It’s funny, I think, as I grab my backpack and head for the ladies, how Laura and I seem to have significant moments at service stations.
It was here that Laura finally decided not to come home to Manchester, and turned the car right back around, setting off with Nate and Lizzie to start their new life in Budbury. And now I’m heading off to pee on a stick. Must be a family trait; something hereditary like a tendency towards asthma or ginger hair. Service Station Syndrome. I resist the urge to Google it and see if it’s real, because I know I’m just stalling.
I make my way through the sparse but miserable-looking crowds, taking in the unhappy faces of the staff and the now quite sorry state of the decorations. Ah, Christmas. It’ll all be over soon, and the world will go back to normal. Or not.
Within a few moments, I am sitting uncomfortably in one of the stalls, rooting around in my bag with my thighs crushed up against one of those plastic sanitary bins next to the loo.
I read the instructions, do my business and stare at the framed poster on the back of the toilet door. It’s an advert for a product that claims to help with female incontinence, showing a ridiculously happy lady with very white teeth. She seems strangely thrilled to be tinkling in her pants to me.
While I’m waiting, I notice that Sam’s present is still sitting in my bag, unopened. What the heck, I think, I might as well go for it – at least if it makes me cry, I’m tucked away in private.
I tear off the shiny red wrapping, and am at first confused by what I see. Because it is an unexpected gift for a fully grown woman in her thirties. It is, in fact, a complete set of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures. Just like I’d wanted all those years ago.
It is so sweet. So thoughtful, and funny, and so just like Sam to remember, that I do in fact burst into tears.
Then I look at the pregnancy test, and cry even more. I don’t know if I am crying from happiness or sadness or sheer delirium. But I do at least know one thing now.
I am definitely pregnant.
PART 3
Christmas Future?
Chapter 25
It is New Year’s Eve, and I am having a little party all by myself. I’ve settled back into my flat, which at first felt cold and alien when I arrived home.
To be fair, I was feeling pretty cold and alien myself by that stage, having battled my way along several motorways in foul weather, in a state of emotional and physical disarray.
I’d emerged from the service station toilets into a completely different reality, and it was going to take a bit of getting used to.
Since David’s death, I like to think I’d become a lot less selfish, putting Laura’s needs before my own, and generally working hard to develop the All Round Good Egg aspect of my personality that had been sadly neglected for many years.
But concentrating on supporting your grieving sister and her children is a whole lot different than the situation I was facing now.
There were so many different scenarios: have the baby and raise it alone. Have the baby and move to Dorset to be with Sam. Have the baby and go and live with my mum and dad. And, of course, the most troublesome option – not have the baby at all. That one floats around in my mind for a little while, and I let it, even though I know that ultimately it will be rejected.
That said, there’s no use pretending this is an ideal set-up. This was as far away from a planned pregnancy as it was possible to be, and logically my life as it is now simply won’t cope with motherhood.
There are the logistics, like the fact that I’m self-employed, have no financial security, and live in a small one-bedroomed flat in Manchester city centre. That I know bugger-all about babies, and once in fact tried to feed Nate a bag of Chilli Doritos when he was five months old. That I might be doing this alone, and I’ll struggle to keep my already tenuous grip on normality.
That I have absolutely no idea if I can do this – if I can be a mother at all. I mean, I even kill houseplants. What chance would a tiny human being have?
I’ve spent the last week trying to answer at least some of those questions. I am the proud owner of a box of pre-natal vitamins; a multi-pack of ginger tea bags, and a copy of Parenting for Dummies, which is a real thing you can buy off Amazon and everything. I have crossed the word ‘dummies’ off the front in black marker pen and written ‘Becca’ on it instead. Though I suppose the two words mean exactly the same in this situation.
I’ve cleaned the flat, stocked up on healthy food and done a preliminary check to see how many plug sockets I’m going to need to buy covers for. You know, in a year and a half or so.
All of this, of course, indicates to me that the option of not having the baby definitely isn’t going to fly. I got a taxi to the clinic a few days ago, and when we went over a speed bump, I found myself clutching my stomach protectively.
I know by this stage, even though I haven’t told anybody, that I am going to keep it, no matter how much of a dummy I am.
At first, it felt scary. I’d be loading up the dishwasher, and suddenly wonder how I’d do that with a tiny baby attached to my boobs. I had to stop, and sit down with a sketch pad, and work out some basics techniques – baby carrier, bouncy chair, keeping it in some kind of moving box… which, once I thought about it, could be described by some people as a ‘pram’.
I’d be walking up the stairs to my flat with my shopping bags, and ask myself the same question: how would I do this with a baby, even if I did have a really good moving box to store it in? There’s a lift, but it’s not always working. I’d need a jet pack, maybe, or the ability to teleport. But how would that affect the baby? Would it be able to reassemble all its various blobby cells back where they needed to be, or would it end up with an ear on its big toe? These were issues never fully explored on Star Trek.
So, I’ve done a lot of thinking. Mainly about strange random crap like that. What I’ve not done, and what I know I need to do very soon, is start talking to people about it. People who can help, like Laura. And people who need to know – like Sam.
He’s texted a few times, and called. I’ve not responded, apart from one little line saying I was home and safe and thanks for the pressie, because… well, because I’m a dick, I suppose. He’s done nothing to deserve the silent treatment, and this is a classic case of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’.
I needed this week, alone, to get my head around things. To start feeling physically more robust. To try and come up with some kind of plan for the future.
Planning for the future has never been my strong suit, and I don’t seem to be getting any better at it. Apart from deciding I need a jet pack and twelve plug-socket covers, that is.
Also, I think, I wanted this week to just… enjoy. Be happy. Make the most of this time where it’s only me and the tiny creature that has taken up residence inside me. Before I involve Sam and my family.
I realise that it’s not a proper baby yet. It’s a tiny blob, like frogspawn or something. But it’s mine, and I feel a fierce and protective love for it that I’ve never experienced before.
That’s not quite as straightforward and joyful as it sounds. Because this newfound love, this precious happiness, is tinged with sadness as well. With regret. With grief. With the ever-present ‘what ifs’ that always swamp me when I cast my mind back to my teenaged years, and the baby I lost. The baby I thought I didn’t want.
It would have been awful losing a baby at any stage – but the fact that for all these years, the pain of it has been tainted by my own self-loathing makes it even more bitter. As though – and I know how crazy this sounds – that child knew it wasn’t wanted; that it somehow felt my confusion and fear and ambiguity.
It’s bonkers, but I can’t quite let it go. I have to live with it, and I have to make up for it – and this baby, this new life that Sam and I miraculously and accidentally created, will be the most loved child the world has ever known.
I decided this morning that I will tell Sam tomorrow. I don’t know how that phone call is
going to go. Something along the lines of: ‘Happy New Year! Hey, guess what? You’re going to be a daddy!’
It will be a shock, and I’ll need to give him time to process the idea. I won’t make any demands on him, and I’m determined not to create any drama around it all. And he’s Sam – he’s lovely. He’s solid and caring and funny and wonderful. I am, I know, as much in love with him as it’s possible for me to be. If not for the baby, I’d be missing him like crazy, and wondering how insane I am to have left at all.
He might not jump for joy initially, but I trust him enough to know he also won’t say or do anything that will leave me lying in a heap of crumpled tissues wishing I’d never told him.
Before then, though, before I change his life forever by telling him, I’m going to have my party. Me and little Binky. This is my pet name for the baby. It may well end up being the real name for the baby as well, who knows?
I sit back, surveying my party supplies and hold my hands over my belly. There’s a baby in there. A real-life Binky. I still can’t quite believe it, and I still can’t quite believe how happy it’s made me. I’ve never yearned for kids. I’ve never felt maternal. Never pined away for what Laura has.
But now, I think perhaps that somewhere along the line – sometime after my teenaged disaster – I simply squashed down that part of me. Or drank it to within an inch of its life, shut it up so it wouldn’t keep nagging at me. Partied it out of existence, telling myself it just didn’t exist.
These days, though, a party is a very different thing. These days, a party consists of a small dining table piled high with cranberry juice, sliced strawberries and dipping chocolate, and a big bowl of cocktail sausages. Okay, so I’m not quite Laura on the catering front – but it’s the best I could do.
The only problem is, my appetite still isn’t back to normal, and I have to sprint for the toilet at the drop of a hat – I may end up simply looking at my party table, or possibly throwing up all over it. It’s the thought that counts.
It’s about 11pm now, and I am desperately hoping that I will make it through until midnight. I’d like to sit out on my tiny balcony, wrapped up in Sam’s khaki fleece which seemed to make it into my suitcase and still smells of him, and watch the fireworks explode all over the city. Just me and Binky, partying on down. We might even invite Jools Holland if we’re feeling sociable. Although, I suspect, already stifling yawns, we might also go to bed before the party even starts.
I’ve just dipped my first strawberry when the buzzer on the intercom goes off. I mentally slap myself round the head for forgetting to turn it off. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the streets are full of idiots. I’ll have random strangers pressing the button and asking if they can use my loo or wait for a taxi or get changed out of their Pikachu outfits if I leave it on.
I’m just about to flick the switch when it buzzes again. Annoyed, and slightly concerned it might actually be someone I know – someone from my past life calling to see if I fancy a pint or ten – I hit answer and snap a quick ‘hello’.
‘Hey Becca – any chance of letting a passing Irish man in for a cuppa?’
Chapter 26
I jump back from the intercom panel as though I’ve just been electrocuted. In fact, it feels like I have.
I’d decided to tell Sam tomorrow. Him turning up my doorstep tonight was not part of the plan, and I don’t know quite how to react. Bizarrely, I look in the mirror, which is possibly the girliest thing I’ve ever done. I even fluff my hair up a bit, and wipe a smudge of chocolate off my cheek. There’s nothing much I can do about the outfit though: flannel pyjamas that are probably as old as Edie.
He buzzes again, and I realise that I’ve not even let him in. I press the enter button, and know I have about two minutes maximum before he’s knocking at the front door. I spend most of those two minutes hiding the pre-natal vitamins and the baby book. I want to actually tell him the news, not have him figure it out and feel like I’ve been trying to hide it from him. Which I have, kind of, but only for a little bit.
I manage a quick spray of perfume just before I open the door to the flat, which for some reason makes me feel much better. I may look like crap. I may feel like crap. But I smell damn fine.
Sam is standing in the doorway, all tall and gorgeous and smiley and twinkly-eyed. His blonde hair is curling over the collar of his jacket, and I just want to eat him. Seriously, just gobble him all up.
Of all the reactions to seeing him again that I’d anticipated, this wasn’t it. I expected to be nervous. To be anxious. To maybe even be a little bit resentful.
What I didn’t expect was to be absolutely overwhelmed with… what? Relief? Lust? Happiness? A combination of all of those? I’m not quite sure, but whatever it is, it feels right. I have no idea why he’s here, standing on my doorstep, but I am one hundred per cent sure that I’m glad he is. Huh. Weird. Looks like I actually was missing him like crazy; I just hadn’t realised it.
‘So?’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’
‘Hang on – are you a vampire?’ I reply, dragging him in by the lapels. ‘Do you need to be invited in?’
‘Um… I can be a vampire if you want me to…’ he says, laughing as I wrap my arms around him and pull him in tight. He’s cold, which is no surprise as he’s been outside. Where it is, you know, freezing. I rub my hands up and down his back and kiss his jaw and make cooing noises and generally behave like a lunatic. He seems to enjoy it, and returns the compliment by nuzzling into my hair. God, I’m so pleased to see him. And I’m so glad I sprayed that perfume on.
‘Now, not that this isn’t lovely and all, but… what’s going on? You don’t call. You don’t write. You don’t like my pictures on Facebook. I was beginning to think you’d gone right off me,’ he says, laughter in his voice.
‘No!’ I reply, finally letting go and standing back to look at him. He has a backpack with him, and the smart black pea coat he’s wearing is new, so I assume it was a Christmas gift. ‘I’ve just been… well, busy. Weirdly busy. Busy with stuff I want to tell you about. Anyway… why are you here? Aren’t you in Ireland?’
‘No,’ he says, dumping the bag and unbuttoning the coat. It’s a very nice coat, but I’m happy to see him taking it off.
‘I’m apparently not in Ireland. I got back from Dublin yesterday, and nothing much was going on in Budbury. So I just, you know, decided to pay you a visit… I didn’t call ahead because to be honest, I thought you might tell me not to come. I didn’t hear from you much over Christmas, and Laura said… well, she said you’d taken off. I was… look, don’t go nuts, but I was a bit worried about you, all right?’
I don’t blame him for saying that. The last time he implied he might be worried about me, I did kind of go nuts.
‘I’m good,’ I say, feeling the first hint of nerves creep in now the excitement of seeing him is fading. In fact, the excitement of seeing him has made me feel even more nervous.
Before, I’d somehow convinced myself that I could do all of this without Sam. That I wanted to do it without Sam, even. Now, with him standing in my flat, so tall his head’s almost touching the ceiling, looking the way he looks and just being so… so here… I realise that I don’t want to do it without him. I don’t want to do anything without him.
What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he’s just here looking for a quickie, no matter what he says? What if he freaks out and runs off screaming into the night? What if, what if, what if…
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, taking hold of my arms and holding me steady, his blue eyes boring into mine. ‘You look like you’re going to be sick. Did I do the wrong thing? Do you want me to go?’
I stand tall, and kiss him firmly on the lips, letting him know that I really don’t.
‘I want you to stay,’ I say, but then dash away from him, as quickly as I can. Talk about mixed messages. I shout over my shoulder: ‘But you were right about me being sick!’
When I come back out, several
minutes and one very thorough tooth-brushing later, he’s lounging on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He has a plate of cocktail sausages on his lap, and has made himself right at home. I collapse down next to him, suddenly very tired.
‘Sexy, huh?’ I say, not even daring look at the sausages.
‘Damn right. What’s going on? Have you got a tummy bug or something?’
He slips his arm around my shoulder and snuggles me into him, which, considering he thinks I am probably contagious right now, is a very sweet thing to do.
‘Um… no. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m actually feeling great. I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to freak out, and I know it’s going to be a shock, and I hope you’re not going to be sick yourself when I tell you, and it’s a big deal, but – ‘
‘Are you pregnant?’ he says simply, putting his plate down on the coffee table and turning round to look at me.
Wow. Talk about stealing somebody’s thunder.
‘Yes,’ I reply, marginally narked that I didn’t get to make my big announcement. ‘With quintuplets,’ I add, out of spite.
He bursts out laughing, and I get the feeling he doesn’t believe me about the quintuplets after all.
‘So… how did you know?’ I ask, not at all sure what’s going on here. ‘And how do you feel about it?’
‘You do remember how many big sisters I have, don’t you?’ he says, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead and generally wrapping me up as tight as he can.
‘There was always someone throwing up in my ma’s house. And you were… I don’t know. A bit emotional? And tired. Tired and pissed off, and crying. And now randomly puking. Pregnant woman behaviour, basically. So… I suppose we have to talk about this, don’t we? I mean, I’m assuming you were going to mention it, at some point?’
Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 18