by A J McDine
I hold my hands up. ‘OK, I promise.’
The intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip. He pours himself another glass of wine. I place my knife and fork together and fish around for something else to say. I want to ask him where he really was this afternoon, who he spent the other evening with. No more lies, I want to say. Tell me the truth. Then I remember I don’t want to know the truth. Not yet. Not until our son is born.
Instead I say in a rush, ‘We’re having a boy.’
Confusion darkens his pale features. ‘We’re what?’
‘I found out at the scan.’
The confusion is quickly replaced by hurt. He looks like a five-year-old who’s just been told the tooth fairy doesn’t exist.
‘I thought we didn’t want to find out until the birth.’
‘We didn’t.’ This time I reach for his hand. It lies limply in mine. ‘Roz let it slip.’
He frowns. ‘Who the fuck is Roz?’
I drop his hand in frustration. ‘Christ Matt, do you ever listen to a word I say? Roz is my hairdresser. She was here when I fell. She’s the one who took me to hospital and she was there when I had the scan. I told you all this.’
‘You didn’t tell me you knew the sex of our baby.’
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I? It was too big a thing to tell you on the phone.’
A muscle is twitching in his jaw. ‘This Roz, what’s she like?’
I raise my hands and let them fall to my sides. ‘Is it important? She’s my friend. She forgot we didn’t want to know. I’m sorry, OK? It was an accident. But now we do know. So please let’s not fight. Not about something as important as this. We’re having a boy, Matt.’ I massage my bump and smile at him. ‘You’re having a son.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Then
Lou squeezes into the seat next to mine, takes a leaflet out of her bag and slides it across the desk to me. I don’t have to read it to know what it says. It’s the third abortion pamphlet she’s given me this week.
‘Not now,’ I say, tapping my English exercise book in which I’ve been trying and failing to write an insightful essay on the part played by jealousy in Othello’s downfall. ‘I need to finish this for third period.’
She raises her eyebrows at my unfortunate choice of words. I shoot her a withering look and slide the pamphlet back.
‘You can’t keep burying your head in the sand. You’re nearly ten weeks.’
I lay my pen on the desk. I can tell from the determined jut of her jaw that she’s not going to leave me in peace. I’d hoped that by hiding away at the back of the library I might have been able to evade her. No such luck.
‘Have you read the others?’ she says, unfolding the leaflet and smoothing it open with the palm of her hand. I try not to glance down but I can’t help it and gross phrases like ‘gentle suction’, ‘dilatation and evacuation’ and ‘bleeding and cramping’ creep into my field of vision.
‘Nope.’
‘Sophie!’ she scolds. ‘Are you telling me you want to have this baby?’
‘Shush!’ I cry, looking around me in horror, but no-one appears to be listening. ‘No. Yes. Look, I don’t know, alright?’
‘You can’t go through with it. You’re seventeen, for Christ’s sake. It’ll totally screw up your life.’
‘Other girls my age have babies and seem to manage.’ My voice sounds sulky even to my own ears. ‘Are you saying I wouldn’t cope?’
‘Of course not. But you want to go to uni, get a degree. Since when was being a teenage mum part of your life plan?’
‘It wasn’t.’ My hands creep around my still-flat belly. ‘But some girls take their babies to university and get first class degrees. I read about one in the paper the other day. She ended up doing a master’s.’
‘I know, but think about all the fun you’d miss out on. Freshers’ week, nights out at the students’ union, hooking up with guys for casual sex.’ She says this with a gleam in her eye. Knowing Lou, she’s only half joking.
‘As if I’m not in enough trouble as it is.’ I pause, frowning. ‘Why is it so important to you that I get rid of it anyway?’
She runs her hands through her hair. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about you, your future. Look at this,’ she says, stabbing the pamphlet with her index finger. ‘If you have it before twelve weeks it only takes five to ten minutes. But if you leave it longer they have to give you a general anaesthetic and they dilate the cervix and everything. You’ll virtually be giving birth!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I snatch the leaflet from her and skim-read it. ‘It says it’s a safe and simple procedure right up to twenty-three weeks and six days. I’ve plenty of time to make up my mind.’
‘Like I said, you’re burying your head in the sand.’
I give her an icy smile, but under the desk my hands are trembling. ‘It’s my decision.’
‘I’ll come with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Thanks, I know you would, but it’s not that.’
‘What is it then? Help me understand.’
I shrug. Trouble is, I don’t even know myself. Practical me knows this is the wrong time in my life to have a baby. Practical me says I should follow Lou’s advice and go ahead with the abortion. That years into the future I’ll look back on it as a blip that couldn’t be helped. But there’s a tiny voice in my head urging me to keep the baby. To make a go of it. And the tiny voice won’t shut up. Tears pricking my eyes, I drop my head in my hands.
Lou tucks a wisp of hair behind my ear and watches my shoulders shudder in silence. Eventually she says, ‘What about Ed? You said you didn’t want to ruin his life.’
I look up and we lock eyes. ‘I don’t. But he doesn’t have to know.’
‘You might be able to hide an abortion from him, but there’s no way you’re going to be able to hide a baby.’
‘I could tell him it’s not his. Pretend I had a drunken one-night stand.’
‘He’s not stupid. He’ll work out the dates.’
‘I’ll say it’s premature.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘Then I’ll move away. Get a place at Edinburgh or St Andrew’s.’
‘I don’t want you to move away. You’re my best friend. I want things to go back to normal. How they were before. And they can. If you’d only have an abortion.’
‘But -’
Lou shakes her head. ‘You’re living in cloud cuckoo land.’
I chew on the ragged skin around my thumbnail. ‘What would you do? In my shoes?’
She pushes her chair back and jumps to her feet. ‘I’d get rid of it,’ she says. ‘In the blink of an eye.’
Chapter Thirty
Now
I wake to the smell of bacon drifting up the stairs. A quick look at my phone tells me it’s half past eight. I haven’t slept in this long for months. I stretch like a cat, toes pointed and back arched, smiling as I remember last night. Matt was so tender with me, made me feel so desirable, so precious, that afterwards I felt all my anxieties float away like dandelion seeds on the wind.
I’m propping myself up on my pillows when he appears, carrying a tray laden with a thick-cut bacon sandwich, a glass of orange juice and a pot of Earl Grey.
‘Am I forgiven?’ I ask, sitting up and balancing the tray on my bump.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Forgiven?’
‘For finding out we’re having a boy.’
He sits on the end of the bed. ‘I over-reacted last night. Tactless of this Roz woman to let the cat out of the bag, but it wasn’t your fault.’ He lays a hand on my bump. ‘I know I never said, but I always hoped it would be a boy.’
‘He’ll eat us out of house and home and leave sweaty socks lying all over the place.’
‘But he’ll be straight-forward and uncomplicated and we can talk football over a pint at the pub. I’m not sure I could have coped with another hormonal woman in the house.’
‘Oi,’ I say, p
rodding him with my foot. ‘Girls can talk football and drink pints, too.’
He’s wearing his favourite sapphire-blue polo shirt and navy golf trousers.
‘What time are you playing?’
‘We’re teeing off at ten. I’d better get cracking. Will you be alright?’
‘I’m sure I’ll survive without you for a few hours.’ I take a bite of bacon sandwich, rubbing the fat that oozes down my chin with the sleeve of my pyjama top. ‘I’m meeting Lou at twelve.’
‘How is the Merry Widow? No more incidents?’ He makes as if he’s tying a noose around his neck and pulling the cord.
‘Matt! You’re incorrigible.’
He grins. ‘Sorry. Inappropriate, I know. But is she OK?’
‘Hard to tell. Lou’s very good at putting on a front. But she seems much more positive. We’re having lunch at that new Italian place by the cathedral. She said I might as well make the most of eating for two while I still can.’
‘I’ll probably have a quick pint in the clubhouse afterwards if that’s OK?’
‘You don’t need to ask.’
He pecks me on the cheek. ‘Give my love to Lou.’
I shake my head. ‘Like she needs any encouragement.’
I pick a table in the window and take a menu from a waitress with hair as dark as molasses and a pleasingly Italian Roman nose.
Lou’s texted to say she’s running late, but I don’t mind. The street is bustling and I’m happy to people watch, making up back stories for the elderly couples, tourists and families mooching past on their way to the cathedral.
She rocks up at a quarter past twelve, wearing an office-smart navy trouser suit and shades. She kisses me on both cheeks, rubs my bump and takes the menu I offer her with trembling fingers.
‘You’ll have a glass if I order a bottle, won’t you?’ she asks, beckoning the waitress over. She gives the wine menu the briefest glance. ‘The Merlot, I think. Two glasses,’ she adds, even though I’m shaking my head.
‘This is nice.’ She perches her sunglasses on the top of her head, her eyes following the waitress as she weaves through the tables to a floor-to-ceiling wine rack at the back of the restaurant. ‘How’s work?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual. One of the gardeners had a psychotic episode and someone tried to set my boss’s house on fire. The police think it was me. Oh, and I’ve been given a verbal warning. But other than that, all good.’
Her attention, which was still on the waitress, snaps back to me. ‘You are joking, right?’
‘I wish I was. And to top off the week I had a pregnancy scare.’
Her forehead rumples with worry. ‘What happened?’
I pull a face. ‘I fell arse over tit and landed on the bump.’
‘Pissed again?’
‘Very funny. No, I tripped over the cable of a hairdryer. But we went to hospital to get the baby checked over and it’s fine.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘I know.’ I fiddle with the menu as the waitress appears with the wine, shows us the bottle and pours an inch into Lou’s glass. Lou takes a sip, nods and her glass is filled. I place a hand over mine.
The waitress fishes a notepad and pen out of the back pocket of her trousers and takes our order. Seafood linguine for Lou and salmon ravioli in a creamy dill sauce for me. Once she’s gone Lou looks at me squarely.
‘Are these things connected?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did the psycho gardener start the fire at your boss’s house?’
‘I don’t think so. Martin’s harmless.’
‘Why do the police think it’s you?’
‘Because I’d lost my temper with her the day before.’
‘Blimey,’ says Lou, looking impressed. ‘It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch.’ She takes a slug of wine. ‘But you didn’t -’
‘Of course not!’ Keen to change the subject, I ask how’s she’s getting home.
‘I’m not driving, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
It occurs to me that I don’t even know if she ever passed her test. She’d only just started having lessons when I went travelling. There’s so much we don’t know about each other. I know the teenage Lou inside out, but the adult version is a stranger to me, and I to her. There are vast chasms in our common history and I’m not sure they can ever be crossed.
As if she’s reading my mind, Lou leans forwards and says, ‘Tell me about your gap year that turned into a decade. I want to know everything. Where you went, who you met, whether you missed me.’
I give her the well-rehearsed version, which I have edited and re-edited over the years like a zealous teacher with a red pen. This version is designed to make my time abroad seem fun and adventurous, when the truth is it wasn’t adventurous at all. I was just running away.
Lou listens and drinks and drinks and listens, and by the time our pasta arrives she’s sunk half the bottle. The ravioli smells delicious and I spear a piece greedily. My fork is halfway to my mouth when a shadow falls on the white tablecloth and I look up to see Roz staring through the window at us.
‘Who the hell is that?’ says Lou.
‘My friend Roz. I’ll see if she wants to join us. She’s great fun. You’ll love her.’
I push my chair back and beckon Roz inside. She gives a little shake of her head but I’m not going to be dissuaded. I want Roz and Lou to be mates. I’m already picturing the three of us on girlie nights together, as tight as thieves.
‘Come on, just for a quick drink,’ I mouth, motioning the half-empty bottle of Merlot. Roz glances at Lou, who’s watching with interest, her fingers tapping a tattoo on the starched white tablecloth.
Roz shrugs her shoulders. ‘Five minutes,’ she mouths back, and I am smiling as she deposits a couple of shopping bags on the floor and sits next to me.
‘So, you’re the famous Lou Sullivan nee Stapleton,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’
Lou leans back in her chair and studies Roz. ‘That’s funny, because I haven’t heard anything about you.’
There’s a stony silence. The image of girlie nights is fading fast. I’m reminded of a bull fight I once watched in Spain, the magnificent black bull and the valiant matador circling each other warily, waiting to see who would strike first. I clear my throat and inject some cheeriness into my voice. ‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat, Roz?’
‘No, I haven’t got long. I have a client at two.’
‘What do you do?’ Lou asks.
Roz smooths her hair self-consciously. ‘I’m a mobile hairdresser.’
‘That’s how we met,’ I explain. ‘I was looking for a new hairdresser when Roz posted a flyer through my letterbox. I don’t usually believe in fate, but it was as though we were preordained to meet.’
Lou twists linguine around her fork. ‘Was it your hairdryer lead Sophie tripped over?’
There’s an uncomfortable pause and Roz’s hand flutters to her neck. ‘Yes, why?’
‘Bit careless to leave it where she could trip over it, wasn’t it? What if something had happened to the baby?’
Roz inhales sharply and I jump in to defend her. ‘I told you, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going, klutz that I am. And anyway, everything’s fine.’
‘The last thing I want is to hurt the baby,’ Roz mutters.
‘Roz is the one who insisted on taking me to hospital. If she hadn’t been there I don’t know what I’d have done.’
‘If she hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have tripped over the lead in the first place,’ Lou says, her eyes narrowed.
I fork ravioli into my mouth, but my appetite has disappeared and the pasta and its rich filling is claggy and hard to swallow.
Lou is still twirling linguine, but her eyes aren’t on her lunch. ‘Are you expecting?’ she asks Roz.
Roz frowns. ‘Expecting what?’
‘A baby, what else?’ Lou mocks.
When Roz still l
ooks nonplussed, Lou points to the bags beside her feet. ‘The pregnancy mag.’
I peer over. A copy of Mother & Baby magazine is poking out of the top of one of the carrier bags.
‘I bought it for Sophie. There’s an interesting feature on home births I thought she’d like.’
‘That’s sweet of you,’ I say, touched.
‘There’s no way I’d even contemplate having a baby at home. Think of the mess! And no pethidine or epidural.’ Lou shudders.
‘Roz had a natural birth, didn’t you?’ I touch her arm.
‘Bully for Roz,’ says Lou, downing the last of her wine. ‘Give me drugs every time.’
Roz pushes back her chair. ‘I’d better be off. Nice to see you, Sophie. I’ll see you at Cam.’ She slaps the magazine down on the table and, without a backward glance, stalks out of the restaurant.
‘Who rattled her cage?’ Lou says, gazing after her.
I huff in exasperation. ‘Perhaps she didn’t take kindly to the fact that you virtually accused her of tripping me over. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘Sure, whatever. She’s a bit uptight, though.’ Lou pushes her plate to one side, picks up the magazine and starts flicking through it. ‘I suppose her baby slept through at four weeks and is a model child. Oo, look, Joshie had one of those.’
She points to a photo of the most beautiful pram I have ever seen. Navy and silver, it’s both sleek and elegant. It’s also over a thousand pounds. I give a low whistle.
Lou’s eyes have taken on a faraway look. ‘We were the envy of our mother and toddler group. I know it’s not cheap, but you know what they say, you get what you pay for.’
‘Which in our case will be a Mothercare own brand, which will do the job just fine.’ I smile at the waitress, who glides over to clear the table.
‘It was delicious, thanks,’ I say, even though I’ve only managed half of mine and Lou’s is virtually untouched.
‘You’re such a people pleaser,’ Lou says, once she’s out of earshot.
I’m puzzled. ‘You say it like it’s a bad thing.’