Out on a Limb

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  And I am, too. Three As and a B. Three As and a B! THREE As and a B! THREE As!!!!!!!!!

  ‘Actually, mainly, I’m just so relieved,’ I am telling Dee fifteen minutes later, after I’ve woken Jake up and told him, ditto Mum, ditto Spike, ditto the lady on the corner when I walked him, plus called Pru, Seb’s father in Marseilles, his nana in Dublin, my auntie Phyllis and my cousin Sarah. Plus advised the man who came to drop off a pack of council black bags. ‘Thrilled, yes, of course. But it’s mainly just such a relief. Funny isn’t it? You sometimes don’t realise just how much you’ve been fretting about something until the moment you don’t have to fret about it any more. Poof! All gone! It was like the first time I’d breathed out in months. Anyway, sorry to prattle. I’m just a bit hyper this morning. And you’re busy, of course, so I won’t keep you.’

  ‘No problems. I’m absolutely thrilled for you. Of course I am. Send him my congratulations too, won’t you?’

  ‘Anyway, anyway , enough of me, frankly. Much more to the point, how are YOU?’

  I haven’t seen much of Dee since the vinegar debacle. Not even for badminton, because she’s been ill. ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says brightly, so she’s obviously better. ‘I’m…er…actually, Abs, I’m glad you called. Are you doing anything later?’

  ‘God, you must have read my mind! I’ve got to take Mum’s wheelchair back to the hospital as it happens, and pick up some stuff, so I was thinking, as it’s such a lovely day, why don’t I scoop you up while I’m at it, and we can go off and have some lunch and a proper chat, yes? I promise I won’t drone at you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can drone all you like. But I can’t do lunch because I have an appointment. At one. At the solicitors. To, well, get things moving, as it were. I was going to ring and ask you. Would you, you know, come with me and hold my hand?’

  My God. So she’s actually going to do it then, is she? I’m shocked. I know there was lots of fighting talk last time I saw her. But I never actually thought she’d go through with it. Seems I thought wrong. ‘Oh, Dee, of course I will. God, I feel awful. Here am I prattling on about Seb, and you’ve got all this to deal with. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, Abs. Really. Nothing to be sorry about, believe me. Making that appointment was the best thing I’ve done in years.’

  Except it’s not really. How can it be? That much I do know. I’ve done a divorce. The only thing, maybe, the right thing, admittedly, but the best thing. Noooo. It’s not that. It’s painful and dispiriting and tragic and sad. Still, at least there are no children involved.

  Which is ironic. Had there been children, I think, perhaps she wouldn’t even be here. Perhaps Malcolm wouldn’t either. Who knows?

  But what else can she do? She really couldn’t have tried harder. I resolve that no, I won’t drone. What she needs is a friend. Not a klaxon.

  I’m actually quite shocked, therefore, when I find her in outpatients. She’s not only looking healthy, she’s positively glowing. Clearly the decision she’s made has been the making of her. In the short term at least, and for that we must be thankful. She shrugs on her jacket and picks up her bag.

  ‘You probably think I’m such a wuss,’ she says, not sounding it in the least. ‘But I just felt I needed a bit of moral support.’

  Moral support is perhaps the last thing she needs. Support, yes, but no one could accuse Dee of ever trying to do anything but the right thing. The moral thing. Dee’s morals have always been architecturally sound. ‘You’ve got it,’ I say anyway. She squeezes my arm. She’s had her hair cut and straightened, and the look really suits her. And she’s wearing mascara, which is an uncommon occurrence. And a sure sign she’s not planning on doing any crying, because that’s why she generally doesn’t bother.

  Once we’re in my car, she pulls an envelope from her handbag, and pops it in the tray above the glove compartment.

  ‘Card for Seb,’ she explains. ‘Though as soon as I went and got it, it occurred to me that he’s not here to open it, is he? Still, no matter, eh? Be something for when he gets back.’

  ‘You are so thoughtful,’ I tell her, touched by her kindness. ‘That’s really sweet of you. And I can get it to him. Not right away, obviously. But I’m sending stuff on to his Dad for him, so he’ll get it in October, at least.’

  Seb ’s going to stay with his Father in Marseilles in October. He’s got him a work experience placement at his engineering firm, where he’s going to stay and work till early spring. Which feels like a very long time at the best of times, but a particularly long time today.

  ‘Of course,’ Dee answers. ‘I’d forgotten about that. There we are, then. All sorted.’ She turns towards me. ‘You must be missing him right now, eh?’ she adds.

  I nod. ‘I am.’ I will continue to do so. And worse than that, and something that’s never far from my thoughts, is that Jake’s going there for Christmas, as well. Which will make this only the second Christmas I’ve not had them with me. Which will be strange. Just Spike and I. Oh, God. And most likely my mother as well, now. I wonder if I can go too?

  I say so to Dee.

  ‘Or you could come and spend Christmas with me!’ she says. ‘That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’

  B ut the words, so lightly spoken, hang heavy in the air space between us, and the weight of the ensuing silence brings me up short. I’m sure that, like me, she is contemplating her life becoming suddenly so very different to the way it has been up to now.

  Which is scary. I’ve been here before. And exactly the sort of anxious ruminating about the future that is the last thing she needs to be doing right now. ‘I must say,’ I observe brightly, as we round the last bend on the approach to the car park. ‘You’re looking great. Absolutely great.’

  ‘Am I?’ she says, fiddling with the strap of the handbag in her lap. ‘Well, I thought I better make an effort.’

  In contrast to her earlier jaunty tone, now we’re almost there, she’s become tense and preoccupied. As she would, I guess. It’s not the easiest of appointments to be showing up for. As with the dentist, the closer you get, the harder it is to keep calm. I reach over and squeeze her right hand. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  She exhales. ‘My stomach’s in knots about the whole thing, to be honest. It’s such a big step to take. I mean I know I’m doing the right thing, but even so, I can’t help but feel churned up about it all. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself I mustn’t, I can’t help but worry about him, Abs. I mean, what’s going to happen to him now?’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I absolutely understand. But you have to move on. And so does he, for that matter. All the while you take responsibility for him, he’s not taking responsibility for himself. You know what the doctor said. And you’ve been so close to this so many times already. And not going through with it’s not got either of you anywhere, has it?’

  She almost seems to squirm in her seat. ‘No,’ she says, and then I see her chin jut. ‘But this time I am going through with it. I am.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I reassure her. ‘And you know, this really is the worst bit. Once you’ve crossed this hurdle, you’ll feel so much stronger, believe me.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she says.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Because I’m sure going to need to be.’

  ‘And you will –’

  ‘Abs?’ she says suddenly, turning in her seat and looking straight at me.

  I swivel my head round. ‘ What ? What is it?’

  ‘There’s something really important I have to tell you. I…’

  ‘What?’

  She fiddles some more with her bag strap. ‘Abs…oh, dear… it’s, well… Abs, I’m pregnant.’

  I’m so stunned I almost crash the car into the barrier. ‘You’re pregnant ? Good God!’ And then I almost drop the ticket I’ve just pulled out of the machine too, because trying to assimilate this new news with this morning’s news and make any sense of
the one in relation to the other is nigh on impossible. Being pregnant is all she’s ever wanted, all she’s longed for. The one thing that’s kept her going over years of unhappiness and Malcolm’s various infidelities. The one thing that’s kept her married to him, in fact. Hope. That if they had a child everything would be okay again. That’s about the size of it. Just sheer hope.

  And now she is pregnant and she’s about to divorce him. God, could there ever be a worse time to find out something like this? What on earth is she going to do now?

  ‘How pregnant?’ I ask her.

  ‘Eleven weeks.’

  No wonder she’s been ill. And sick. Of course. Eleven weeks pregnant! ‘God, Dee. Have I lost the thread here? I thought you and he were no longer…well. But, look, I mean, we’re going to the solicitors, right?’

  H er hands are still in her lap. She’s looking straight ahead, impassive, but even out of the corner of my eye I can see – no, more kind of sense – something odd in her expression. ‘Right.’

  ‘To see about a divorce, right?’

  Still she’s motionless. ‘Right.’

  ‘But what about the baby, Dee? I mean, are you sure about this? And what’s Malcolm said about it? Does he know where you’re off to today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he knows about the baby, right?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  I pull into a space then kill the engine and twist around to look at her properly. ‘You haven’t told him?’ She shakes her head. But why hasn’t she told him? Then I have a horrible thought. ‘Dee, you’re not planning to…you know…’

  She’s one step ahead of me. ‘Have an abortion? God, no!’

  ‘So why haven’t you told Malcolm? It’s not like he’s not going to find out before long, and –’

  She takes a long slow breath before answering. ‘I haven’t told him about it for a very good reason. Abs, I haven’t told him because it isn’t his.’

  I remove the key from the ignition and gawp at her. ‘You’re kidding!’ Then I shake my head. No, that’s stupid. Of course she’s not kidding. Who’d kid about something like that? ‘God, Dee,’ I say. ‘Whose is it, then?’

  It occurs to me then that it needn’t be anyone’s. Well, it must be someone’s, obviously, but is this a real person or a virtual one? Has she been down to a sperm bank? Gone off and had IVF? What? Or just paid someone to… My brain whirrs. The problem was Malcolm’s, after all. Not hers. They had every kind of test. In the early days they did, anyway. In the last couple of years it’s been academic anyway. She and he haven’t even been sleeping in the same bedroom… So what has she done? It’s all too much to take in. But she’s smiling now and shaking her head. Reading my thoughts. ‘He’s not someone you know.’

  I can tell by her voice anyway; there is clearly very much a ‘him’ in this equation. And if that’s so, how did I not know about it? How didn’t I guess ? It’s suddenly so blindingly obvious. The face I see is animated in ways I haven’t seen it move in for years. As if she’s got muscles in it she’s only just discovered. Cat who’s got the cream ones. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I say, because I really don’t.

  Much of the tension has drained from her now, and I realise it wasn’t about seeing the solicitor. It was mostly about telling me her news. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t told you before,’ she says earnestly, as if not having told me is her greatest crime in all this. As if I have any right to know.

  ‘Dee, you don’t have to –’

  ‘It’s just, well, you know, don’t you? What it’s like, and all that. I’ve felt so awful about it. So guilty. So grubby. So bad. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but somehow I’ve never seemed to be able to –’

  I’m about to point out that it was Malcolm and not her who broke their marriage vows first, when a sudden chilling thought occurs to me. ‘God, Dee. He’s not married, is he? Please, please, please don’t tell me he’s married.’

  She smiles again. Shakes her head. ‘He’s not married.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘He’s not married. He’s been divorced for five years. He’s thirty-eight. He has a daughter of ten who lives in Swansea with her mother.’

  ‘But where did you meet him? At work?’

  ‘No. At Al-anon, actually. Crazy, isn’t it? That I should meet him there, of all places.’

  ‘But you said he –’

  She shakes her head again. ‘His brother. He goes with his sister-in-law. You know, to support her.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And, well… we got talking, and…well, here we are.’

  ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

  ‘Oh, off and on, about…well, about five months all told.’

  Five whole months. And she’s slept with him, too. And I never even twigged. Mind you, I have been somewhat preoccupied, I suppose. ‘And it’s serious?’

  ‘I think so,’ she pats her stomach. ‘I hope so!’

  ‘Does he know you’re pregnant?’

  She nods. Smiles again. ‘Oh, God , yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he couldn’t be happier.’ She touches my arm gently. ‘Oh, Abs, and neither could I.’

  And his name is Tim and he’s a software consultant, and they weren’t planning on Dee getting pregnant, obviously, but now she is and she’s going to be a mother at last and though she’s as hopeful as anyone could be that this is the start of a new and better and happier time in her life, she’s not getting carried away on any romantic flights of fancy. One day at a time is good enough for her.

  But God obviously did hear, after all.

  By the time I have dropped Dee off and taken back the wheelchair, it’s getting on for three and I’m getting tight for time, having planned to pick up my things from Charlie’s office, and having also promised my mother I’d get home in time to ferry her over for tea at Celeste’s. So I’m half walking, half running as I round the corridor corner, and almost cannon into Charlie himself, whom I haven’t seen for another whole week now, and who’s busy rushing somewhere in his greens. There’s a micro-second when we’re just two people about to dance a polite jig to get around one another, but then we see who we are and our faces fall as one. Then he takes a step back and scrutinises me carefully.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says finally.’ I take it you’re not here to see me, then?’

  ‘I was bringing back Mum’s wheelchair. So I thought I’d come up and pick up my stuff.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He turns as if to pass me then, which brings me up short. I’m already braced for an entreaty to meet him, and its failure to happen leaves me entirely unprepared.

  I touch his arm, automatically. ‘Hey, you okay?’

  ‘You know I’m not, so why do you bother to keep asking?’

  And he says it really irritably, childishly, hurtfully , and with a hostile and unforgiving light in his eyes. And I’m shocked. Truly shocked. Because it seems so out of character. But once I think about it, (and I do, as I watch his retreating back), perhaps this brush off is actually a positive sign.

  I turn around and head back to the hospital entrance. I can pick up my things some other day. Yes, positive, I decide. Hey, this is what I want, isn’t it? I want him out of my hair, don’t I? I want him to move on. Maybe I should heed the advice I gave Dee. I really must not consider myself responsible for his wellbeing any more. I really must try to move on myself.

  Chapter 14

  AN EMAIL;

  Hi mum, am typing this from an internet café just off the Via Condotti. Is raining right now so no inclination to go yomping round the collosseum. Reading the Da Vinci Code so have done Vatican etc. Wow. (Tell Nana the Spanish Steps were very underwhelming. Tho’ can see why she likes it here – is all frocks and handbags.) We’re going to head up towards Rimini tomorrow and chill for a couple days – gonna meet up with Owen and Mike, hopefully.

  I want a scooter!!! LOL S xxx

  I a
bsolutely never read Depth magazine. Really, I don’t. Yes, I pick it up in the hairdressers occasionally, just the same as everyone else does, but only if there’s nothing else to look at. I’d never, ever buy it. Of course I wouldn’t. I have far better things to do with my time and much more edifying things to read about. Depth is not depth as in intellectual rigour. Depth is depth as in scouring the bottoms of ponds.

  The following Thursday morning, and I am reading Depth.

  ‘Thought you’d be interested,’ says Candice, who has already read it. ‘He looks good, doesn’t he? Did you clock the boots? Don’t think much of that frock though. Mind you –’ she pauses to emit a loud gale of laughter. ‘– she doesn’t look like she’d know a Versace from a bin bag, state she’s in.’

  I’m not really listening. I’m too busy reading. Well, gawping, mainly. There’s not much actual stuff to read. The photo takes up almost all of the page, the headline ‘ Uh-oh! Is TV’s Luce back on the juice?’ much of the rest. Such copy as there is confined to the sort of faux-moralistic carping Depth excels in, and the usual hackneyed references to the weather.

  Mainly I’m looking at Gabriel Ash, who is making a manful stab at pretending everything’s just fine and that his fiancée is perfectly capable of remaining vertical of her own accord despite the fact that one leg is buckling underneath her. Heavy squalls expected indeed.

  ‘Oh, dear, this is awful,’ I say.

  ‘Hardly a shock, though, is it? Tsk. What a waste. I mean I know she’s got a boob job and a St Tropez tan and perfect teeth and long legs and wealth and fame and beauty and so on, but I mean, I ask you. What can he see in her?’

  You want to ask Dee that one, I think but don’t say. ‘That’s such a shame,’ is what I do say. Because that’s what it is. Ordinary people don’t have to put up with this stuff. Oh, poor, poor them. How excruciating.

  It also takes some of the gloss off the little surp rise I have been looking forward to imparting. And I have been looking forward to it, I realise, very much. Though none of it has anything to do with me, obviously, I can’t help but find myself feeling a little sorry for Gabriel Ash. My first impression, as first impressions so often are, was probably right after all.