I nodded.
‘Everything you did was for us.’ He blinked, his eyes sincere. ‘And while I may not always have shown it, I knew it. I’d never have come this far without you.’ He shrugged, like giving away a third of your business was no big deal.
I chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
‘We’re small now,’ he continued, ‘but we’re getting bigger.’
‘Every flavour will be stocked in Selfridges by Christmas and the vans are all booked for this festival season and next!’ Sophie interjected, a near-hysterical squeal threatening the edges of her voice.
‘And we have this meeting set up in a month, but next year we’re going to . . .’ Ned turned to Sophie.
‘We’re, um, taking it to . . .’ Sophie started, and then became interested in her fingernails.
‘We’re going to . . .’ Ned tried again.
‘To New York?’ I said.
Ned bit his lower lip. ‘Yeah.’ He reddened and dropped his gaze to the floor again. I felt an overwhelming and unexpected sense of loss. Ned was moving on.
But so was I.
I blinked away a threatening tear. ‘That’s . . . that’s really great, Ned,’ I said.
A smile spread across his open, harmless face.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m really proud of you.’ I held out my free hand. Ned stepped forward and took it in both of his. Sophie sniffed and searched for a tissue in her bag, dropping various items including a box of coloured pencils, tampons, a whistle, craggy balls of paper and a mitten, even though it was July and mid-heatwave.
‘God give me strength,’ Helen groaned. She plucked a crisp handkerchief from Douglas’s shirt pocket and thrust it at Sophie. ‘You’re leaking from every-fecking-where.’
At that moment Jess decided to try a twisting flying kick that went horribly sideways and booted the doll from Alice’s hand. It flew across the room and got Millie right in the mush. Alice’s squeal was piercing. Dixie gave a start in my arms. Millie sucked in the amount of air that meant a spectacular scream was imminent. Jess tried to make it all better by trying again.
‘Jess! Enough!’ Sinead stood and jiggled the bucking, inhaling Millie.
‘But Muuuum, Mr Fantasma said I needed to practise if I wanted to go pro.’
‘Mr Fantasma is a fleecing bastard.’
‘Sinead!’ Uncle Mike glanced shamefaced at Douglas. Jess burst into tears.
A large-bosomed nurse poked her head round the door. ‘Visiting hours finish in fifteen minutes.’ She glowered at the three bawling children.
‘Jesus.’ Mum adjusted her handbag and spoke over the din. ‘Shall we give Ned and Emma a moment?’
She bustled everyone from the room. Everyone except Joe, who slept through the demonstration of bedlam my family was exceptionally proficient in.
‘What the hell?’ Sinead muttered while stepping into the corridor. ‘Ned has a successful business? I can’t fucking process that.’
‘Sinead, language,’ Uncle Mike implored.
‘I always thought he was destined for something,’ Sophie declared.
‘I always thought he was destined for low-level drain maintenance,’ Mum replied.
The door shut and in the subsequent silence I gave Ned a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry about them.’
‘It’s OK,’ he smiled his warm, everything’s-just-fine-and-dandy-shall-we-order-pizza-you-can-choose-the-toppings smile. The sparkly-eyed, safe one I’d fallen in love with five years earlier.
‘I was in love with you, not your family.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘Although they do get under your skin somehow.’
I looked down at Dixie. The two-hour-old innocent product of an already broken home. I hoped she’d grow up normal and not psycho killer-y.
‘What happened to us?’ I asked. ‘We used to be so . . . in love.’
‘I did love you. So much.’ He smiled. ‘I still do.’ He looked across the room to Joe. ‘And, I think, so does someone else.’
‘What?’ I turned towards the sleeping figure in the corner then back to Ned, my expression demanding clarification.
He nodded. My mind raced. I still held his hand, as if letting go would be the final indication that life was turning out very, very different to what I had prearranged when I was twenty-two and knew absolutely everything. How very dare it. The quiet, hand-gripping moment became uncomfortable. I remembered Sophie outside the room and let go. Ned smiled and looked at Dixie, the space between his ginger eyebrows pleating with apprehension. I angled her towards him. His hands twitched and I sensed his breath quicken.
‘Why don’t you hold her?’ I said.
Ned’s face dropped. ‘Oh, I—’ He took a quick step back, fastening his arms to his sides. ‘I probably shouldn’t. I’ve . . . I’ve . . .’ He inched back towards the door. ‘I haven’t washed my hands and—’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Here, just take her.’
‘She needs her rest, she looks whacked. You look whacked. Although not bad, not ugly or anything, you look lovely. A bit sweaty, but—’ He backed into the wall and stumbled.
‘Jesus, Ned. She’s your daughter! You have to hold her at some point.’
‘I will, I will. It’s just, I – I’ve been sneezing a lot lately and . . .’ His face set in a serious expression and he commenced authoritative nodding. ‘And I think I might have been near some Ebola the other day.’ He opened the door. ‘But you . . . I’ll be . . . I’ll get checked out at the clinic and if the Ebola comes back . . .’ He did the thumbs up. ‘Then I’m – I’ll definitely – that’s when I’ll . . .’ He stopped in the open doorway and dropped the act, his arms flopping heavily at his sides like one of Grandma’s crocheted and politically insulting Golliwogs.
‘Ned, please?’
He searched my face with troubled eyes, then hung his head. ‘I have to go and check on Sophie.’ He mumbled and left, shutting the door behind him.
Dixie snuffled. ‘That’s Daddy,’ I said to her serene face. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’ Her tiny lips pursed. The sweetness of her was unbearable. I watched, captivated by the simple and unbelievably boring-for-anyone-else action of my baby modifying her lip position. She snuffled again then settled into her slumber, exhausted from the arduous trip from womb to embrace she’d undertaken. I leant over as far as the C-section would allow and laid her down in the plastic cot. She made not another peep, nor lip pucker.
‘It bodes well you sleep through chaos,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I know of any other life setting.’
My gaze turned to Joe. His arms folded across his ribcage, his head resting on the back of the chair, his chest rising and falling, slow and relaxed. I loved him. I loved him from his curled sandy hair to his toes that so often waggled to an unheard tune. Happy toes. How could you not love a man with happy toes? But was Ned right? Did Joe feel the same? How could Ned know for sure? Ned often didn’t know for sure if he’d remembered to wear underwear. And what about Katy?
No. Joe would wake and he would leave. He would promise to stay in touch but, as he got increasingly busy with work and a normal person’s social life and I got increasingly busy with shitty nappies and coffee mornings, he’d slip slowly out of my life. He’d be that person who once lived with me and left behind only memories and a herb garden. The thought pained me.
Joe shifted in the chair and I quickly looked away in case he caught me staring like some desperate single mother yearning to hitch her wagon of woe to him. My eyes fell on the baby bag on the side table. A corner of the gift Harriet had dropped off while I was mid-labour stuck out of the top. I picked it up and tore at the wrapping, carefully so as not to wake the two sleepers, which, I decided, was entirely unfair as neither of them had just provided the world with another human being. If anybody should be flat-out exhausted it should be me. Yet I felt strangely alert. I pulled the present free and let the wrapping float to the floor. It was a book, as Harriet had stated, the cover an intricate digital collage of what loo
ked like a child’s fantasy world. I ran my hand across the enchanting images and suddenly got that parallel universe feeling where you’re not quite sure if you’re dreaming or awake or on a very unsuccessful concoction of drugs.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Across the top of the cover it said Button to Lovely Land.
It couldn’t be . . .
I opened the book to a random page.
‘I have a little secret I don’t want anyone to know.’
What?!
I flicked back to the cover. Curved round the petals of a pansy, little swirly letters said: Poems by Emma George. Artwork by Joe Fisher.
I snapped my head in Joe’s direction. He snored softly, now resembling a wiggly letter ‘R’. He’d published my poems! I turned my attention back to the page and read the words I knew so well but which, now printed on thick, glossy paper and bound in a hardback book, seemed fresh and strange. On the opposite page to the text was an exquisite collaged garden. A tree stood in the foreground. Its branches were made from close-up images of bark, chocolate, brick and all manner of other textured brown articles. Each leaf was an image of a different banknote. Clusters of shiny coins took the place where berries would have been.
I flicked over the next page.
I’ve got a button; it’s to a land
I don’t think Mummy will understand
I closed the book and looked at the front cover again. Giant daffodils and poppies grew up the side, their petals collaged from images of yellow rubber ducks and bright red feathers. Petite fairy children with pansies for backpacks ran along the bottom amid tall grass made out of images of a green glass, palm leaves and watermelon rind. In the blue sky an ice queen perched on top of a carriage made of clouds blowing glossy bubbles through a ring of icicles. Her silvery white gown, made of tiny pearls, silver cars, platinum rings, teardrops and icebergs, hung down and turned into rain that bounced off the leaf brollies held aloft by the mushroom people in their mushroom village. Stunned, I went through the book from front to back, savouring each page. The ‘Tooth Witch’ collage had a castle with walls made entirely from teeth. Chandeliers had flames of rubies and orange segments. The witch, swathed in a black cloak made out of images of liquorice straps, sat beneath them at a polished molar table reading a newspaper called the Toothy Times. ‘Mushroom Men’ had a busy little village with a mushroomy-soft town square and market stalls. The mushroom people rode ladybirds, walked fluffy-bottomed caterpillars and talked on their acorn mobiles. ‘Button to Lovely Land’ had a waterfall made from various tiny images of crystals or waves cascading down with the ‘singing salmon’ careering up the stream, their lyrics written in swirly letters beside them. The more pages I turned the more astounded I was with Joe’s artwork. I had a random thought about what kind of image he would have to create for the poem I’d constructed a few months earlier.
No orgasms for you
Sophie, the hater
’Cause Ned can’t find it
So get a vibrator
I pushed the image of a collaged dildo world with a blindfold Ned lost in a cave of clitorises out of my mind and flipped the book closed, looking at the back cover. It was nearly the same picture as the front except everything was night and all the little mushroom people were asleep in their mushroom houses and the Tooth Witch was flying across the moon. I ran my hand over the cover and felt the mysterious sensation of being watched. I turned. Joe sat awake in the chair. His slumber-creased eyes flicked to the book, then back to me. His features were soft with exhaustion and serious, like he was trying to figure out if E really did equal MC squared.
‘Joe, I . . .’ I ran my hand across the pages of the book again. ‘I can’t believe . . .’ I stopped.
I’d practised denial for a fair amount of time now. I’d go so far as to say I was proficient in the art. And through my dedicated study I could conclude that it didn’t fucking work. It really didn’t. If you wanted anything in life, well, you just had to go for it. Ned did. And he’d failed plenty of times, but look where he was now. I was going to tell Joe how I felt. Even if it meant he said ‘gee, thanks’, got a cab home and carried on with his life. Or went back to Katy. Oh god! Katy . . . Ahhh! She could go jump.
‘Joe? I think . . .’
Joe concentrated on me, his face impassive.
‘I didn’t really notice until the other day but . . . I think that while I was busy doing other things . . .’ I took a breath and eased it out. ‘I think I fell in love with you.’ With the release of the words came a release of emotions. A tear ran a tickly course from the edge of my eye down the side of my face. Joe’s expression remained unreadable although his chest rose and fell faster than before. I worked harder at my cuticles. Why wasn’t he saying anything? I’d freaked him out.
‘God! I don’t know what I’m saying! I’m coming off some pretty strong drugs. Have you ever taken heroin? Is it—’
Joe stood, crossed the three paces from chair to bed and, with a dance of emotions across his face, bent down and kissed me. And what was weird was that it wasn’t weird.
He pulled back a fraction. ‘While I was busy doing nothing,’ he said, ‘I think I fell in love with you too.’
I laughed and pulled him into another kiss. His hand found mine on the bed and we interlaced our fingers. We’d touched before; we’d shoved one another in the kitchen and fought over the cosiest dent in the sofa from where to watch movies. We’d hugged as friends, bumped into each other as roommates and played endless hours of thumb war of a boring evening. I’d laid my pregnancy-weary feet in his lap and he’d even subconsciously massaged them before realising what he was doing and dropping them in disgust. But now, this new touching, this new access to one another’s bodies . . . It was wonderful. We pulled apart, studied each other’s reactions and grinned like goofs. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and held my hand, working his thumb over the ridges of my knuckles. I had to ask.
‘What about Katy?’
Joe gave a smile that said he knew that question was coming. ‘I went and saw her.’
‘Oh.’ I looked down at the sheets. ‘And?’
‘I told her I didn’t want to get back together,’ he said. ‘I’d fallen for you.’
I looked up at him, his face so tired, so beautiful. So sincere.
‘She got pretty mad,’ he said with a grimace. ‘She threw my iPad at the wall. But it turned out to be her iPad and she got even madder.’
I giggled. ‘Are you sure about this?’ I said, extracting my hand from his and flicking a finger back and forth between us. I turned towards Dixie, silent and sweet in her plastic cot. ‘I mean, I’ve got a baby. And a Ned. And a Sophie!’
Joe shook his head, a laughing look on his face. I knew every crease of his smile. ‘Emma.’
‘But I’m not worldly, like you!’ I said, warming to my panic theme. ‘I’ve never eaten bugs in Vietnam or had a piña colada or been caught in the rain.’ I sang the last few words and Joe gave an amused shake of his head. ‘I’ve never been to the ballet; I’ve never seen Spartacus. I know the line everybody does: “I am Spartacus!” but I don’t know what happens next. Or before. I’m still not entirely sure what a concept store is, and I do not get the hashtag thing. #MyHappyPlace, #OCDmyCannedGoods, #MoreCrumbleThanFruit. Then what? What do I do with that?’ Joe tried to say something but I spoke over him. I needed to make sure he knew what he was signing up for. I pointed to my boobs. ‘These aren’t usually this size, you know. After breast-feeding they’re going to be down to here.’ I pointed to my hip area. ‘You’ll have to lift one off my stomach and stroke it like a Daschund.’
Joe laughed.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—’
‘Emma,’ he said, the laugh still in his eyes.
‘Yuh?’
‘Shhhhh.’ He leant forward.
A knock at the door stopped us mid-kiss. Alex popped her head round. ‘The nurses are kicking everyone out.’ Her sharp eyes darted to my hand in Joe’s. She frowned.
Then beamed.
‘Come in.’ I beckoned her in.
Alex swung open the door and everyone filed in. I got kisses on the cheeks, goodbyes and final congratulations. Helen spied the poem book and it was passed round with increasing excitement.
‘So . . . does that mean you’re a published author?’ Douglas asked, flicking gently through the pages.
I looked to Joe.
‘I guess it does,’ he said. ‘I self-published it and asked Marjorie if she could put a few on the shelves in her bookshop to see what happens. It’s sold pretty well, I hear. There could be a future in it, I guess. If Emma wants to write more.’
Everyone turned to me, expectant looks on their faces.
‘Ah, excuse me, I’ve just had a baby and become a third equal partner in a very successful ice creamery, thank you very much.’ If Ned had had feathers they’d have quivered with pride. ‘I’ll consider conquering publishing tomorrow, if you don’t mind.’ I grinned.
Dixie began to stir. The little pink baby making a muffled mewing noise employed everyone’s attention. Joe picked her up, cooing softly.
‘Can I have one last hold?’ Alex sidled up to Joe and put her arms out.
Dixie got handed round the room receiving declarations of love and appreciation for her various ‘cute widdle nose’ or ‘insey-winsey pinkies’. After Mum made a one-sided agreement that Dixie would never ever set foot in a Primark, she passed her back to Joe. The only person who had not held her, aside from Sinead with Millie on her shoulder who stated, ‘Do I look like I need to hold another baby?’ was her father. Joe crossed the room and offered Dixie to Ned, who did not shake his head and back into the wall but instead, with panicky eyes and an encouraging nod from Sophie, took the baby tentatively into his arms. Mum stepped forward as he struggled with her head.
‘Diana,’ Uncle Mike said, holding her back. ‘Leave him.’
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 36