by Jill Mansell
She waited. The cramping pain receded.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
If I stay in here for just a few more hours, Chloe thought, my trousers might dry out.
It all depended how much water had already leaked out and how much was left.
Oh, hang on…
Another cramp was on its way, building up in strength like a giant fist being squeezed gradually tighter and tighter…
Yes, yes, this must be labor. Hooray, that meant she could now phone for an ambulance and they wouldn’t sue her for calling them out under false pretenses.
Weak with relief, and panting a bit as the fist tightened its grip still further, Chloe snatched up the phone. She stood, index finger poised over the 9 button, and pictured the scene. An ambulance, blue lights flashing and siren blaring, screeching to a halt outside the phone box. Paramedics leaping out, ready for anything and clutching those cases they use to jump-start dead bodies back to life—
Oh crikey, not really an emergency, thought Chloe, chickening out. Two contractions and a puddle, that’s all I am.
Hardly the same as a multiple pile-up on the M25.
Relieved, Chloe thought of something else she could do. Phone Miranda.
Yes, that was definitely a sensible idea. Miranda, as her designated birth partner, needed to be warned that things could be about to happen. She may have to finish work at six and make her way straight to the hospital. Chloe felt better instantly. She was glad she’d have Miranda there. Not for the technical advice, admittedly—‘Lawdie, Miss Scarlett, I don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies!’—but for sheer moral support. Because let’s face it, if the going got rough and you wanted someone around to take your mind off things and make you laugh, well, Miranda was definitely your man.
***
When you worked in the Fenn Lomax salon you became accustomed to seeing celebrities, but even by Fenn’s standards, cutting and styling the hair of Magdalena Rosetti was something of a coup.
Currently one of the world’s most prized actresses, garlanded with Oscars at this year’s ceremony and fêted as much for her beauty as for her stupendous talent, she was over in London to appear at a televised awards bash being broadcast live that evening from the Grosvenor Hotel.
‘My hairdresser was scheduled to fly over with me,’ Magdalena explained to Fenn. ‘But he fell off his pogo stick in Central Park and while he was lying on the ground a six-year-old rollerbladed over his hand. Three broken fingers,’ she went on, ‘and he’s suing for two hundred million dollars.’
‘Suing the six-year-old?’ said Fenn.
‘No, the manufacturers of the pogo stick, for not warning him that if he pogoed, he might fall off.’
‘She’s amazing in the flesh,’ Bev confided to Johnnie when he phoned half an hour after Magdalena’s arrival. ‘So glamorous, even with her head tipped over a sink, and the smoothest neck I’ve ever seen—damn, there’s another call waiting, so what time are you coming round tonight?’
‘Seven thirty. Six hours to go.’ Johnnie grinned, he couldn’t help it; these days he was so happy, he’d taken to counting the hours like a teenager. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking that call?’
‘Let them wait. I’d much rather talk to you.’
‘Don’t let your boss find out.’
Since there was no chance of that happening, Bev wasn’t scared.
‘Fenn’s locked away in the VIP room with Magdalena Rosetti. Getting up to goodness knows what.’
‘Lucky Fenn.’ Johnnie laughed, then added, ‘But I’d rather be locked in the VIP room getting up to goodness knows what with you.’
Finally, after a couple more minutes of playful banter, Bev whispered, ‘Better go now…love you…bye,’ and took the call that was, irritatingly, still hanging on waiting to be answered.
Honestly, talk about inconsiderate. Was making an appointment to get their fringe trimmed really the high point of some people’s lives?
Had they never heard of true love?
‘Yesss, the Fenn Lomax salon, how may I help you?’ Bev said smoothly in her best don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-the-receptionist voice.
‘Well, well, at long last,’ drawled a woman, employing similar don’t-get-uppity-with-me-I’m-the-operator tactics. ‘Will you accept a reverse-charge call from a Miss Chloe Malone? She needs to speak to a Miss Miranda Carlisle.’
‘Miss Carlisle isn’t here, she’s on her lunch break.’ Reversing the charges? What was going on? Fenn wasn’t going to be thrilled when he heard about this. Bev thought fast, then said graciously, ‘But I’ll accept the call.’
The operator, sounding bored and not in the least grateful, sighed and said, ‘Putting you through.’
‘Chloe?’
‘Bev?’
‘Chloe, what’s happening? Miranda’s not back from lunch yet, but I can take a message for her.’
‘Oh. Right. Okay.’ Chloe’s voice was high-pitched and she sounded distinctly on edge. ‘Can you tell her I think I’m in labor, so if she could make her way to the hospital after work, I’ll meet her there?’
‘You think you’re in labor?’ Bev was mystified. ‘Good grief, don’t you know?’
‘I probably am. It’s hard to explain…oh God, and there are kids with skateboards banging on the glass…’
Fenn, emerging from the VIP room, tapped Bev on the shoulder and said, ‘Coffee for my client, please. Black, two sugars.’
Not even hearing him, Bev frowned into the phone—banging on the glass?—and said, ‘Hang on, where are you?’
‘In a phone box on Dempsey Street, in Barnes. Look, I’m really sorry about having to reverse the charges, but—’
‘A phone box?’ echoed Bev, appalled. ‘God, you can’t give birth in a phone box—too unhygienic for words!’
Fenn, about to tap Bev on the shoulder again, stopped and stared at her.
‘Who are you talking to?’
‘And they smell of wee,’ Bev went on, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘Chloe, if you’re in labor, you really should get to a hospital, they have clean sheets there and everything—oh, hang on a sec.’ Realizing that she was the focus of Fenn’s attention, Bev apologetically covered the receiver. ‘It’s Chloe,’ she stage-whispered. ‘You know, Miranda’s friend. She wanted to let Miranda know—ooh, ouch!’
Fenn snatched the receiver out of her hand before she could finish the sentence. His jaw set, he said tightly, ‘Chloe, what the hell is going on?’
Charming, thought Bev, bend my finger right back, why don’t you? And don’t even think of saying sorry, oh no, just gaily inflict a bit of grievous bodily harm then barge in on some phone conversation that has absolutely nothing to do with you—
‘Tell me where you are,’ ordered Fenn, making Bev jump. ‘Right, yes, I know Dempsey Street. Okay, stay there, don’t move, I’m on my way.’
‘B-but,’ Bev spluttered as he banged the phone down and headed for the door, ‘you can’t—Fenn, you can’t just—’
The door slammed shut behind him.
Too late, he already had.
***
‘Crikey, what’s up with Fenn? He just shot past me in the Lotus doing about a hundred miles an hour down the Fulham Road.’ Amazed, Miranda unwound her red scarf from around her neck and flung her beret, James Bond-style, at the hatstand. Oh well, James Bond probably practiced a lot more than she did.
‘Your friend Chloe rang up. Fenn’s gone racing off to rescue her from some public phone box.’ Bev pulled a fastidious face—much as she wanted babies of her own, she couldn’t help wishing that she could pick them up at the supermarket, shrink-wrapped. ‘Chloe thinks she’s in labor. I must say, it all sounds quite revolting. Talk about disgracing yourself completely—she’s surrounded by boys on skateboards, chee
ring her on.’
‘Oh. Cheering her on was supposed to be my job.’
Miranda was disappointed, but not that disappointed. When Chloe had asked her to be her birth partner, she’d naturally assumed the event itself would take place in a hospital, preferably one kitted out with morphine, midwives and all manner of hi-tech medical equipment.
Somehow crouching on the floor of a grubby phone box didn’t hold quite the same allure. If Fenn wanted to be the intrepid one, that was fine by her.
‘So I missed Magdalena Rosetti, did I?’ Miranda looked resigned. ‘I suppose she’s been and gone.’
‘Tuh, that’s the other thing.’ Bev looked exasperated. ‘Fenn was so hell-bent on playing the flying doctor, he forgot all about her. She’s still in there.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the VIP room. ‘Half cut.’
Miranda’s mouth dropped open.
‘You mean…?’
‘Not drunk. I mean literally half cut.’ Bev mimed scissors snapping away. ‘I took her a cup of coffee and she asked me where Fenn was. I said he’d be back in a minute.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I mean, what else could I do? Lucy’s completely tied up for the next forty minutes, James is at lunch…Corinne’s just going to have to deal with her as soon as she’s free, but that’s going to be another half-hour at least.’ She shook her head indignantly. ‘It’s not on, it really isn’t. Fenn can’t run out on clients and expect to get away with it—think of the ghastly publicity if this got out.’
‘You are absolutely right,’ said Miranda.
Yes, yes, yes!
Chapter 59
‘Oh, well, hi there! I was beginning to wonder if my deodorant wasn’t up to scratch.’ Magdalena smiled her trademark ear-to-ear smile and put down her empty coffee cup. ‘Where’s Fenn?’
No point messing about. Time to come straight to the point.
‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ said Miranda. ‘If you were one of those surly, scary actresses I’d have made up a really good lie. But since you’re so nice, I’m going to tell you the truth.’
Magdalena raised an eyebrow.
‘Flattery gets you everywhere. Now I’m far too ashamed to admit that I’m actually incredibly surly and the original bitch from hell.’
Miranda pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her.
‘Fenn isn’t here,’ she said simply. ‘He had to go out, and I know that sounds terrible but it really was an emergency.’
Carefully, Magdalena crossed one slim, stockinged leg over the other.
‘I see. So who’s going to cut my hair?’
‘That’s up to you. If you can wait thirty minutes, Corinne will be able to do it for you. She’s our senior stylist. Otherwise, I can do it now.’
‘And you are?’
‘I’m more junior than Corinne,’ Miranda said truthfully.
‘Or there’s option three, I could walk out of here and find another salon,’ Magdalena pointed out. ‘I mean, forgive me, but I do believe you’re a trainee.’
‘I can cut hair.’
‘A chimpanzee can cut hair,’ Magdalena said reasonably. ‘How do I know you wouldn’t leave me looking like a chewed knot?’
Miranda blinked.
‘I wouldn’t, I promise. But if you aren’t happy when I’ve finished, you can shave all my hair off.’
Magdalena’s mouth twitched. She hadn’t been a star so long that she couldn’t remember those impoverished drama student days, when getting her hair done for nothing by a trainee was all she had ever been able to afford. And she’d never come out with a bad cut, had she?
‘There’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ she told Miranda. ‘You’ve appealed to my sense of adventure. Okay, deal.’
‘You won’t regret it.’ Praying fervently that she wouldn’t, Miranda stood up and reached for the comb and scissors. ‘Anyway, how could you tell I was a trainee?’
‘Recognized you from the TV. Last time I was over here I caught you on that program giving your sandwiches to the homeless guy.’ Utterly relaxed, Magdalena sat back and watched in the mirror as Miranda worked diligently away. ‘Fenn Lomax salon…girl with blue and green hair…call it spooky intuition if you like, but I just put two and two together. Okay if I ask you a question now?’
‘Go ahead.’ Having clipped up the back sections of Magdalena’s glossy tortoiseshell-blonde hair, Miranda held her tongue between her teeth and began to cut.
‘What was the emergency?’
Miranda glanced up.
‘You mean with Fenn?’
‘I’m a curious person.’ Magdalena apologized. ‘It drives me mad not knowing stuff. Back home I’m a member of Nosy Parkers Anonymous.’
‘My pregnant flatmate rang up,’ said Miranda. ‘To tell me that she was in labor in a phone box a few miles away. I wasn’t here, so Fenn went off to pick her up and take her to the hospital. Before the baby pops out, fingers crossed.’
‘Or legs,’ said Magdalena. ‘So he’s the father?’
‘God, no.’ Miranda grinned. ‘Nothing like that. Fenn’s just…helping out.’
Magdalena looked dubious.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘I mean, I don’t want to sound big-headed here, but to race off without even stopping to let me know…abandoning me in order to help out some unimportant friend-of-an-employee…doesn’t that sound the tiniest bit weird to you?’
‘Well, now you put it like that.’ Miranda frowned, then shook her head. ‘But it isn’t what you’re thinking. Fenn isn’t the father and they absolutely definitely aren’t having an affair.’
Magdalena was by this time truly engrossed.
‘So who is the father?’
‘Ah. Now it starts to get complicated,’ said Miranda. ‘My ex-fiancé.’
***
It was one of those dilemmas, Chloe realized, where you can’t make up your mind how you feel.
On the one hand, she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
On the other, she couldn’t help wishing Fenn didn’t have to see her like this, with her wet trousers sticking attractively to her legs and her shoes making squelching noises with every step. Not to mention the fact that she appeared to be walking like John Wayne.
Elegant or what?
‘Nearly there,’ said Fenn, both arms supporting her as he helped her towards the double-parked black Lotus.
‘What can I sit on? I don’t want to mess up the seat.’
He shot her a sidelong look of exasperation.
‘I don’t give a stuff about that. Who do you think I am?’
Puffing a bit but managing a smile, Chloe said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe Bruce?’
But to reassure herself, she took off her thick coat and arranged it over the passenger seat before climbing into the car.
Oh dear, what with her and her stomach there was barely room for Fenn as well.
‘When my sister was desperate to go into labor, she ate a chicken vindaloo,’ Fenn said companionably as they pulled out into the stream of traffic. ‘According to her, it shocks the body into action.’
‘I had lunch with Greg,’ Chloe told him. ‘Better than a curry any day.’ She wiped perspiration from her upper lip and sank back into the seat with a sigh of relief. ‘This is so kind of you. You should have let me call an ambulance. I hope you didn’t rush off leaving some poor woman’s head in the sink.’
Chloe was joking. Praying that—unlike her New York hairdresser—Magdalena Rosetti wasn’t the litigating kind, Fenn said, ‘We were pretty quiet.’
‘I still can’t believe this is happening. I’m actually going to have a baby.’ Chloe clutched her stomach as another contraction began to take hold.
‘Did it upset you, seeing Greg?’
‘Oooh…no.’
‘What did he want?’
Breathe in, breathe out…phew.
‘Just to have sex with me,’ panted Chloe.
Fenn almost cannoned the Lotus into the lorry in front. Christ, don’t say she had!
Chloe laughed at the expression on his face. ‘No, I did not.’
Relief flooded through Fenn’s system like nicotine.
‘We’re getting a divorce.’
‘Well, good.’
She shifted on her seat. ‘I’m really sorry, you should have sat me on a bucket. I’ve leaked through everything.’
Fenn glanced across, taking in the flushed cheeks and damp strands of hair clinging to Chloe’s forehead. He couldn’t begin to describe how he felt about her.
Aloud he said, ‘Oh well, better get out then, and walk.’
***
By the time they reached the maternity wing of the Chelsea and Westminster, Chloe was puffing away like a bicycle pump. Directed to the waiting area by the receptionist while her hospital notes were located, she leaned on Fenn for support before sinking gratefully on to an uncomfortable orange plastic chair. A television was on in the corner, showing an episode of Oprah. Three other couples were there too, the women panting away just like she was, while the men—looking deeply self-conscious—massaged their partners’ backs.
Chloe realized that she was squeezing Fenn’s hand. How on earth had that started?
‘D’you want me to do that?’ Fenn nodded at the men, keeping his voice low.
Embarrassed—because actually she did—Chloe whispered, ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’
The situation grew more surreal over the course of the next few minutes. Chloe watched the nurses flitting back and forth past the door of the waiting room. Apart from the occasional groan, the only sound in the room came from the TV in the corner, where Oprah was hosting a timely debate on the subject: ‘My Kids Wrecked My Life’.
Nobody had the nerve to change channels. The women clutched their stomachs and concentrated on their breathing. Two of the men silently watched a teenage boy on the TV jab a finger at his weeping mother and yell: ‘Mom, ah wish ah’d nevah bin born!’ The other man rubbed feebly at his wife’s spine with one hand while surreptitiously turning the pages of Caravanning Today with the other.