by Donna Alam
‘I think I’m familiar with the sensation,’ I’d replied, rather curt. ‘I am, after all, related to Mac.’ As it was, Mac had driven me to London that time. He’d had business there.
‘And how is Mac the man?’
‘He’s fine.’ I’d taken to calling him the Folic Acid Police behind his back, but I wasn’t repeating it to Fin. I know the pair spoke via phone regularly. Probably fussing over my future like a couple of auld women.
‘I wished you let me visit you next time.’
Yeah, like Mac would let her anywhere near Auchkeld. He’d become hell-bent on giving Fin’s ex a good thump because he still turns up almost every weekend. Like clockwork. He doesn’t come into the salon, though. Not anymore. He just hangs around the village almost like he lives there. Like, if he’s around, he’s bound to bump into Fin at some point. That one of us will take pity on him—weaken our resolve. But that’s not happening because we’ve made sure she’s not coming back until she’s no longer hurting.
‘I’ve told you, I enjoy the break. Not to mention you’ve your own doctor here.’ Bea, her roommate.
‘A fat lot of good she’ll be if you drop it while she’s working one of her gargantuan shifts. Honestly, I don’t know how she stays on her feet.’
‘Drop it? Do you think that’s all it’ll take? Clearly, you haven’t read the book I sent.’
‘Hey, don’t try to talk me out of this now—you said I could be your birthing partner. No givesies backsies, but I draw the line at delivering little Vlad by myself.’
My bump had become Vlad on account of the little bugger having sapped all the goodness out of me, according to June. I am tired all the time, but also according to June, my self-appointed doula, I’ll also be losing my teeth and my hair thanks to my pregnancy. Hence, my little bump had become a little vampire named Vlad.
And Vlad, rather than Vladimira because at my last scan I was told I was having a boy.
‘If I have to be there, so do you,’ was my retort. ‘And I’m fairly certain it’s not going to happen without me, and that little Vlad isn’t just going to fall out.’ I’d sighed, long and protractedly folded my hands over my barely-there bump. ‘They deserve medals.’
‘Vaginas?’ Fin’s face had scrunched. ‘But it’s nature at its best, and they’re kinda elastic, aren’t they? Treat her well, and I’m sure she’ll be fine.’
I shot her a look to convey my disgust. Tenfold.
‘Treat her well? Should I book us a spa day?’
‘Kegels,’ she’d answered with a sort of wide-eyed honesty. ‘According to Chapter Twelve, do them, and do them well, and she’ll bounce back.’ To add to the absurdity, she’d made a sort of vacuum motion with one hand.
‘I meant doctors, Fin. Doctors deserve medals.’ I’d sighed again, raising my eyes to the ceiling. ‘And I can’t think what would possess anyone to want to look up there.’
‘Look up where?’ Her eyes followed mine.
‘Not there! There.’ I’d tipped my head, gesturing to my lap. ‘What makes someone want to become an obstetrician?’
‘Hey, in that book, it mentions the possibility during birth of you poo—’
‘You’re banned,’ I said, holding up my hand. ‘Give me back the book. I’m booking a caesarean.’
So while I’d talked myself into it and then talked myself out of telling Dylan about the baby, I’d told those closest to me before the rest of the village seemed to have found out by themselves. It’s not like I put an advert in the window—I’d even been careful of my doctor’s appointments and stuff. Silly, I know, because it’s not something I’m able to hide indefinitely. But as June likes to say, if they’re gossiping about me, they’re leaving some other poor soul alone. I suppose I’m keeping the gossips well entertained even if no one ever asks me about my baby daddy because the news was just too shocking for delicate ears.
I’d kept my explanation simple; a one-night stand while I was in LA. Beyond the fact I didn’t know anything about him besides his name, what else was there to say? Nothing. No questions to ask, but I caught their glances. Pity from some, distaste from others. From my friends, I got none of that. Just acceptance and, lately, excitement on my behalf.
Mac insists on taking me to my appointments, which means I regularly get to explain he’s not Daddy, which is special. Really special. Natasha and June hold down the fort whenever I’m gone, and I’ve also taken on a first-year apprentice, which has lightened my load. Stacey’s not the brightest button in the box, but at least I don’t have to bend over the basin to wash hair anymore. I still see my clients while Ted takes care of his and any walk-ins. And despite their near-constant bickering, I know Nat and he are becoming firm friends.
Sort of like Mac and I; bickering buddies.
And Fin’s doing fine, too. Her job isn’t exactly rocket science, but it’s keeping her busy, and busy, as I know myself, leads to too tired to think. And that, my friends, is a blessing. I miss having her tucked up in the wee room next to mine. I miss tripping over her million pairs of designer shoes and her quick wit. I miss her teasing, though not her tears. After years of living in different countries, being around her again was like slipping on an old pair of fluffy slippers or a dressing gown. Just comfortable, you know? She says she’s fine, and we talk often, sometimes late at night. We both have those evenings when, no matter how busy the day has been, we can’t get our brain to switch off. We talk about work, the salon, and the crazy stuff Natasha says. And she’ll tell me about her bitch of a boss, but we don’t discuss the important stuff. And we certainly don’t mention husbands. We don’t talk men. When she says she’s fine, I stay quiet because I’m not sure she’s being honest. In fact, I know she’s not. Fine is a title that fits neither of us.
And in the meantime, with each day that passes, it gets more difficult to tell Dylan the truth. I mean how can I? Really? Georgia may not be my favourite person, but if he wasn’t with her, he’d be with someone else. Because he’s moved on. But their relationship is still new, and I can’t help think that, in telling him about our baby, I’d cause him more harm than good. Every time I catch a glimpse of them—pap shots, online, and in magazines—I can’t help but look at his smile. If she couldn’t handle the inclusion of our baby, I might be taking away the good from his life again. I worry that he might spiral into destructive ways again.
Drunk and falling out of nightclubs.
Snatching cameras from hands only to smash them.
Destroying hotel rooms.
That he wasn’t kicked out of the industry when we broke up is probably a testament to his talent. His transgressions were noted as the effects of being faced with sudden fame. That excuse wouldn’t work a second time. My news could ruin him, and I’m so conflicted. I know I must tell him—know it’s only right. But when should I tell him and how?
Do I obsess?
Are they getting married? Aren’t they? Is it just a publicity stunt?
Our marriage may be over—well, it will be in a few more months—but it’s hard to know what the future will bring. I’d passed our divorce over to the hands of the lawyer, Mr. Mackenzie the younger, who tells me I must wait until we’ve been apart a full year. I like to think that in the delay, Dylan may avoid making a second marital mistake. Georgia’s young and flighty, and her name is always linked to some actor or another, or maybe I’m just being unfair.
Or maybe I’m just beginning to think like a mother now.
Neither he nor his legal team have been in touch, which is strange. And while I’ve complained plenty about small village mentality and nosy people burrowing into my private business, it seems the notion is a double-edged sword because word on the high street is that the elder Mr. McKenzie has given out some not so sane legal advice lately on account of advancing dementia. It would explain the rubbish legal counsel he gave me. I’m not surprised his nephew didn’t share that news.
So Dylan is stuck with me for a while longer. At least, on paper. What choice do
I have? I can’t file under the original grounds—my adultery—and I refuse to allow Dylan to shoulder the blame. I won’t do it to him. I won’t let him martyr himself. What if, in the future, the news got out? What would an admission of adultery do to his career? Then add to it the appearance of abandoning a pregnant wife? His fans might forgive a secret marriage and a divorce. But a child? He worked so hard to get where he is; I won’t be responsible for damaging his career with the industry or his fans.
If I’d thought ignoring him and not pressing on with the divorce would force him to contact me, I’d be wrong. I know he never wants to see me again, but I guess that must extend to his legal team. I am, however, relieved that I don’t have to deal with it anymore because most days, I’m too exhausted to even think straight. I’m so tired. Tired from the hair on my head to the paint on my toenails.
But I work because of money. I read a little. Sometimes, I socialise. I stalk the pair on the internet. Sad but true. I buy all the magazines. They’re still being snapped—or pap’d—together, but there’s no sign of engagement rings or wedding dress shopping. There are just smiles—coy from her and bland from him—when the topic of their wedding comes up.
The celeb magazines are for the salon and are tax deductible, I tell myself . . . even as I buy armfuls of the ones that feature the pair. Occasionally, one or two images of them together might be used as targets in a game of darts. And sometimes, I might give Georgia a drawn-on beard or moustache. Sometimes hillbilly teeth and eyeglasses. It depends on what kind of mood I’m in.
No, I don’t think I obsess. It’s just a form of art therapy . . .
One thing’s for sure; I’ll be the first to buy the magazine carrying news on their breakup. Not that I’m willing that to happen. Okay, maybe I am. Just a smidge. I am only human, after all. And she’s so gorgeous, as is he. And sadly, I’m still in love with him. My feelings haven’t changed one bit for that man. Iconic, really. No, that’s not right . . . I’m sure this pregnancy is draining me of brain cells.
I don’t wish him ill, and I do want him to be happy.
No—really.
I do!
But maybe just alone. And celibate.
For him to take religious office on a tiny island somewhere.
An island of men.
What’s ironic—yes; that’s the one!—is that just an hour before I’d discovered he’d moved on, I’d convinced myself I had to see him—to tell him I love him. To apologise. To tell him about our baby. I was so sure the only path to take was the honest one. The thing is I still do . . . I just don’t know if I can.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ivy
Pregnancy makes a person tired, and that, my friends, is the understatement of the year. In my case, I’m not sure if it’s pregnancy hormones, or the fact that little Vlad is sapping my energy in favour of his internal growth spurts. And it’s not even a lack of sleep; I go to bed at a decent time and stay asleep until my alarm rings. I think what I have is dream fatigue because I have a brilliantly active dream sex life. Every night, I dream vividly, in technicolour—with emotions and sensations and everything. No prizes for guessing who has the starring role in these nocturnal sexy times.
I’m not sure if it’s the result of my pseudo stalking or wishful thinking that conjures him in my bed each night, and to be honest, I don’t really care. I’m not hurting anyone, and he isn’t cheating on his girlfriend with his wife. And it’s not my fault my sleep mind fancies him over Bradley Cooper these days.
So I sleep lots and dream plenty, and though I’m tired, I manage to wake with a smile on my face most days . . . and a hand down the front of my pyjama pants. It doesn’t take Freud to work out why. And there are worse ways to start the day, even if horny doesn’t begin to cover how I feel, because masturbation is nothing more than a helping hand. It’s not quite the real thing . . .
According to my pregnancy book, a mixture of progesterone and emotion might be responsible for my dream life.
‘Vivid dreams are quite common during pregnancy and can reflect both fear and anxiety; that is to say, both the excitement and apprehension regarding the physical and emotional changes your body is experiencing.’
It’s gone six o’clock, and the salon is closed as I close the cover of the book and, leaning around Natasha, place it on the shelf in front of the gilt-framed, floor-length mirror then pick up the plastic dish.
‘So,’ Nat begins, her pondering expression reflected back at me. ‘Your brain is either worried about your widening hips or the possibility of your kitty being left in tatters?’
Her face is a picture, or rather, her reflection is. Covered from neck to waist in the obligatory black cape, I’ve plastered her hair to her head and covered it with an ashy-coloured goop. Beauty is sometimes ridiculous. It’s a fact, and something we’re both very well-versed in.
Leaning forward, she picks up the book and flicks through it, freezing halfway through. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; why the fuck would they use a picture like that?’ Pages wide, she thrusts the book over her shoulder, open at a page depicting—
‘Ah, the miracle of childbirth.’
‘Looks more like something off Alien. It’s a wonder people ever have sex again! I see now why you’ve been dreamin’—that there is the stuff of nightmares.’
My own reflection shrugs as I paint the rest of the tint on her hair. ‘But I’m not having nightmares, am I? Still, it sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? What the book says—that my brain is working overtime while I’m sleeping? Sounds logical, right?’
‘Sounds daft,’ she scoffs. ‘Worried, I understand. But what you’re dreamin’ of makes no sense.’
‘It’s not like I get to choose.’ I can hear the harshness of my response and regret my tone almost immediately.
‘I ken that,’ she replies, unconcerned. ‘But even without the scary alien stuff’—she gestures to the book on her lap—‘wouldn’t a mind full of worry leave you dreaming of scary stuff? Of ghosties and ghoulies. Of being stuck in your own birth canal.’ I begin to laugh as her pale complexion suddenly takes on a similar hue to her hair. ‘Why the hell would you dream about being shagged senseless by the mighty aubergine—by Dylan dickalicious Duffy himself? Because you’re worried? It doesn’t make any sense; Brad’s your go-to cad.’
Yeah. Why would I be dreaming of Dylan over Bradley Cooper? It’s not like I’m worried about what I have to tell him. And it’s not as if I’m afraid of what he might say about my pregnancy.
‘It’s what the book says, and therefore, it’s the expert’s opinion,’ I reply instead.
‘Bollocks.’ And with that announcement, she claps the cover of the book shut.
‘All right, Confucius. Let me know when you’ve written a pregnancy book, and I’ll be sure to buy it.’
‘Confucius says, woman who wakes with sticky fingers—’
‘Stop!’
‘Craves cock,’ she finishes, ignoring my distress. ‘Plain and simple; your body needs a good shag.’
‘Well, then.’ I make a show of rubbing my small bump for effect. ‘I’d best get myself on the internet to see if I can find someone interested in tubbies.’
‘My arse. There’s barely a picking on you, other than you look like you might have swallowed a small, round ball.’ She eyes me critically through the mirror. ‘Your pregnancy body is a bit like an illusion—first you see it, and then you don’t.’
‘What are you blethering about?’
‘Sometimes, you don’t look pregnant at all. Depends on what your wearing. Maybe.’ I glance down at my black skinny jeans and loose peasant top. They’re my jeans. Pre-pregnancy ones. I’ve just got one of those belly bands over the top. ‘And,’ she adds, glancing quickly away, ‘now that the vomiting has stopped, your hair is fabulous, and your skin is all glowy and stuff. You smile more these days, too.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice is small on account of the lump I have in my throat. By the looks of it, she’s tearing up, too.
‘It suits you, this being up the duff,’ Nat adds a little more brusquely before her head comes up quickly. ‘I’d do you,’ she says, one ribald eyebrow raised. ‘I would if I was into muff. Anyway,’ she adds with a sniff, ‘it’s not the chubby chasers you need to find. Pregnancy sex has its own niche. There’s even dedicated porn.’
‘And,’ I reply, leaning over her shoulder to grab the timer from the shelf, ‘I think we’ll leave that conversation there.’
That evening, my dream life continues, and as I wake the following morning, I find dreaming hasn’t quite hit the spot. As usual, I wake with the image of him in my head, the taste of him against my lips, and the scent of myself against my fingertips. But it isn’t enough. This morning, I’m like an addict needing a fix. My skin feels almost too tight for my body—as though it can’t contain my need. I stare at the ceiling for precisely three breaths then I jump out of bed like a woman on a mission. Okay, maybe jump isn’t exactly the correct description. My baby bump is definitely small and sort of compact, but it’s still there. And whether hormones, fears, or little Vlad is the cause of my current craving, I have a plan.
My dreams might be hazy. Indistinct. But how I feel this morning is anything but. I might’ve loosened my grip on social media these days; I might allow myself viewing rights to my husband—pap shots of him grabbing coffee, and the magazine covers of him and Georgia looking red carpet fine—but there’s a whole host of stuff I haven’t watched. Stuff I thought I’d never watch again.
Our recordings. Yes, the very ones I’d deleted from my phone, laptop, and cloud. But I’ve refused to acknowledge the other copies. The ones lurking on an external hard drive in a box under my bed.
I know how seedy that sounds—like I’d stashed multiple copies of personal porn all over the place, but that’s not it. Not really. I just happen to have multiple copies according to the hardware used. No, not the vibratory kind of hardware. It’s just, sometimes Dylan recorded us with his phone—it might be a quick screw somewhere illicit or just unexpected. Or we might be at home when a simple kiss turned hot and heavy in the space of a breath. In those instances, a look would pass between us, something hot and implicit in its consent. And those following moments—those snapshots of moments, of me and of him—usually ended up on my phone immediately following.