Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  ‘Probably not.’ I glanced at a fresh sheet of admin costs typed out by Nige and placed plonk in the centre of my keyboard, presumably as a buttering up ploy.

  manning telephones

  office space and facilities

  sending questionnaires to callers

  keeping database

  organising dates

  writing letters, running copies

  sorting date cards, liaising with members to organise

  second dates

  collecting emails

  organising/running date nights

  business development, e.g. website

  PR and coordinating journalists

  Apparently, administration cost a breezy £400 per month, but then Nige hadn’t listed his own pay, or Claudia’s. Or the accountant’s. Or mine, to be fair. I could take a pay cut. I wasn’t exactly racking up bar bills at nightclubs or buying fur coats. That said, after my security binge Claudia had taken over liaising with our accountant, so I couldn’t spend Girl Meets Boy’s money, even if I’d wanted to. Our number of weekly applications was still low, however, so I was mildly curious as to why, on my return to work, I found that the bank had backed off. When I’d mentioned this to Claudia, she’d said, in a sarcastic way, ‘Yeah, lucky that.’ Whatever she’d meant to imply, I hadn’t pursued it.

  ‘Could we hire a temp?’ she said.

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘The last one pilfered about a hundred quid’s worth of stationery. And she never paid into the doughnut fund. We’ll manage on our own.’

  ‘Right,’ said Claudia.

  I peered at her. ‘You okay? You’re supposed to be in love. You look grey, no offence.’

  She smiled weakly, showing tips of vampire teeth. ‘Period pain. Ouch.’

  I nodded. The phone rang, Claudia answered it. I realised I was still nodding and that my pulse was breaking records. With effort, I stopped jerking my head. A series of airless gasps passed for breathing, no matter how deeply I gulped, I couldn’t seem to get oxygen to my lungs. I gripped the sides of the chair and heaved myself upright. I just about made it to the Ladies without falling flat. I splashed my face with cold water, stared bleakly into the mirror and tried to remember.

  When was the last time?

  I’ve never been a great fan of periods. I know some people make a great deal of them, the entire family going out to celebrate their baby girl’s first bleed. I can just imagine my father choking down a Bloody Mary in honour of the occasion. That said, Issy keeps a filed record of every date of every period she’s ever had. Any week of the month she can tell you the exact day of her cycle. Should you need to know. Me, I have them and forget about them. I usually sense when one is due because I catch myself being more disagreeable than usual. But since Stuart, my disagreeable streak had stretched over three months, putting my period radar out of action. Think, Holly, when was the last time?

  I must have had one since Stuart. I must have, because it would be too unfair if I hadn’t. I raked through the trivia to see if a memory presented itself. But no. I’d check my diary, see if it sparked any associations. The truth was, I hadn’t paid attention. After a Stuart, you don’t want to pay attention to your body and its functions. You prefer to kid yourself that it’s nothing to do with you. The more distance you can gain between your mind and it, the easier it is to minimalise the pain, until you could almost believe that it had happened to someone else. If I’d bled continuously for three months, I hardly think it would have registered.

  It couldn’t be Stuart’s. He’d worn a condom. But condoms split.

  I skittered into the office, grabbed my bag and skittered out again. I ran into the chemist and bought the first pregnancy testing kit I saw. I tried to look happy as I paid for it, in case the cashier formed any impertinent theories. Then I raced back to the office, dashed into the loo, and peed on the wretched thing. What was it, blue square? blue circle? I knew the instructions, I didn’t need to read them, what modern woman does at the age of thirty? I tried to look away, then look back but I didn’t have the self-control. As I stared, a faint blue line appeared and my heart peeled its skin in horror.

  Speaking for myself, you’re so used to false alarms, you never truly think that line will appear. So when it does you can’t quite believe it. I broke the habit of a lifetime and sat down on a public toilet. (The lid was on, at least). I didn’t want to start mewling but a few wails bubbled out. It was plain that God had taken a dislike to me. An unfortunate enemy to make, considering how childish He is. (‘You start something with Me, I’ll finish it, see how you like a plague of locusts, etc’ – what a brat.)

  If it was Stuart’s I was getting rid of it and send me to hell. My mind twitched to the flowers he’d sent me. I’d wanted to throw them out of the window, but I’d placed them in water instead. They were flowers, not the person who bought them. And when Issy had told me to stop watering the houseplants to teach Nick the lesson of responsibility, I couldn’t bring myself to let them die. You don’t nurture something then kill it. But this was different. But how? Was I putting an innocent to death to pay for Stuart’s crime? It wouldn’t have consciousness at this stage. It was a foetus. And I believed in choice. But I also remembered what Pamela Fidgett had said to Nick.

  Nick had told her he felt he must have done something wrong, for his mother to give him away. He must have been a bad, evil sort of baby, for her to abandon him. Pamela had said, ‘I challenge you to look into any pram and pick out an “evil” baby. How evil can a baby be?’ She’d made Nick feel much better. But considering her words made me feel worse. Was it a blob or a baby at this stage? My choice. My choice, no one else’s business. Jesus. What if it were Nick’s? I scraped my hair out of my face, and held my head in my hands, probably to prevent it from exploding. It was much more likely, even if I did blush at the fact there was a father shortlist.

  I still had to remind myself that one of them hadn’t given me a choice.

  I stepped out of the Ladies and wandered slowly back to the office. It had to be Nick’s. I didn’t deserve for it to be Stuart’s. What would Nick say when I told him? I wanted to get back with him, I had to admit it. It would be so cosy and safe – me, him and a baby. Our own little family unit. He’d want that too, I knew he would. He needed me now, more than he did before. Now, he’d appreciate me. A baby. Once you have one, you can’t put it back. Then again, look at Nick’s birth mother. He’d be thrilled, I was sure of it. By becoming parents ourselves, we’d be sloughing off all the crap that had gone before. Making a fresh start.

  I didn’t want to consider that Nick might not be thrilled to hear of his impending fatherhood. I tried not to remember that when Issy told Frank that she was pregnant, his reaction was to vacuum the entire house, in silence, for three hours. Not quite what Issy had been hoping for. But, I reassured myself, now Frank was a devoted dad, an outspoken champion of parenthood. If Nick was a little taken aback at first, he’d soon come round. I also tried not to remember that while Nick loved entertaining other people’s children, he always returned from parties, slumped on the sofa, gestured around the room, and whispered, ‘Silence.’

  ‘You’re the one who looks grey,’ said Claudia, the second I walked in. (She likes to have the last word on insults.)

  ‘I’m fine,’ I muttered. I could have done without this observation. When you’re struggling to keep your house of cards from collapse, you don’t appreciate so-called friends huffing and puffing. The tiny, ever-shrinking part of my brain devoted to realism suspected that Nick would be appalled beyond belief. Of course I couldn’t entertain such a possibility because then how would I cope? I was finding it hard enough to cope with my own doubts. It had been proved that I couldn’t look after myself – how could I be trusted to look after a baby?

  Recently, when I stroked Emily and she responded by rolling on her back and showing me her belly (quite the biggest compliment you can receive from a cat), I found myself looking forward to her death. I loved her so much, it se
emed the safest option. I wanted her to have a happy life and die quickly, before anything horrible happened to her. I knew this was an odd line of reasoning. I also knew the fierce, consuming love that most babies inspire in their mothers and – judging from what I could feel about a cat – I worried about the terror it would bring. With the world in the state that it was, how could you dare to love another being so much that your life depended on it?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated.

  ‘Good,’ replied Claudia, ‘because I’ve got something to tell you that will make you feel even finer.’

  Really. ‘Go on then.’

  Claudia beamed. ‘We made a match. Sam and Bernard have resigned their membership.’

  My jaw dropped. (It’s amazing how, when you’re experiencing disbelief, that this actually happens.) ‘But,’ I squeaked, ‘how could they? God, they love Girl Meets Boy!’

  Claudia’s smiled drooped. She looked confused. ‘Er, Hol. That’s what members do when they find love. They resign their membership.’

  I could feel the fear rise. We needed people like Sam and Bernard. I didn’t care if Nige said they had radio faces. We needed their sweet natures. We needed their membership fees. And, despite my attempts to be normal, I still needed to keep everyone safely single. How could I run a dating agency if my instinct now opposed the very point of it?

  ‘Claudia, do you know for certain that they’ve got together?’

  ‘They rang within twenty minutes of each other. They were coy, but it was obvious.’

  I hardly heard her. I was sunk in gloom. I’d failed. I’d failed on every count. I’d botched my life good and proper. I trusted Stuart, the Big Bad Wolf, I ditched Nick, the Frog Prince, and I couldn’t manage a business. You know, I bet the baby wasn’t Nick’s. And even if it was, he’d hate me for burdening him with a child. I might as well face it. He still was a child. And I was an idiot. An incompetent fool. Only I could end up being sued for damages by my own rapist.

  Funny. Once upon a time I was a strong, confident woman. I was the do-it-herself princess who didn’t need a prince. Now I had to have him to prop me up.

  I sat down in my executive chair, and crossed my legs. ‘Claudia,’ I said. ‘I’m going to give you first refusal. I’m selling Girl Meets Boy. I’m sure you’ll understand. I’ve had enough.’

  Chapter 31

  AS CLAUDIA STARTED to say all the stuff you say to people who are poised on a window ledge, I decided to tell her about the pregnancy. Not because I wanted her to know, but because I didn’t have the strength to engage in an argument with a clever person and I hoped it would shut her up. Having a kid was a marvellous excuse to jack in the business, even if it wasn’t the real one. Now her mouth fell open.

  ‘It’s Nick’s,’ I said, before she could ask.

  Most people would have cried, ‘Congratulations!’ but Claudia wasn’t most people. ‘Are you sure it’s his? When did you, er? Shouldn’t he take a paternity test? Or won’t a gynaecologist tell you how many weeks it is? And are you sure this is a good idea? Don’t you need to spend a bit more time sorting your head out? Would you be having it for the right reasons? It shouldn’t just be a distraction. Are you and Nick back together? Does he know yet?’ She finished up with, ‘Well, if you are having a sprog, all the more reason to stick with your business and make it work. You need money to raise a child.’

  Like lemon juice finds a paper cut, that was Claudia. I snapped my bag shut, dragged my coat off the back of the chair, and replied, ‘Ring Issy, ask her to cover. Find a temp. I don’t care. If you want me, I’ll be at home.’

  As I flounced from the office, Claudia yelled after me, ‘Fine, but I’m going to have to tell Issy about Stuart, because I can’t keep up this charade any longer, I’ve run out of excuses for you.’

  I turned and screamed, ‘Tell her everything, see if I care, tell Nige, tell Rachel, tell them all, let them speculate about how it was just a shag but it fucked me up anyway, I don’t give a shit!’

  I glimpsed Claudia framed in the doorway, shock on her pale face. Sun streamed in from the window, lighting the edges of her hair, a dark angel. ‘Holly,’ she said – and I had to strain to hear – ‘they are your real friends and they would never doubt you. Please have faith. Not everyone is as cruel and unkind as Stuart.’

  Claudia was as good as her word and told all three of them, because on Wednesday, Rachel sent me flowers. White roses. I put them in a glass vase and stared at them. If your life is a pigsty, white roses in a glass vase are – superficially – the answer. The very fact there are white roses in a glass vase in your house creates the illusion that everything is under control. Look, they say, I have the time, money and peace of mind to purchase the beautiful and superfluous. I tried to think what else they might say. White, the colour of innocence. The card read, ‘Dearest, precious Holly, I am so, so sorry’.

  Naturally, I was screening my calls and I felt tragic doing it. She also rang, but I didn’t pick up even though I knew I should thank her for the roses. I still felt rage towards her – she was almost definitely screwing my brother-in-law – I couldn’t send her white roses. Nige rang too, sounding shaken. I wondered if he really was appalled or if he were acting. I’ve always wondered this about actors. If Tom made Nicole cry, how did he know it was for real? How did she know it was for real if he had a tantrum? Obviously with, say, Stallone, there wouldn’t be a problem. Nige also wrote me a letter in velvety black ink on thick cream notepaper about what a special person I was, begging me not to let this destroy me.

  Destroy? I thought, admiring his jagged calligraphy, like rows of daggers on the page. A bit overdramatic, wasn’t it? It was one thing, me believing that I was doomed to poverty and misery. It was quite another thing my friends agreeing with me. Issy actually came round, ringing the doorbell, then – when I didn’t answer it – bursting into a storm of tears, walking in a small, furious circle, drying her eyes and ringing again. I watched her, with curiosity, from the upstairs window. She was always aloof, our eldest sister, as if whatever Claudia and I got up to was child’s play. Even her attitude to Girl Meets Boy had been coolly condescending. It surprised me, that the Stuart thing would rouse her to emotion. She was so accustomed to maintaining a professional distance, and half her clients had been through far worse than I had (the proof being that they were all bonkers). Surely, to her, my little mishap was piffle.

  I couldn’t even bear to face Nick, although I was slightly peeved that he’d only rung once since our date. (I’d been too lacklustre to return his call and he hadn’t called again.) He’d have to ring more when I told him the news. I spent three days thinking, ‘I’m pregnant. Great! Oh shit. Great! Oh shit. Great! Oh shit . . .’ I found this new state extremely effective in overriding my other concerns. You cop-out, said a small voice from somewhere in my head, but I disallowed it. Pregnancy was my ticket to an easy life. Are you crazy? said the voice. It was, though. It would guarantee me Nick’s adoration, and if Stuart did sue it would give me the sympathy vote in court. It would permit me to bail out of Girl Meets Boy with minimum hassle from friends and family. It would wipe me from the radar of sexual predators. It was the best mistake I’d ever made.

  I also spent more time than is healthy scrutinising my stomach in the mirror. Despite swearing that I wouldn’t lose weight, I’d dropped at least two stone in the last few months. Nick was right, it didn’t suit me. It was more the glandular fever than Stuart, but I still objected to it on principle. When Gloria rang the doorbell in Gloria-code – tring tring tring! (she always rang these days, even though she had a key) – I told her the house was spotless, would she mind if we went food shopping instead?

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  I frowned at her sharp little face. ‘I have sick leave.’

  ‘You’ve had sick leave.’

  ‘Gloria,’ I said, wondering how she dared wear stonewashed drainpipe jeans and walk the streets, ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘When
was the last time you went to the supermarket by yourself?’

  ‘Why is this relevant?’

  ‘When, Holly?’

  ‘Jesus! I don’t know! Three months ago, okay?’

  She pushed her hair from her eyes. ‘Can I ask, did the police offer you counselling?’

  I tutted. ‘Yeah, yeah, they recommended people.’

  ‘And did you take it up?’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, Gloria, leave it. I don’t have time, I’m sick to death of talking about it, thinking about it, it’s over, I just want to be normal again.’

  ‘Right. And that’s why you need me to chaperone you to Tesco.’

  ‘Just forget it then!’ I screeched.

  I stamped down the garden path, jammed my key into the ignition and roared off to Marks & Spencer. (If I was going to face crowds, it would have to be a slow acclimatisation. I assumed that M&S food hall – more posh and more expensive than Tesco – would be frequented by a genteel class of customer who’d keep their distance. I was mistaken; they were like a pack of starving wolves.) The sweats began as I drove into the car park. It took me ten minutes to leave the car. I took a basket and started dumping fruit and vegetables in it. As I stared at the shelves, people hovered close behind me, forcing me to dart away, glaring. I lost sight of the doors and couldn’t get a full breath. I had to heave so hard my lungs hurt. I trembled and wanted to run, but too bad, I had to feed the blob.

  Forty-five minutes later, I staggered up the garden path, the weight of the bags cutting into my fingers and stretching my arms at least a couple of inches. I could still feel my heart racing, but altogether the experience hadn’t been as horrendous as my imagination had drawn it. Supermarket shopping was, I decided, do-able. It wasn’t like the tube, where the black walls of suits closed in on you and there really was no escape. Gloria said nothing when she saw the bags. She kept scrubbing the oven, but I could sense a smug aura. Only after she left, did I see the note on the table. It was an email address, in Gloria’s rather painful handwriting. She’d mispelled words like ‘cousin’ and ‘recommend’. I stuck it in the nearest drawer. Gloria had had one triumph with me that day, two would be overdoing it.