‘I should send bottles of fizz to hot women in bars more often.’
‘You mean you don’t do that all the time?’
‘I’ve never done it before in my life. I just saw you and I was like, “I fancy that woman rotten.”’
‘Well,’ I said, surprised, ‘for a beginner, you certainly managed to style it out.’
I rolled over and lay next to him, my breathing steadying, and he took my hand and held it, and we lay there together in the half-light, both of us smiling.
I remembered the podcast I’d recorded all those years back, which I’d billed as a bad girl’s guide to love and sex. I’d been a bad girl tonight, I guessed. I’d rediscovered that part of me, that bold, sassy girl who went after what she wanted without fear or embarrassment, and as often as not got it.
And I realised that whoever the new, reinvented Sloane Cassidy might turn out to be, there’d be a good bit of the old me in her.
‘I should go,’ I said.
‘Really? Can’t you stay?’
‘Better not.’
I knew what mornings in strange men’s beds were like. I knew how, with a hangover and no toothbrush, the most magical night could break into an awkward morning. This night had been perfect, and I wasn’t going to do anything to tarnish it.
I kissed Edward one final time, and he said, ‘I’ll call you,’ and although I didn’t believe a word of it, I still left feeling a serene and optimistic glow.
The taxi journey home was a more civilised version of the walk of shame I’d done so often back in my single days in New York – but now, I didn’t feel any shame at all.
Twenty-Three
When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t sure at first where I was. I was conscious of a mild hangover, offset by a deep glow of well-being. I might not have been fully awake, I might not have been sure where I was, but my body was telling me it had recently enjoyed truly off-the-scale sex. I looked around me and saw soft autumn light streaming through the gaps round the edges of the ill-fitting blackout blinds; the ugly black crystal chandelier suspended from the damp-stained ceiling; the drab passageway stretching beyond the bedroom door to the travertine-tiled bathroom, a world of beige that made my skin look like old newspaper when I put my make-up on in front of the tiny, ill-lit mirror.
Right. It was my rental Airbnb apartment, in which I’d only booked to stay another week. After that, I had nowhere to go – and I was running seriously low on cash, so low that moving to a similar place, even one sketchier than this, would be beyond my means.
I was in the last-chance saloon. So why did I feel so replete with contentment?
Then I thought about the events of the previous night. Edward. Edward and me. I closed my eyes again and let myself slip back into the memory of it: the intoxicating newness of him, the way it had gone to my head even more than the alcohol we’d drunk. The joyful, puppyish enthusiasm of sex with him. The way I’d felt young, unfettered, free and happy.
It hadn’t meant anything. Edward – I’d checked his profile on LinkedIn, of course I had; I wasn’t some kind of amateur – was four years younger than me. Hot, kind and funny as he was, he was no kind of prospect as a life partner, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to enter into some time-limited, casual thing that would inevitably end up with one or both of us getting emotionally entangled and subsequently hurt.
That would just be dumb, I told myself firmly. That would be like going for a spa day when you’re super stressed, and deciding all your problems will be solved if you move somewhere with a sauna, steam room and massage therapists forever. It would be like going on holiday to Bali and deliberately missing your return flight, imagining a life of endless sunshine and piña coladas, then realising there’s a monsoon season and fuck-all affordable healthcare. It would be like…
But I was jerked out of my musings by the determined trill of my phone.
I swiped my mobile to life and glanced at the forest of notifications on my screen. I had sixteen missed calls, eight new voice messages, eighty-five unread emails, and a host of Twitter mentions and Google alerts.
Also, I had a cheery message from my cycle-tracking app.
Did your period start?
Shit. Why, no, Eve, now that you mention it, my period has not started. I’m two days late and my period is AWOL. I didn’t even remember that it was due, on account of my life disintegrating around me.
With trembling hands, I rummaged in my bag. Before – before what had happened with Myles – I’d gone through truckloads of pregnancy tests, ordering them in bulk on Amazon, testing two days before the app even told me I needed to and then again and again until I came on and had to give up hope for another month. The little plastic wands, hygienically wrapped in yet more plastic (the fertility industry clearly hadn’t much time for saving the planet, which I suppose oughtn’t to surprise me, since it was predicated on getting more babies born to live on it) had been everywhere: in all my handbags, in our bathroom cabinet, in my desk drawer at work.
But now, there were none in my bag and I knew there weren’t any in the bathroom, either. When I moved myself out of the house, I remembered now, I’d chucked a handful of them in the waste bin next to my desk in the spare room, feeling a kind of burning triumph at leaving them there for Myles to see, a reminder of the future he’d thrown away.
It hadn’t even occurred to me, on that frantic morning, that when Myles and I had slept together the night before, I might have got pregnant. Even at the time, with him inside me, holding me, my mind had only been on him – on the possibility that everything might, after all, turn out okay.
And since then, I’d been so consumed with the need to keep on keeping on, to bury my feelings deep in work and yoga and the practicalities of us splitting up, that it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I could be having a baby. Myles’s baby. But it was possible – more than possible. I hadn’t considered at the time whether I might be ovulating, only whether this could be the glue that would hold our marriage together. I checked the app and my calendar, panic rising inside me.
And then another thought flitted across my mind: what if it’s Edward’s? What if it was last night when that mysterious biological fusion happened, silently and invisibly? No. Surely that couldn’t be possible. We’d used protection – once we’d eventually got the condom onto his overeager penis – and even if we hadn’t, it was far too recent for pregnancy even to be a thing. If, by some weird freak of nature, my always-regular cycle had taken matters into its own hands and delayed my ovulation until Edward was around and Myles wasn’t, even if the condom had split without either of us noticing, it would have been barely twelve hours earlier.
It just wasn’t possible. I almost wished it was, because then I could simply trot off to my local pharmacy and ask for the morning-after pill. But if I was pregnant, I was too far along for that. Properly pregnant. Even though strictly speaking it would be dated from when my next period – the one that hadn’t shown up – was due, I could pinpoint to the day, almost to the hour, the moment when Myles’s small gamete would have met my large gamete, the union of the two tiny cells setting off a chain of events that would blow my world apart all over again.
That, and result in a whole new person.
I was so not ready for this.
I realised, with a rush of queasy-making fear, that for all my longing for a child, I hadn’t the faintest idea how to be a mother. I hadn’t even known how to be a daughter.
I remembered Dad’s words, all those years ago. ‘She’s dying.’
And remembering them, I was instantly transported back to university, to Toronto, to being twenty years old and terrified, standing there with my satchel and my phone in my hand, my mouth dry, my heart pounding. All the guilt I’d packed away over the years came flooding to the surface, making me feel like I was drowning.
‘Sloane? Are you there?’
I tried to answer, but all that came out was a kind of croak.
‘I’m sorry. It’s a shoc
k for me, too. I’ll buy you a ticket for Saturday, okay, and text to let you know what time the flight is. I’ll be right there at the airport to pick you up.’
‘Okay.’ I paused a beat and then said in a rush, ‘Thanks, Dad. I love you.’
And so, two days later, in the short-term airport parking, I climbed into Dad’s Chevrolet Tahoe SUV. The car was new and I knew Dad was proud of it, so I listened patiently while he explained about its enhanced four-wheel drive and cruise control.
He was just filling in time, waiting for the moment when he would have to explain to me what was going on.
At last, swinging off the motorway, he said, ‘So Linda relapsed. She was sober for almost seven years, then she split up with the guy she was seeing and I guess she didn’t deal with it well.’
‘It wasn’t because of me?’ I gripped the strap of my satchel, pleating the leather so hard my fingers ached. ‘Because I wouldn’t see her?’
‘Oh, honey,’ Dad said. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. Who knows what pushes a person off the edge? And you’re seeing her now, right?’
As we drove, he explained how Mom had lost her job, fallen into arrears on the rent on her apartment and gradually spiralled back into the dark, chaotic place she’d been before.
‘Some of her friends from the programme stayed in contact with her,’ he said. ‘I tried to, also, but it was hard. She had no phone; she was moving around all the time. Then I heard she was in hospital, in casualty. She gave my name as her next of kin and they tracked me down. And here we are.’
Carefully, he manoeuvred the big car into a parking space. Ahead of us was the sprawling white hospital building, its windows glinting in the early spring sunshine.
I wondered which of them Mom was behind, and felt sick.
‘All set?’ Dad asked.
I clutched my bag to my chest. Even if I had a hundred years, I wouldn’t be ready for this.
‘I’ll come in with you,’ Dad said. ‘I won’t leave unless you tell me it’s okay.’
I nodded mutely, swung open the car door and trailed behind Dad to the entrance.
Hospitals are bizarre places, if you think about it. You walk in and it’s all flower kiosks and coffee shops and pleasant-faced receptionists, and it’s almost like being in a normal building. Then you walk through a door and – bam – suddenly you’re in a place where people die.
That’s how it seemed to me that day, as I followed Dad along what seemed like miles of corridors, past signs with words on them I didn’t understand: rheumatology, electroencephalography, computed tomography. Then we came to a door with a sign on it that told me all I needed to know.
Critical care.
Dad spoke briefly to a nurse, and I followed them both to a bed at the end of the room. I’d never have recognised the woman lying there as Mom. Her face was so thin that her yellowish skin looked like paper stretched over a skull. Her hair was almost all gone – just a few coarse grey strands were draped over the pillow. Even under the covers, I could see the bloated dome of her belly.
‘She’s very confused,’ the nurse murmured. ‘But if you stay a while, you may find she has a lucid period.’
Dad nodded, pulled two plastic chairs forward to the bedside, sat down and took Mom’s hand.
‘Linda, it’s Dean. I’ve brought Sloane with me to see you.’
I sat in the other chair. I couldn’t bear to touch that skin, marked all over with livid red bruises. But I reached over and brushed a tendril of hair away from my mother’s face.
‘Hi Mom. I’m sorry you’re not feeling so great.’
Her eyelids flickered and her free hand plucked at the covers.
‘Sloane?’
‘Yes, Mom. I’m right here.’
This time, her eyes opened fully and she smiled. ‘Look at you. My grown-up girl. Dean says you’re at university now.’
The pride on her face made me feel like I was being ripped apart by guilt. But I managed to steady my voice, and I started talking.
I told her about my courses, about my roommate, about my boyfriend, about trying out for the dodgeball team. I told her about waitressing at Mandarin on weekends, and how I was learning to play guitar. It was like I was trying to catch up on all the trivial details about my life that she’d missed since I was a little girl, which she shouldn’t have needed to be told all in one go. All those years I wasted hating you, I thought – and then I understood how bitterly she must regret wasting them, too.
After a while, Dad squeezed my shoulder and mouthed, ‘Okay?’ and when I nodded, he stood and softly left the room. I stayed there with Mom, talking on and on, telling her I loved her and I hoped she’d get better soon, even though I knew she wouldn’t.
‘I love you, too, Sloane,’ she whispered. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. I stayed there for a few minutes, until a nurse told me that she’d sleep all night now. Then I said goodbye, kissed her and went to find Dad.
I didn’t need to visit again, because she died that same night.
Twenty-Four
It wasn’t like me to be in denial, but there’s no other way to describe the state in which I spent the next couple of days. I went to work, where we were consumed with planning the annual Halloween party. I read two texts from Edward and replied with one-word answers and emojis; if he was after another hook-up, there was no way it was happening now. I opened my desk drawer again and again, looked at the pregnancy tests rattling around with my pens and business cards, then closed it once more, unable to find the courage to use one. I didn’t know which result I dreaded more, so I put off the moment when I would have to know. It was early days, I told myself – whatever the outcome was, I’d have several weeks in which to make a decision.
But, wish as I might that it would stand still, time kept passing and, with it, the period of relative stability I’d had in my rental Airbnb apartment was coming to an end. And, the day before I was due to leave, my failure to make alternative arrangements came back to bite me right in the ass.
Thanks to my wilful blindness to the reality of my situation, I hadn’t found somewhere else to go. There wasn’t much point, anyway, I told myself – I was rapidly running out of money and the thought of spending yet more on yet another grotty apartment was downright galling.
So, like I say, it wasn’t like me, but I left making a decision until the last possible minute. To be exact, I left it until two nights before I was due to leave, when I was in bed, at about quarter to eleven. And when I flicked reluctantly through to the app, I saw I had a new message from Jared, my host and the owner of the apartment.
Hiya Sloane
Hope you’re well and enjoying your stay. I’m really sorry but I’m getting back from Johannesburg a day early. The project here finished ahead of schedule and there’s an urgent meeting happening tomorrow that my line manager wants me there for, so I’ll be getting in on Tuesday rather than Wednesday. I know you’re booked to stay Tuesday night – sorry if this is inconvenient. I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa!
Best, Jared
PS – my flight lands at 5 a.m., so I should be at the flat by seven. Hopefully I won’t wake you!
Shit. No, Jared, you won’t wake me, because I won’t be here.
I had no reason to be pissed off, but I was. It was Jared’s home; he was perfectly entitled to return to it earlier than we’d agreed. He was even being apologetic, and offering to spend a night on the couch so I could have his bedroom for the additional night I’d paid for. But there was no way I was doing that. Pleasant as he was, the idea of settling down for my last night in this temporary home with a stranger sleeping next door – a stranger who’d be exhausted from an overnight flight and a day of full-on meetings, and quite rightly wanting to sleep in his own bed on his first night back after a month working away – was unthinkable.
Almost as bad was the prospect of seeing him in the morning, surrounded by my half-packed things, responding to his solicitous questions about whether I’d found an alternative p
lace to stay, whether I was sure I didn’t need an extra night? Really? Was I sure? I couldn’t face it. I was getting out of there, right now.
All thought of sleep forgotten, I jumped out of bed, stripped the sheets and threw them in the washing machine, packed my stuff at warp speed, and carried everything down to my car, which took two journeys.
Then, before I could change my mind or even think things through properly, I slammed the door shut and posted the keys through the letter box like we’d agreed. I tapped out a quick message to Jared saying it was fine, I’d made other arrangements, I hoped he’d have a safe flight and I was hugely grateful for his hospitality.
And then I stood in the dark street at half past midnight, next to my patiently waiting car, and I realised I’d made myself homeless, again.
I could go to a hotel, I supposed. It might seem a bit dodgy turning up at a Premier Inn at one in the morning, but I expected they saw worse all the time – at least I wouldn’t be bringing a punter back with me for an hour-long booking. I’d have somewhere safe to sleep, and in the morning I could wait until Myles left for work, go back to the house, shower and pick up some clean clothes.
Or I could get an Uber to Megan’s place and throw myself on her mercy. But, putting myself in her shoes, I dismissed that idea straight away. I knew she’d say it was fine, she’d welcome me even if I woke the baby – she’d want to help. But I also knew exactly what she’d be thinking.
How long is this going to go on?
She’d be too kind to tell me that she could only put me up for a couple of nights, but I knew that would be exactly what she’d be thinking.
I could sleep in my car. No, I couldn’t. I’m not exactly tall, but there was no way I’d be able to lie down in the back seat of my tiny Mini. And besides, the prospect of someone seeing me there, some concerned passer-by or even a police officer tapping on the window some time in the small hours and asking if I was okay was too mortifying to contemplate.
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 22