‘What?’
‘I love you, and I know you’re pregnant, but you just did the hugest fart in your sleep. You actually shouted, ‘Ooh what was that?’ when you woke up.’ Adam laughed even harder.
‘You men have it so easy,’ I snapped. ‘And to think, I’m growing another one inside me.’
I tried to make an elegant exit, but the gap between the edge of the airing cupboard door and the windowsill wasn’t big enough. My bump got wedged in. Adam had to gently pull me out, and then lead me to the toilet, much like you lead an elephant up a ramp before transit.
‘I’m fine,’ I snapped and waddled my way to the bathroom. When I came back, Adam was in bed looking all cosy
‘Give me all your pillows,’ I said.
‘All of them?’
‘Yes. Now.’
He handed them over and I managed to make a little nest with my bump supported.
‘Now my neck isn’t supported,’ he whined.
‘It will be when my hands are round it, squeezing tightly.’
He took the hint and kept quiet.
Monday 4th June
Adam bought me a long curved pregnancy pillow, and regained custody of his own pillows.
We’ve been sleeping beautifully the past few nights. For the first time in ages I feel really great. Pregnant and big, but great. I was having a shower this morning, and watching Adam through the glass cubicle when I suddenly felt incredibly, horny.
He had a towel round his waist and had just finished shaving. I watched his biceps shift and flex as he reached into the sink to scoop up water, my eyes travelled along his muscular back, his broad shoulders tapering down to a thin waist, and the curve of his rump under the taut material of his white towel. He dried his face, and turned round. A little water ran down his neck and over his pecs. He walked out of the bathroom giving me a wink on the way.
I realised I felt more horny than I ever have before. I rinsed off the last of the soap, stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a big towel.
Adam was in the bedroom, already dressed in tight black jeans and doing up the last buttons on his work shirt, when I launched myself on him. I kissed him furiously. He responded, surprised.
‘Make love to me, now,’ I said and started to undo his belt buckle. He pulled away.
‘Hey, what about the baby?’
‘What about the baby?’
‘Should we be doing it?’ he ran his hand softly over my huge bump. I carried on unbuckling his trousers.
‘Whoa whoa whoa, Coco, I’m serious. You’re in week thirty-one.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said finally getting his belt undone and yanking his jeans down exposing his hairy footballers legs.
‘How do you know it’s fine?’
‘It says so in all the books.’
‘You haven’t read any of the books, you lobbed one at a pot plant.’
I started to unbutton his shirt, got fed up and ripped it open. Buttons flew off, a couple pinging against the bedside lamp.
‘I want you,’ I growled.
‘Coco, I don’t think we should.’
‘Well your head might say one thing, but below the belt you seem much more keen.’ I hooked my hand under the waistband of his briefs and went to slide them down.
‘No! I’m serious, what if there is a reason that you shouldn’t have sex? Didn’t they say you shouldn’t do anything strenuous?’
‘Oh my God say that word again!’
‘Strenuous.’
‘Oh! I’ll go on all fours, and you can give it to me strenuously.’ I pulled his briefs down. His penis was really hard and it sprang up and slapped against his belly button.
‘Ow!’
‘Don’t be a baby!’ I said. I kneeled on the bed and tried to arrange myself. He started to soften.
‘No no no no no!’ I said, pulling at it as if it were a bicycle pump and I’d had to stop with a flat tyre during the Tour de France.’
‘Adam, I could hump a tree right now. I can’t drink, or smoke, or eat any of the things I love. I can’t dye my hair. You are having sex with me whether you like it or not.’
‘But that’s…’
‘That’s called being a supportive husband. Other women ask their husbands to put up shelves or mow the lawn. All I want is a damn good seeing too! I think you’ve got it very easy.’
‘Ouch Ow! Stop Coco,’ he said jumping back. I took my hand away.
‘Adam, please. I want you so badly… I’ve heard it’s a legitimate pregnancy symptom. Clinical horniness. What if I spoke to midwife Justine? Would you be happier?’
‘Yes,’ he said relieved and went to pick up his jeans.
I grabbed my phone off the bedside table and began scrolling through.
‘What? Now? You’re going to ask her now?’
‘She said to phone if I had any questions.’ I found her number. Midwife Justine answered after two rings. I put her on speakerphone. We could hear traffic in the background.
‘Hello. It’s Coco Pinchard,’ I said. ‘I want to know if we can have sex?’
‘Hello, Mrs Pinchard?’
‘Not you and me, obviously…’ I added.
‘No, no I didn’t think that,’ she said. ‘It’s just that this is my emergency line. Is this an emergency?’
Adam looked at me and shook his head.
‘I’m experiencing clinical horniness…’ I said.
‘I’m not sure that’s an emergency though, Mrs Pinchard, I must impress on you that the NHS is a free resource but it shouldn’t be abused.’
‘I just want to know if I can safely have sex in my thirty first week. Adam is worried he might poke the baby… I mean he’s not that long… well he is long, no complaints there.’
I looked at Adam who had his head in his hands.
‘Mrs Pinchard. It’s perfectly fine for you both to engage in sexual intercourse. Just make sure you are well supported, and take it slow. You can even do your pelvic floor exercises when Adam is inside you.’
‘Adam is here,’ I said. ‘I’ve got you on speakerphone.’
I mouthed say hello to Adam.
‘Hello,’ said Adam awkwardly.
‘Morning, Adam. Think of your penis like a divining rod. When you penetrate Coco, you’ll feel her doing her pelvic floor exercises, it will be like a squeezing sensation… This will help her enormously with any incontinence issues. Did she tell you she did a little wee-wee in my office?’
‘Yes,’ cringed Adam.
‘Both of you must tell me how it goes, as I said I’m still rather new to all this. In fact I sometimes forget I’m a midwife! I made a curry last night and sliced a pile of chillies, forgetting that I have to do a membrane sweep this morning…’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, and thanks,’ I said. I pressed end call and climbed on the bed.
‘That was the most unsexy conversation, ever,’ said Adam. ‘Coco, I love you but I don’t know if I can…’
‘Adam. Do me from behind. Now!’ I ordered.
Men are simple creatures, and these words seemed to do the trick. He managed it twice and was rather late for work.
Thursday 7th June
My clinical horniness vanished today, just as quickly as it arrived. For the last few days the oddest things have set me off. On Monday Adam rolling up his sleeves to bleed the radiators got me incredibly fired up, then on Tuesday night I saw a trailer for ‘Luther’ on BBC1 and had to phone the bar and see if he could get home any earlier. This morning we went shopping and some elderly reverend was reading Thought for the Day on Radio 4. I was randy as anything. Although I think it was more the vibrations from the car speakers than the elderly reverend. I hope.
In a way I’m glad my ardour has cooled. When we last had sex, Adam had to help me turn over, he pulled the same strained face I saw him use when he once helped Daniel shift a piano.
We had a piece of very good news this evening. The estate agent has found tenants for Adam’s flat. They’ve been vette
d, and they are due to sign contracts tomorrow!
Friday 8th June
I was waiting by the phone this morning for confirmation that our new tenants had signed. So when it rang with a withheld number, I thought it was them, but it wasn’t.
‘Is this Mrs Pinchard?’ asked a female voice; there was a scratchy inaudible tannoy in the background.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello I’m calling from University College Hospital your son Rosencrantz Pinchard was admitted to A & E this morning under the influence of alcohol.’
‘What?’
‘I said…’
‘I heard what you said. What do you mean under the influence?’
‘It means drunk. We had to pump his stomach as a precaution.’
‘Stomach pumped? Why?’
‘I think it’s best if you come to A & E,’ she said. I grabbed my bag and left the house. As I went through the automatic doors of the hospital, I was breathless and staggering under the weight of my bump. A porter tried to put me in a wheelchair thinking I was about to give birth, but I explained I was visiting.
Accident and Emergency department was remarkably quiet. I found Rosencrantz alone in a curtained off cubicle. I was shocked at his appearance. He’d lost a lot of weight. His already slim frame jutted out from under the thin yellow hospital gown. His cheeks were hollow, he had a black eye, and there was the tell-tale black tinge of the charcoal solution on his lips to show he’d had his stomach pumped.
‘Rosencrantz. What’s going on?’ I asked. I leaned over and hugged him. He stank of stale booze.
A kind-faced middle-aged nurse came through the curtain.
‘Is this mum?’ she asked. Rosencrantz nodded. ‘I spoke to you on the phone.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Rosencrantz. The nurse grabbed a cardboard bowl from a pile beside him and Rosencrantz threw up.
‘There you are, love... All done?’ She went out and came back with some blue paper towel, gave a piece to Rosencrantz and lay a square over the bowl.
‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ I said. Rosencrantz gingerly eased himself back on the bed and stared blankly ahead. When the nurse saw he wasn’t going to offer up any information, she took me out of the cubicle and down to the nurses’ station.
‘He was found semi-conscious in the foyer of Coptic Studios, Coptic Street. You know it?’
I said I didn’t.
‘He had a great deal of alcohol in his blood, mixed with anti-depressants.’
‘Anti-depressants?’
‘We don’t know if it was a suicide attempt; he says he was about to go into a casting.’
‘My son wouldn’t do that,’ I said putting my hand over my mouth in shock.
‘Are you okay love?’ she asked, eyeing my bump. She filled a cup from the water cooler behind the nurses’ station. I sat down on a plastic chair and drank.
‘You should go and talk to him,’ she said kindly, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I put my cup in the bin and went back to the cubicle. Rosencrantz was sitting up in bed with his arms crossed. I noticed the hospital tag on his wrist.
‘I’ve just been told a load of stuff, which doesn’t sound like you,’ I said. He shrugged and his bloodshot eyes filled with tears. He got up and went into the men’s toilets opposite. His clothes were piled on a chair by the bed, and his phone started to ring. I pulled it from his jeans, WAYNE MOBILE flashed up on the screen, and I answered.
‘Hello Wayne, it’s Coco… Mrs P. I have to tell you Rosencrantz is in hospital.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said coolly.
‘Why not?’
’I don’t tell tales,’ he said haughtily. ‘I do have a message from our landlord. Rosencrantz needs to get his stuff.’
‘Why does he need to get his stuff?’
‘As I said I don’t tell tales…’
‘Wayne, please, I don’t know what’s happening.’
His voice thawed a little.
‘Mrs P, Rosencrantz has completely gone off the rails. Last night he had a terrible fight with Oscar.’
‘Is that who punched him?’
‘After he broke Oscar’s nose…’
Rosencrantz came back from the toilet.
‘What are you doing on my phone?’ he demanded.
‘Love, it’s Wayne…’
Rosencrantz got back up on the bed and folded his arms. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Charming. Well I don’t really want to speak to him either,’ said Wayne and put the phone down.
The doctor came through the curtain. He was very young and seemed sympathetic.
‘You’re free to go Rosencrantz,’ he said. ‘Be a bit more careful next time, alcohol and anti-depressants don’t mix.’
We came out to let Rosencrantz get dressed.
‘Doctor, what can you tell me?’ I asked. ‘I’ve gone from knowing nothing to all this information. I didn’t know he was taking anything, or drinking.’
‘I’m not sure what I can tell you,’ said the doctor.
‘Is he suicidal?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What kind of a diagnosis is that?’
‘I am here to treat patients. If Rosencrantz wants to see someone, the nurse can give you some NHS-approved psychologists.’
Rosencrantz came out of the cubicle, and the doctor handed him some leaflets about drug addiction.
‘He doesn’t need those,’ I said. ‘I’m taking him for a nice cup of tea!’
We came out of the hospital on to Warren Street. People streamed past us on the pavement, enjoying the summer sun. We crossed the road and walked down a little way to a Starbucks. Rosencrantz grabbed a table with two squishy chairs by the window, and I went and bought the drinks.
‘I got you a cake pop,’ I said when I came back with two milky teas. He stared back at me. His bruised eye was now turning a purple blue. He didn’t touch the cake pop and took a sip of tea.
‘I’m going for a fag.’ He pulled a packet of cheap cigarettes out of his jeans and went outside. He stood with his back against the window and smoked two cigarettes. He didn’t look round.
‘Why are you buying such horrible cigarettes?’ I asked when he came back.
‘They’re cheap.’ He sipped his tea again. Some young men walked past, tanned and handsome in their shorts. Rosencrantz looked sickly in comparison.
‘You always liked Marlboro Lights. Marika smokes those. Chris has always liked Benson and Hedges.’
Rosencrantz looked at me and drank more tea.
‘It’s probably cold love. Would you like another?’
‘Are we in a Pinter play Mum? Talking banalities whilst wading through the subtext?’
I looked out of the window and blinked back some tears.
‘Ok. Why were you found drunk this morning? Why have you been chucked out of your house? And why have you been fighting with Oscar? And why are you on anti-depressants?’
I noticed a lady sitting to the left of prick up her ears.
‘Got nothing better to do than wig in on a private conversation?’ I asked her. She looked surprised.
‘Yeah, you, big ears.’ She looked embarrassed, got up quickly and left.
‘I wasn’t listening,’ she said as she passed.
‘Pull the other one love,’ I said. Despite himself Rosencrantz laughed.
‘What?’ I said joining in.
‘Pull the other one love, You’re so quaint’
‘It’s more polite than bugger off you skinny cow… Please, talk to me.’
Rosencrantz shifted uncomfortably. He fiddled with the hospital tag still on his wrist.
‘I dunno, things have been tough. I haven’t been getting any of the castings I go to… yet Oscar has had five commercials, he’s done ‘Emmerdale’, ‘Hollyoaks’ and he’s just got a small part on ‘Eastenders’.’
I bit back the impulse to ask when it would be broadcast.
‘He’s got more money than me
. He’s more successful than I am. He’s just a lucky bastard.’
He pulled a face, sort of a bitter grimace.
‘I used to breeze auditions, now I get so nervous. I’ve just been having a little drink before I go in,’ he admitted.
‘A little one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you’ve been having a lot of castings?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to me?’
‘You’re about to have a baby, you’ve got your own shit going on.’
‘Anti-depressants too?’
‘Loads of people take them.’
‘Not my son. You should talk to me. I’ve always taught you to talk about your feelings. You’re normally very good at blurting things out.’
‘What am I going to do?’ he said wiping a tear away with the sleeve of his jumper.
‘We’ll go and get your things, and then you’re coming home with me,’ I said.
We came back home. I fed Rocco, and then we took my car over to Lewisham. Rosencrantz drove. With my bump it is now impossible. He found a parking space out front, and went up the steps to the house he shares with Wayne and Oscar. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.
‘Where are your keys?’ I asked.
‘I don’t live here anymore, remember?’ Wayne opened the door dressed in a character turban and housecoat. He held a long thin cigarette in his hand.
‘Hello Mrs P.’
‘Hello Wayne,’ I said.
He cast his eye over Rosencrantz. Much like Bette Davis does to Hercule Poirot in ‘Death on the Nile’.
‘Oscar is convalescing,’ said Wayne bluntly, not breaking his Bette Davis stare. Rosencrantz edged past him and up the stairs.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘His mother took him back to the Cotswolds. He’s devastated.’
‘About splitting up with Rosencrantz?’
‘No. He was meant to be filming a small part in Eastenders. Thanks to Rosencrantz breaking his nose, they’ve recast.’
‘That’s terrible.’ It was all I could say.
‘It was a good role too. Someone who robs Dot Cotton, or the policeman who takes a statement from Dot Cotton after she was robbed. Either way it was two days and two grand plus another twelve hundred for the omnibus.’
Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy Page 22