Or ignore the poll that voted eighty-seven per cent in favour of me marrying George; or ignore the fact that I might be carrying his baby. I had been so busy thinking of myself, feeling sorry for myself that I hadn’t given Joe much thought apart from the usual broken-heart ones, and even they were about me. I knew, as soon as I woke up, that whatever happened I had to see him.
I felt a stab of jealousy as I wondered if he had someone else and I willed that not to be so. I decided to call him in the office, that way if I managed to get through to him he couldn’t be too nasty to me. Not that he had ever been nasty to me. I still loved him ergo he had to still love me. I should have tried harder to make things easier for him, instead of thinking selfishly. I was angry with myself for the first time, as I realised how truly self-centred I had become.
I had my morning cereal and tea, and then, when ten o’clock struck I grabbed my mobile, shut myself in my bedroom and called him. I felt brave and scared at the same time.
‘Joe McClaren.’ My insides flipped over at the sound of his voice.
‘Joe, it’s Holly.’
‘Hi...’ he sounded uncertain.
‘Please don’t put the phone down, although I know I deserve it. Joe, I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but...all the press stuff.’
‘It’s horrible. I can’t believe he could do that to you.’ He was speaking quietly, but at least he sounded compassionate.
‘I know, but I was worried about you?’
‘Me, why?’
‘It might be horrible for me but at least I am responsible, you didn’t ask for any of this and you shouldn’t have to read those lies.’
‘Holly, I do know that most of it is lies.’
‘It’s just that I worried.’
‘Worried that I’d believe George and not you?’ His words reiterated my selfishness. I hadn’t called him to ease my own conscience. Had I? No, I had called for him, not for me, just for him.
‘Yes.’ I hung my head in shame. Even when I was thinking of him I was really thinking of me.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Joe can we meet, please, even if just for a few minutes?’ There was a pause in which I prayed for him to say yes.
‘OK.’
‘Thank you.’ We arranged to go for lunch the following day, at a pub round the corner from his flat. That way, there was no reason for him not to turn up. Then I spent the rest of the day worrying about us meeting until I decided to read some more of Dr Miriam.
Apparently I was about to see my stomach grow very quickly. I was really looking forward to that. I would soon be obviously pregnant, visibly pregnant. Fat. I wondered about wardrobe and decided that I needed to go shopping. Although if you don’t know how big you’re going to get how do you know what to buy? Or do you just buy a shit load of elasticated stuff and watch it expand with you? I didn’t really like the sound of that. I already had some things that I couldn’t fit into. My very sexy Juice jeans for one thing, and my tight black Joseph trousers (actually I had a few of those). I had to wear my baggiest clothes and even my hipsters were no good because all of a sudden I had hips. I was pear-shaped. It was bloody depressing. I had been dumped, the victim of a media campaign, and now I was getting fat.
I went swimming with my mother that afternoon. Yoga and swimming were my chosen pregnancy activities. Designed to contain my expansion a bit. We went to the local swimming pool, where I had become a bit of a regular (well I’d been twice already with Lisa). My mother changed into her extravagant floral swimming costume and me into my black Lycra one which was about to become too small along with everything else I owned.
I hadn’t told anyone, not even my mum about my forthcoming meeting with Joe. They were leaving in the morning, and Imogen wasn’t arriving until the afternoon, so thankfully I was unsupervised for long enough to see Joe. I felt almost happy as I began my lengths.
I had always thought swimming a most boring activity, you go up and down and then turn around and go up and down again, but now I had begun to find it relaxing. Not only was it helping me burn calories but it was relaxing my mind. As were my yoga classes. Actually, I was rarely calm but imagine how I would have been without yoga. I would have been like a wild woman. Probably I would have taken to biting things and not washing my hair, or not washing full stop. I wouldn’t talk any more I’d just wail and wail. You see, the yoga was really helping. So, although I would at some stage have to go to birthing classes, I was doing all right.
My mother said that in her day you just got on with it. Bearing in mind that ‘her day’ was only thirty-four years ago with Immi and thirty with me, she made it sound like it was the dark ages. And in a way, mum was right. She never had stretch-mark cream and all the expensive vitamin supplements I was taking. She didn’t go to yoga, she went to a class run by the local hospital. She didn’t have the choice of drugs I was having. And she certainly didn’t believe in all the fuss pregnant women seemed to make these days. By the end of that conversation I almost felt guilty for all the modern developments and technology that would make having a baby so incredibly easy for me. But actually I was more than grateful.
I swam my fourth length and noticed my mother was sitting on the side dangling a foot in the water. I swam towards her.
‘Why aren’t you swimming?’ I asked. After all, she had insisted on coming with me.
‘I don’t much like it really and it’s terribly cold,’ she replied. I rolled my eyes and continued until I’d done the requisite twenty lengths.
The swim had relaxed me but I still felt nervous about my forthcoming meeting, especially as I couldn’t tell anyone. The good thing was that Joe was so much in my head I didn’t even bother to get upset about the press slaughter I’d suffered that day. Keith Northam had been quoted as saying that George was one of life’s true gentlemen. I had been called ‘mad’ by him and just about everyone else. Actually, there was only one small mention of me in one of the tabloids and also two readers’ letters, so it wasn’t a bad press day. With that and with Joe agreeing to see me it was a pretty good day in all, especially compared to recent days. I tried to hold that thought as it was the most positive I’d had in a while.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I waved my parents off, crying because I really would miss them. More than likely they would be back, but I wasn’t sure because mum didn’t want to give me too much advance information about her roster. I assured them that I would be able to cope for a few hours until I met Imogen at Paddington Station, and finally they seemed to believe me.
As soon as they’d gone, I ran back in my flat and started panicking about what to wear for my meeting with Joe.
I’d already had a bath, and washed my hair but I brushed it until it shone. Actually it was really shiny at the moment anyway. Being pregnant was making my skin and hair look good. Of course that could be attributed to the fact I hadn’t had any alcohol, but I didn’t want to think about that too much. I was beginning to miss alcohol, which is a little scary because it would imply an addiction, however slight. But, after the self-righteous, pious Holly finally realised that punishment was not a reason to give up drinking and that the baby was, I finally admitted to myself that it was harder than I thought it would be. Just as I thought I might allow myself a little to drink after all, I then realised I couldn’t. My doctor told me that a glass of wine here and there was fine. She said it as if she was suggesting a treat (look pregnant woman, a glass of wine, how exciting). I didn’t tell her I was more a-bottle-a-night girl. What fucking good was a glass? Or Guinness, which is apparently good for you because it’s jam packed full of iron. But I hated the stuff. So I kept to my self-imposed drinking ban. It was better for the baby and it was much easier than having just one glass. It was if you’re me.
I had no idea what to wear, especially as I had trouble finding anything, but I wore a black skirt (just above the knee), which still fitted because it had always been a bit too big, and a red top. Did I look like a mum-to-be?
No, I didn’t, I looked sexy, especially as I pulled on my high-heeled knee-length boots. I tried to ignore the fact that my calves bulged a bit as I shoe-horned myself into them. I wanted Joe to see me looking as if I was in control. Even if I wasn’t. I ordered a taxi to go to Camden. It was decadent but it meant I could avoid public transport which scared me. There had been a few photos of me in the press and although I definitely wouldn’t be as familiar to people as George, I felt safer in a cab.
To say I was nervous would be like saying I was quite upset when Joe walked out on me; a huge understatement. I was excited to be seeing Joe; I was desperate to see him. But, still I was nervous. What if he couldn’t cope and we had a row, or he walked off before we’d even talked? I didn’t expect him to come running back to me, I wasn’t here for a reconciliation no matter how much I wanted that, I was realistic enough to know it wasn’t an option. I just wanted to see him. To look at his face, to know that he was real. I knew he was real but since he had left my life, there was a huge gap. I just needed to see him and to know that he was all right. I didn’t expect the hole to close up; I knew it wouldn’t go away, but it felt right to be seeing him.
I was early, so as I pushed open the door and walked into the pub I didn’t expect to see him there. But he was. My heart felt as if it was snapping in two, like a pathetic little twig, that stood no chance when trodden on. He was hunched at a small table with a pint of lager in front of him. I felt tears stinging my eyes and I begged them to go away. He was still as gorgeous as ever, sitting in his black jeans and black shirt. I wanted, no I needed, to go over and throw my arms around him. But I certainly couldn’t do that. Instead, I took another deep breath and I walked over to him. As if he could feel my presence he turned around just before I reached the table.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I replied.
‘Can I get you something?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have an orange juice, please.’ I sat down. I fiddled with the beer mat until he returned. He put the orange juice down in front of me and I took a sip. I wished it had some gin in it.
‘Joe, I have no idea where to start. I just needed to see you.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘The baby is fine. I’ve started yoga and I go swimming, although I’m running out of clothes that fit me.’
‘You look fantastic.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How are you coping with the press?’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you.’
‘Holly, I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but I know one thing, I wish I’d given him a good kicking when I had the chance.’ I resisted the urge to fall about laughing at Joe’s hard man act, but I was flattered, I could tell he still cared about me even if he hated me a bit.
‘I know, but I’m not sure that would have helped. I wish I knew what to do.’
‘The baby?’
‘What?’
‘You haven’t done a test? You haven’t told him?’
‘I haven’t, no.’
‘Good.’
‘Good, why?’
‘I don’t know but I was afraid you were coming here to tell me the baby was his.’
‘I’m not telling you that. I hope to God it isn’t. I know that doesn’t make things better Joe, but I would do anything for this baby to be yours.’
‘I know that, I believe you Holly. I’m just not sure how I can do, what I can do. I’m so fucking confused. And I’m angry, Holly, really angry. I have never let myself care for someone like I care about you, I’ve never been so vulnerable, and I certainly have never been so hurt.’
‘If I could take it back.’
‘You can’t though, can you.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t know where we go from here Hol, I need some time, I don’t know. Part of me wants to take you in my arms and go back to when we’re planning the wedding, and planning how we’re going to take care of the baby, but I don’t know if I can.’
‘Joe, if you ever ever feel you just might be able to, then please call me. I’ll be waiting.’
‘So, no chance of you marrying George?’
‘I don’t think George even cares about that any more.’
‘What?’
‘He likes being famous. I’m not important.’
‘You made him famous.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘I know. But sometimes we do things that we don’t mean.’
‘And then have to live with the consequences.’
‘I guess we do.’ I held the tears in check, but I could feel them. Waiting in the wings.
*
I stood at the end of the platform at Paddington Station waiting for Imogen. It was with a mixture of emotions. I was slightly scared of the week-long lecture I was going to get; I missed the easygoing and nurturing nature of my parents, but I also felt that I deserved the hard time Immi was no doubt going to give me. After leaving Joe and feeling the full brunt of the effect I had on his life, I deserved to be beaten with a sharp stick whilst being made to lie on coals. That was the only way I felt that I would be able to deal with the immense sense of guilt that had settled in.
The train pulled in, and I stood there as a deluge of people passed me. I felt nervous looking for Imogen, as if she wouldn’t appear, but then I saw her emerge from the throng, and I felt relieved. She was wearing her city outfit. My sister was hilarious, when she was at home she lived in jeans and casual clothes but when she came to London she always wore suits. Today she was wearing a dark red trouser suit, with high-heeled black boots. She looked as if she was going to a business meeting instead of coming to babysit her pregnant sister. She kissed my cheek, and automatically I rubbed it as her lips were thick with lipstick. Even though I had made more of an effort with my looks than I had in ages, I still felt dowdy in comparison.
Imogen and I had never really been very good at sibling rivalry. I never wanted to be her and she certainly never wanted to be me. We were lucky in that we had a four-year age gap and strong personalities. We were both OK looking, I had dark hair, hers was fair. Our colouring was different but our features the same. She was about two inches taller than me, but I was tall enough not to worry. We got on as children, but there was always a line we never crossed. We became friends as we got older but, again, friends in a sister-type way, not in the same way George was my friend.
When Imogen left home I knew she would never come back, and I followed her soon after. We never gave our parents too much to worry about, well, not until now anyway. Imogen had always been immensely sensible. She was the sort of person who would make a pros and cons list before making a decision. ‘Shall I buy the red dress or the black dress? Well the red dress is more dramatic, the black more practical.’ That sort of person. I loved her for that, because she was as cautious as I was not. I would never ponder a decision for too long, which is probably why I was in the mess I was in. Imogen would never have got as drunk as I did with George. Then she would have pulled away from his kiss so she could weigh up the options. Then sensibly she would have left. I used to think that my sister was boring, but not any more. Imogen is happy, she might be controlled but she is happy. And I’m not.
‘Have you got your car?’ she asked, letting me go from her light hug. I didn’t feel it was the time to point out that I didn’t actually own a car as it hit me how little we really knew about each other. It was going to be a fun week.
‘No, I got a cab. I’ve been to see Joe.’ I led her towards the taxi rank.
‘Holly are you sure that you should be spending your money on cabs? Babies are expensive you know.’
‘Well, you can pay for this one then,’ I snapped, then regretted it. Arguing with Imogen was a new thing, and not one I was entirely happy about. I liked our relationship; liked the fact it wasn’t over-emotional in any way. I didn’t want it to change. Too much was changing.
&nbs
p; ‘Holly, I didn’t mean that. Let’s just get home, huh?’
‘Sorry.’
I asked Imogen about her favourite subject: her husband Jack. That kept the conversation flowing for the journey home.
I let us both in, and took her straight to the spare room.
‘It’s not a bad flat to bring a baby home to,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ I hadn’t thought about the baby as actually living here. I supposed there would be time for me to decorate the nursery, and buy clothes, but I had done none of that yet. Saying that, I still had five months to go, so there was no great hurry.
‘It’s big enough, you don’t have to negotiate too many stairs, and the spare room will make a lovely nursery. Here, I’ve got you a present.’ Imogen rummaged around in her small suitcase. It was an air-hostess suitcase, albeit a Prada one. One thing that was in direct conflict with Imogen’s organisational manner was the way she had packed. Everything was thrown in.
‘Do you need hangers or anything?’ I asked.
‘No, apart from my travelling suit, that needs to be hung. I’ve got jeans and tops otherwise.’
‘Imogen, why do you dress up to sit on a train? It seems a bit crazy.’
‘I don’t know really, I just always like to look my best. Holly, I know you think I’m old before my time.’
‘I don’t. It’s just that that’s the sort of thing mum would do. She would wear her posh outfit to travel and then wear casual clothes the rest of the time.’
‘Maybe I’m turning into mother.’
‘I feel like I am,’ I replied sitting on the bed and rubbing my stomach. Just then Imogen found what she was looking for and pulled out the sweetest set of babygrows in a range of colours. She handed them to me. They were so small, how on earth where they supposed to fit a person? They were tiny. I couldn’t hold something that tiny, look after something so small, it would break. I would break it. I touched the soft fabric and the enormity of my predicament hit home. I burst into tears.
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