Cold Feet at Christmas

by Debbie Johnson

  Marco had grimaced when she told him not-so-politely to shut up; but he’d done as requested – and obviously against his better judgement. He still thought that some miracle could occur. That if he – and she – tried hard enough, that Rob would ‘come to his goddamn senses’. That with enough thinking, and enough effort, it could all end the way it should. As if.

  Dorothea had been just as bad.

  “But darling,” she’d said, holding Leah’s hand, “I was so hopeful. I thought you were going to fix him. You seemed so magical. I really believed you could bring my son back to life.”

  “Well I couldn’t,” Leah replied, her smile brittle. “I tried, but I couldn’t. And what happens now is up to us, Dorothea – I know you mean well, but you have to let this go. Like I’ve had to let him go. I won’t survive this if you keep trying to drag me back in.”

  Dorothea had nodded, clenching back tears of her own, and let the matter drop. Leah knew it had taken a lot of effort, and was grateful for it.

  That, and the support she’d shown for her burgeoning career. The one bright spot in an otherwise testing life. She had several juicy clients lined up, and had managed to snag a regular contract with the cafe downstairs, doing catering for their outside functions. She’d made friends – all of them gay men – and had even been out dancing. She had herbs in a box near the window, waiting until it was warm enough to go outside into the sunshine that she was told would emerge before too long. She even had an arrangement with her next door neighbour where she borrowed her Golden Retriever a couple of times a week to go for runs in the park. It was as much as she could hope for right now, and she was clinging to it desperately.

  She was busy, had only had a couple of the nightmares since she moved in, and had cut the Rob-induced crying jags down to a maximum of one a day. They usually happened late at night, tucked up alone in the bed she pulled down from the wall every evening, when she couldn’t quite stop her mind from drifting, from remembering, from torturing. From that stupid girl part of her brain that told her everything would be okay: that love would conquer all. That Rob would turn up one day and declare his love. That they’d get married and have babies and all would be well in their world. It was a fairytale, and she clamped down on it whenever it started to appear. If she gave in, if she allowed herself to indulge for even a few minutes, the pain of the aftermath was horrendous. Way too high a price to pay for a couple of moments of daydreaming.

  That, she told herself firmly, would pass. The key was to keep moving forward. To stay busy. To maintain such a high level of physical and mental absorption that there was no way he could creep into her thoughts.

  All of which, she knew, was great for her work ethic – but left her half alive. She’d been in her new apartment for a month, she realised, looking at the calendar pinned up on the wall over the sink. An anniversary, an achievement. She’d lived alone for a whole month, without burning the place down, flooding the building, even losing her keys. Life was looking up. It was the first time she’d lived alone since her parents died and it felt, well, terrible. But she’d done it. And she would continue to do it – because really, what was the option? There was no alternative, she knew that. Sometimes pain is simply too strong to avoid. You have to let it roll over you, cope the best you can, and look forward to that day – that glorious, fictional day – when you wake up and it’s finally gone.

  It was nearing the end of February, and the grey Chicago skies were starting to be evicted by pale blue swathes, streaked with hopeful gold. A promise of things to come. Today, she decided as she idly flicked through her post, she would celebrate. Even if it was only with a hazelnut latte from the deli, or baking herself some fresh cookies, or buying herself some flowers. She’d do something positive, something good. Walk the dog. See friends. Go to a movie. Refuse to cry. A celebration of surviving the first – and please God the worst – month of life without Rob.

  She put the junk mail aside, amazed at how quickly she’d ended up on American sales lists as well as British ones, and focused on the one official looking letter. Brown manila, her name neatly typed in a see-through window. Those, she knew, were rarely good letters. She had a bad feeling about that letter, was reluctant to even open it. Today was supposed to be about celebration, and along comes this nasty, dingy envelope, looking all threatening and bureaucratic. Yuk. Doug had always dealt with official stuff back home, and even thinking of that fact made her feel doubly pathetic.

  She paused, bit her lip nervously. There was a blurred ink stamp on the outside with a set of initials, but she had no idea what the acronym stood for, and couldn’t even read it properly. Looked like there was only one way to find out…

  She tore open the envelope, cursing as she made a tiny paper cut in the bend of her finger, and pulled the sheet out. She unfolded it, moved nearer to the window for better light, and read. And read again. And again. Over and over, until she was sure she had it right, that the words on the page meant what they thought they meant.

  They did. She was being kicked out. Her work visa was being revoked, and she had twenty eight days in which to leave the country. Because of ‘irregularities’ that had come to light about her application. And if she didn’t leave, she’d be subject to a fine, arrest, and deportation. Possibly, she expected it to say in the small print, with her head on a stake and poisonous blow darts aimed at her bottom. At least they offered to pay her airfare home, which was lucky, as she had about twenty two dollars in her checking account.

  Leah sat down before she fell. She read the letter again. She breathed deeply, shouted ‘clear!’, and restarted her heart with an imaginary defibrillator. No. Still felt stunned. How could this be happening? She’d filled in all the forms Marco had given her. He’d checked them over, assured her that his contact at the Immigration Department would rubber stamp them. That she’d be fine to stay, to work, for at least a year. How could it have all gone so wrong, just now, when she was finally starting to find her feet? Finally starting to see some light creeping in at the end of the tunnel?

  She read the letter once more, feeling the heaviness of it settle in her stomach like one of Popeye’s anchors. It was there in black and white, and no matter how many times she read it, that wasn’t going to change.

  It was over. The American dream was over. All of her work, all of her effort, all of her planning was for nothing. It was all wasted.

  Leah stood up, walked slowly and carefully, back to the calendar she’d been looking at earlier. Sunlight streaked in through the window, slanting across the elaborate love heart design of February’s page. Valentine’s Day. Hah. Work meetings were scrawled in, potential clients, dates of events. Signifiers of the fact that she was starting to turn her sorry little life around. Meetings that would have to be cancelled. Clients she’d have to let down. Food orders she’d have to stop. Shit and double shit. She traced her finger over the appointments, still feeling the shock of disbelief, the letter from Immigration now scrumpled up in her clenched fist.

  She’d moved in four weeks ago. And now she had four weeks in which to leave. Four weeks in which to pack her whole new life into yet another suitcase, and head for home. Wherever that was. London? Hampshire, where she’d grown up? There was nobody left in either of those places, not really. She was alone now. Truly alone. And it was terrifying.

  She grabbed the felt tip pen that dangled by the calendar on a string, blue-tacked to the tiles. Doodled a skull and crossbones on March 17. D Day. D for deportation. Four weeks to sort this monumental mess out. Should she call Marco, ask for his help? But how could she? After she’d rejected his pleas to help him with Rob? After she’d made it clear that she wanted to stand on her own two feet? She couldn’t just go running back to him, tail between her legs. He’d already done so much, and he had his own cross to bear – his brother.

  Leah stared again at the calendar, with its scribbled notes and jotted reminders. Lifted the pages up, looked back at January, and its pictures of snowmen singing Auld
Lang’s Syne, let the dates filter through her brain. Something was niggling at the back of her mind as she looked at the circled dates, the landmarks of her life. Yes, she’d been here for a month now. But something wasn’t right. She was missing something. Something important. She’d kept herself so busy, she’d lost track of something she usually paid attention to.

  She realised what it was, leaned against the bright yellow paint of the kitchen wall, and slid to the floor. She sat in a heap, wrapped her arms around her knees, and felt a shiver take hold of her despite the layers of woolly jumpers she was wearing.

  Her period. She was missing her period. It wasn’t marked on the calendar because it hadn’t happened – and normally, she was regular as clockwork.

  She was alone, facing deportation, and possibly pregnant. It was going to take more than coffee and cookies to fix this.

  Chapter 19

  Two days later, there was no ‘possible’ about it. She’d trudged to the drug store in her snow boots, fighting off mild embarrassment as she handed over a fistful of dollars in return for a pregnancy testing kit. Gone home, drank coffee until she was ready to burst, then peed on the stick. Looked on in absolute horror as the pink line appeared. Read the instructions again. Read them a fifth time. Finally accepted what she was seeing – she was pregnant.

  That last time, with Rob. That brutal, desperate mating; up against the wall in Cavelli Tower. Their passion and fury and desire driving all common sense from their minds. The thought of stopping for a condom hadn’t even occurred to either of them. In Scotland, they’d been careful. Sane. In Chicago, they’d lost control – and gained a baby. Jesus. What a mess. How would she tell him? On the phone? By email? She could just imagine it: “Hi Rob, how are you? Just thought I’d let you know I’m having your child. Love and kisses, Leah.” Maybe she could add some smiley faces to take the edge off the shock?

  Maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t tell him at all. Maybe that deportation notice had come at just the right time. Maybe it wasn’t the disaster she thought it had been at first. She could just go: disappear off into the night. Her air fare was paid and, well, she’d figure out the rest when she got back to the UK. There was a welfare state. She could get help. There’d be free health care for sure, which was a huge bonus. She’d need that…she’d need pre-natal tests, and check ups, and blood tests. And a hospital to have it in. And mammoth amounts of pain killers. And she was definitely planning on having this baby, she realised.

  At first, with the shock of it still settling in, she’d tried to weigh up the pros and cons. Tried to be sensible. She was too young. Too poor. Too useless. She couldn’t even look after herself properly, never mind a baby – what did she have to offer a child? She didn’t need to have it. There were alternatives.

  And yet now, with the dust settling and her brain starting to look forward, she realised there weren’t any alternatives. Not for her, not now. She might be young. She might be poor. But she could love – she could do that well. She would have this baby, their baby, and she would love it. Even if she couldn’t buy it a posh pram and designer romper suits, she could give it love and security and comfort. It was part of her, and part of Rob, and there was no way she could ever do anything to harm it. Even the thought of it left her swamped with tears, her own arms wrapped around her tummy, protectively.

  No, she would go ahead. There really was no doubt. The issue now was whether she did it alone – or whether she told Rob he was going to be a father. As he’d made no effort to get in touch with her for the last month, it was fairly clear that he was sticking to his guns on the whole no relationship front. He didn’t want her. Didn’t love her. Really, nothing had changed – and it didn’t seem fair to tell him about a baby, forcing him to be honourable, do the right thing. Be part of a woman’s life when he seemed to want to do nothing more than to stay out of it.

  She should stay quiet. Go home. That way he could pretend she’d never existed – and she could get on with being a mother.

  The decision felt right, and yet wrong. Wrong to keep it from him. Wrong to deprive him of the chance to have a child at last. Wrong to deprive the child of the chance to know his or her father, never mind all of the financial privileges being a Cavelli would bring. She just didn’t know. Neither option felt good. In fact, it all felt bad. And she felt a bit sick, too, as well as exhausted. Mental stress, pregnancy, or possibly a lovely, stomach-churning blend of the two.

  As her brain was starting to ache, and she was giving some serious thought to doing a spreadsheet on the pros and cons of both routes, there was a knock on the door.

  Assuming it was Wanda, her neighbour, or Todd from the coffee shop, she staggered over, feeling a wave of nausea hit her. Yay, she thought. Party time. She was wearing her traditional three layers of clothing, hadn’t brushed her hair in two days, and had been too cold to get in the shower that morning. She probably looked as great as she felt.

  She pulled open the door, a half-hearted smile fixed on her face. Even that faded when she saw who was waiting on the other side: Rob. A dozen emotions swamped her at once: shock, horror, and underneath it all, relief. Relief at simply seeing his face again, at smelling his aftershave, at the thought of simply throwing herself into his arms, telling him all, and seeking refuge in his strength. Giving up the battle of staying independent, and making these difficult decisions all on her own.

  “Hi,” she said lamely, completely uncertain as to how to react. He stood in the doorframe, his shoulders blocking the light from the hallway, a half frown marring his face. He looked serious; older. Worried. She wanted to reach out and hold him; to stroke his hair and kiss his cheekbones, and tell him he was having a baby.

  “Hi,” he said, the frown deepening as he took in her dishevelled state. “Can I come in?”

  She nodded, mumbled an apology, and moved out of the way. He looked on as she wandered absently over to the kitchen, and started to fill her kettle with water. He watched her fumbling with the plug, rummaging through cupboards, stubbing her toe on the fridge as she took out the milk. Typical English reaction, he thought – reaching for the tea.

  She didn’t look well, he thought, frowning. Her hair was wilder than usual; her clothes made her look like a bag lady, and she was pale. Distracted, with none of her usual perky charm. All of which made him glad he’d come – but tore at his heart as well.

  “Um…how have you been?” she asked, as she robotically swished a tea bag around a mug, handing it to him even though he never drank the stuff.

  “Fine,” he replied, the brown of his eyes flickering across her tired features. Leah could tell he was concerned, and don’t supposed she blamed him. God, she thought, I must look awful. The man of my dreams turns up, the father of my baby, and I look like death and can’t even formulate a sentence. So much for telling him everything. Maybe I should draw a diagram instead.

  The silence stretched into minutes, neither of them knowing what to say. This, thought Rob, was not one of his better ideas –resolving to say his piece and, and get the hell out of Dodge.

  “I know, Leah,” said Rob, “and I’ve come to see if I can help.”

  Leah gulped, felt a slurp of tea run attractively down her chin. He knew, she thought? How did he know? She hadn’t told another living soul – there was no way he could know, unless he had spies in the drugstore, or was having her trash can searched. She felt a panic attack rising, along with the now-normal nausea, and put her mug down as a precautionary measure. Best not to add third degree burns to the carnage.

  “What do you mean, you know? How could you know?” she stuttered.

  A flicker of impatience crossed his face, like he couldn’t quite believe how dense she was being.

  “Marco told me, obviously,”

  “Marco? How the hell does he know?” she replied, flooded with confusion. What the hell was happening? She was the only person who knew about the baby, and suddenly the whole Cavelli clan seemed to be involved. She’d been considering telling
him, but now the decision seemed to have been taken from her hands, she felt shaky, uncertain, like the ground was shifting beneath her feet.

  “His contact at Immigration told him – how else do you think, as you haven’t bothered letting us know?”

  Leah paused, stared at him as the confusion started to clear. He didn’t know about the baby. He was talking about the deportation. She’d made a huge assumption, because at the moment her brain could only focus on one thing – the baby. He didn’t know, and that, she realised, came as a relief. Because the way he was looking at her – so tense, so disapproving – made her feel like a cornered animal. Like if she made one false move, he’d be in for the kill.

  “Oh, that,” she replied, walking to the sink to throw the tea away. She couldn’t stomach it right now, and she really needed to not be meeting his eyes if she was going to pull this one off. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it?” he said incredulously. “You’re getting kicked out, and your response is ‘don’t worry about it’? What the hell, Leah? I know how hard you’ve been working. I know how many clients you’ve been seeing. I know how—”

  “You seem to know everything, Rob – how clever of you. But as we’ve not been in contact for the last month, I assumed you didn’t want anything to do with me, never mind regular reports on my progress. I guess your brother and mother must have been submitting them instead – or has Felicia been compiling memos for you? Project Leah: Update?”

  She could see him bite back the anger, smother the words as they strained to leap from his lips. She’d got to know that face pretty well in recent times. It was his ‘exasperated-by-the-lunatic-dwarf’ face, and she hated it. It was rude, and patronising, and downright hurtful. It was the face that said he saw her as a liability; as a problem to be solved, as an inconvenience. Well, she’d had enough of that. There were some major changes coming in her life, and she could cope with it all by herself. She knew she could. She had to – there was no alternative. Because the thought of telling him now, of telling him about the baby, made her feel even more sick – she’d be stuck with that disappointed expression for the rest of her life.