The Man You Meet in Heaven: An absolutely feel-good romantic comedy

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘I should be sitting on a rubber ring,’ she’d whispered. ‘The baby’s weight has given me terrible piles which I’m reminded of every time I waddle past our local.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ I’d whispered back.

  ‘Because the pub is called The Purple Grapes.’

  I’d giggled at her frankness.

  ‘Why are you scratching?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Itchy tummy.’

  ‘Hmm. Not quite as catchy. Can’t see them naming a pub after that.’

  I’d giggled again. What bliss to share such intimate details with someone who understood.

  She opened the door to me now, and I sailed in, pregnancy smock billowing out behind me.

  ‘God, it’s so hot,’ she said, fanning herself. ‘Go on through, Hattie. The others are already here.’

  The others were Jenny, Karen, and finally Carol and Sue who were expecting their first child together. Carol was as round as a brewery barrel, thanks to Sue’s bachelor brother providing several syringed donations. Everyone was getting increasingly nervous and excited as their due dates loomed. Carol and Sue held hands throughout. Every now and again Sue would reach across and fondly rub Carol’s tummy. I felt a stab of jealousy. Nick had never done that. Oh, he was caring enough, but these days it was in a fatherly way. I didn’t want a father, because I already had one of those. I wanted a tender, loving partner.

  Jenny, Karen and Melanie said their husbands were all so excited about their bumps. Nobody seemed to be in my situation – a sort of step-mum with sort of step-kids. And none of them lived in a cramped flat.

  I tried not to feel envious when, after coffee, Melanie took us upstairs to a pale pink nursery smelling of fresh paint with a beribboned crib awaiting its occupant. We all made dutiful murmurs of approval, and then Sue told everyone how she’d worked every evening after work for a fortnight to finish a blue and white room for their eagerly awaited little boy. This prompted Karen and Jenny to tell us how their husbands had spent the last few weekends prepping their babies’ nurseries in neutral colours because both couples – like me – wanted the gender of their babies to be a surprise.

  ‘What about you, Hattie?’ asked Melanie. ‘You don’t know the sex of your baby. What colour have you chosen for your baby’s nursery?’

  ‘Cream,’ I answered. ‘Well, it will be when Nick has painted it.’

  Currently the walls were still Grotty Grey.

  ‘Isn’t it ready yet?’ asked Karen, looking faintly alarmed.

  ‘No. He’s been manic at work, but he’s definitely going to do it this weekend,’ I replied, nodding my head vigorously up and down. I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. Karen or me.

  ‘Yes, you must get him busy with a paintbrush as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘We could go into labour at any moment.’

  My baby chose that precise moment to give me a hefty kick which set off a gentle flurry of Braxton Hicks contractions. Karen was right. There wasn’t a second to lose. The flat’s spare bedroom currently remained home to Nick’s computer and desk. It really was time to out it. There was no room for a crib in our bedroom. Nick’s ridiculously vast sleigh-bed took up so much space there was hardly room to manoeuvre around its leather sides. I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. And when I got home again, I did.

  Exactly when was my partner going to get involved? If he wasn’t at the office, he was out. Every day after work there was some reason or other to pop in on Tod and Jackie, or Doreen who had supposedly had a funny turn and wanted to see him, or else he was off to see Charlotte and Lucinda who, now the baby was so close to being born, were apparently playing up and wanting lots of reassurances that Daddy would still be their daddy. I didn’t question Nick’s movements because I didn’t want to annoy him. His reasons to absent himself always sounded genuine, and risking making him angry wasn’t good for either me or the baby.

  Walking back into the coolness of the flat, I stepped over the clutter and howled. I was making such a racket that, at first, I didn’t hear the telephone ring. I wiped my eyes and picked up the handset. It was Dad.

  ‘Hello, love. Mum and I wondered how you are.’

  ‘Yeah, really well,’ I lied.

  I could hardly tell my father that Britain’s unexpected heatwave had caused me to sweat so much I had thrush between my breasts, or that I’d erupted in a chronic hives-like rash over my bump that endlessly itched, despite copious amounts of calamine lotion. The antenatal nurse had told me I was suffering from ‘pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy’. The good news was that it was harmless for both mother and baby. The bad news was that I’d likely be stuck with it until after the baby was delivered. On the upside, the pregnancy nausea had finally abated.

  ‘Is the nursery finished?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I admitted. ‘We haven’t even started work on it.’

  ‘You mean you’re two weeks away from your due date and have nowhere for that little babe to rest its head?’ asked Dad in disbelief.

  ‘Nick’s been sooo busy at work,’ I said defensively. ‘It’s been hectic. He got as far as opening one of the flat-pack cartons but was interrupted by, er, urgent emails that couldn’t wait.’

  I could have sworn, at the other end of the phone, I heard my father harrumph.

  ‘Anyway,’ I gabbled, ‘I thought I’d get on with it myself. I have a real urge to sort things out.’

  I’d read about the nesting instinct, where women felt a sudden overwhelming need to scrub their house from top to bottom, plump up pillows and marvel at the shine on their newly mopped floor. However, I couldn’t see the floor to mop it. What wasn’t covered in paraphernalia was obliterated by my enormous bump. Bending down was impossible. I thanked God I was having a summer baby, so my toes could feel their way into flip-flops rather than struggle with socks and boots.

  ‘Let me and your mum come over and give you a hand, love,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll soon have the nursery shipshape for you.’

  ‘Well…’ I hesitated. If only Nick was more practical in the DIY department. But time was marching on. At this rate the baby would end up sleeping in an emptied-out drawer. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be lovely.’

  ‘Course we don’t mind, love,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll come over first thing in the morning. We’ll get that little room repainted in no time at all, and the new furniture sorted in a jiffy.’

  Which was just as well, because two days after my parents had transformed the grotty grey study into a pretty nursery in biscuit and cream neutrals, I went into labour.

  Fifty-One

  Nick had been most insistent that the baby would be late, basing this assumption purely on Amanda’s pregnancies with Lucinda and Charlotte.

  ‘Trust me, Hattie. I don’t know anyone whose baby ever arrived on time. Amanda was two weeks late with both girls, and had to be induced.’

  So confident was he of being right, he had no hesitation of attending a business meeting in Manchester the night before I went into labour, and went ahead with booking himself into a hotel.

  ‘Do you have to go?’ I’d asked, feeling slightly panicky.

  ‘Yes. A client is bellyaching, and I’m the most senior person to deal with it. Stop fretting, darling. Manchester is only four hours away. It’s hardly the other side of the world. If anything were to happen, I’d jump straight back in the car and be with you for the final push.’

  Except he wasn’t.

  I climbed into bed that evening and turned off the bedside lamp, and within two minutes I became aware of an ache in my lower back that hadn’t been there when I’d pulled the duvet up to my chin. The ache faded, only to return. I switched the light back on and swung my legs out of bed. Standing stock still, I waited. There it was again but… wait… now it was moving around to the lower abdomen. Gentle but most definitely there. I glanced at the bedside clock. It was a little after eleven. Nick should still be up. I reached for my mobile phone and rang his number. It went straight to
voicemail. Which meant he’d switched his phone off. I felt a frisson of anger. How dare he switch the bloody thing off when I needed him?

  ‘Nick,’ I said, my voice shrill with alarm, ‘I’m pretty sure the baby is on its way. Can you call me, please?’

  I hung up and wondered what to do next. Should I ring my parents? I knew Mum and Dad would have retired to bed an hour ago. They weren’t night owls and were always asleep by ten. I dithered, not knowing whether to disturb them or not. It would be nice to have a hand to hold but, knowing Mum, she’d probably get into a panic. I had visions of her green-faced in the delivery room, clutching the bed I was spread-eagled upon, whilst administering herself gas and air. Dad was the calm family member, but no way was I having the midwife inviting him to peer between my legs the moment the baby’s head crowned. I found myself making an ‘ooooh’ sound as another gentle wave came along. Think, Hattie, think. I tapped out a message to Melanie.

  Are you awake, Mel? I think I’m in labour, and Nick’s away on business xx

  The mobile exploded into life making me jump so violently I nearly dropped the damn thing. It was Melanie.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she squawked down the line.

  ‘Well I’m ninety per cent certain. It feels different to the Braxton Hicks contractions.’

  ‘Omigod, is it awful? Are you in agony?’

  ‘No, it’s bearable. It’s like period pains. Sort of crampy. Kind of… ’ I broke off and let out a low moan.

  ‘That didn’t sound like a period pain,’ she squeaked, her voice sounding panicky.

  ‘Ooh, that one was a bit more uncomfortable.’

  ‘Hattie, have you got nobody with you at all?’

  ‘Er, I’m on my own,’ I said, as a finger of fear curled its way around my heart. I could hardly drive myself to hospital.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ she asked.

  I so wanted to say yes, but the last thing Melanie needed whilst huge with her first child and facing the unknown, was to witness me giving birth. What if it went wrong? What if I writhed around in agony and put the fear of God in her? What if there was blood all over the place. What if—

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said, cutting off the horrific technicolor scenario my brain was starting to churn out. ‘I’ve left Nick a voicemail. He’s probably picking it up right now as we speak and getting in his car for the drive back.’

  ‘I can’t believe he cleared off to Manchester,’ said Melanie, her tone of voice letting me know that her own husband would not have been permitted to go any further than a radius of five miles.

  ‘It was business, Mel,’ I said, leaping to defend my absent husband. I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. ‘He has a very demanding job. As one of the senior partners, he has to… ooooooh,’ I gasped.

  ‘Hattie, make sure your overnight bag is by the door and get off this phone. I’m calling an ambulance.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘No buts. Just do it.’ The line went dead.

  I neatly re-made the bed Nick and I usually shared, then substituted my outsized nightdress for a voluminous maternity dress. Reaching into the wardrobe, I pulled a woolly cardigan from its depths. The summer days were currently warm and full of sunshine, but the nights still tended to be cool. I waddled out into the hallway where my overnight bag had been placed a couple of days earlier, awaiting this very moment. Now that it had arrived I felt nervous, and very alone.

  I leant against the doorframe as another contraction made itself known. As it gently ebbed away again, my mobile pinged a text message. I pounced on it eagerly, hoping it would be Nick.

  Ambulance is on its way. I’m going to bed now, but please send me blow-by-blow details by text. I’ll pick them up in the morning when your darling babe will finally be here! Good luck and lots of love, Melanie xxx

  I smiled, but then grimaced as another contraction made itself known. Where was Nick? Right now, I needed him more than ever. I tried his mobile again but found myself listening to him inviting me to leave a message. I cleared my throat before speaking.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ I said, my voice cracking slightly as the enormity of what was happening caught up with me. ‘I hope to see you in four or five hours, so we can welcome our baby together. Drive carefully.’

  In the distance I heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was almost here. On impulse, I opened the nursery door. The hall light spilt into the tiny room illuminating the transformation within. On the left wall, a junior wardrobe snuggled up to a chest of drawers with a baby-changing mat resting upon its surface. On the short wall behind me, a shelving system housed an assortment of baby products and soft toys. Opposite, the window was framed with curtains covered in dancing teddies waving multicoloured balloons. Finally, on the wall to the right, was a cot. Its waterproof mattress was covered in lemon sheets and a soft blanket, overlaid by a quilt that matched the curtains. It seemed to silently reach out to me, letting me know it was awaiting its occupant. I leant forward and stroked the shiny wood, just as the flat’s intercom loudly buzzed.

  Snapping off the nursery light, I picked up my overnight bag and went to answer the door.

  Fifty-Two

  Some say the pain of contractions is different from normal pain, and that your body naturally helps you cope by releasing endorphins which change the perception of pain. Either way, alone and apprehensive, I heaved a sigh of relief when arriving at the labour ward where I was greeted by a sweet young midwife by the name of Annie. By this point I was walking like a constipated duck and my vocabulary was down to two words. ‘Ooooh’ and ‘ahhhhhh’.

  ‘Hello, Hattie,’ Annie smiled in welcome. She had a kind face, and I immediately felt both comforted and confident that I was in good hands. ‘We’re in this together,’ she assured me, ‘and I’m going to be here all the way for you, right up to placing your baby in your arms. Are you ready to metaphorically roll up your sleeves and do some hard work?’

  ‘Ooooh,’ I nodded.

  ‘Excellent,’ she replied, helping me over to the bed. ‘Are those your notes you’re holding? Ah, yes, they are. Let me relieve you of them. That’s it. Let’s see. Okay, Baby’s daddy plans to be with you for this. Excellent. Is he parking the car?’

  ‘No, I came in by ambulance. He’s away on business, you see, but he should have received my message by now. I expect he’s beetling down the motorway as we speak and frantic with… ooooh,’ I gasped as another contraction rolled across my abdomen. My tummy felt rock hard.

  ‘Of course he’s on his way,’ said Annie stoutly.

  I nodded gratefully but didn’t enlarge on the fact that Nick was two hundred and fifty miles away. I didn’t want Nick seen in a bad light, because he’d gone so far away when his pregnant partner was about to go pop. Funny, there I was, all set to leap to his defence again.

  ‘Will I have enough energy to do this?’ I asked, once I’d caught my breath. ‘I was hoping to get a night’s sleep before labour started.’

  Annie chuckled, and looked up from the notes. ‘Ah, the little darlings never take things like a few zeds into consideration. However, you’ll be pleased to know that in the first stage of labour you can rest between contractions, while your body gets on with gently opening the cervix. Behind the scenes there’s all sorts of hormones and endorphins revving up ready to give you an extra boost when we get to the second stage of labour, which will be where you’ll need to push. But that’s all a few hours away. First of all, let’s get you settled and comfortable.’

  She fussed around, helping me slip out of my maternity dress and into a gown. I noticed there was an easy chair, a beanbag and mat allowing the mum-to-be to move around in labour and change position. Annie took my pulse, temperature and blood pressure and then asked to check my urine. She then felt my abdomen to work out the baby’s position, listened to the heartbeat and checked the progress of dilation.

  ‘My goodness, there’s no dignity here, is there?’ I laughed. ‘I mean, I’ve only kn
own you a matter of minutes, and already you’ve peered at places even my partner hasn’t recently seen.’

  She laughed and nodded. ‘Yup. I always tell my ladies to leave their pride on the doorstep and collect it on the way out. Hey, we’re both girls together, and I can assure you I’m not seeing anything I haven’t seen hundreds of times before.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to being able to bend down again,’ I said. ‘Previously, I never appreciated the luxury of being able to zip up a pair of boots. Not that I could wear any at the moment anyway. My ankles are huge.’

  ‘The swelling will quickly subside after the birth,’ Annie assured me. She put the notes to one side and placed some sticky pads on my abdomen, which were wired up to a monitor. ‘That pregnancy rash looks sore,’ she commented.

  ‘It’s been very itchy. When will it go?’

  ‘Soon after delivery, and those purple stretch marks will eventually turn silver and fade.’

  ‘Pregnancy certainly leaves its mark on the body. Do you have children?’ I asked, trying to take my mind off another contraction. They were bearable, but still strong enough to make me grimace. I wondered how it would be by the time we got to the ‘hard work’ stage.

  ‘I don’t have children yet, but I’d definitely like a couple at some point.’

  ‘That’s nice. I used to think I wanted two, but I’m not sure I want to go through this again.’

  ‘Oh every woman says that,’ Annie laughed. ‘You’ll be back, mark my words.’

  ‘Are you not put off, after everything you see here?’

  ‘Nope,’ she smiled. ‘The end result makes it all worthwhile. You’ll see! Is your partner excited to be a father?’