by Lisa Jewell
Cass, of course, hadn’t stopped going on about the Incredible Coincidence since, and was now completely convinced that Madeleine not only had been a famous monk in a former life, but had also had dozens of former lives and been someone hugely wise, important and mystical in each and every one of them. She was furious with Vince for not following Madeleine’s lead and making contact with Joy.
‘She’s in love with someone, for fuck’s sake. She’s getting married.’
‘Christ,’ she muttered, ‘so what if she’s getting married? What’s that got to do with anything? This is destiny we’re talking about. Fate wants you to be together. You can’t ignore the signs. The minute you put that note into my hand – no, in fact, the minute you even mentioned her name – I knew it. I just knew that you and she were meant to be. It was overwhelming. Overpowering. And Madeleine knew it, too. She found her for you, found your one true love. And you’re just going to throw that away?’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘Talk her out of it, of course.’
‘No. I can’t. I can’t mess with her head like that.’
‘Her head needs to be messed with. It’s crying out to be messed with. She’s making a heinous mistake and you need to stop her.’
‘And what if I do, eh? What if I see her and tell her not to marry this George character and she listens to me and then we realize a week later that we don’t have anything in common.’
‘You won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it’s fucking obvious, you fucking fuckhead. Do you think cats just always end up hanging out with people’s ex-girlfriends whom their owners just happen to be in the process of looking for? Don’t you believe in fate? In signs? In magic?’
‘Magic?’
‘Yes – magic. Not everything makes sense, you know. Not everything is just a coincidence. Some things are powered by outside forces – beyond our control.’
And Vince was sure that there were men out there, men who would stop at nothing to be with the woman they loved, men who would crash weddings and wreak havoc in other people’s lives, but he just wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t his style. He was too cautious. And maybe he simply didn’t feel things strongly enough.
But something was about to happen to him that would change the way he felt about things for ever.
On Saturday morning Vince packed a few things into a bag and caught the train to Enfield. Chris was away on a stag weekend in Blackpool, and Vince had promised his mum he’d come and stay to help her out with Kyle.
They’d just put Kyle to bed on Saturday and were about to order a pizza when Kirsty had come back from the toilet looking ashen.
‘I’m bleeding,’ she said, ‘quite a lot.’
Twenty minutes later, Kyle was in his pyjamas in the back of Kirsty’s Renault 5 and they were halfway to Chase Farm Hospital.
‘How many weeks are you?’ said an obstetrician with half his arm inside Kirsty.
‘Thirty-six.’
‘And are you in any pain?’
‘Well, not really. I’ve had a bit of indigestion. But nothing serious.’
‘Hmmm.’ He removed his hand from inside Kirsty and snapped off his latex glove. ‘It looks like a placental abruption.’
‘A what?’ said Vince.
‘A placental abruption means that the placenta has started to pull away from the wall of the uterus… ’
‘What’s a placenta?’ Vince had heard the word before, but would have been hard-pushed to define it.
‘The placenta is the connection between the mother and the baby – it’s where the baby’s nourishment comes from – so the fact that it’s coming away from the mother – the source of the nourishment – could potentially be a very serious problem indeed.’
Vince looked at Kirsty, hoping for reassurance that she knew exactly what this meant and that it really wasn’t such a big deal. But her face was as blank and uncomprehending as his own.
‘Is the baby all right?’ she whispered.
‘We’ll run some checks.’
Her massive belly was wired up to various pieces of machinery, and Vince stared in wonder at the huge dome of skin. He’d never been so close to a naked pregnant belly before and wasn’t sure whether he found it beautiful or really quite disgusting.
‘I can’t have the baby now, you know,’ Kirsty pleaded with the midwife who was doing the wiring. ‘My husband’s in Blackpool. I can’t have it now.’
‘It might not come to that,’ soothed the midwife. ‘We’ll know more in a minute.’
Kirsty reached for Vince’s hand and squeezed it so hard it made his eyes water. Suddenly the room was filled with a sound that brought a lump to his throat.
A vital, insistent thump.
A heartbeat.
‘Baby’s heart rate is good,’ said the midwife. ‘No signs of foetal distress.’
‘Oh, my God,’ he breathed, ‘that’s the baby?’
‘Yes,’ said the midwife, ‘and it’s doing fine.’
‘Wow, ‘he said, ‘I can’t believe it. It sounds so…’
‘Real?’ suggested the midwife.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘Well’ – the midwife pulled the ultrasound gun from Kirsty’s stomach and immediately the miraculous sound of new life disappeared – ‘the baby’s fine. But you are losing a lot of blood. I think it’s very likely that we’ll have to induce labour.’
‘What – now?’ pleaded Kirsty.
‘Well, we’ll see what Mr Patel says, but if he agrees with me, then, yes, we’ll have to move quite quickly. You can’t afford to lose any more blood.’
‘But I told you. My husband’s in Blackpool. I can’t have the baby without him. I can’t…’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jebb, but, unless your husband can get back here within the next few hours, I don’t think we have any choice.’
The obstetrician seconded the midwife’s opinion, and within minutes Kirsty was being induced.
Kirsty’s father arrived an hour later and took Kyle home, and Vince called the guesthouse in Blackpool where Chris was staying and left an urgent message for him. But apart from that there was nothing left for him to do but to sit and wait while his mother went through the early stages of having a baby.
It took another four hours for anything of any significance to happen. Various people kept coming in to stick their hands up Kirsty and pronounce measurements as if they’d gone in there with a tape measure. An anaesthetist arrived and stuck a needle in Kirsty’s back, which made Vince’s knees go all quivery and funny, but seemed to make his mum feel a hundred times better. At around midnight the midwife told Kirsty she was nearly nine centimetres dilated and that it was time to start pushing.
Vince had already made the decision that at this point in the proceedings he would probably make his excuses and disappear. But just as he was about to take his leave, his mum grabbed his hand and whispered urgently in his ear, ‘You will stay with me, won’t you, love?’ She looked so scared and so alone that he sighed, and said, ‘Of course I will. I’m not going anywhere.’
Three people had stationed themselves at Kirsty’s helm, almost as if the baby was due to be shot out like a can-nonball and they were primed to catch it. His mum had her knees pulled up to her collarbone and was making noises like the ones an injured horse makes just before someone shoots it. Mr Patel swooped in, peered briefly between Kirsty’s thighs and proclaimed her good to go. And Vince stood there awkwardly, feeling torn between wanting to see the baby coming out and not wanting to see his mum’s apertures.
‘The head’s coming,’ smiled a red-haired nurse. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘Er… ‘ he hesitated.
‘Oh, go on,’ she urged. ‘It’s the same place you came from. Nothing to be scared of.’
He glanced at his mum to make sure she didn’t have a problem with him gazing at her nether regions, but she was concentrating so hard on pushing that she seemed t
o have forgotten he was in the room.
‘Go on, Kirsty. You’re doing great.’ The midwife had hold of each of Kirsty’s kneecaps and was staring intently at the activity immediately below. ‘Nearly there now, Kirsty. Just a couple more big pushes. Oh,’ she smiled, ‘look, lots of lovely dark hair.’
And at the mention of lots of lovely dark hair, curiosity got the better of Vince and he craned his neck to have a look. And just as he craned his neck to have a look, his mum made another dying horse noise and the baby’s head popped out.
‘Oh, my God,’ he said, looking from the damp, bloody skull to his mother’s puce, sweaty face and back again. ‘Oh, my God – it’s incredible.’
‘Right, Kirsty, the head’s out. Now just one more big push and your baby’s arrived.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Vince again. ‘Mum, it’s amazing. It’s got hair. Push, Mum, push.’ And Vince gripped her bare thigh and completely forgot that he was staring at his mother’s genitalia, as he felt overcome with a sudden impatience to meet his new sibling. And then, ten seconds later, his mother’s body kind of shook and went floppy, and a little person slithered from her and into the hands of the midwife. Vince stared in awe as the little person was sucked free of fluid with a teat pipette and rubbed down with a white towel.
‘What is it? What is it?’ said Kirsty.
‘It’s a little girl,’ said the midwife, ‘a beautiful little girl.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Kirsty said, clamping her hands over mouth and stifling a cry. ‘A little girl. I’ve got a little girl.’
‘Would you like your son to cut the cord, Kirsty?’
Kirsty smiled and nodded.
‘God – are you sure?’ said Vince, feeling slightly nerve-wracked at the prospect of such a huge responsibility.
‘Of course,’ laughed his mum. ‘Who else would I want to do it?’
‘OΚ, then. What do I have to do?’
The midwife handed Vince an enormous pair of L-shaped scissors. ‘Just cut there, between the two bands.’ He snipped gently through the pearlescent tube, feeling the enormity of what he was doing even as his thoughts raced through his head in a blur. And then the tiny person was placed on Kirsty’s T-shirted chest, and Kirsty smiled at her and said, ‘Hello, my little queen – I’ve waited a long time for you.’
The midwife took the little queen to a set of scales lined with green paper and placed her gently in it. ‘Five pounds thirteen ounces,’ she said, proudly. ‘A whopper considering she’s four weeks early.’
Vince watched as they planted the baby’s feet in an inkpad and took a set of footprints, then swaddled her tightly in a white blanket and handed her to his mother. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispered to her new baby, ‘just absolutely beautiful. Your daddy is going to love you so much when he sees you.’
Vince peered at the little Eskimo face peeping out of a gap in the blanket and felt waves of something he couldn’t explain washing over him.
‘Do you want a cuddle?’ Kirsty offered.
Vince nodded, and held his hands out for the little white bundle. ‘Hello, baby sis,’ he said, staring into a pair of ink-black eyes, ‘I’m your big brother. Your very big brother.’ The ink-black eyes blinked at him and a tiny rosebud mouth formed a circle of surprise. And as he stared at her, Vince felt the strongest connection he’d ever felt with any human being in his life, stronger than the first time he’d seen Kyle, stronger even than the bond he shared with his mother. He suddenly felt the meaning of the word ‘relation’ in its purest, strongest form. He’d seen this person’s first entry into the world; he’d seen her body leaving his mother’s body; he’d disconnected her from her first source of life. She was truly, completely, eternally a part of him, and the overwhelming love he felt for her brought his whole life instantaneously into focus.
Nothing mattered but this, he thought. This was the true essence of life, of existence. This was what love was for.
‘What are you going to call her?’ asked the midwife.
‘Ashleigh,’ said Kirsty, ‘Ashleigh Rose.’
‘Ah,’ she smiled, ‘that’s beautiful.’
And Vince smiled at Ashleigh Rose, watching his face imprinting itself on to her brand-new consciousness, and decided that it was time to start shaping his own destiny.
Thirty-Five
Joy’s hen night wasn’t turning out quite as she’d imagined.
After weeks spent discussing concepts such as party buses, nightclubs, stretch limos, weekends in Amsterdam and male strippers, they’d ended up at George’s flat eating pizza. With George. And his best friend Wilkie. And his drug dealer Marian.
It was like an anti-hen night.
Joy wasn’t quite sure what had happened. It had all started going wrong when George sneered disdainfully at the suggestion of a stag night.
‘I have absolutely no intention of having a stag night. The whole concept is utterly repellent.’
‘But don’t you want to see your friends? Have a laugh?’
‘I can do that any night. I don’t need to dress it up with a ludicrous name and make a fiasco out of it.’
‘It doesn’t have to be a fiasco. You could just go out for dinner.’
‘No. It’s something I’ve always found distasteful, whatever form it takes.’
‘Oh.’ Joy felt a small gulf opening up between them.
‘But don’t let that stop you having fun. I had an idea, actually. I thought, maybe’ – he smiled excitedly and grabbed her hand – ‘you might like to have your party here.’
‘Here?’ Joy glanced around the living room and felt her soul sag in the middle.
But he’d said it in such a way that it was plainly an offer, not a suggestion. He was giving her his flat. It was a gift. And though there were probably at least a hundred different ways in which she could have sweetly turned the gift down, she couldn’t think of a single one of them at that precise moment.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But what about you? What would you do?’
‘Oh,’ he said airily, ‘I’ll find something to do. Don’t worry.’
Her girlfriends had been a little bit surprised when she’d mooted the plan for the night, but gamely bounced back with enthusiasm, talking about the clothes they’d wear, the cocktails they’d make, the games they’d play. Someone suggested an Ann Summers rep. Someone else talked about a strip-o-gram. And somewhere along the line Joy started to think that, actually, it could be quite fun.
But then two days before the big day, George had come home and announced that his friend Wilkie was in town for the weekend and that they wanted to get stoned together and that, really, the only place they could do that was at the flat. And somewhere in the process of trying to fill yet another gulf before it turned into an ‘issue’ she found herself somehow negotiating a kind of hybrid hen/stag night. She tried to retrace the conversation in her head, to find the exact point at which she’d agreed to such a bizarre compromise, but she still had no idea how it had happened.
*
Wilkie had been first to arrive, a small, wiry person with slightly too much hair and wire-framed spectacles. He wore an aged bobbly jumper with a white polo neck underneath and talked in a soft Edinburgh accent, so quietly that Joy could only catch one in every three words he said. He was a friend of George’s from public school and worked as a science reporter for the Scotsman, and Joy thought he was very nice, if slightly damp-smelling. He obviously saw George as the leader of the pack, some kind of throwback to school days, and laughed heartily at anything he said that was even halfway funny.
Ten minutes after Wilkie arrived, Marian the drug dealer turned up. She was wearing a strange hand-knitted jumper that appeared to have been fashioned from straw and a long denim skirt with cat hair all over it. Her incredibly long hair was rolled up into a sort of mushroom, and her eyeliner was smudged halfway down her face.
Joy, who had the ability to get on with pretty much anyone from pretty much any walk of life, could have
carved a pleasant enough evening for herself out of this selection of slightly vague but fundamentally decent people, but it was the prospect of the terrible human chemical collision that was about to occur that made her feel edgy.
Joy had given a lot of thought over the weeks to how she imagined it might be the first time George met her friends. She’d imagined him meeting her nice, normal friends, the ones from university. She’d imagined jolly meals in friendly brasseries, lovely drinks in warm, smoky pubs. What she hadn’t envisaged was a basque-clad Julia arriving at the front door with her bosoms presented in front of her like two enormous blancmanges sitting on a windowsill, followed by Bella in a red sequinned dress, waist-length nylon hair and heels that rendered him six feet tall. Both of them were festooned with shocking pink feather boas and dildos on chains, and had obviously had more than a couple of pre-party drinks as they came crashing through the front door screaming and whooping at the tops of their voices.
Joy had never seen Bella in drag before and the transformation was terrifying. Bella’s sexuality was fairly ambiguous in his day-to-day guise, his manner low-key and his appearance androgynous. But the act of putting on a dress had somehow turned him into the campest, gayest person Joy had ever met. He spoke at twice his normal volume and did lots of unnerving sashaying, twirling and pursing of his (vermilion) lips.
‘I’ve got my thermals on,’ he stage whispered, nudging Joy sharply in the ribs. ‘I’m prepared.’
‘Shhhh,’ she whispered urgently, ‘George is here.’
‘What – the George? He’s here?’
‘Yes. He’s got some friends with him. They’re, er… joining us.’