I went to work straight from the surgery and found Freddie immersed in the proposals we’d done over the weekend. He was holding the fort well and I knew he could do my job. I vowed to thank him by speaking to Francesca about putting us on an even keel. That way we could split into two teams, he could head one, me the other. He didn’t give me any knowing looks, or ask any questions, which I was grateful for, until lunchtime when he coaxed me out of the office with the offer of a bowl of pasta.
‘How did it go?’ he asked as soon as we walked out of the door. I filled him in on everything and found that I couldn’t stop talking.
‘I don’t want an abortion, I’m sure of that. I’ve got an appointment for a scan on Thursday.’
‘That’s one decision made, let’s wait until Thursday before we make any more.’
‘What about Joe? I can barely hold it together when he’s there.’
‘Say you’ve got a virus and would be better left alone.’
‘Freddie I hate lying to him.’
‘You did it before. Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism.’
‘You’re right though, but I didn’t think I was lying because I was in denial.’ I managed a laugh.
‘Somewhere in there is the old Holly.’
‘I know, but I’d quite like her back.’
*
To say it was the worst week of my life would be a huge dramatic statement. One I’ve used before. The court case was the worst week of my life, the first time I was dumped, losing George to New York, oh you get lots of worst weeks. This one was up there though. If ever I chronicle the worst weeks, I will put that near the top of the list. I managed to get Joe to stay away by pleading illness, but he was so concerned he called me constantly which was almost worse than having him with me. All I wanted to do was burst into tears (hormones rather than stress), and have him hold me. I missed him like crazy. I also felt as if I was lying to everyone. My parents, my sister, Lisa, Francesca, all my team at work. I’m not sure why I felt like that, but I did. Lies seem so easy at first, but then they take on a life of their own; they breed, they take over. Christ, now on top of everything else I had become a drama queen.
Ironically, I got news of George that week. He had been in Devon and my mother had bumped into him. He asked after me and told her he’d be seeing me soon. That news unsettled me, as did everything else. I consoled myself with the thought that if George was safely in Devon he couldn’t bother me, and he probably only said he would see me soon because that sounded polite. My mum said that she was civil to him and didn’t mention the court case; she knew better than to rock the boat. For once, George wasn’t my most immediate concern.
I tried to keep everything as much at arm’s length as I could, until Thursday. My appointment was in the late afternoon so I went to work as normal and managed to keep my mind off things by speaking to clients and briefing my team. It was a busy time, with new clients, and existing ones, and I wondered briefly how I would manage with work and a baby. I can only concede that I wanted this baby now, that I had grown accustomed to the news, I just wanted it to be Joe’s.
I left for the hospital, full of trepidation. This was it, the moment of truth when I’d know, one way or the other, how pregnant I was. I had written down the dates that I could be sure of.
I slept with George on 4 December. Two days later I slept with Joe. I had slept with Joe before the fourth as well. Despite the fact I was on the pill I couldn’t remember my periods. Perhaps I bled a bit, I really didn’t know. I don’t know how I didn’t know, but I didn’t. On the journey to the hospital I kept thinking how stupid I was. Normally that wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot, was it?
The hospital was horrible, I guess all of them are, but as I sat on the customary grey plastic chair in the waiting room the one thing that struck me was that I was surrounded by couples. Freddie had offered to come with me but there was too much going on at work and no one else knew. I could sense everyone looking at me and I thought that they thought I was a single mother, which I was; or maybe a slut, which I was. Perhaps I was being paranoid because they were all smiling. For most it was a happy occasion, for me, well, I still didn’t know.
I am sure time takes on a different meaning when you’re waiting for something. It seemed like hours rather than twenty minutes when the receptionist cheerfully announced my name. It was time for me to go and see my baby.
Chapter Seventeen
It was official. I had no idea who the father of my baby was. I was over three months pregnant, and although I kept crying and saying that I didn’t know how it could have taken me so long to realise, the doctor told me that my case wasn’t unusual. Apparently when people aren’t trying to get pregnant they can ignore the signs easily. I told him I didn’t know who the father was and he was quite sympathetic. When we’d established that I was keeping the baby, he gave me all sorts of advice about diet and exercise and advised me to go back to my GP. I managed to pull myself together enough to ask about paternity testing. I knew that I didn’t want the baby to be George’s but the idea of a test terrified me. But I also knew that I would have to face it. Joe would want to know. I owed it to him.
‘Ms Miller, we don’t do DNA tests on unborn babies here.’
‘Why not?’ I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved about not having the test, so I could keep the illusion that Joe was the father, or upset because it would mean that Joe wouldn’t know and wouldn’t be able to cope with not knowing. I didn’t give a flying fig about George.
‘It can harm the baby and there are ethical arguments as well. Some people will do them, usually private hospitals, but unless there is a sound medical reason, such as hereditary diseases, then it can’t be done. You should wait until the baby is born.’ He went on to talk about reproduction, but I switched off, I had never been any good at biology and had failed my GCSE. The important thing was, that I knew now that a test wasn’t an option. So that was the end of that. As I left, clutching what was left of the doctor’s tissues, I made my way home, determined that I would sort the whole mess out but having no idea how.
I hailed a taxi, unable to face the bus, and I spent the journey rehearsing the speech I was going to give to Joe. It wasn’t good. Not only was I telling him that I was pregnant, I was telling him he might not be the father, which means I cheated on him, and not only that but I cheated on him with George. It wasn’t even a question of him coming to terms with being a father the way I was coming to terms with being a mother; I couldn’t even give him that. I could lie, and I know that’s wrong but it did cross my mind. Although the dates were a bit close it was more likely to be him because I had sex with him more than I had sex with George. And it wasn’t as if George was Chinese or anything, they had similar colouring. But I couldn’t do that, and also, I knew that if George found out that I was pregnant, highly likely even if he stayed in Devon, he’d know what I knew and I would lie to him, but he isn’t the type to let it go. Anyway, there had been too many lies already.
I was in a mess. A rubbish-tip of a mess. The sort where, when you tried to sort through it, something else would crop up. There was too much, it was too serious. I was thirty, pregnant, about to be un-engaged, and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. I felt as if there was so much rubbish in my personal dump that I would never be able to clear a path, but I had to do something, because I was no longer alone. There was a baby who would be relying on me from now on.
I let myself into the front door and picked up my mail. When I walked into my flat, took off my coat and went to the kitchen to drink some water, I looked at the post. Most were bills but there was a letter, which gave me a start. The handwriting was George’s. Before I opened it, I knew it was a bad omen.
I read the letter, and then I read it again. It was a single sheet of typed A4 paper, but it said an awful lot. He was sorry that the judge had been so quick to dismiss his claim, but felt that he probably made a mistake trying to go the legal route. However, and
this was the however I had been dreading, he still believed he was right, and he needed to do something, anything, he could to make me see sense. Therefore, he was writing to tell me that he had hired the services of Cordelia Dickens, a PR, to work on his behalf towards getting me to marry him. This was the gist.
Cordelia Dickens is the worst kind of publicist. She takes people who aren’t famous and makes them famous. Most of the time their fame is short-lived, but it makes her a living, a good living. She has worked for topless models, people who sleep with famous people, spurned wives, spurned husbands, anyone willing to bare their soul for the tabloids, or daytime TV. Cordelia boasts that she can make anyone famous, and she really can. Now it looked as if she was adding George and his marriage pact to her client list, which meant that I was, by default, going to be famous.
I sat down in the sitting room and tried to think about what she would do. I know PR but her type of PR is different to mine. We work with brands, products, not with people who don’t have talent but want publicity at someone else’s expense. However, it was pretty clear. She would circulate the story, the marriage-pact story, and George would appear as the heartbroken spurned lover, and I would appear as the bitch who reneged on a deal, leaving him with his broken heart. Oh, and Joe would be involved, and my work. It was almost too much to bear. Immediately I thought of the baby, the baby they didn’t yet know about and I dialled George’s mobile.
‘George Conway,’ he answered. Gradually I was growing to dislike everything about him, especially his voice. His voice got on my tits.
‘It’s Holly.’
‘Ah, you got my letter?’
Yes you arrogant wanker. ‘Yes I did. George, you can’t do this.’ My voice was calm, quiet. It was certainly not reflective of how I felt.
‘Holly, you leave me no choice. I take it your feelings haven’t changed? You’re not prepared to honour our agreement?’ How could he be serious when he asked that?
‘George, we’re talking about marriage. Something that is a symbol of love, it’s not just an agreement, it’s so much more than that.’
‘I agree, which is why I have to do this. Holly we’re meant to be together, and I can’t let you make the biggest mistake of your life.’
‘It is my life.’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
I was now seriously wound up. It was pure frustration. How do you reason with the unreasonable? ‘I’m going to marry Joe, then you won’t be able to do this.’ It was an ‘I’m going to stamp my foot’ kind of statement. George laughed. I was furious.
‘Fine, you marry Joe, the press will rip you to shreds. They’ll know you’re doing it because of the pact and that will cheapen the whole thing. It doesn’t matter anyway because you still weren’t married by the time you were thirty so the pact still stands. Holly, I have thought long and hard about this and this is the only way I can get you to come to your senses, the only thing left for me to do. I will marry you. You’ll see.’ He was so self-assured; he never got angry or upset any more. He was so calm which was even more frustrating. He was emotionless.
‘You won’t.’ The second stamp of my foot.
‘Is there anything else? I don’t think there is any point to us having this conversation unless you have something new to say.’ He sounded so cold for someone who wanted to marry me. I hung up. Then I went to throw up.
Afterwards I was seething. My eyes were narrowed, my fists clenched, steam belching from my nose (well, almost). I needed to lash out; I needed to hit someone. The anger grew inside me until I thought I would burst. I couldn’t find the words to describe how I felt. I needed to kick something, or hit something or scream. I screamed—the easiest option. Out loud. It felt strange to scream being on my own, I thought of the neighbours and hoped they wouldn’t call the police, but boy did I need to scream. As the scream rose in pitch I stopped feeling silly, it was at least some sort of release. I felt exhausted, but I felt better. My anger had subsided, only to be replaced with trepidation.
I was thirty, pregnant, about to be dumped, and soon to be exposed in the media as a heartbreaker. Could life get any better?
Chapter Eighteen
Courtship
When the judge said that there was no way that the pact was enforceable and that Holly had no case to answer I felt drained. He droned on about the sanctity of marriage and refused to understand that that was all I wanted. He was archaic. A pathetic old goat with no idea or comprehension beyond his own. He said it was unorthodox to get someone to marry you this way. Of course it bloody was, but that was the only way I had. I left chambers and watched as Holly was surrounded by her friends. I recognised Freddie from her office, and I guessed the other man was her boyfriend. They were hugging her, kissing her and congratulating her. I couldn’t believe she was so happy; I was her happiness, not them. I had an urge to go over to them, to grab her and shake her and ask her how she could be so stupid. Naturally I didn’t, but I did feel a stab of jealousy that I could barely contain.
For the first time since I’d left New York I felt totally alone. Desolate. I had no real friends, no girlfriend, no one. Holly was the only person I had left. Although I had met with some of my old colleagues, and I had seen Clive a few times about the case, there was no one person here I could call a friend. I’d had drinks with some associates, dinner with a couple but it was purely on a professional basis. We discussed our careers, the latest legal developments, boring as hell if you’re not a lawyer, pretty boring if you are one. We touched on our personal lives but only in the way that colleagues do.
I thought of my circle in New York. My tennis club friends, my workmates, my drinking buddies. I missed them. It’s not very macho to admit to needing anyone, but I did. Isolation wasn’t something I enjoyed, nor wanted. But isolated I was. I took one last look at Holly and turned to leave. As I walked out, a woman came up to me.
‘George Conway?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ I looked at her. She was tall, young, not bad looking, I had no idea who she was, and I didn’t care.
‘My boss asked me to come here, Cordelia Dickens? I’m Sophie.’ I looked at her blankly. ‘She’s a friend of Clive Parsons.’
‘OK.’
‘Can I take you for coffee?’ she asked. I looked back at the celebrating crowd, all laughing at my expense.
‘Sure,’ I agreed. At least it was better than being on my own.
We walked to the nearest coffee shop. She asked questions about the case, I told her. I requested a double espresso, she ordered a latte. She insisted on paying, then we sat down.
‘The reason I’m here, rather than Cordelia, is that she didn’t want anyone to recognise her.’
‘Really? Is she famous then?’ I was beginning to come to my senses and realised I had no idea what I was doing in a coffee shop with a stranger who kept going on about someone called Cordelia, who knew Clive. I tried to focus.
‘Yes, she is rather well known, she’s a publicist.’
‘OK.’ Still had no idea, but I wasn’t sure I was that interested. I knew there was a point somewhere but I wished she’d get to it. I detested women who danced around rather than getting to the point; they really pissed me off.
‘Clive told her your marriage agreement story.’
‘It’s not a story,’ I snapped, willing her to get on with it.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. He told her all about you, and your friend, and the court case and she wonders if you’d be interested in talking to her.’
‘About what?’
‘She could represent you.’ Now I’d had enough. Cut the crap, my head screamed. I was finding it hard to be civil.
‘No offence, Sophie, but could you possibly tell me exactly why you’re here?’
‘The law didn’t work. She didn’t know that of course, and sent me down to speak to you whether you were successful or not. If you were we could have put the story out to the press, but we can do the same anyway.’ I still didn’t understand; either I
was dense or she was.
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Talk to Cordelia.’ She handed me a card. ‘Believe me, you’ll be amazed at what she can do.’ Sophie left me sitting there, with an empty cup and a business card.
I put the card in my wallet and forgot about it as I went back to my rented flat. I had signed a lease for a year, but for the first time, I thought I might go back to New York. To my friends, my job, and my life. The flat was still as depressing as the day I had moved in. An obvious bachelor pad with black leather and chrome everywhere; it was dated and characterless. It was much smaller than my New York apartment, which was lying empty, waiting for my return. I could just go straight back. All I had to do was forget Holly and get on with my life.
Just as I was in the middle of my debate the telephone rang. ‘George, it’s your mother.’ I grimaced. She was angry with me and hadn’t been holding back on her feelings.
‘Hi.’ I braced myself for a lecture.
‘So, what happened?’
‘I’m not going to court. The judge said there was no case to answer.’ She would tell me that she told me so.
‘I thought he might. George darling, that’s why I tried to stop you.’
‘Mum, remember when I was younger, you told me that if I wanted something badly enough I should pursue it relentlessly.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you and Dad. I followed your advice all my life, I wanted to go travelling so I did, I wanted to study law so I did, I wanted a job with one of the top law firms, I got it, I wanted to go to New York. Now I want Holly.’
‘But you can’t compare a job to a person, George, emotions are involved.’
‘Mum, I know all about emotions and I’m not in the mood for a lecture.’
‘Fair enough. Just come and stay for a while.’
Deranged Marriage Page 14