by Anna Bell
The man sucks in his breath in a way reminiscent of Max when he realised that’s where he lives.
‘I’m really sorry, that sucks.’
‘It’s OK, Ellie. We could just have a drink elsewhere or go home?’
‘No, no, we have to be here,’ I say, my voice rising in pitch. ‘We’re trying to jog your memory, we’ve got to go to the same place.’
‘I’m sure there must be other places that we’ve been to in Clapham.’
I tap my fingers on top of the bar. He doesn’t know why this place is so special to me.
‘No, it’s got to be here.’
Max looks around the bar.
‘If it helps, none of it seems familiar. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.’
I want to scream that it’s not about that, but instead I take a deep calming breath.
‘You can play beer pong if you like? We’ve got some space on the tables in the back room.’
‘Beer pong?’ I say incredulously.
‘Oh, I love beer pong,’ says Max. ‘I played it when I went to visit my mate Dom at uni in Texas.’
‘Cool, so what package do you want: beer, prosecco?’ says the barman.
‘Orange juice,’ I say, pointing to the bump. ‘I can’t drink.’
‘I can give you a pitcher of water for your cups,’ says the barman.
‘That could work?’ Max says.
‘Yes, because at seven months pregnant what I want to do is down a pitcher of water. I already have to pee all the time as it is.’
‘Then I can drink the beer for you,’ says Max. ‘We’ll take a table.’
The barman nods and leaves the pitcher to be filled whilst he takes payment.
‘This is going to be so much fun. And I’ll have you know that I’m awesome at this game,’ says Max. ‘I am definitely going to be the king of it.’
‘Awesome.’
He misses my sarcasm and I’m left wondering how this has gone so horribly wrong from the plan I had in my head.
Max takes the full pitcher and we walk out to the back room that smells like a brewery thanks to floor covered in spilt beer. There are groups playing on most of the tables that are screaming and shouting as they throw the ping pong balls into each other’s cups. It looks fun with a group of mates, but definitely not for a first date, especially when one half of the couple isn’t drinking.
Max sets up the cups at each end into their triangle shapes and he explains the rules to me, shouting to make himself heard over the cackling group of hens on the table next to us playing prosecco pong.
‘Right, yep, got it,’ I say, slightly unimpressed. I throw my first ball and it lands in the middle cup.
‘Holy shit,’ says Max, ‘good shot.’ He picks up the cup and downs it. ‘I underestimated your hand-eye co-ordination. I seem to remember when Rach brought you to the tennis club once and you got hit in the head with a ball. Didn’t my mum have to take you to A&E?’
I remember that day so well. I’d chosen my shorts and Aertex T-shirt so carefully as I knew that Max would be there. During the warm-up, when one of the older kids served to me, I’d gone to hit the ball, only to wildly miss and have it hit me square in the head. Let’s just say I never went back again.
‘Yes, yes, thanks for that. So pleased there’s nothing wrong with your long-term memory.’
He laughs and it feels like a small victory that he’s no longer scowling. Perhaps I can get this back on track after all.
He takes a shot and hits one of my cups on the back line. ‘Score,’ he shouts before he walks over to the table and downs my beer. ‘This is just what the doctor ordered.’ Max walks back to his side of the table.
A woman comes along dressed in tight leather trousers and a vest top, wearing a gun holster filled with shots bottles. She’s carrying a tray of shot glasses.
‘Who wants shots?’ she asks, looking between me and Max.
I point at the bump and she sighs before fluttering her eyelids at Max.
‘I’ll take one, and perhaps I’ll drink Ellie’s, too,’ he says, digging into his wallet to pay for them.
‘Er, Max, are you sure you want to drink shots on top of all the beer you’re drinking?’
‘I’ll be fine. Shots don’t affect me,’ he says, slamming back the green-coloured drinks in close succession before rapidly shaking his head afterwards. ‘They were vile.’
He picks up the cup of beer that he was supposed to down and uses it as a chaser.
‘Right, where were we?’ he says. ‘I bet this is much better than mini-golf, isn’t it?’
‘Mmmhmm,’ I say, trying to block out the chanting of the hen party on the table next to us as they down their shots. Who has a hen do on a Wednesday night?
I throw the ball and it hits a cup. I’m delighted because the quicker the game’s over, the quicker we can leave.
The bride-to-be staggers past me on the way back from the toilet and she bumps into me as she passes.
‘Ooh, sorry,’ she says, noticing my bump and then pulling a look of horror.
‘I’m not drinking,’ I say quickly. ‘My husband’s doing that for both of us.’
‘Right,’ she says, giving me a look and it makes me feel even worse about being here. I turn back to Max to see if he wants to call it a night, but he’s talking to a tall blonde woman with a bridesmaid sash draped over her shoulder. The shots woman has come round again and Max and the bridesmaid down a green shot before the bridesmaid hands Max a glass of prosecco to chase it with.
‘Woo,’ says Max, cheering to much whooping from the hen party.
Max has always liked to party but I haven’t seen him drinking like this for a long time, not since we had Sasha, anyway.
I cough loudly and he looks up in surprise.
‘It’s your go,’ I shout.
‘Right,’ he says, and he gives the woman a small shrug and she sashays off to her table.
He misses and I catch the ball and throw it so forcefully that it splashes beer out when it lands in a cup.
‘Easy,’ says Max, picking it up. ‘You nearly lost all the beer.’
Another big group has started playing on the table to the other side of us, and it’s almost impossible to hold a conversation without shouting, so we give up.
‘Isn’t this great?’ he says with a hint of a slur, when he comes over to my side of the table to pick up a cup for a drink.
‘Do you think you might have had enough?’
‘Had enough? Who are you, my mum?’ he says with a laugh. ‘Come on, this is nothing.’
‘You know, you don’t really do shots any more,’ I say.
He scoffs and rolls his eyes.
‘I always do shots,’ he says. ‘And I can handle my booze, OK?’
There’s an edge to his voice that doesn’t belong there, and I don’t like it.
I watch him walk back around with a slight stagger and I worry about how I’m going to get him home.
Max is steadying his arm, getting ready to throw, when a ball lands in one of my cups.
‘Oops,’ says the bridesmaid, giggling, and she wanders over to retrieve it. I’m not entirely convinced that her throw was so bad that her ball happened to hit our table, but Max doesn’t seem to question it when he walks over and retrieves it for her. ‘You might as well drink the cup; Ellie’s pregnant and can’t drink anyway.’
She doesn’t even turn and look at me. She merely downs the beer and swishes her long hair over her shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ she says, putting the empty cup down and leaning her hand on the table with her back to me. ‘You know, I could do with some aiming tips. I seem to be hopeless at this.’
‘I’m sure you’re not that bad,’ says Max. ‘I’ll help you.’
They both walk round to his side of the table; she holds her arm up and Max corrects her posture.
I can’t hear what they’re saying but whatever it is must be hilarious from the way she’s tipping her head back laughing.
The woman throws the ping pong ball and it hits me in the face.
‘Ow,’ I say, wiping off the stray beer that’s streaked across my cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ shouts the woman, clasping her hand to her mouth, but I can see that there’s a smile spread across it.
I rub at it and it surprisingly hurts an awful lot.
This couldn’t be any further from our first date. Back then, half an hour in, Max had his hand on the small of my back, guiding me between the holes, and it was me holding onto his hips, leaning into him, trying to coach him with his mini-golf technique. It was somewhere around then that things changed between us and the chemistry started fizzing. Whereas now, the only thing fizzing is the prosecco on the adjacent table.
‘Are you OK?’ says Max, walking towards me, the bridesmaid following behind. ‘I hope you’re not going to have concussion from that ball.’
‘How could she get a concussion from that?’ The bridesmaid folds her arms over her chest. ‘It’s an air-filled plastic ball.’
‘But she’s pregnant,’ he says, taking a step back from her.
‘What? It’s not like it hit her in the bump.’
Max turns away from the bridesmaid and she huffs and walks back to her friends – no hip-wiggling this time.
‘No trips to A&E needed,’ I say to him, wiping away the beer from my cheek.
‘Good,’ he says, tracing his fingers over my cheek to examine for himself. My body shudders and he looks me straight in the eyes as if he feels it. His hand lingers on my cheek and I can’t help but turn my head so that he’s cupping the side of my face.
‘Shall we go?’ I whisper.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to finish the game first?’ says Max, pulling apart, like we weren’t just having a moment. ‘We’ve only got a couple more shots to play.’
‘Quite sure,’ I say with a sigh.
‘OK,’ he says, turning round and downing the remaining cups on the table.
‘Um, Max, I’m not going to be able to carry you home.’
‘What? I can’t waste them,’ he says, downing the last one.
I turn around to leave the beer pong annexe and the shots woman blocks the doorway to the main bar.
‘More shots?’ she says, picking a bottle out of the holster and pouring it into a glass.
I try to weave around her but Max is already downing another couple of green ones.
‘I thought they were really bad?’
He shakes his head involuntarily.
‘The more I have the more they grow on me. So what’s the plan next?’ he says, rubbing his hands together.
‘Train home and then bed,’ I say, already dreaming of sleeping off this awful date.
‘Home and bed? Ellie, it’s not even eight o’clock. Let’s get food, or even more drinks.’
He makes a beeline for the bar and signals for the barman’s attention.
‘You don’t need any more drinks.’
He orders a shot of sambuca before turning to me.
‘And I’ve told you, you’re not my mother,’ he says.
The moment we shared only seconds ago now seems to have gone.
We hold each other’s gaze and I can feel the anger starting to pulse around my veins. The baby kicks and it grounds me. It’s not good for me to get this cross.
‘Fine,’ I say, taking a step back. ‘I’ll go home on my own.’
‘Ellie,’ he calls, but I’m already leaving the bar.
I’m storming off, or at least I’m trying to storm, but it’s difficult when you’re as pregnant as I am. It’s more like a fast waddle.
‘Ellie,’ calls Max again.
He runs to catch up with me but his breath nearly knocks me out.
‘Ellie, come on. Let’s finush this.’
‘Finush, Max? Listen to yourself, you’re slurring all over the place. Let’s just get home, go to sleep and we’ll pretend this never happened.’
‘I thought we were having a great time,’ he says, tripping over himself.
‘You – you were having a great time. You and that blonde bridesmaid.’
‘Oh,’ says Max, sighing. ‘This is what that was about – you’re the jealous type, I get it.’
‘No, you don’t get it,’ I say, stopping short and causing someone behind me to walk into me. ‘I’m not the jealous type at all. Just like you’re not the flirting type. We’re different than that, we’re beyond it. We never play games with each other. We got together, we fell in love and it was easy. This,’ I say, pointing between him and me, ‘this is bloody hard. The Max that I know would never have taken me to play beer pong when I couldn’t drink. He’d never have drunk shots with a stunningly beautiful woman. He’d never have called me his mother. I was an idiot for even thinking this was a good idea.’
Max opens his mouth and I think he’s going to apologise, but instead he turns around and vomits on the pavement. Fuck. My. Life.
I’m stuck in London with a husband who doesn’t know who I am, who’s now too drunk to get on a train. What the hell am I going to do?
Chapter 11
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say, standing up from the bench with immense relief at the sight of Owen.
Without me holding him up, Max slumps over.
‘Bloody hell, how much has he had to drink?’ says Owen, pulling a face.
‘Enough. I’m so sorry to ruin your night. I didn’t know who else to call. I didn’t think I’d make it back on my own.’
‘You did the right thing,’ says Owen, standing back and surveying the options. ‘Is he still being sick?’
‘No. I think he’s over the worst of it.’
‘OK, let’s get him up. I’ll take his weight if you can steady him a bit.’
With a heave, Owen slips Max’s arm under his shoulders and pulls him up to standing. Max starts to struggle a little.
‘Mate,’ he says, realising who it is, and he latches on to him squeezing him in an almost hug before he continues looking down to the ground.
‘Mate,’ Owen mutters back, groaning under the strain of holding him. ‘OK, I was going to suggest a taxi, but I’m not sure we’ll find one that will take him. We’re going to have to get him on the train.’
I look at Max who barely has his eyes open.
‘We can go back to mine in Surbiton; it’s eleven minutes on the train and a five-minute walk from the station. You guys can crash there tonight. Judy’s got Sasha at hers, right?’
‘Yeah, but I’m sure if you helped me onto the train to Fleet I could get him off at the other end. I don’t want to put you through any more trouble.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble, and I don’t think you’d manage him on your own. You and Max can have my room and I can sleep on the sofa bed.’
‘Oh,’ I say, looking Max up and down.
‘Or we can put him on a mattress on the floor, if you’d rather,’ he says, and I wonder if he’s a mind reader.
‘Might be the safer option. One that’s close to a bathroom.’
Owen smiles. ‘Come on, then, let’s get going.’
When I was pregnant the first time, I hated the fact that I could never sleep a whole night through; only now do I re
alise it was probably nature’s way of preparing me for the sleep deprivation that was to come. This time around – with Sasha more or less sleeping through the night – I enjoy the quietness of being awake, and the fact that no one is making demands of me. But tonight, lying in an unfamiliar bed, I’m feeling restless. When it eventually becomes unbearable, I get out of bed and creep past Max, who’s passed out on an airbed in the hallway. I find my way into the kitchen and I’m surprised to see Owen standing by the sink.
‘Shit, sorry, did I wake you?’ says Owen, filling up the kettle. ‘I thought I was being quiet.’
‘You were, I didn’t hear you at all. I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘Want one?’ he says, holding up a box of tea bags.
‘Hmm, I shouldn’t really drink caffeine.’
‘What about a hot milk?’
‘Perfect.’
I sit down at the table and rub my bump.
‘Everything OK with you and the baby?’
‘Yes, fine, thanks. I’m just finding it difficult to sleep at the moment. It’s hard to get comfortable.’
‘I bet,’ he says, widening his eyes. ‘I take it you haven’t figured out what happened?’
‘No, still none the wiser. Although Max did receive a call from a hospital in Hammersmith. They didn’t say anything, and when I rang back, it went through to the main switchboard. Without knowing who called, I couldn’t do anything about it.’
‘Was it a bad line?’
‘No, I was convinced I could hear someone breathing. Not like heavy breathing – not that kind of call – but I guess I was aware that someone was there.’
‘Probably just a wrong number,’ he says.
‘Yeah, that’s what Max says,’ I say, looking out the door as the sound of snoring drifts in.
‘He’s out cold,’ says Owen. ‘I haven’t seen him like this in years.’
‘Neither have I. He drank a lot in such a short space of time.’
‘It’s easy to do at beer pong.’
‘I guess.’
He places a pan of milk on the hob and lights the gas.
‘You never did tell me why you were up here playing beer pong in the first place. Doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing you’d do when you’re not drinking.’