The Time of Our Lives

by Jane Costello

  I spend twenty minutes waiting to be served two G&Ts, and a cranberry juice for Meredith. Having got them, I weave back through people far cooler than I am, towards the spot where I left my friends.

  I see Nicola first, and then I realise that Meredith is deep in conversation with another woman. Although ‘conversation’ isn’t quite the word: Meredith appears to be getting a mouthful from her. I arrive with the drinks only to catch the end of it.

  ‘Diz is not a place for a woman carrying a baby,’ the woman is saying, anger etched on her face.

  ‘That’s enough,’ interrupts Nicola furiously. ‘She was only dancing.’

  The woman throws her a look of disdain as Meredith gazes at her hands silently. ‘You don’t deserve to be a mother,’ the woman adds venomously, before spinning on her heel and leaving.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  When Meredith looks up, her eyes are clouded by a film of tears. ‘Do you mind if we just go?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I follow her through the crowd until we step into the fresh air outside. We pick up a taxi with merciful ease.

  ‘What an absolute bitch,’ Nicola spits, as we head back to the hotel. ‘Does she think pregnant women are supposed to sit at home all day knitting booties and counting their varicose veins? Meredith was only dancing. It’s not as if she’d popped a couple of Es and started lap-dancing on the tables.’

  Meredith looks out of the window.

  ‘I should’ve told her to sling her hook at the beginning. How ignorant. I’m fuming.’ Nicola has always had a defiantly protective streak when it comes to her friends. ‘I mean, God Almighty, you’ve been drinking orange juice all week, Meredith. I know you haven’t been studying every line of What To Expect When You’re Expecting, but so what? This is one of your last big nights out for a long time and that bloody woman’s gone and ruined it.’

  I add nothing to this conversation, partly because I agree with everything Nicola’s saying, but also because, as I reach over and clutch Meredith’s hand, I can’t help studying her expression.

  She’s trying to pretend she’s not upset. And she’s failing miserably.

  When we arrive back at the B Hotel, I ask her if she’d like a cranberry juice now instead, as Nicola heads for the Ladies.

  ‘One for the road, eh?’ Meredith shrugs as I find a sofa to sink in to.

  ‘Are you okay, Meredith?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says too insistently. ‘Of course.’

  I frown. ‘Only . . . you don’t look it, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  She sighs and looks up. ‘Do you want the honest answer?’

  ‘Only if you want to tell me.’

  Her jaw clenches and she hesitates, before confessing something that’s obviously been on her mind for some time. ‘I’m not ready to be a mother, Imogen.’

  I shake my head. ‘All pregnant women have moments when they doubt themselves, Meredith. Especially the first time, and especially when it’s been a surprise.’

  She looks at me with blazing eyes. ‘This is not just last-minute cold feet, Imogen. This is a mistake. It was from the beginning. I never, ever felt broody. I never even wanted kids.’

  I swallow. ‘Well, you know what . . . me neither. I’d never wanted them before I found out I was pregnant with Florence.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Meredith’s eyes now search mine.

  I nod. ‘I suppose I never knew how much I wanted a daughter until I had her.’

  ‘But you were over the moon when you found out you were pregnant – I remember it. It was totally different from the meltdown I went into.’

  I’m suddenly unable to deny it.

  ‘I felt . . . feel terrified,’ she continues. ‘That’s literally the only word I can use to describe it.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘I’ve never told you this, but I was booked in for an abortion. Not once, but twice.’

  Shock grips my throat. ‘You’re kidding?’ I whisper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I planned to tell everyone that I’d miscarried. It was early days, before twelve weeks the first time and then at sixteen weeks the second time.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I got in there and, for some utterly unfathomable reason, I couldn’t do it. I have no idea why, but I couldn’t. And, the fact is, Imogen, I should have done it. But now it’s too late.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  She looks at me as if it’s obvious, as if there’s simply no need for her to spell this out. ‘Because I know I don’t have it in me to be a good mother to this child. I’m the least organised person I know. My passions in life have been’ – her voice takes on a sarcastic tone – ‘hmm, let me think . . . going out and getting off my face a lot. Nothing I do or have done has equipped me for this. And, worse than all that is this – I keep hearing about how women fall in love with their babies every time they feel a kick in their tummy, or the second they’ve given birth and are in their arms. But I’m not the falling-instantly-in-love kind, Imogen. Nathan is the only man I’ve ever felt anything for, and a lot of the time I’d happily throttle him.’

  I put my arm around her, squeezing her into me reassuringly. But if I’m entirely honest, what Meredith is saying has got me worried. She’s doing herself down, of that there’s no doubt, but the fact that she’s not bonding at all with this baby has been nagging at me for ages, and I’m not naïve enough to think that things will instantly turn into a fairytale the second he or she is in her arms.

  I press my hand into hers. It feels small and slightly swollen. ‘Meredith, there’s no point in me trying to tell you being a mum is easy or no big deal. It is a big deal and, as you’ve already seen from my life, it can make everything extremely hectic, complicated and difficult. But I say this with total sincerity and it’s all I really can say to you – becoming a parent was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s worth every minute.’

  We look up and see Nicola approaching.

  ‘To you, perhaps,’ Meredith whispers, as Nic sits down, unaware of the conversation.

  ‘I’m still incensed about that woman,’ she harrumphs.

  Meredith forces a smile. ‘Forget about it, honestly.’ She pats her on the hand. ‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m suddenly not feeling too good. I’m going to head up to bed.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Nicola asks, concerned.

  ‘Yeah. I think something I ate disagreed with me,’ Meredith replies, running her hands unconvincingly over her stomach. But before anyone can argue, she’s heading towards the lift.

  ‘She’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,’ Nicola says. ‘Do you want to swap again? You haven’t had an undisturbed few hours since you got here.’

  ‘Oh, what’s another night?’ I shrug. ‘Thanks, but I’ve given up on the idea of sleep.’

  She smiles. ‘Hmm . . . what’s that lovely smell? Whatever they’re cooking in the restaurant tonight smells amazing.’

  I breathe in and freeze as I recognise it instantly. ‘It’s sage.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Blimey, you’re good. I’d never have guessed that.’

  ‘Roberto pointed it out once. They use a lot of it in Italy. It apparently symbolises lifelong happiness . . .’

  My voice trails off as the scent transports me vividly back to that evening in San Gimignano. Every element of the night fills my senses: the sweet, chestnut biscotti crumbling in my mouth; the gentle coo of turtledoves on the roof; Roberto’s smile when he told me about the old man who’d found happiness with a new love and his insistence that he’d want me to do the same.

  Neither of us had any idea how prophetic that conversation would prove to be. I am fleetingly reminded about my wish that Roberto would send me a sign, but push the thought out of my head immediately. I find myself surreptitiously scanning the bar area.

  ‘Perhaps he came while we were out at dinner,’ Nicola offers. ‘There’s still time for him to turn
up,’ she adds.

  ‘It’s not a big deal anyway,’ I reply, to convince myself more than her. ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.’

  Nicola suddenly looks serious. ‘Can I say something, Imogen?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I understand about why you’d feel awkward being with another man. But it’s not a betrayal of Roberto. He’d want that.’

  My jaw tightens, despite my recollection of that conversation with him in Tuscany all those years ago. ‘Do you know that?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. Roberto was a good man and he would not have wanted you to be by yourself.’ She pauses, looking at me carefully. ‘Life is precious, Imogen. You’ve got to live it. Be true to yourself. Otherwise you’ll wake up one day full of regrets.’ She hesitates, as if letting her own words filter into her brain. Then she looks at her hands. ‘You don’t need to say anything. I’m in no position to lecture you when I’ve totally failed to be true to myself. Or Jess, for that matter.’

  ‘I know how hard it must be for you to address this thing with your parents.’

  ‘But that’s not much of an excuse really, is it?’ She takes a deep breath, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘Anyway, you and Harry . . .’

  ‘I don’t even know if Harry really likes me. He’d be here if he was keen.’

  Nicola looks at me. ‘I don’t know why he’s not here, but I’m one hundred per cent certain that he likes you. And whether he’s moving to Aberdeen or not, most women wouldn’t be avoiding his attention.’

  ‘I’m not most people.’

  ‘I know. But,’ she hesitates, ‘you can’t waste the rest of your life mourning a man who isn’t coming back, Imogen.’

  The words feel like knives in my stomach. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Live your life, Imogen. Suck every bit of happiness out of it. You deserve it. We all do.’

  Chapter 49

  There are some nights when you’ve spent so long analysing things that all that’s left to do is get drunk. Paralytically, inhumanly drunk.

  ‘We’re going to be so hung over we won’t be able to see straight tomorrow. You do realise that, don’t you?’ Nicola asks.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I insist through an inebriated slur. ‘I’ve got no job to go to any more, so I can get banjaxed every day of the week if I want. I could start swigging WKD before I got up, with nothing more to tax me than wondering how the guy on Jeremy Kyle eats solid food with so few front teeth.’

  She sniggers. ‘Somehow it’s impossible to imagine it. I don’t think you’d manage a day of being dysfunctional, Imogen.’ She hiccups. ‘You’re far too uptight.’

  I nearly spit out my drink. ‘I’d thought that sentence was going too well.’

  She laughs again now, throwing back her head, which oscillates so violently I’m briefly concerned about its ability to stay put. ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s one of the many qualities I love about you.’

  ‘Being neurotic?’

  ‘Nobody does it better,’ she replies with a giggle.

  I shake my head. ‘The only possible response to that news . . .’ – I pause to hiccup this time – ‘. . . is to order two more glasses of cava.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she concurs, almost falling off her chair.

  I order the drinks from a waiter. ‘Anyway,’ I continue, ‘you wouldn’t call me uptight if you knew what I got up to last night.’

  ‘I know what you got up to last night,’ she splutters.

  ‘I was a demon in bed,’ I assure her.

  ‘That good?’ She raises an eyebrow.

  I pause to think for a second. ‘Well, I hope so. Though that might be wishful thinking. And the fact that he’s not exactly pursuing me would tend to indicate the opposite.’ Drunken paranoia sweeps through me. ‘Shit!’ I turn to her, wide eyed. ‘Maybe I was rubbish.’

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t.’

  ‘I hope I was passable at least. Although I just don’t know. I’m very rusty.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  I think about a polite way to put this. ‘It was very pleasant. Distinctly agreeable.’

  ‘So it was basically amazing?’

  ‘YES!’ I shriek.

  ‘Maybe you could try and do it again, just to make sure?’ Nic says, looking up and smirking.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She nods to the door. ‘Well, you’re going to have to do something. Harry’s heading this way.’

  Chapter 50

  Harry approaches looking so heartbreakingly sexy that my body tingles just at the sight of him.

  ‘I’m going to leave you to it,’ Nicola whispers.

  I grab her by the arm. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  But before I can answer he’s there in front of me, with his chest undulating as if he’s slightly out of breath and a film of moisture on his forehead. Every bit of him vies for my attention – the way his shirt falls open at the collar; the slight part of his lips before he speaks. ‘I’m sorry I’ve only just got here.’

  My mouth suddenly feels very dry. ‘That’s okay. Why don’t you join Nicola and me for a drink?’

  She’s clearly itching to leave but for a reason I can’t pinpoint, I want her to stay. As back up. To stop me saying or doing something I might regret.

  ‘How’s your day been, Nicola?’ he asks. If he’s bothered by her presence, he doesn’t look it.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ she replies, suddenly looking far more sober than me. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but I need to hit the sack. I haven’t got the stamina to keep up with this woman.’ She grins. ‘She’s got me horribly drunk.’

  I stiffen as I become aware that I’ll be on my own. With my own decisions. And indecisions. And fear. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I ask, as she kisses me on the cheek. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay? Are you sure—’

  ‘Quite sure.’ She looks into my eyes meaningfully, the way you do when warning a small child to behave itself in public, as she backs away. ‘Just remember what I said, okay?’

  A shot of heat inflames my cheeks and I pretend I haven’t heard her as I turn back to Harry, zooming in involuntarily on his mouth as I’m hijacked by a vivid flashback of him kissing me in bed only twenty-four hours ago. The thought exhilarates and horrifies me. Does he expect the same to happen tonight? Do I want that?

  Yes. YES!

  Oh God, no . . .

  ‘Have you been running?’ is all I can think to blurt out, desperately trying to drown out my thoughts.

  As Harry sits next to me, his smell stirs every one of my senses – a clean, warm scent of sandalwood and zingy top notes that makes my insides swirl.

  ‘It’s been an eventful evening.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He hesitates, as if about to tell me something important, then simply says, ‘Have you heard any more about your job, yet?’

  I shake my head. ‘The last official message I had from my boss was two words long and effectively indicated that my P45 was in the post.’ The reminder makes my throat clench.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Imogen. I feel terrible about telling you to switch your phone off. I genuinely believed that everyone needs a break on holiday. Your company obviously thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Well, it was my decision. Besides, you were one hundred per cent right in principle. They should all be able to get on with things themselves and give me five minutes’ peace. Unfortunately, the timing wasn’t great – that’s what made the ramifications of this so difficult.’

  I catch his eye and, as if he can’t bring himself not to do it, he reaches out and touches my arm. I stiffen at first, but as my adrenalin subsides, I realise he’s inviting me into his arms.

  I don’t even think about whether or not to do it; I simply slide into him, a sensation that feels in equal parts gorgeous and exhilarating, to the point of discomfort.

  It’s only as my cheek presses against his that I realise this is not a romantic gesture �
�� more a friendly, supportive squeeze. The thought sends an anxious ripple through me. I look up drunkenly at his lips, feeling an urgent need to reach up and kiss him, but fairly certain I won’t dare. Then he says something that makes me jerk back.

  ‘I wonder if I could help?’

  My thoughts are yanked back down to earth. ‘I don’t know how you could. I don’t know how anyone could.’

  He releases me from his arms and turns to face me. ‘I’ve been racking my brains about how to make it up to you. I feel honour-bound to do something.’

  ‘You don’t need to—’

  ‘The thing is, these stories tend to run for a few days, sometimes weeks.’

  I let out a spontaneous groan and run my fingers through my hair. I might no longer be in the employ of Peebles, but I will be far happier when I’ve seen the back of those articles completely.

  ‘It’s the same with any scandal story, whether it’s about a new vaccine – the type of thing I cover – or some boss caught with his pants down.’

  ‘That’s one item of clothing that stayed on,’ I mutter, ‘as far as I know.’

  He pulls his leg underneath him as he concentrates, and the distance between us suddenly seems more than physical.

  ‘I’d make the world’s worst PR man,’ he continues, ‘but I do know people in the media.’

  I frown, wondering where this conversation is going. ‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting—’

  ‘We can’t re-write history – those stories are out there now. But, I suppose what I’m wondering is, would some positive press make a difference?’

  I think for a second. ‘I’m certain it would. But how’s that possible? Every journalist who’s mentioned us in the last two days is fixated on David and the overactive contents of his trousers.’

  He suppresses a laugh and we catch each other’s eye. ‘It might’ve been a misunderstanding.’ He winks.

  ‘What, the woman wanted something to go with her G&T and he got the wrong idea when she ordered nuts?’

  We both collapse into giggles.

  ‘Perhaps she was just practising the brace position under that blanket?’ he muses.