We took the staircase up to her office, where Chloe was fussing around, arranging a buffet. There were some bottles of very expensive wine, and plates of odd looking little biscuits arranged in fan shapes on Angie’s desk. The surrounding shelves were now groaning with every possible language edition of Regina Battenberg’s books.
Regina sat in Angie’s chair and surveyed the bottles, choosing a 1994 Beaujolais. Juan José pulled a corkscrew from his pocket, opened the bottle with a flourish and poured her a glass.
‘Thank you Juan José, that will be all,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring you when I’ve finished.’ Juan José inclined his head and left the room.
‘He’s very witty, isn’t he?’
Angie chuckled in agreement and sat down opposite Regina. I was left to perch on the arm of her chair.
‘Right, Coco. What’s this book about?’ asked Regina taking a sip of wine.
‘Didn’t Angie tell you?’ I said.
‘She emailed me the blurb, of course, but as I said, I left my bifocals at The Ivy. Pitch it to me… Give me your elevator pitch.’
Angie nodded in encouragement. I began to tremble.
‘Well it’s sort of an unofficial sequel to Chasing Diana Spencer…’ I croaked. I cleared my throat. ‘Um the premise of the book is that, well it’s more of a running gag, no I suppose it is a premise. Um the premise is that Fergie – the Duchess of York Fergie that is, not Alex Ferguson England manager… Nor Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas…’
‘You say it’s a comedy?’ interrupted Regina. ‘It doesn’t sound very funny.’
‘I’m getting to that,’ I said.
‘Well the elevator went ping. I’ve reached my floor,’ she grinned nastily.
My face began to get hot and I blinked back tears. ‘Okay, so we’ve got Fergie, Duchess of York Fergie… and…’ I went blank. Regina took another sip of her wine and regarded me over the glass.
‘Coco’s second book is highly anticipated, after the huge success of Chasing Diana Spencer,’ said Angie jumping in and saving me. ‘The basic premise is that Fergie, the Duchess of York, is actually an Agent working for MI6. The bumbling gaffe-prone Fergie portrayed in the Media is just a ruse. She’s a highly intelligent sleeper agent…’
Relieved that Angie had taken over, I took one of the little brown biscuits off a plate and popped it in my mouth, but it was disgusting. Chloe, who’d been standing in the corner of the room looked panicked.
‘Coco,’ she hissed. ‘Coco!’
I swallowed and looked at her; she was pointing to the biscuits and shaking her head. Angie stopped talking.
‘What is it dear?’ asked Regina, noticing Chloe.
‘Um, as you requested, Regina, all the biscuits on the table, well they’re dog biscuits,’ said Chloe. Regina cast her eye over me.
‘Oh yes! How silly of me… Those are Pippin’s dog biscuits!’ she said. I swallowed back the sour meaty taste and felt my stomach lurch. Angie carried on.
‘Agent Fergie manages to foil a plot to assassinate the Queen, during a State visit to America. It’s very funny and satirical… and I think it’s going to be a great beach read this summer.’
No-one seemed bothered that I had just eaten a dog biscuit.
‘The baby!’ I realised. ‘I ate a dog biscuit. What about my baby?’
‘You’re pregnant?’ chirruped Regina. ‘You seem a bit old dear…’
I could feel the colour draining from my face, and I started to sweat. My stomach twitched and I bolted out of Angie’s office, down the hall to the toilet. I jammed my fingers down my throat until I saw stars, but I couldn’t be sick.
I sat down on the floor and whipped out my phone and typed, IS IT SAFE TO EAT DOG BISCUITS WHEN PREGNANT? into Google, but a blur of answers came up. I wiped the damp hair off my face. Then there was a rap on the door.
‘Cokes?’ said Angie. ‘Are you okay love?’
‘No!’ I shouted. Then I heard Regina.
‘Angela? Is she okay? Why would you eat a dog biscuit? She’s quite an odd woman isn’t she?’
‘Cokes. Are you okay to come out and finish the meeting?’ asked Angie.
I was mortified, and no one seemed to care. I was just an idiot who couldn’t even pitch her own book. A dog-biscuit-eating idiot.
‘Um, I’ll be there in a minute,’ I said. I heard some muttering and they went back down the corridor to Angie’s office. I knew I had to see a doctor, and fast. I splashed my face with cold water then, opening the bathroom door, determined that the corridor was empty. I slipped down the stairs and was out on Chiswick High Street within minutes. I had my handbag, but I’d left my coat. I was too embarrassed to go back. Luckily a black cab rounded the corner. I flagged it down and got in.
‘Can I go to the nearest hospital,’ I asked. The driver nodded and pulled away from the kerb. Then I remembered I had midwife Justine – maybe I could see her first? I told the taxi driver to take me back to Marylebone. I scrabbled around in my purse and found the card midwife Justine had given me. I rang her number, but it went to a long recorded message about visiting hours. I then tried Adam, but his phone was off. Half an hour later I arrived at the Marylebone surgery, where I rushed at the front desk. Two receptionists sat facing me behind the glass partition. They ignored my distress and tear-stained face and continued typing. A minute passed, then another.
‘Am I invisible?’ I asked. They kept typing. ‘I said am I invisible?’ the younger of the two finally finished what she was doing.
‘Right, how can I help you?’ she asked.
‘I need to see my midwife.’
‘Have you got an appointment?’
‘No, it’s an emergency.’ I said. I bit my lip. I was not going to cry.
‘The midwife only sees emergencies in the morning and evenings,’ she said.
‘What? So we have to time our emergency ailments accordingly?’
‘I’d like you to calm down.’
‘And I’d like you to…’ But before I could finish I spied midwife Justine walking through the empty waiting room with a mug of tea. I threw myself at her mercy, and she reluctantly took me into her office.
‘This really is a one-off,’ she said sitting at her desk. ‘You need to make an appointment in future.’ I took the seat in front of her and explained that I’d eaten a dog biscuit. I looked at her expectantly.
‘I can assure you, eating dog food is perfectly safe,’ she said in her singsong tone. ‘Just don’t make a habit of it.’
‘Of course I’m not going to make a habit of it!’ I said. ‘I’m not here to check if it’s okay to eat dog food! I accidentally ate the dog biscuit.’
I was interrupted by a crashing knock at her door, and a middle-aged nurse with a severe fringe barged in.
‘Midwife Day, can I remind you that patients are NOT allowed to bring in urine samples in Tesco apple juice bottles! Someone put the lunch order in the wrong fridge and now we don’t know what is wee and what isn’t!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry Sister Brown. Maybe you should give them a sniff?’ said midwife Justine.
‘Sniffing things for junior midwives is not in my job description,’ she roared, and slammed the door behind her. Midwife Day sat for a moment then broke down.
‘I’m sorry…’ she said waving her hands in front of her face. ‘It’s just, everyone here thinks I’m rubbish… It’s not my fault someone brought a urine sample in in an apple juice bottle.’
‘You are very close to the Tesco Metro,’ I commiserated. She pulled some blue paper towel from the dispenser behind her and blew her nose loudly.
‘Can I ask you something Mrs Pinchard? Do you think I’m a good midwife?’
‘Uh, yes. And as a good midwife, what should I do about the dog biscuit?’
‘I turned down the chance to go to Afghanistan, and deliver babies on the front line,’ she said blotting her tears. ‘I was scared of the conflict, but a regional doctor’s surgery is far more brutal.’
‘So… Wha
t about me, and the dog biscuit?’ I asked. ‘I’m worried I’ve harmed the baby.’
‘I doubt you’ve harmed your baby Mrs Pinchard,’ she said composing herself. ‘Dog biscuits have to be manufactured as safe for human consumption. How many did you eat?’
‘Just one, and it was little. Do you think I should have my stomach pumped?’
‘Goodness no! You’re having plenty of roughage in your diet?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’ll poo it out soon enough. How are your poos?’
I didn’t know how to answer a question like that, especially when it was so conversational. I said they were very firm. I almost felt like I had to ask her back to be polite.
‘I really wouldn’t worry,’ she said. ‘And thank you, for saying I’m a good midwife.’
I left realising that the next few months would be taken up with awkward conversations about bodily functions, and I’m sure a selection of men and women I’ve never met before would have a good poke around in my nether regions (I’m talking about doctors, of course).
I came out of the surgery into the cold. I had no coat. I felt embarrassed and stupid. I hurried home to see Adam; he would make me feel better.
When I got in, he was in the hallway adjusting a huge framed black and white photograph of Brockwell Lido. Adam’s ex wife Nanette is an artist, and she had taken the photo, which is very beautiful. But after everything that had happened, I took it as another affront.
‘Hey Cokes,’ he said. ‘How did it go with Regina Battenberg?’
‘Why is that hanging on my wall?’ I said, putting my handbag on the now clear hall table.
‘I’ve almost finished unpacking,’ he said. I walked through to the living room where he’d hung another of Nanette’s photos, of Tooting Bec Lido.
‘What the hell is all this?’ I shouted.
‘What?’ he asked, shocked. ‘These are my pictures, I thought you liked them in my flat?’
‘Yes, in your flat, but they look bloody awful here!’
The living room was now unpacked. He’d put down the huge Axminster rug, the plastic was off the sofas and chairs, bookshelves were filled, the television was plugged in, and a fire was burning, casting a warm homely glow over everything, but I just kept ranting.
‘Where is the mirror that goes in the hall? Where is the picture collage of Rosencrantz that goes there?’ I shouted advancing on him like a crazed terrier. I finally had him backed up against the bookshelves when he said,
‘Coco. It’s my house too….’
I yanked the Tooting Bec picture off the wall and hurled it to the floor. The glass shattered. Rocco whimpered and ran out. Adam just stared at me.
‘I ate dog biscuits!’ I shouted.
‘Okay,’ said Adam cautiously. ‘Do you want some more?’
‘Why would I want some more?’
‘Are you craving them?’
‘I’m not craving bloody dog biscuits. I ate some of Regina Battenberg’s by mistake.’
‘Why was she eating dog biscuits?’
‘They were for her dog! I’ve made an idiot of myself… and I left my coat…’
Adam bit his lip and regarded me for a moment. He thought I was an idiot too. I ran upstairs, came into the bedroom, slammed the door and threw myself on the bed. I recalled doing the same thing when I was eleven years old. I lay there in a rage. Slowly, I stopped hyperventilating and noticed he had put the bedroom back together beautifully. My favourite sheets were on the bed, my pyjamas under the pillow. My bedside table was loaded with all my things, my Kindle on its charger; the books I’d recently bought from Waterstones. The piece of crystal ammonite I love, and my Roberts digital radio. He’d even tuned it to my three favourite stations. I haven’t listened to it in ages, but he’d remembered I listen to Capital Radio in the morning, Classic FM in the afternoon and Radio 4 in the evening. Daniel barely remembered anything about me after twenty years of marriage. My phone rang. It was Angie.
‘Good news love, Regina Battenberg said yes to the quote, we’ve settled on, I laughed and laughed and laughed, what an imagination this author has! Sound good?’
‘Yes,’ I said. There was a pause. ‘I’m okay Angie, thanks for asking.’
‘You left your coat behind Cokes… You know Regina Battenberg isn’t that bad, when you get to know her. If it’s any consolation love, my Barry used to eat out of the dog’s bowl when he was little and it never did him any harm.’
‘Yeah, but he became a drug addict, Angie...’ Immediately I wished I hadn’t said it. Angie hung up on me.
Wednesday 22nd February
I lay in bed as the sun went down, and waited to see if Adam would come upstairs. He didn’t. At one in the morning, I opened the bedroom door. I couldn’t hear the television. I crept out onto the landing, and down the stairs. I heard Adam snoring softly. When I got to the bottom of the stairs. I saw he was asleep under a blanket on the sofa. Rocco, the little traitor was lying on his feet.
‘Why are you down here?’ I whispered. Rocco twitched his ears and gave a little snort. I tiptoed upstairs, and got back into bed. It was the first night since we got married last August that we’ve slept apart.
I got myself really worked up. By two in the morning I was convinced Adam was going to leave me. Angie was going to let me go too. And everyone else in my life has moved on. Chris is in America, Marika has Milan, Rosencrantz has his own life. Even Daniel has a girlfriend, albeit one who has to count her Weight Watchers’ points.
It would just be me and Ethel. Luckily I fell asleep, just as things got ridiculous, imagining how I would ask Ethel to move in and split her pension with me.
I woke up at ten the next morning. The sun was blazing through the bedroom window. Rocco was lying in the doorway watching me. The house was silent. I got up and came downstairs. Adam was nowhere to be found. He’d folded up his blanket and put it back in the airing cupboard. His phone was gone from the kitchen, and so was its charger.
I rushed up to the bathroom and his toothbrush was missing. Panic reared its ugly head. He’s moved out! I thought, Oh my God, he’s left me and moved out!
I stood in shock for a few minutes, with only the sound of the kitchen clock ticking. I switched on the coffee machine and tried to think. What would I do as a single mother? The light blinked on to say the machine was full of capsules. I didn’t have a clue how to empty the machine. I stared at that little red light, mocking me. Then I thought about all the other things I couldn’t do, like work a bottle steriliser, or know what temperature a baby’s bathwater should be…
Then the front door slammed, Adam strode in in his leather jacket and put a full Tesco bag on the kitchen island. He came over and pressed a button on the coffee machine. A little drawer at the base of the machine popped open full of empty capsules. He looked at me for a second, then started to unload the bag. He opened the fridge and put milk and butter inside.
‘I got you a new toothbrush,’ he said holding two up. ‘Do you want green or blue?’
‘Blue!’ I cried rushing at him and throwing my arms round his neck. ‘Blue, or green, I don’t care!’
‘It’s just a tooth brush.’
‘It’s not, it’s everything. It’s you. I love you. I’m sorry…’
‘I’ve taken the other photo down,’ he said.
‘No let’s have them up. I like them. I like Nanette,’ I said. ‘I just feel like I can’t cope with anything.’
Adam sat me down and we had a long talk. He told me to try to enjoy life and live in the moment. Stop trying to be perfect at everything.
‘You are a great writer. A great mum. And I’m not going anywhere,’ he said.
Monday 27th February
Living in the moment is tough. I’ve spent the past few days trying to appreciate the simple things. Trying not to worry that I haven’t heard from Angie, or that Adam hasn’t had any job interviews, or what it will be like when this baby stops being a bump and becomes, a screaming baby. Then I
had a phone call this morning, which really made me appreciate what I have. It was Chris saying his father had a colossal heart attack on the golf course this morning and is dead.
‘I have to come back to London,’ he said listlessly.
‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.
‘Can I stay with you, just for a bit? My house is all closed up.’
‘Of course. Aren’t you going to your parents, I mean your mother’s house in the country?’
‘No. Not right away. I just need somewhere to… She’s already telling me I’m now the head of the family.’
‘She’ll need help to organise the funeral,’ I said.
‘No, that was arranged years ago. My mother booked the cathedral back in the 1980s… It’s just… ’
‘What?’
‘Coco. I’ve inherited his title. I’m now Lord Cheshire.’
I didn’t know what to say, congratulations? Chris mumbled that he’d let me know the flight times then rang off.
Tuesday 28th February
There was a piece on the BBC News website today;
Sir Richard Cheshire, businessman and entrepreneur who patented the ‘Cheshire napkin’, has died aged 79. He suffered a heart attack during a game of golf at the Brookwood Country Club in Surrey. Despite efforts to revive him on the fourteenth hole, he was pronounced dead at the scene.
Richard Cheshire may not be a familiar name, but it is estimated that at least 80% of the UK population has used one of his super-strong super-absorbent napkins.
Born in 1943 to a working-class family in Kent. He was educated at Thornton Heath Grammar, and went on to read Chemistry at Oxford, developing a groundbreaking method of manufacturing a plastic/paper hybrid. This, coupled with a keen business acumen, led to the birth of the Cheshire durable paper napkin.
Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy Page 8