acting and singing lessons as a matter of course.
‘Isn’t she, like, twelve or something?’
‘Twenty. He’s hardly an auld man himself.’ Nat scoffs, spinning the chair from under my hand and pressuring me backwards into it. ‘He’s only, like, twenty-seven.’ I don’t reply; of course, Nat would know exactly how old Dylan is. She probably knows his chest size and inseam measurement, too.
‘Twenty and married. Her PR will have a fit.’
‘It’s not gonna happen, Ivy,’ she replies, chuckling. ‘This is the rumour mill and the studios working.’
‘Yeah, I forgot. You think he’s gay.’
‘I might’ve, at one time, suggested she was his beard,’ she responds, the pieces of the cup chiming as they hit the bottom of the bin. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s a possibility. There are too many women he’s supposed to be shagging for them all to be legit. And he does dress so sharply. There’s something about him that’s just a wee bit too perfect, I’d say.’ The so many women bit pokes a tender spot, and I wonder if it’d be better or worse if he were gay. Maybe less painful than finding out he’s making plans to get married again. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘What? Oh, yeah,’ I respond, my mind still working on delay. He is a little too perfect, or at least, he was a little too perfect for me.
‘Ha! I knew it. You know him—and you know he’s bi! He couldn’t possibly be only gay—it would be a tragedy to womankind! And besides, there was the video.’
‘I didn’t say he was . . . I didn’t say any of that. I meant that—that it’s a possibility.’ My shoulders slump.
‘What’s a possibility; gay or bi?’
‘You’d have to ask him.’
‘Aye,’ she says, chuckling. ‘I’ll ask him next time he pops ‘round for tea. Speaking of which, you stay there, and I’ll make you another. Only, try to keep this one in the cup.’
‘Funny,’ I retort as she leaves the room. I stare at the dark tea stains on my
shoes again. I have no right to be feeling any of these things—
Hang on just a minute! I sit up, the weight on my chest suddenly lifting. He can’t get married while he’s still married to me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ivy
After that morning in the salon—the news and broken cup—I’d told myself I had to get over it. Swallow the shock of his moving on. Smother the hurt and misplaced sense of betrayal—I had no right to any of those emotions. My love for him didn’t owe me a damn thing, even if it was still there and as real as the tiny thing growing inside. And those hurtful feelings kept me warm for a time. Kept my insides burning. Until I let go. It wasn’t good for me, and it couldn’t be good for the baby, so I had to try. And I did—I let go of my anger and fear, but I didn’t let go of Dylan. We were linked forever, he and I. Even if he didn’t realise.
I told myself I’d wait a few weeks before sharing the news of my pregnancy with him. That a couple of weeks more wouldn’t hurt, and that it might even give me time to adjust. I didn’t want him to think I was some kind of crazy stalker—the kind of woman who’d fake a pregnancy when it had become obvious he’d moved on. And I was only two months in. I had lots of time. Most women keep their pregnancy under wraps until the third month anyway, don’t they?
But month three turned into month four, and still, I couldn’t bring myself to contact him. To swallow my pride. Month four ticked over then, and at twenty-one weeks, I felt the first flutter of movement. Had it happened before? It was hard to say.
‘Might be indigestion,’ Fin had said. I was staying with her in London; I’d made a point to visit her every few weeks by train. ‘I can’t feel anything.’ Her hand fell away, and she sat up quick, shooting me a strange look as she pulled away. ‘Maybe it’s wind.’