The service, in the function room of a boutique hotel, was simple and short on religion, filled instead with quirky readings and Mum and Stacey’s favourite songs. I performed a Maya Angelou poem entitled ‘Touched by an Angel’ and Mum cried.
After the service, there was dinner and speeches (when Stacey opened her speech with ‘My wife and I …’, the guests roared with delight). Then the tables were pushed aside and everyone danced to a playlist Mum and Stacey had spent the last few weeks putting together. It was fun, but as Frankie and I whirled around the dance floor, giddy on the tiny sip of champagne we’d been allowed, I couldn’t stop picturing Dad alone in his new flat – a poky place on the other side of Newfield he’d recently moved into following the sale of our old house.
Two weeks later, following a brief honeymoon in Copenhagen, Mum and Stacey sat me down and told me they had something important to speak to me about.
As they perched on the sofa, I had flashbacks to the afternoon when Mum and Dad told me they were splitting up. Only this time Mum and Stacey were holding hands and smiling, their thighs smushed up together.
‘How would you feel,’ Mum began, ‘about maybe having a little brother or sister at some point?’
My eyes immediately flew to Mum and Stacey’s stomachs.
Mum laughed. ‘No one’s pregnant,’ she said.
‘Yet,’ Stacey added with a grin.
‘We wanted to talk to you first,’ Mum said. ‘Before we got the ball officially rolling.’
‘OK.’
‘So, what do you think?’ Mum asked. ‘You always used to say you wanted a sibling.’
This was true. Most of my friends had brothers and sisters, and when I was younger, I’d often ask why I didn’t. Not because I desperately wanted one; I was mostly just curious as to what made us different to all the other families we knew. As soon as I was old enough to understand, Mum explained the reason. When I was born, there were complications and Mum had almost died during labour. The doctors had made it very clear that any further attempts to conceive would be unwise. From that moment on, I stopped asking and pushed the idea from my head, figuring I’d sacrifice having a brother or sister if it meant I got to keep my mum.
‘But I thought you couldn’t have any more children,’ I pointed out.
‘I can’t,’ Mum said. ‘But Stacey can.’ She rubbed her shoulder up against Stacey’s.
‘The thing is, I’ve always wanted kids,’ Stacey said. ‘Ever since I was tiny. I’ve just never met the right person to have them with until now.’ She looked at Mum and they smiled dreamily at one another.
‘Who would be the dad?’ I asked.
‘We’ll use a sperm donor,’ Stacey explained.
‘Who?’
‘No one we’ll ever meet. It’ll be from an anonymous database.’
‘Does that mean the baby won’t know who its dad is?’
‘Well, yes, technically.’
‘So it could be anyone?’
‘Well, not exactly.’ Mum said. ‘The donors are very carefully screened. And we get basic profile information – height, eye colour, profession, that sort of thing – to help us pick.’
‘And you’d both be its mums?’
‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘Stacey would carry the baby but yes, we’d both be its mum.’
‘Where would it sleep?’ I asked.
‘We’ll convert my office into a nursery,’ Stacey said.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ Mum added with a laugh. ‘We’ve given it a lot of thought.’
‘OK,’ I said, mainly because I didn’t know what else to say, but also because I got the sense they’d already taken my blessing for granted.
‘I knew you’d be on board,’ Mum added, beaming. ‘My good, good girl.’
Within days, the bathroom cabinet was filled with ovulation kits and pregnancy vitamins. Although Mum claimed they hadn’t wanted to get the ‘ball rolling’ until they’d spoken to me, it was clear they’d done plenty of research before doing so, and just a few weeks later they announced they had chosen their donor (a blond, blue-eyed structural engineer from Denmark) and Stacey was ready to be inseminated.
Mum and Stacey came home from the clinic all giddy and excited. As we ate dinner, they pondered over whether Stacey could already be pregnant.
‘How soon will you know?’ I asked.
‘It varies,’ Stacey replied. ‘Some tests claim they can tell right away but we’re going to wait a couple days before I do one.’
That was a Tuesday. On that Friday, Mum and Stacey ceremoniously trooped to the bathroom to do the test. I stayed in the living room. Although I’d got used to the idea of a baby brother or sister, I still hadn’t made up my mind how I really felt about it. Mum and Stacey had clearly taken care to include me in their conversations, but I still couldn’t help but feel separate from the entire venture – a spectator, rather than a member of the team. Perhaps it would feel different when the baby was actually here, but until then it was hard to pinpoint my exact thoughts on the subject.
They returned a few minutes later.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Not this time,’ Stacey said, sighing.
‘It’s only been a few days,’ Mum said. ‘It might not show up yet. We’ll check again on Monday.’
They did.
The result was still negative.
‘Can you have another go?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ Mum said, giving Stacey’s knee a firm squeeze.
The following month, they went through the insemination process again.
Once more the result was negative.
‘I just don’t understand,’ Stacey said, chucking the negative test in the kitchen bin. ‘I had all the tests. They said everything looked fine.’
‘And it will be,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll get pregnant next time, you’ll see.’
But the next month was the same. No baby.
*
I relayed all of this to Frankie on our walks to and from school.
‘Maybe they need to do IVF,’ Frankie said.
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know what it stands for, but my auntie Lorna was having trouble having a baby and she had it and now she’s got twins and is so knackered she put her toothbrush in the freezer the other day.’
I suggested this over dinner that evening.
Mum and Stacey exchanged looks.
‘We’re not eligible,’ Mum said eventually.
‘Why not?’
Mum hesitated. ‘It’s a postcode thing.’
‘But that’s not fair.’
‘I know, sweetheart, but that’s the way it is.’
At that point, Stacey stood up, the legs of her chair screeching against the tiled floor, and left the room.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ I asked.
‘No, of course not,’ Mum said, her eyes on the door. ‘Stacey’s just feeling a bit sad, that’s all.’
About a month later later, I woke in the night feeling thirsty. I climbed out of bed and ventured towards the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
I was almost at the kitchen door when I heard Stacey crying.
I peered through the crack. Mum and Stacey were sitting at the table, a half-empty bottle of red wine between them. Both their faces were flushed.
‘Nothing’s wrong with you,’ Mum said, leaning across the table and taking Stacey’s hands firmly in hers.
‘So why can’t I get pregnant?’ Stacey asked, her eyes shining with sadness.
‘I don’t know,’ Mum admitted. ‘But it’s not your fault.’
‘Then whose fault is it if it’s not mine? It’s my body that’s defective, no one else’s.’
‘We don’t know that. We’ve just had a run of bad luck.’
‘Bad luck?’ Stacey spat. ‘We’ve had three attempts now. Three! It was supposed to be a seventy per cent success rate.’
‘I know,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve been there right beside you through all this, rememb
er?’
Stacey shook her head.
‘Maybe we could look into doing IVF privately,’ Mum said gently.
‘We can’t afford it, Helen. We’ve already ploughed pretty much everything we had into these three cycles.’
‘Perhaps we should try the NHS route then?’
‘We can’t. We’re not eligible, remember?’
‘We’ll find a way around it.’
‘How? Just deny Jojo exists?’
I flinched. What did I have to do with any of this?
‘No, of course not. Maybe we can appeal?’
‘There’s no point, Helen. They were very clear. If either of us have a child from a previous relationship, no matter what the circumstances, it automatically counts us out. I love Jojo, you know I do, but she’s not my child and she never will be. How on earth can they think it’s the same thing?’
I froze.
It was because of me.
It wasn’t a postcode thing at all. Mum and Stacey couldn’t have a baby because of me.
My head reeling, I stumbled back to my room, my glass of water forgotten.
Chapter 18
Annie and I chat for the rest of the journey but the mood has shifted, the balance in our dynamic slightly off-kilter now that she’s made up her mind that I’m a poor single mum, cruelly abandoned by the father of her newborn baby. I can’t exactly blame her. After all, she doesn’t know the full story. All she has are the scant details I’ve given her, some of them true, others not so, and she’s filled in the gaps accordingly.
When we get off the train at St Pancras, she stays close, sticking to my side as we pass through the barriers.
‘Have you got anyone meeting you?’ she asks, her eyes scanning the people waiting on the other side.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Really?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ I say quickly. ‘My visit, I mean. My family don’t know I’m coming.’
Annie breaks into a smile. ‘Oh, Amelia, how lovely,’ she says. ‘My goodness, they’re going to be absolutely thrilled when you turn up on their doorstep.’
I smile. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Do you know where you’re going from here?’ Annie asks. ‘I can walk with you down to your platform if you like, make sure you’re going the right way.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I’ve done this journey loads of times. Honestly, I could do it with my eyes closed.’ I glance up and spot a sign for the toilets. ‘Actually, before I go anywhere, I should probably get him changed.’ I pat Albie gently on the bottom.
‘I could wait for you,’ Annie offers. ‘I’m not in any sort of hurry.’
‘You really don’t have to. In fact, I might, er, stay and get a bit of lunch before I get on the tube. You know, split up the journey a bit.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure,’ Annie says doubtfully.
We’re at the bottom of the escalators now. A few metres away, a boy a few years older than me is sitting at one of those public pianos, his black hair flopping in front of his eyes as he plays the introduction to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. He’s good; a small circle of spectators is gathered around him with their phones out, filming his performance. The entire station is crammed with people and luggage and noise. I’ve been to London before, with Mum and Stacey, with Dad, with school, but I’ve never been here alone and certainly never in sole charge of such a tiny human being. Instinctively, I wrap both my arms around Albie. If I could swaddle him in bubble wrap right now, I would.
‘Well,’ Annie says. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Amelia. And you too, Luca.’ She reaches forward and strokes Albie gently on the cheek.
‘It was really nice to meet you too,’ I say.
She opens her arms and I let her envelop me in a hug. She smells of sweat and sugary perfume and Elnett hairspray. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she whispers, her breath warm on my skin. ‘I can sense what a fighter you are and I’m telling you, it will all be OK.’
My tears take me by surprise. What’s wrong with me? I’m not a crier. I’m a worrier, a brooder, a dweller, definitely. But I’m not a crier. That’s always been Frankie’s role. I used to envy her. She cries so easily and often, and almost always seems to feel better afterwards – revived and refreshed.
‘It’s – what’s the word? – cathartic,’ she often says, cheerfully wiping away her tears.
It helps that Frankie has one of those faces that bounces back almost immediately. Her skin never goes blotchy and her lashes are naturally long and dark enough for her to forego mascara, meaning she never has to deal with unsightly stains down her cheeks. Crucially, Frankie is free with her emotions in a way I’ve only ever been able to replicate on stage, when playing someone else. She laughs and cries and shouts and squeals and rages in a way I don’t think I ever have.
Until now.
Because ever since Albie came into my life, I feel on the brink of tears almost constantly; my emotions, previously so neat and ordered, are suddenly wild and unpredictable and out of my control. It doesn’t feel free though, the way Frankie makes it look – it makes me feel scared and vulnerable, and with Albie strapped to my chest, I want to feel the exact opposite of those things.
I want to feel strong and capable and in control.
I blink away my tears just in time for Annie to release me from her embrace.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Duty calls. Have a lovely time with your family, sweetheart.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You too.’
She gives me one last sympathetic smile and we go our separate ways.
The second she disappears from view, I experience a wave of anxiety. Quickly, I push it away. Now is not the time to panic or fall apart. Now is the time to step up and prove what I’ve suspected all along – that I can do this by myself.
I take a deep breath and with my head held high follow the signs towards the loos.
There’s a queue for the baby change. The other parents waiting are all much older than me. Their babies are older too. They writhe in their pushchairs and chew on soggy rice crackers and regard me with weary eyes. One of them is old enough to talk and whines, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,’ over and over. I do my best to ignore it all, keeping my focus on Albie.
Finally, a harassed-looking mother emerges pushing a double buggy and it’s my turn.
I lock the door behind me and assess my surroundings before carefully lowering the changing bench. As I remove Albie from the carrier, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.
I look terrible.
My T-shirt is criss-crossed with sweat marks from where the carrier has been and there are greyish shadows under my eyes. It’s not just that, though. It’s almost like the fear and worry and confusion of the last few weeks has taken over every muscle in my face, dragging it down, making it appear tense and drawn. I look like the oldest sixteen-year-old in the world.
I tear my eyes away from my reflection and concentrate on the task in hand, laying Albie down on the bench. The second his body touches the plastic he wakes up and begins to howl, his tiny hands scrunching up into tight balls as he screams.
‘Shush, darling,’ I whisper, as I sift through my bag for a fresh nappy and wipes.
I haven’t changed any nappies before. I’ve wanted to, but Stacey or Mum always get in there first, shooing me away, crouching over Albie, forming a human barrier between me and him. I always paid attention though, despite their efforts to discourage me from watching, peeking over the tops of their heads as they deftly changed him, making mental notes on their technique.
I undress Albie and remove his soiled nappy before carefully cleaning his bottom. He’s a little red, so I apply a thick layer of nappy rash cream with my index finger, then put on a fresh nappy, taking extra care to make sure it’s tight but not too tight, before redressing him. The entire time he cries, his tiny pink tonsils trembling. In response, I sing to him.
I sing ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’, and ‘Jack and Jill’, and ‘Hum
pty-Dumpty’. I don’t stop singing until Albie is back in his carrier.
I wash my hands, open the door and walk back out into the crowded, sweaty concourse. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling, making me blink after the dim artificial light of the baby change.
I resume my singing, under my breath now. ‘Rock-a-Bye-Baby’ and ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘Incy-Wincy Spider’.
Nothing seems to do the trick. Albie just continues to scream, his little face pressed up against my chest, turning redder and redder.
Perhaps he knows what I’ve done. And this is his protest. The thought that I might be causing him distress makes my stomach flip. I dismiss the thought and keep moving.
One foot in front of the other.
One step at a time.
You can do this, you can do this.
You. Can. Do. This.
The tube is hotter and dimmer and deeper and noisier and smellier and busier than I remember from my previous trips to the capital. As the train approaches, I place my hands over Albie’s tiny ears, his cries competing to be heard over the rumble and screech of the engine.
The moment I step onto the train, a woman wearing a hijab offers me her seat.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I say.
‘No, you sit down,’ she says, standing up. ‘I’m getting off at the next stop anyway.’
I hesitate before sinking gratefully into the seat, setting my backpack between my legs. I double-check my route on the underground map, counting the stops before I have to change lines. Reassured I have enough time, I get Albie’s bottle out, then release him from his carrier so I can feed him. His head is clammy, his hair damp.
The second the teat of the bottle touches his lips, he stops crying.
First Day of My Life Page 11