Head Over Heels

by Sara Downing

  Head Over Heels

  SARA DOWNING

  © Sara Downing 2011

  The right of Sara Downing to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Cover Design – Liz Bryan 2011

  To my husband

  One

  ‘Give me that bloody gas! Arghhhh………. FUCK!......... OWWW!......... You are NEVER coming near me EVER AGAIN!,’ I yell at him. ‘There is no way am EVER EVER going through this again! Arghhhhhhh!’

  My face contorts with pain and I am struck dumb (for the time being – a rare event) as another contraction hits and the gentle, Irish midwife, who under any other circumstances I would probably adore, tells me to push again. She’s wearing nice shoes, I notice, despite my agony, as I bend double, trying to find a position against the wall in which I can get some relief. Although you can’t see much of them under those awful, blue, stretchy plastic things the medical staff have to wear in the delivery suite, for some silly hygiene or health and safety reason or other. Still, reassuring to know at least one member of my delivery team has some taste in my moment of agony. And it gives me something to focus on whilst I’m screaming.

  If I had the time and energy between screams to reply to her, I would tell that lovely midwife – who really does only have my welfare and that of my babies at heart – exactly what I think of her, and where she could stick her pushing. I might even manage to do her an injury with one of the pieces of equipment which are provided – supposedly – to ease my discomfort. God, I could certainly do some damage with a gas cylinder and epidural needle, the way I feel right now.

  But for the time being, I have to be content with (and I am FAR from content – can you tell?) lots of swearing and loads of shouting, something which is a bit of a departure for me. Labour has turned me into a monster. I am incapable of coherent thought and have turned into a blaspheming, fist-waving, fish-wife with murderous tendencies.

  ‘No one told me it would hurt this much,’ I wail with despair, sounding like a banshee on anti-depressants and alternating between tears and anger. Well, it bloody does. More than anything I could ever have possibly imagined, and it’s far from over.

  And I am going to make sure every damn person in this hospital knows it. All the female ones of child-bearing age, at least. I am now single-handedly responsible for preventing any more women going through what I am experiencing right now. The human species will die out in a few years if I get my way.

  Watch out you young lovers and newly-weds wandering the corridors, contemplating a family of your own. Once you hear my ear-splitting screams and cries of pain, none of you will be stupid enough to get yourselves pregnant, you’ll see. I’ll be the world’s most effective contraceptive device. Labour just isn’t human; in fact it’s totally barbaric, prehistoric and I am amazed no one has found a cure for it. Apart from having a caesarean, I suppose, but even then you have to practically have your lower body sliced off to get the damn thing out and can’t stand up straight for six weeks. Your girly bits might remain intact and pseudo-virginal but you have a grisly abdominal scar to show for it and no amount of crunches will get rid of that saggy tum. What a major design fault we women have; the one key thing we were (originally) put on earth for, the most natural thing in the world, is a near physical impossibility because someone forgot to make the hole big enough. If it were the men having babies, they would have invented a special zip that could be installed once they hit child bearing age, or maybe some of those nice little poppers that you find all over baby-gros.

  ‘BASTARDS,’ I generalise, bending double again, my predicament being the fault of all men. Right now, I hate the opposite sex en masse. My children will be the spawn of the devil, I am sure of it, and HE is Satan himself.

  ‘Push!’ the midwife urges impatiently. Does she not understand what I’m going through here? She probably hasn’t even got children of her own.

  ‘FUCK OFF!!!!!!’ I yell at top volume, and then regret it. Maybe that was a bit coarse. Although this time I do exactly as I’m told. I have to get these babies out somehow and they’re not going to do it without my help. I’m aware of a cringing male presence beside me; his hands go to the sides of his head and he winces as I let rip on another string of expletives. He must be mortified, poor thing. But it helps, so I have to do it. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but there is something therapeutic about swearing like a builder when normally the strongest word I can muster is a ‘blimey’. In my job I have to watch my language, so I hardly ever swear. How liberating to be given full reign today. And all in the name of pain relief.

  Several long hours later and calm reigns. No more swearing, pain long since forgotten. On either side of my bed in my little private room (yes, on the NHS – amazing how having twins makes them lay out the red carpet for you) is one of those delightful Perspex cribs so beloved by our health service. I gaze at each one in turn, trying to take it all in. One pink bundle, one blue bundle. I can’t believe just how beautiful they are. PERFECT. And asleep too; they look like a pair of putti, perfectly crafted cherubs on a Renaissance ceiling. I am exhausted but a wonderful sense of tranquillity has enveloped me. I feel beautiful (surely impossible after fourteen hours of labour, sweaty hair plastered to my scalp, face red and blotchy) and serene and I am floating on that clichéd Cloud Number Nine (which is of course nothing to do with the quantity of drugs I have imbibed over the past few hours). No one had told me how much it would hurt, but nor had they told me JUST HOW MUCH I WOULD LOVE THEM. Instantly. I would lay down my life for them, even though I barely know them yet and giving birth had felt like a near-death experience.

  Here he is, back by my side now, after nipping home for some sleep and several tonnes of clean baby clothes. Holding my hand, gazing at his little angels and at me in amazement.

  ‘My darling girl,’ he whispers, eyes brimming with emotion and kissing my forehead, ‘you’re so clever.’

  The smile I give him pardons him for getting me into this situation in the first place – look what the end result is. I wouldn’t change this for the world.

  Two

  About One Year Earlier

  ‘Hey, birthday girl!’ comes the chorus as Mark and I struggle to negotiate the narrow steps down to the little landing platform at the river’s edge. We’re hampered by the myriad of gorgeous shopping bags which are dangling from each of our arms, plus the fact that my heels keep snagging in the wooden slats. They’d seemed fine for a shopping trip but in retrospect probably aren’t that suited to a life at sea, or rather on the river. A nice pair of sensible deck shoes would have been much more appropriate, but hey, sorry, I just don’t do flatties.

  The others appear to have been there a while; they look very comfortably ensconced at the little table on the covered decking area and haven’t waited for us before getting stuck into the champagne. They’ve clearly brought this with them, complete with plastic goblets, as there is no bar in sight; instead they are surrounded by open cool boxes, spilling their contents onto the decking.

  ‘Well, we didn’t know how long you’d be,’ Evie jokes, seeing me clock the quantity of bubbly & nibbles they have come armed with. ‘We all know what you’re like once you get in the shopping zone. How's your head?’ she asks.

  She looks more than a little pasty-faced herself, and sipping her (hopefully) first glass of fizz of the day, I notice a bit of a hung-over sheen to her forehead. Oh God, I hope I don’t look that bad. I start to wonder how our stomachs are going to hold up to a four hour river trip – plus more alcohol. Apparently it’s going to be quite a smart boat, so
Mark tells me, some fancy barge they normally hire out for corporate do’s, and we have it all to ourselves, complete with silver service staff. Someone he knows from work managed to help him pull it off. Sounds fun, and heaps better than sitting in some stuffy wine bar for the afternoon.

  My head does feel a bit fuzzy, but I’ll cope. It’s just such a luxury having my birthday on a Saturday this year. No work today, what bliss. The downside (or is it upside?) being the temptation to make a weekend of it, which is what I seem to be doing. After all, I’m not too old to party, am I? Evie & Alex had taken me into town last night, we'd done the usual bar crawl; we'd tottered from one drinking hole to the next in our very high heels, looking like an ageing set of hen-nighters only without the fluffy deeley boppers & just married signs. We'd chatted up blokes young enough to be at high school, just for fun, because we could, and because after that much booze we considered ourselves still gorgeous enough. We'd had one of those great, carefree, fun evenings that just happen if you relax and enjoy and take things as they come.

  ‘It'll be better once I've had some of that,’ I gesture to the open bottle, prompting James to reach for a couple of the very posh plastic picnic glasses and pour some of the delicious bubbles for Mark and me.

  ‘Getting through it fast, you boozy lot,’ I say. ‘Let’s hope they’re well stocked on board.’ I shake one arm free of some of my bags and we exchange air kisses, everyone wishing me many happy returns.

  I’ve barely had a chance to get some bubbles on my lips when Mark calls out ‘Transport’s here!’ I crane my neck around the side of the gazebo in search of our barge. What I see is at completely the opposite end of the style spectrum from what I’d envisaged; a long and sleek, shiny white motor yacht literally glides up to the landing stage, barely humming as the driver (or would he be a captain or a pilot?) adeptly parks (I’m sure there must be another name for that too, my nautical terminology isn’t up to much). Anyway, whatever you call it, he pulls alongside, and when we have all picked our tongues and our shopping bags up from the ground, we traipse across the platform and onto this beautiful, gleaming beast. I have never seen anything like it. The interior is awash with highly polished chrome and acres of white leather, and looks like a sumptuous living room in a modern, minimalistic apartment, so far removed from the Rosie-and-Jim styled boat of my imaginings.

  ‘Oh Mark, you are a star,’ I drool, kissing him squarely on the lips.

  ‘Thought it would make a nice treat,’ he replies modestly.

  We settle down for our trip amongst the luxury, feeling like we’ve been transported away from this frightfully dull English spring afternoon to the glamour of the French Riviera.

  Champagne refills ordered from one of the highly attentive (and not unattractive) waiters, I grab a menu and give it a quick once-over. I’m going to need something to soak up all this alcohol or I will be under the table, not at it, very soon. And what a waste of Mark’s kind, thoughtful treat that would be.

  The waiter, who moves so fast I am convinced he is wearing roller blades, is back with us in record time, bearing the next bottle, which he promptly uncorks and pours professionally, not wasting a drop. Clearly he is hoping that the tip we will leave will be as generous as the price-tag on each bottle.

  ‘Well, being slightly worse for wear doesn't seem to have dampened your enthusiasm for shopping. Good job it’s a big boat.’ Alex teases, throwing a glance at all my bags. She, of course, looks amazing, as usual. I dread to think what time she must have got up this morning, but she still manages to look effortlessly gorgeous. She doesn’t go in for make up in a big way; she just seems to have that natural glow which gives her the appearance of having spent hours getting ready, when in fact all she has probably done is apply the tiniest bit of mascara and swish her hair up into a twist on the back of her head. If she wasn't so nice with it you'd have to hate her.

  Alex and Evie are my best friends. And I can say that sincerely. Despite the wealth of female friends I've been lucky enough to have over the years and the fantastic relationships I still have with my sisters, these two ladies are a cut above all the others. Maybe it's because in the relatively short time we've known each other we've been through so much. You see, Alex lost her husband to a brain tumour three years ago, just before her youngest daughter, Rosie, was born.

  So we are a very close trio, how can there be any closer bond when we have shared such raw emotion? I would do anything for either of them and I have no doubt that the feeling is mutual on all sides of the friendship triangle.

  ‘A toast, to our best friend, Grace, may she always be strong of limb and fair of face’. James, Evie’s husband, raises his glass and we all chink, giggling at the little rhyme, of which he is inordinately pleased. We’re back on real glass glasses now, and there is no danger of us spilling a drop as the yacht glides effortlessly along the river. I can imagine it must be turning a few heads; it’s not the normal sort of river traffic you’d expect to see on the Severn on a Saturday afternoon. Even the swans look pretty bowled over. This is the life, I could get used to all this opulence and luxury.

  ‘What are you two up to tonight?’ Evie enquires whilst the others are still chortling and talking amongst themselves. ‘Making a baby, if Mark has anything to do with it,’ I reply, deadpan.

  ‘Really?’ she asks. ‘I take it you’re not so keen?’ I catch Mark's eye across the table as he glances in my direction. He doesn’t much care for me discussing our relationship and what he calls ‘personal matters’ with my friends. Come on guys, it's what girls do. Whilst you all talk about football, the size of your plasma TV's and who's going to win the Formula One Championship this year, we girlies are getting down and dirty on our private lives. It's what keeps us sane, given that we are either married to or living with emotionally challenged beings – otherwise known as men. He leans back into the leather banquette, arm stretched along the padded back, giving the impression he is craning his neck to see out of the window. I recognise it as a poorly-disguised attempt to pretend he is distracted, so that he can eavesdrop on Evie and me. Given that there are only the five of us here, plus a similar number of staff, and a little light background music, there’s every chance he will get the gist of what I’m saying, anyway.

  ‘It’s too soon for me,’ I say, turning slightly in my seat in an attempt to get outside Mark’s radar. ‘Maybe I'll come round to it. I just wish he’d suggested we get married instead. God knows we’ve waited long enough.’

  Mark and I seem to be having the world’s longest engagement. If he’d announced that it was about time we finally tied the knot, then, yes, it would have been the perfectly logical next step, and what fantastic timing it would have been to express such a desire on my birthday. But we aren’t married, so wasn’t he jumping the gun by talking about babies? The trouble is, we’d just seemed to kind of let the whole wedding thing slide a bit. I would love to make us properly official; that little piece of paper which sometimes these days is so devalued, means a lot to me, and although I know Mark is committed to me in his own way, and although I am a career woman through and through, an ardent-ish feminist (when I need to be) and on the side of the sisterhood and all that, I still dream of miles of organza and lace, posies, and matching wedding favours, and all those enticing little wedding details. I wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t. But the longer it goes on, the less Mark seems bothered about us getting married. He thinks we are fine as we are, and clearly he thinks it’s fine for us to go ahead and start a family without getting married first.

  ‘Right guys, shut your traps for a minute, it’s time we gave Grace her presents!’ Alex interjects enthusiastically, in what I recognise as a diversionary attempt to save me from an awkward moment with Mark. Bless her, that’s what friends are for. She trip-trips off in her platforms to the corner of the room or cabin or whatever it’s called, where her own not so insignificant pile of shopping bags currently resides, and sweeps up an expensive-looking pink and flowery gift bag.

&nb
sp; ‘What do you give the girl who has everything?’ James chirps, grinning like a maniac again. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who gets such a buzz out of his own jokes and amusing quips. I half expect him to jump up and give himself a round of applause.

  ‘A baby?’ I hear Mark whisper sotto voce, sort of behind his hand as he looks at the floor instead of at me. Did he really intend for me to hear that? Was it just his way of making yet another little (not so subtle but desperate) plea to my softer side in the hope that I’d give in? Were he a woman, I would say he was having a bitchy moment, but do men ever really have those? Whatever the reason, it just comes across as petty and a bit silly as we are in the company of our friends, especially given his usual secretive nature when it comes to the personal stuff. But if anyone else has heard it, or picked up on its significance, then it’s not obvious, and the banter continues as before. Just me looking like I’ve been steam-rollered, then.

  ‘Grace, my darling friend, happy birthday,’ Alex says, handing me the bag, which is overflowing with artfully crumpled matching pink tissue paper, looking too good to open. She bends down to plant a kiss on my cheek before tiptoeing back to her chair.

  ‘I love birthdays and I think I’m going to love them till I’m at least ninety-seven,’ I giggle, forgetting Mark’s snide aside in the presence of presents. ‘Can I open it?’ I ask, turning back to Alex.

  ‘Well, it IS your birthday,’ Alex giggles, in her best little-girl-lost voice. It loses a lot in translation, but Evie, Alex and I have to go through the ritual of saying that on all our birthdays. It cracks the three of us up but the men just never seem to get it, and we like that. We lost sight of why it was funny years ago, but it just is. It’s the sign of a good friendship, I suppose, when you can still laugh at things even though you can’t remember why they were funny in the first place.