‘Oh, there are rules, are there?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘One of “those” book clubs…’
‘Every book club has rules,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know what our rules are. Not sure they’ve been documented yet. It’s a very new book club.’
‘Well, thank you for inviting me,’ says Simon. ‘Let me know when you decide to go, and I’ll try and get cover. It’ll be nice to get out.’
I’m standing up and the baby suddenly moves, causing me to breathe deeply and press my hands against my belly.
‘You okay?’ Simon stands up.
‘Yes,’ I grimace. ‘There’s not a lot of space for acrobatics these days. Uh.’ I feel as if it’s squashing the breath out of my lungs. How my own organs still fit in my abdomen, I’ve no idea. ‘Uh! There’s the foot.’
Simon is staring at my belly. He steps a little closer.
‘Oof!’ I say, exhaling and touching the bit where the baby’s foot is pressing outwards. It’s a spot just below my bottom rib. Simon holds his hand out then snatches it back as if remembering it’s not his to touch. There’s longing in his eyes, and in my mind I see Anna holding her hands out in Costa that day, cackling ‘Can I have a feel?’
‘Would you mind if I… There’s nothing weird about it. I just… I miss that feeling of life, right there, waiting to be born,’ Simon says.
I breathe in and out slowly while trying to think. What harm will it do?
‘Okay,’ I say and, as Simon places his hand on the side of my belly, I feel the surprising warmth of his hand through my t-shirt. ‘Keep it there.’
We wait, motionless, a strange pair – him with his hand on my belly, and me with arms out to the sides, giving him space to feel. We’re so close I can smell the coffee on his breath and see the fine lines on his forehead and around his eyes. The only sound in the room is that of our breathing, and then the baby’s foot presses outwards again, a strange lump moving across my skin.
‘There!’ I say. ‘Did you feel that?’
‘Yes.’ His hand presses a little harder. ‘Hello, little one,’ he says. He takes his hand off and looks at my face. ‘It’s incredible to think there’s new life in there. Look after it.’
‘I will,’ I say, and it sounds like a wedding vow. The moment breaks and suddenly I feel dirty for letting him touch me. I usher him to the door.
‘Well, thanks for the gifts,’ I say brightly as I practically push him onto the street.
He pauses on the threshold. ‘Oh, and about the film? You’ll be in touch?’
‘I will.’
‘Okay. Bye now.’
I shut the door firmly behind him and lean against it. What in god’s name just happened?
I know he can’t afford the baby
Not that you know anything about it. Listen to me laughing: of course you don’t know. Have you ever seen his payslip? The bank statement?
Didn’t think so.
You don’t know the half of it; you’ve never given a moment’s thought to where the money comes from. You live like there’s an endless pot of cash under your pretty little arse, but I can tell you that, although it’s filled regularly, that pot’s pretty empty. I can hear the sound of it being scraped from here. Houses, sweetheart, houses in London and new cars and babies don’t come cheap. And then there’s you fannying about the shops, buying new vases and throws and fake fucking flowers and whatever other crap you stuff into that house.
And don’t forget the private health insurance he needs you to have because you want to pop out the baby somewhere where it won’t have to make its scrawling appearance on a trolley in the corridor; somewhere that won’t kick you out ten minutes after you’ve birthed the placenta. But private health insurance doesn’t come cheap when you’re pregnant, does it? And I haven’t even got started on all the baby stuff – the pram and the cot and the clothes and the toys – and then, there it is, sitting there like the elephant in the room: the shiny new car.
Yes, the one you made him buy. Oh, I know you Instagrammed that picture of it on the forecourt with that stupid bow on the bonnet: #gratitude #luckygirl. I know you told everyone it was a surprise, but don’t forget I know you. I know how you operate.
It was you who bought the car magazines, wasn’t it? It was you who showed him the reviews, then suddenly he’s back for the weekend and it’s all ‘guess what, darling?’ and before he can blink you’re in the showroom and out on a test drive and you’re batting those stupid eyelashes and saying, ‘Oh, I love it. I’d feel so safe in a new car,’ and he has no choice: he hugs you and that’s it, you’ve suckered him hook, line and sinker.
But he can’t afford it. I already told you that.
And that’s the crux of it. Black and white. Each month he worries how he’s going to make the payment; worries he’s going to tell you he’s got to give it back or – worse – have it taken away; declare himself bankrupt. The embarrassment. The shame.
Oh you think I’m lying now, don’t you? I can hear you arguing: ‘He earns a good salary; he’s good with money; blah, blah, fucking blah,’ and I have to hand it to you: you’re right. He could manage the payments, if only he didn’t have a little secret. A dirty secret. It’s not difficult to find out.
Online gambling.
So what do you want me to tell you? It starts innocently enough. He’s got a couple of beers in one evening, and an ad pops up on his phone and he thinks, ‘What the hell?’ He has a bit of a flutter; wins a couple of hundred quid, and suddenly he sees how his money problems could be solved.
I know you’re shaking your head.
I am too.
But it’s an addiction, isn’t it? Right up there with drugs and alcohol. Oh, I wish I could see it, the day he admits to you that he’s gambled away your life savings.
And he knows that pay-day loans aren’t the answer. He does. But still he Googles them; still he clicks through from the ads, working out ways to keep the car; keep the cash flowing; keep you from finding out. And, all the while, all the time he’s borrowing from Jack to pay Jill, he’s thinking one thing. He doesn’t want to think it but I know he is. It’s tormenting him. He’s up at night, chewing the skin around his nails, thinking the thought that makes him sick to his stomach.
It’d all be okay if we weren’t having the baby.
You’ve no idea, have you? But that’s exactly what he’s thinking.
Nineteen
The cinema foyer smells of stale popcorn. We’re here for an early-evening screening; it’s a funny time, when most people will surely be sitting down to their evening meal. Outside, a steady rain’s falling – it really is a night to be huddled up in the warm, not venturing out. I wasn’t hungry when I left home but now my stomach rumbles and I glance over at the food counters: bright-pink hot dogs, greasy-looking, yellow nachos, over-salted or tooth-grindingly sweet popcorn – maybe a box of Maltesers is the best of a bad bunch. Immediately my mouth salivas up at the thought of my teeth sinking through the layer of soft milk chocolate to the crunch of the honeycomb inside.
I flick through Instagram and see Anna’s reposted the picture she took of the muffin in Costa: ‘From muffins to movies with my new friend,’ she’s written, with an emoji with hearts in the eyes, ‘#newfriend #arthouse’. I double-tap to like.
‘Hey.’ Simon appears from the side. He bobs his head down towards me and skims his cheek against mine. He’s in his dark green jacket and jeans, and I get a waft of carbolic soap. For some reason the smell of any chemical cleaning agent actually makes my mouth water at this point of the pregnancy. I fantasize sometimes about eating sponges frothing with soap. I have to swallow.
‘Glad I’m not the first,’ says Simon. ‘How are you?’
‘Good thanks.’
I put my hands on the side of my bump, subconsciously echoing the position where his own had been the other day. I pull myself up tall and straight to best fill my lungs with air. ‘Good as can be.’
‘I’m sure you’re perfectly justified in hibe
rnating at this point,’ says Simon. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be nesting? Cleaning the house, if not lying on the sofa eating chocolate?’
‘Funny you mention the chocolate,’ I say. ‘I was just eyeing up the Maltesers.’
‘Ooh, I love a Malteser or two,’ says Simon, rubbing his hands together. We both look towards the counter. ‘Back in a jiffy,’ he says, heading off that way, and I see Sarah and Caroline at the door and give them a wave.
‘Hi,’ Sarah says as she comes closer, looking me up and down. ‘How are you? Blooming, by the looks of it!’
‘Still not popped? Are you eating curry and having lots of sex?’ says Caroline, undoing her coat and shaking out her hair. She always speaks slowly, almost drawling the words as if she’s the Duchess of Somewhere Fancy. ‘You should try, or you’ll end up the size of a house.’ She waggles her finger at me. ‘Remember, every extra day’s an extra stretch mark!’
Anna appears from behind, her hair all over the place, raindrops on her coat. She’s wearing ‘my’ Zara coat again and I feel a pang of longing for my own one, which no longer does up.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ she says, nodding at us each in turn. ‘Sorry I’m late. I came straight from a meeting.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon heading towards us with two boxes of Maltesers and a big smile on his face. I hold both hands up to stop the chatter.
‘Ladies, I just have to tell you I’ve invited someone else. I hope you don’t mind. It’s…’
‘Your weekday husband?’ says Anna. ‘How did I guess? Oh, speak of the devil. Hello, Simon. Joining us for book club, are you?’
I don’t mention that the film was his idea. Simon gives a small smile and passes me a box of Maltesers. It feels like an intimacy – and that, by taking them, I’m complicit in allowing it to exist. Am I encouraging him?
‘Taylor was kind enough to invite me to join you tonight,’ he says. ‘I’ve always wanted to see this film. I hope you don’t mind. I can always sit in a different row if you want to be left alone.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Sarah, who started the book club and lives a few doors down from me. This is Caroline, her friend, and you know Anna from walking, right? It’s only a small book club.’
Simon nods his head politely at both of them and then there’s an awkward pause I feel I should fill as the common link between all these people. I open my mouth to say something but Sarah beats me to it.
‘So, Taylor,’ she says, rubbing her hands together, ‘does your husband know you’re out with a man tonight?’
I laugh. ‘Of course.’
‘I suppose it’s only fair since I had yours to myself the other night.’ She laughs to herself and wiggles her shoulders in a way that jiggles her breasts. ‘Hubba, hubba!’
‘Really?’ says Caroline, one eyebrow raised, looking between Sarah and me. ‘You let her out with Jake Watson?’
I tut. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘I should hope not,’ says Anna, ‘with you pregnant.’
‘You’d be surprised how many men play around when their wives are pregnant,’ says Caroline as if she’s God announcing the creation of the universe. ‘Just look at all these footballers. It’s up to the wives to keep them interested, I say. So many give up trying. Become complacent.’ She sniffs and tosses her hair. She’s beautiful and graceful to look at, and she dresses with that certain British something. I want to like her, I really do, but she’s not making it easy.
‘Those WAGs are hardly complacent,’ says Anna. ‘They work full-time on their appearance. Have armies of chefs, personal trainers and beauticians, I’m sure.’ She looks at Sarah. ‘So did you decide what we’re doing for Taylor’s birthday, or were you too busy shaking your booty at her husband?’ She gives Sarah a fierce look and I bite my lip to stop myself smiling. I can handle myself very well but it’s really, really nice to have someone else fight my corner. Reminds me of my cabin-crew days: girls, together forever.
‘Yes. We did. I’ll message you.’ She looks at Simon. ‘Do you want to come, too? It won’t be anything major, just dinner at mine. And I’m on orders from her husband not to keep her out too late.’
Simon shrugs. ‘Thank you. But I’m sure you ladies don’t need me there.’
‘Well, the invitation’s there,’ says Sarah. ‘God knows we could do with some male company.’
‘Right,’ says Caroline. ‘Taylor, did you say you have the tickets? How much do we owe you?’
I rummage about in my bag. ‘I’ve got them here. It’s okay – pay me later. No rush.’
‘Thanks for booking,’ Sarah says. ‘It’s good one of us is organized.’
‘No trouble,’ I say. ‘No trouble at all.’
And then, heavily pregnant, I went and sat next to Simon in the dark for the best part of ninety minutes. Is that weird?
Twenty
Looking back, I try to understand how Simon won his place in this story. Everyone could see at the time that he’d got a crush on me. Anna clearly didn’t like him and, although I could see with my own eyes that he was a bit off-grid, I just couldn’t bring myself to be mean. I don’t know if I can blame it on hormones, but he had a vulnerability that I couldn’t ignore, and I guess it aroused some sort of mothering instinct in me. I kept telling myself that Simon had been deeply hurt by his ex-wife, and that he was committed to caring for his dad – that’s a good thing, isn’t it? On top of that, he didn’t get out much, and his job involved interacting with nothing but computers, so he probably wasn’t the most socially competent person. I’ve always liked to champion the underdog.
These are the things I told myself at the time; these are the reasons why I allowed Simon into my social circle. Maybe I’m talking rubbish but, looking back, I have no other explanation for why I didn’t just tell him to get lost.
And it wasn’t as if I fancied him in any way: Jake and Simon were chalk and cheese. To Jake’s raffish good looks and easy charm, Simon was awkward; a geek. If Jake was the captain of the rugby team, Simon was the librarian, the head prefect, the IT expert who wouldn’t sweep you off your feet at the prom, but could likely hack the school mainframe. He placed little store by fashion or grooming – not that he looked unkempt – but I imagined he’d not be fussed about the brand of his shampoo or his soap; not go out of his way to buy the latest cut of jeans or shirt; be bemused in the face of my own yearning for handbags and shoes that cost more than a two-week holiday in the sun.
But then, I found myself wondering, would a man like Simon be more reliable, more honest, than a Jake? Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s what I was searching for. Honesty and integrity. Were they the qualities I saw in Simon? He was persistent, too. Somehow, he wormed his way into my life at this late stage of my pregnancy – and, before I knew it, there was something in the timbre of his voice that visited me in my dreams. I never told Anna that. I liked his self-deprecating sense of humour, too, and those ridiculous specs that he was forever pushing up his nose; and I found it funny the way he said ‘et cetera’ all the time. Am I making excuses if I say I was lonely? Neglected? In need of male attention? I understood that Jake needed to travel, but that didn’t mean that I liked it.
And then there was the question of what had happened that night between Jake and Sarah. Yes, he’d denied it, but I also knew what I’d heard. Giggle-giggle-silence-two-three-four. I’d put it in a box and sealed the lid but, deep down, I knew exactly what had happened and I didn’t like it one bit. It’s possible, then, that there was a bit of revenge in the mix – a bit of tit-for-tat. I suppose I was ripe for the picking. I suppose it was inevitable that, if Simon asked me out, I’d go.
*
He invites me to Wahaca, the one on the South Bank – the one made from coloured shipping containers that Anna had said she liked. It’s as if he was at book club that night and overheard the discussion. And for a moment it seems odd, but I’ve told him, I think, about how it’s where Jake took me f
or our first date-night in London. If he were interested in me ‘that way’, he’d be put off by that, wouldn’t he?
‘How about a Mexican meal before the baby comes?’ he asks. ‘One last empanada?’ He tries to put on the accent and sing the word while miming playing the guitar, and the result is so ridiculous coming from such an English-looking and -sounding man that I can’t not laugh, but it’s done the trick: now my mouth’s watering at the thought of the smells and tastes of all those delicious dishes, and somehow, in all the laughter, it’s agreed that we’re going. I don’t recall him specifying that it would be dinner, and I don’t recall actually saying yes.
But Wahaca is casual. It could be worse, I tell myself as I pull on my maternity jeans and a sweater. We could be going to the Italian Jake and I each went to with Sarah, with its romantic lighting. If Simon had asked me there for dinner, I might be worried, but this is more of a canteen. It’s safer.
We take the train up to London together. It makes sense, and I’m glad to be with Simon as we battle the rush-hour crowds, the pushing and jostling, the steps and escalators. He’s a quiet person to travel with but it doesn’t bother me. We talk a little about the plans he’s made for his dad’s care while he’s out with me, but mainly he looks out of the window, so I do the same, enjoying the buzz I always get as I head towards central London. At Victoria, we cram onto the tube for a few stops, clattering around the green line without saying much, and then we’re walking over the river, its swirling mass making me slightly giddy, and then there we are: suddenly in front of the restaurant.
‘You want to take a walk by the river first, or later?’ Simon asks, nodding to the embankment that fringes this busy stretch of river, home to street artists, joggers, walkers, commuters and tourists. It’s a cold evening, but dry, the black water of the Thames reflecting the city’s lights back at us.
‘Oh, you’re cruel,’ I say. ‘You bring a hungry pregnant woman to food and expect her to wait?’
‘It was a question!’ Simon says, hands up like a surrender. ‘Sor-ry! Eat it is!’
I Know You Page 11