by Anna Maxted
I had pretended to myself that I could afford to see a private obstetrician. I often did this. I had a builder in, giving me quotes to convert our garage into a study. I had a decorator in, giving me quotes to paint our hallway, landing, and two bedrooms. I ordered the Elegant Resorts brochures for Europe and the Caribbean. I ordered the new Audi catalogue for Tim. I made enquiries as to what it might cost – should Tim ever ask me – to get married at Skibo Castle. (It cost Madonna a hundred and twenty grand to book all forty-seven rooms. Not bad, considering.) We received many respectful letters from people hoping to take our money, and then we did precisely nothing until they gave up and left us alone. But the interim was fun.
I’d called the obstetrician’s secretary. She had the same surname as he did, so I presumed she was his wife. ‘How far gone are you? Seven weeks? You’ve left it too late. He’s all booked up,’ she said. Then she added, ‘But you never know. Someone might have a miscarriage.’
I put the phone down on her and called my local surgery. I felt her bad taste and put a hand on my stomach before I realised. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘I hope you didn’t hear that.’
Then I ate a mango.
I became sullen with Tim, because I thought he was against us, even if he didn’t realise it. Then one night he got a video out. Nothing remarkable. But there was one scene in which a gangster discovers his girlfriend is pregnant and beats her and she loses the baby. She runs away. Later, he goes through her stuff and finds two red sweaters she’d knitted. One is man-sized, and the other is so tiny. I tried not to cry but the tears ran down my cheeks. Then I looked at Tim and his eyes were as red as the sweaters.
He said, ‘I feel I’ve let him down already,’ and put his face in his hands and sobbed.
I pressed ‘pause’, put my arms around Tim, and kissed his hair. There was a muffled, ‘Fucking St Albans!’
‘That’s mad,’ I said. ‘It’s love they want, I promise. It’s their relationship with you.’
He cheered up, and we managed a cute chat about a tiny person who looked like us.
But there was a cold scared part of me that agreed with Tim. I wanted the best for this baby. It was not a ‘foetus’ as the doctor had said, it was a baby, ok? I wanted this baby to have everything it needed. A BMX. A big house, not in St Albans. Babies were like dogs. They needed space to run around. I didn’t want this kid to be born and despise us for everything we couldn’t give it.
I wanted to tell people. But – already, a whole new world – I learned that it was not etiquette to brag about your news until the baby was ‘twelve weeks’. With a new sense of gravitas and self-importance, we decided to wait until sixteen weeks. We needed the extra quiet time to acclimatise.
I imagined our parents would be pleased. I know parents generally are about that sort of thing, but you couldn’t legislate for our mother and father. Vivica (I stopped calling her ‘Mummy’ aged two) was more at ease with me, now that I was five foot seven and less likely to wipe my nose on her trousers. But I wasn’t sure she’d look kindly on the daughter who booted her into grannyhood.
At least Cassie would be pleased. Curiously, she loved children. Part of it, perhaps, was that they loved her. I had read that babies were biased towards any face with even features. Fair enough, why should a kid like a monster peering into their cot? It’s not as if this bias ever changes. Ugly people aren’t exactly prized in our society. Cassie had the same effect on adults she had on children. Men and women wanted to please her. She could be charming or rude, it made no difference.
She was on the phone to me recently, while in a cheese shop – ‘No, that’s too big. Yes. That. No. I’ve changed my mind. That. Yes. What? I’m on the phone. I’ve got a twenty. That’s it’ – and all the while I can hear the cheese man – ‘That do you, love? No problem! Not to worry. There you go. Pop it in your bag, shall I?’ The last time I had been in a deli, I’d wanted a precise measurement of crumbly white cheese for a recipe and the guy behind the counter had just about chased me out of the shop. I know now that ricotta is unmeasurable because it falls apart if you cut it.
I wouldn’t say Cassie is beautiful. She has huge dark brown eyes and thick brown hair, and she is always tanned, with a fine bosom, which helps. But it isn’t just the way she looks. She’s a barrister, who occasionally bangs off a feature on family law for the Telegraph Weekend – and while she might call herself a writer, it isn’t as if she reviews anything.
And yet. She was always calling this or that press office and being given free tickets – to the theatre, to premieres, to Wimbledon, to gigs. I rarely got a free ticket and I worked on a bloody men’s magazine! She had a husky voice that no one could resist. It wasn’t as if she needed the free stuff – she and George, who worked in radio, were well off enough to live in a tall, tapering house in Primrose Hill – she just liked getting it. She’d been upgraded seven times. Me? Never. I always ended up in economy class with some bozo knocking coffee over my best suit.
I’m not an eyesore, but I don’t have her magic ingredient. My hair is what I call Yuck Brown, thin and flyaway, and my eyes are the exact same black as a squirrel’s. (A squirrel’s eyes are not his best feature. But at least a squirrel has a nice fluffy tail.) ‘Hey. You really look nothing like your sister,’ a boyfriend of Cassie had once said, when introduced. He’d then added, ‘Sorry.’
I was used to it by now. Her allure. Cassie must have been thirteen when Duran Duran kicked off, and I swear to God, she ended up in Simon Le Bon’s kitchen, ‘interviewing’ his mum for her school magazine. Meanwhile, the teenybopper no-hopers languished outside the gate. She’d always had a thing for Boris Becker (I couldn’t see it myself), and – despite her chequered history with tennis racquets – got herself a job as a ball girl and had several chats with him just before he won Wimbledon. ‘He was quite taken with me,’ she said, and I had no doubt. Her every male boss nurtured an unrequited crush. Flirtation was her natural state but she rarely took it further. Just knowing was enough. I wondered if George knew how lucky he was to be married to her.
Their life was ordered, busy. If you were a fly on the wall of Cassie’s home (impossible, as you’d be squashed and dead before your filthy little legs soiled the paintwork), you wouldn’t think that kids would be welcome here. The massive mother-of-pearl chandelier that hung imperious as a stalactite above the polished 1930s Italian dining table in their lounge, the white Japanese silk blinds that gently filtered the sunlight, the dark American walnut and leather ‘Astoria’ chair and matching side table – allegedly the work of some guy called Franco Bizzozzero for some other guy called Bonacina Pierantonio – none of it suggested that brats were part of the grand plan.
But no. We’d meet to eat, and Cassie would talk about her friends’ kids and how cute they were. Really, there was no need. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t like she had to impress me. It wasn’t like this sort of talk did impress me. I could only conclude the subject matter was of genuine interest to her. One conversation I recall. Some ex-bulimic didn’t want to pass on any hang-ups to her little girl, so, explained Cassie, ‘She offers her fruit and chocolate on a tray, and some days Delilah picks the chocolate and some days Delilah picks the fruit.’
Oh, really. I’d seen children in the presence of chocolate, and fruit could take a running jump. It was Tomas’s second birthday party. Tabitha had spoken at length with her therapist and the local vicar before commissioning Jane Asher to create a massive E-number extravaganza Bob the Builder cake, smeared in chocolate ganache, spattered in Smarties, a paean to the gods of sugar, caffeine, fat and additives. She brought it into the conservatory, and it was like a scene out of Lord of the Flies. It was a good five minutes before Tabitha surfaced from a crazed swarm of toddlers cramming great chunks of cake into their mouths. I was surprised she didn’t lose an arm.
But it wasn’t mere talk. Cassie asked to hold babies, rogue babies who’d vomit in your face as soon as look at you – she had a two-hour conversation with
Tim’s German aunt about the complications of breastfeeding – and even when those rogue babies quietly deposited a great white gobbet of half-digested milk on the shoulder of her Karen Millen denim jacket, Cassie just wiped it off with a tissue and said, ‘It needed a wash.’ She didn’t blink at changing nappies, whereas I had an inbuilt fear of human waste; I didn’t even trust myself to see it. Tim had changed every one of Tomas’s nappies on the Isle of Wight – how’s that for a real man?
My sister was going to make a fabulous aunt. She would dote on this baby. I felt happier, knowing that the child would have one competent close relative, a person who might actively ensure its survival. I bit my tongue until our self-imposed sixteen-week embargo was lifted. It had been hard. We’d wanted to call her the second we got home from the three-month scan, so dazed were we with the euphoria of witnessing our own private miracle. But we’d held out.
Now, however, the wriggler was sixteen weeks along and the size of a grapefruit. I picked up the phone to the Montgomery–Hershlag household.
‘Cass? Hi!’
‘Hello, Lovely! How are you? I’ll pick you up at eight for dinner tomorrow, ok? I’ve booked St John. Oh, you must have heard of it! “Nose to Tail Eating”? Pig’s trotters, bull’s testicles, belly of rat – it’ll be a gastronomic adventure. You’ll love it!’
I was having trouble keeping down water.
‘Well . . .’ I said, ‘I’m still on for going out. But we might have to change the booking to something a little less fabulous . . . say, Bella Italia.’
‘Lizbet. Don’t be square! It’s my treat, ok? Come on. You have to try these things. And don’t tell me it’s against your religion. I’ve seen you eat squid.’
‘Cass, it’s not that. Blimey, what do you take me for?’ No one likes to be told they’re not a rebel, even if they’re not.
‘Why not then? Entrails aren’t fattening.’
She was really selling it to me.
‘We-e-e-ll, madam, I’ll tell you exactly why not. Guess what?’ I could feel the big dopey grin on my face. ‘I’m pregnant!’
I expected a shriek of joy. Or a gasp of delight. Or a scream of ‘Fantastic news!’
What I didn’t expect was what I got. A few slow seconds of stunned silence. A distinctly frosty, ‘Oh.’
Chapter 4
Tim liked Cassie. George was more an acquired taste – a human olive – but Tim liked George too. He’d made an effort with George, ever since they first came round to us for dinner, and George perched on my extendable beech table from Habitat, and broke it. It was quite a spectacular break – splintered wood, mangled metal, and George sprawled on our floor with his big toenail almost split in half. George was almost crying with pain and embarrassment (Cassie laughed but I don’t think she meant it), and I didn’t know what to say to make the situation better.
Tim said, in an admiring tone, ‘Not even Jackie Chan could break a table with his arse!’
And then we really did laugh – if more from relief than amusement. If he chose, Tim was good at making people feel comfortable, even if they didn’t deserve to. I was a little peeved with George for sitting his arse on my table in the first place – what, did he leave his manners in a box? – and although Cassie wrote a cheque, I think she was a little peeved with him too. Cassie was charming, as I’ve said, but a lot of that charm depended on things going her way. She didn’t react well to unscripted events.
However, one of the first things she said to Tim that evening was, ‘You know, Lizbet’s cheated on every boyfriend she’s ever had,’ so it wasn’t as if she didn’t appreciate the glee of an awkward situation. The difference was, Cassie liked to create the awkward situation. Then she could bring it down with the control and showmanship of a stunt plane pilot. At the time, though, I didn’t feel in a position to appreciate how terribly clever she was. I froze where I stood, almost snapping the stem of my glass of red. I felt sick and silly and, staring into my drink, remembered the time Cassie invited me to dinner and, to show the other guests how close we sisters were, I had casually placed my bottle of Syrah in the fridge. Cassie had removed it, smiling. Her guests had looked at their feet, not catching my eye. Really, it was like I’d put a baby in the fridge.
The cheating comment was only Cassie’s way, throwing down the gauntlet to see if Tim would cope – and there was probably an element of flirting too. If you made bold controversial statements, people noticed you. It was the verbal equivalent of a low-cut top.
Tim just laughed and said, ‘Oh, I’ll tame her. Ker-cher!’ and cracked an invisible whip.
Cassie smiled and lit a cigarette. Out of fright, I ate a whole bowl of chilli peanuts even though they were disgusting: the precise reason I’d bought them – so there would be no question whatsoever of me being tempted to eat them. Tim went to check on the pasta, and I glared at Cassie. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said. At that moment I saw her as a cute toddler with the heart of a devil, her hair pulled into dinky little bunches (which she’d cut off, leaving stumps. I’d handed her the scissors).
‘Come on, Lizbet, that man adores you. He worships your body with his eyes.’
I pshawed (I’ve always wanted to say I did that; what a great word!), but already the anger was bursting to nothing like bubbles in a bath and I was grateful to her. Worships my body!
‘No he doesn’t,’ I mumbled, but she winked at me, and I blushed. Tim did adore me, and Cassie was just ensuring that this was the case. I had felt a flutter of anxiety just before they were due to meet.
I’d built her up into an approximation of Angelina Jolie – surely the worst woman in the world to be your love rival: gorgeous but nuts; men can’t resist that fatal combination – because it was the only way to ensure that Tim would clap eyes on her and feel slight disappointment. I trusted him. I knew he was crazy about me. And I trusted her. She and George were a secure unit. Cassie only required a man to display his admiration, like a peacock displaying his tail; then she was satisfied. She had no interest in any man who tried to take anything further. I didn’t trust myself, my ability to keep a man like Tim.
I know that sounds weak. I mean, before ‘Jolene’ was a way of bleaching your black moustache yellow, it was a song and, frankly, I despised the singer. Her happiness depended on Jolene! ‘Whatever you decide to do, Jolene.’ So, if Jolene decides to pinch her man, he’s off! Plainly, the singer had no self-respect if she didn’t dump this dithering fool immediately. What woman tolerates being second best?
I knew I wasn’t second best for Tim (just as I knew that in real life, Jolene’s flaming locks and eyes of emerald green stood no chance against the ace of spades that was Dolly Parton’s chest), but it took some believing, because I’d been second best to my sister for most of my life. That shakes your faith in yourself. I’ll bet Angelina didn’t grow up with a Cassie. (In fact, I know she didn’t; she has one brother, and they are worryingly close. I sometimes dismay myself with just how much I know about celebrities’ lives. More than I know about my own.)
After Cassie and George had gone, I said, testing Tim, ‘I can’t believe she said that, about me cheating on all my boyfriends!’
He replied, ‘I think that was more about me than about you. She’s very protective of you. It’s like you’re the younger sister.’
I loved Tim more than ever then, because he understood Cassie and me, he understood us. Cassie might present as mean as a snake, but in fact she loved me in a fierce way. She just didn’t like to appear soft.
So when she said ‘Oh’ about the baby, Tim was able to reassure me.
‘It’s the initial shock,’ he said. ‘Look at our reaction. We were shocked. She has to readjust her image of you. She is happy about it, but you’re her sister, and she’s possessive. Her gut reaction is: this kid’s going to steal my sister off me. Give her time to work it all through. I promise you – she’ll turn up tomorrow with booties.’
She didn’t.
The phone rang at eight forty-nine. ‘I’m in the car
.’
Ah, yes. The Car. The black Mercedes CL65 two-door Auto bi-turbo Coupe, that cost more than my first flat. (Apparently, George’s mother winced every time she saw The Car – The German Car – although, as I’d begged Cassie not to point out, Mrs Hershlag had no problem with her Bosch dishwasher, Neff cooker, and Miele dryer.)
I ran outside, opened the door, and stuck my head inside. The Car smelled of new leather. Normally, I’d breath it in deep, but today it made me feel slightly sick.
‘Helloooo!’ I said.
She sat there, on the cream upholstery, staring straight ahead. ‘Take off your shoes,’ she replied.
I didn’t want to take off my shoes, but Cassie was fanatical about keeping The Car showroom-clean.
‘Alright if I bag them?’ I said, my bum on the seat, my feet still midair.
She nodded, and I retrieved two Sainsbury’s bags, purloined for this exact purpose, from my coat pocket, and stuck my feet inside them. The arrangement wasn’t exactly elegant, and the bags rustled every time I shifted position, but I really hated being out in my socks. Actually, if I could, I’d sleep wearing shoes.
I sat back, grinning, waiting to be congratulated. I couldn’t help it. From the second I saw that little kidney bean squirming around inside me, I’d become another person. I mean, it was another person – another person, for God’s sake! If that isn’t a life-changing moment, tell me what is! I had this marvellous secret: I was never alone. I talked to the baby, silently, and aloud. She – I felt it was a she – heard everything, understood, and agreed with me.
‘So, where are we going?’ said Cassie.
I heard her dull flat tone and it was as if a stone plummeted to the pit of my stomach. The whole family dreaded Cassie in a bad mood. Some people sulk and you breeze through it until they’re bored into feeling sheepish and try to make friends again. But if Cassie decided on a silent fury, it was as if Siberia had slunk into the room and was whipping its chill winds around you. You felt cold fear. You didn’t dare move or speak, and your heart thumped in your chest.