The bagpiper walked across the room and Helen’s attention was snared.
‘I’m going to enjoy unpleating his kilt,’ she purred. ‘I’m going to fix my make-up.’
‘Me too.’ Sophie stood, brushing canapé crumbs from her lap.
‘You don’t wear make-up.’ Douglas looked at Sophie as though seeing a different person.
‘Well, I’m going to start. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change.’ She pointed to the floor by Douglas’s foot. ‘Hand me my purse.’
‘You don’t have a purse.’
‘Then –’ Sophie glanced self-consciously at Charlie and lowered her voice ‘– just hand me the plastic bag with all my stuff.’ She jabbed at the floor. ‘Right there.’
Frowning, Douglas picked up the bag and handed it to Sophie.
‘Thank you.’ She spun on her purple Converse and disappeared into the throng of cheery mourners.
‘FERDINAND!’ Mum stood at the other side of the room gesturing wildly in our direction. A captivated group of white-haired ladies surrounded her.
‘I’m being summoned. Her Royal High-heel-ness looks like she’s about to be granny-bashed. Sweetheart, we’ll talk properly later.’ Charlie kissed my forehead then wove his way back through the crowd.
‘Ferdinand?’ Douglas said. ‘I thought you said his name was Charlie?’
‘It is.’
‘Right.’ Douglas scratched his chin. ‘But your mother just called him Ferdinand.’
‘Charlie proposed to Mum years ago and Mum declined, saying she could never be “Charles and Diana”. It was bad luck, and too weird.’
‘Because of Prince Charles and Princess Diana?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I see . . .’ Douglas didn’t really see.
‘Mum said she’d only consider marrying him if he changed his name – knowing he was never going to do that.’
‘Right.’ Douglas furrowed his brows.
‘Anyway, now she calls him every name in the Biggest Book in the History of all Names Ever except Charlie. Charlie keeps proposing, Mum asks him his name, he says Charlie, and she turns him down again.’
‘That’s . . . weird,’ Douglas said, gazing over at my mother with her arms round Charlie’s waist.
‘I’m so used to it now I don’t even think about it. He’s Charlie to me and he’s Hans, Reginald, Moses or whatever to Mum.’
‘He doesn’t mind?’
‘Nah. He knows the real reason. After all the crap with my dad, Mum will probably never marry again. It’s become rather mundane, really.’
‘I think it’s romantic,’ Douglas said.
We looked over at Mum and Charlie. Charlie’s arm was wrapped round my mother’s waist. She was grinning at him as he entertained the gathered grannies.
‘I just realised something!’ Sophie plopped down on the sofa next to Douglas. ‘I can be your birth partner!’ She fizzed with expectancy.
Douglas clamped his lips together and shot me a wide-eyed look of amusement tinged with alarm.
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ I recoiled at the thought of Sophie chittering, singing and bounding round the room, dropping stuff and getting tangled in my gas and air pipe.
‘I can totally do it. I helped out with calving as soon as I was tall enough to reach in.’ She stood and made a rummaging motion with an outstretched arm.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning the children launched themselves out of bed to discover ‘Santa’ had filled their stockings incorrectly. Alice’s doll accessories were in Jess’s stocking, Jess’s popgun and mini basketball hoop were in Alice’s stocking, Archie’s tugboat was in Millie’s stocking and Archie’s stocking was lost. But, to my credit, they all got a clementine. Original Santa had had too much champagne at the wake and crashed out on top of the bedclothes in her loafers at 9 p.m. Santa Standby had collapsed next to her at approximately 9:04 p.m., and Santa Last Resort was still on the whisky lamenting how the mottled Tabby threw out the colour equilibrium of her living room.
A quick explanation that St Nick had probably left his glasses at home therefore couldn’t read the names on the stockings satisfied the youngsters, and the hung-over adults (except me) found solace in a strong coffee on the sofa.
After an hour of staring into our mugs, Mum clapped her hands together and insisted we start Christmas Day over with a better attitude. Grandma would not have wanted us moping in her honour. (I personally was moping in honour of a few additional details: pregnant, jobless, skint and single, but kept it to myself.) Mum made the executive decision that ‘hair of the dog’ was the only way forward and made the next round of coffees Irish (except mine). We put ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’ on repeat, Sinead put dark glasses on and we handed out gifts in a much cheerier mood.
‘You need to make more of an effort, Emma,’ Mum said in response to my look of alarm at my Christmas present, a turtlenecked poncho thing that was undoubtedly enormously fashionable but had buckle-y things round the neck, a complicated drapey front bit, tie-up sides and was something I was sure would take at least five minutes to get into. ‘You should not merely look in the mirror before you leave the house and think “all essential bits are covered – I’m ready to go”. I do not accept your fashion mantra “at least I’m not naked”.’ She smiled and began unwrapping my gift to her: a scarf knitted by Sophie’s great-aunt.
‘I don’t have a fashion mantra,’ I said, dodging Jess’s mini-basketball.
Mum looked up sharply.
‘And I don’t always look in the mirror before I leave the house.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You actively try to wound me. It’s just plain cruel.’
Jess clambered over the sofa, knocking Tabby to the floor and spilling Sinead’s coffee.
‘Jesus, Jess!’ Sinead said, righting her mug. ‘Calm the feck down!’ She stomped out of the room.
I put the poncho thing to the side. ‘It’s beautiful, Mum. Thank you.’ I gave it a stroke of reverence for her benefit. ‘And it will be quite practical as I get bigger. Once I figure out how it works.’
‘Well, obviously I didn’t buy it with pregnancy in mind, seeing as it’s unplanned and all,’ she said, throwing me a look of disapproval. She pulled her gift free of the wrapping and examined it for labels.
‘Daddy.’ Archie walked across the room with Sinead’s giant hamper of Montezuma chocolates. ‘Can I please have a chocolate?’
‘I’m not sure, actually,’ Uncle Mike said, leaning forward in the chesterfield to be level with Archie’s face. ‘You see, I’m still a little unhappy when I think about how you broke Alice’s new toy.’
Alice glanced up from her neatly sorted new toys with a downcast expression.
‘Well,’ Archie placed a hand on his father’s wrist, ‘why don’t you think about something I haven’t bwoken so you can be happy?’
Sinead came back into the room with a cloth, grabbed the chocolates and declared them ‘adults only’. Mum attempted to help herself to one and Sinead backtracked, announcing that seeing as she shared everything else in her life she wasn’t going to share the fucking chocolates. She stepped back and trampled Alice’s recently repaired toy. Alice burst into tears, Uncle Mike and Sinead dropped to the floor to calm her, Jess’s ball flew past again and Archie and Mum took the opportunity to swipe a chocolate from the unattended hamper. In the melee I received a text.
I’m outside.
Ned.
‘I’m just going to . . .’ I stood, took in the chaos and realised none of them would notice my absence, so I pulled on my coat and slipped out the front door.
Ned’s mother’s Volvo estate was at the end of the lane. He drove forward and pulled up at the kerb. The passenger window lowered and I bent down.
‘Hi,’ Ned said with a tentative smile. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I said, the edge in my voice making his smile falter.
Ned was mad about Christmas and had always made a huge fuss. Decora
tions were up on the first of December; cookies and beer were left out for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve; I’d wake to an overstuffed stocking and a huge mound of thoughtful presents under the tree (bought with money borrowed from his mother – Ned was adamant I was not to fund my own Christmas presents). He’d play carols all day, roast chestnuts and make sure everyone tried the mulled wine he’d been perfecting the whole of December. Some years we’d have our Christmas Days apart from each other, but I always knew I’d be going back to a toasty flat, a pile of festive-themed DVDs and one last ‘surprise’ gift at the very end of the day. Despite my fury at him clearing my bank account, I’d been missing his infectious excitement.
‘Sorry, I just – I wanted to bring you your presents,’ Ned said, reaching to the back seat. ‘I had them yesterday at the funeral but, well, your mum scared the shit out of me.’
He passed a supermarket bag full of wrapped presents through the open window.
‘You didn’t have to,’ I said, feeling awkward.
‘I know.’ He shrugged. ‘But I wanted to.’
‘I left yours at the flat,’ I said, trying to remain emotionless even though a sadness was creeping in. ‘You can let yourself in and get them if you like. They’re at the back of the wardrobe.’
‘OK, cool,’ Ned said. ‘Thanks.’
We looked at each other, cautious and unsure how to behave.
‘Well, I’d better go back in . . .’
‘Oh, hang on.’ Ned reached into the back seat again, then passed a small box through the window. ‘That’s . . . that’s for the baby.’
‘The baby?’
I looked from the small box to his sincere face. Yes, he was an irresponsible man-boy who’d spent every penny I had on yet another pipe dream when we’d only just found out we were going to be having a baby, but he was also one of the sweetest people I knew. Had I made a mistake breaking up with him? Was I depriving my unborn child of a constantly present, kind-hearted, indulgent father, or was I protecting it from a life of instability? Ned reddened under my gaze.
I indicated the box. ‘Can I . . .?’
Ned smiled. ‘Of course.’
I opened the lid. Inside lay a tiny silver tankard with patterns etched around the side. I pulled it out and twisted it round, examining the delicate engravings. It was no bigger than a plum and was just about the loveliest thing I had ever seen.
‘Ned, it’s beautiful.’
‘I got it on eBay,’ he said shyly. ‘So the baby and I can have our first beer together.’
I smiled and bobbed my head, biting back tears. ‘Sounds like a good plan.’
Ned beamed.
Just then the front door flew open and Mum marched out followed by Tabby.
‘Oh, shit!’ Ned said. ‘Bye!’ He threw the Volvo into gear, squealed the tyres and screeched down the road.
‘DON’T THINK I WON’T GET YOU, YOU ROBBING GINGER BASTARD!’ Mum yelled at the fleeing vehicle.
‘Mum, shut up!’ I said, checking the neighbours’ windows for curtain twitches.
The car screeched to a halt and suddenly it was reversing back towards us in an uncontrolled wobbly line.
‘THAT’S IT, YOU SPINELESS SHITHEAD, COME BACK HERE AND FACE UP TO WHAT YOU’VE DONE!’
‘Mum!’
Ned bounced the large car over the kerb and came to an abrupt halt at our feet. A handful of gifts came flying through the open passenger window and tumbled to the ground as Mum made a grabbing motion for his wing mirror.
‘For Archie and the girls!’ Ned shouted, and he threw the car into gear, jolted off the kerb, hurtled down the tiny street and almost drove on two tyres as he disappeared round the bend.
‘I’LL GET YOU!’ Mum hollered after him. ‘AND WHEN I DO—’
‘Oh, no,’ I said, looking at the spot on the kerb where Ned’s tyres had been.
Mum turned to where I was looking and gasped. ‘Tabby!’
‘So what did you do with the body?’ Alex asked, her pixilated hand popping a bhaji into her mouth.
‘Buried her in one of Mum’s giant pot plants.’ I shifted on my bed and got under the covers. ‘She cried a lot, even though she’d been complaining that Tabby doesn’t match her wallpaper.’
‘Poor Mum,’ Alex said with genuine sympathy.
‘Alice made a cross out of branches. The kids hung baubles on it and sang “Hail, Holy Queen”, the Sister Act version.’
‘Aw, sweet.’
‘The soil was pretty frozen, though. We couldn’t dig deep enough, so after the kids went inside Uncle Mike dug her up again and put her in the freezer. He’s going to take her home and bury her in the garden.’
‘What a weird Christmas,’ Alex said with a snort.
‘Yeah, and then Sinead got drunk again and gave me a detailed speech on life after childbirth and motherhood.’
‘And?’
‘Apparently my nipples are going to be so enlarged after breast-feeding that a casual nipple tweak will be more like turning a doorknob.’
‘Nice.’
‘I will pee myself if I try running, sneezing, trampolining, laughing – basically anything more energetic than sleeping.’
Alex chortled and jammed in another bhaji.
‘And apparently if I have sex while I’m still breast-feeding my nipples may spurt milk when I orgasm.’
‘So no sex for you for a while.’
‘Not ever, probably. But you know, I quite like the songs from Sister Act, so maybe I’ll forget sex and men and become a singing nun.’
‘Glad to see you have realistic plans afoot. I’ll stop worrying about you.’
‘Oh yes. Definitely stop worrying. Here, I’ll give you a little preview: “Triumph all ye Cherubim, CHERUUUUBIIIIM . . . Sing with us sweet Seraphim, SERAPHIIIIIM . . .” ’
‘HEAVEN AND EARTH RESOUND OUR HYMN!’ Alex bellowed.
Fifteen minutes later I switched off the light and lay down with the tune in my head and a smile in my heart.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Darling.’ Mum and Charlie arrived in front of me wearing white sporting attire, racket bags slung over their shoulders. ‘Aloysius and I are going to play badminton.’
Charlie kissed me on the forehead. I smiled up at him from my prone position on the sofa.
‘’K.’
‘Why don’t you come and be line ref? You’ll have to stand on Elmer’s side’ – Mum threw a thumb in Charlie’s direction – ‘he tends to cheat.’
‘I’m not the one who needs to take two rackets.’
‘It happened once and you were cheating.’ Mum turned back to me, taking in the slovenly clutter on her coffee table. ‘Well? Interested, darling? You haven’t been out of the house for a week.’
‘Nah.’ I tossed my magazine to the floor. ‘I’m gonna watch a movie.’
Charlie tried to lead Mum away. She didn’t budge.
‘How do you intend to lose the baby weight?’
‘Via some kind of montage.’
‘Montage?’ Mum said, her tone suspicious.
A smile twitched at the corners of Charlie’s mouth.
‘Yeah, you know, I start off overweight and miserable in a dirty tracksuit with a crying, snot-encrusted baby. My hair will be greasy, my skin spotty. There’ll be shots of me doing laundry and a couple of me bickering with my nagging mother.’ I shot Mum a glance. She was not impressed.
‘Then I’ll see a picture in a magazine of a hot young mother and her cute baby standing next to a guy with organised stubble and white teeth. A few bars of a ballad by Kenny Loggins ring out and determination will set in. As the music gathers pace, I’ll struggle a sit-up or two, then all of a sudden I’m swathed in Lycra, running in slow motion through Hyde Park, teeth whitened, hair highlighted, boobs so perky they’re almost a shelf, pushing my baby in an ergonomic, kinetically engineered, completely compostable three-wheeler. Men turn their heads away from their pouting model girlfriends to appreciate the loveliness that is me.’
Charli
e laughed but stopped at Mum’s sharp look.
‘Very funny,’ she said.
‘I thought so.’
‘Come on, our court booking’s in fifteen minutes.’ Charlie winked as he herded Mum away by her arm. ‘I’ll let you win. And you can save that spare racket for next time.’ The front door opened.
‘Let me win . . . Honestly Marvin, you’ve never won in your life.’ Mum’s voice carried from outside.
‘I’m a winner every day because I have you, my princess.’
‘Yech.’
The door slammed.
What was it about moving back into your parent’s house that made you regress to an obnoxious teenager-like state? After realising that financially I had no other option, I’d given up my flat, packed up my stuff and moved into my childhood bedroom. I’d spent the past few weeks moving from room to room in my pyjamas, drinking cups of tea or calling/texting/skyping Alex in Dhaka. Mum had put money into my account with the strict condition that I was to get every last penny back from that thieving impregnator (her words, not mine). After putting in a few calls where Ned had spluttered excuses or talked zealously about vast and unrealistic profit margins for a Moscow Mule-flavoured ice cream, I’d lost the willpower to argue. And I flatly refused to call the police on him as Mum had suggested. I’d have to find another way of paying her back.
New Year’s Eve had been a particularly sobering event. Sophie, Helen and I had gone out for dinner with some of Helen’s workmates then club-hopped round Shoreditch and Hoxton. I’d watched, sober and with increasing exhaustion, as Helen and Sophie threw back cocktails and danced while Helen’s workmates stood around in their angular clothing, adjusting their clear glass specs, looking wearied and unaffected. I’d gone home with the realisation that my life was changing and that I had to get on and find my new place in the world. For lack of a better offer, that new place turned out to be in front of daytime TV in my pyjamas at my mother’s house.
I lifted my pyjama top and ran my fingers over my belly. At sixteen weeks it was now a pleasing taut-skinned little bump. I hadn’t felt the baby move yet but the pregnancy books assured me it could be any day. There’d been a couple of occasions when I thought I’d felt something. I’d even gathered family round, getting them to place their hands on the tiny rise, but those gurgly ripples always preceded a large and rushed posterior offload (and disgusted looks from the dispersing family), so I was still waiting for my baby to make itself physically known.
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 8