‘Dior? Wow, good for you. You deserve a treat.’
‘Yes, well, you see, darling.’ Vivienne perched on the chair opposite mine, poured us coffee and pushed the plate of pastries over to me. ‘I had a bit of a windfall.’
I took a mince pie, bit carefully into it and found that it was just about cool enough to eat. Rich, brandy-soaked fruit filled my mouth. ‘A windfall?’
‘That’s right. Last week, I had a letter from a solicitor. Turns out I’m the sole beneficiary of Max’s will.’
I almost choked on a currant. ‘Really? That’s wonderful, Vivienne, but it must have come as quite a surprise?’
She laughed. ‘I was utterly gobsmacked. He’d written me a letter, too, saying how sorry he was for how he’d treated me, and how much losing Juliet had weighed on his mind all these years. Too little, too bloody late, Max, I thought. I nearly donated the lot to Save the Children in a fit of pique, but then I thought, what would be the point of that? They can have whatever’s left when I die. His affairs were in an absolute shambles and there will be death duties to pay, of course, but I need never worry about money again. I can work because I want to.’
I recounted all this to Megan, watching her eyes grow wider and wider across the table. By the time I’d finished, Rosie had brought in an order of salt beef bagels, mustard oozing from their sides, for our lunch. She brought Ethan, too, so Megan could feed him, and then went back to her desk to eat her own lunch.
‘So, I’ve been thinking,’ I said, while we dug into our food. ‘That as well as promoting Rosie to client relations manager, we should offer Isla a full-time job once her contract ends. And Sam…’
‘Yes, Sam.’ Megan wiped a smear of mustard off the corner of her mouth and settled Ethan in her lap. ‘We really ought to let him go.’
‘He did break the rules…’ I said tentatively.
‘The only rule there is, really. I mean, I like to think we’re pretty flexible employers.’
‘Except: don’t sleep with the clients.’
‘And if you do, make sure we don’t find out.’
‘But it wasn’t exactly his fault we found out. I mean, Ruby-Grace…’
‘Did you see her on Naked Attraction?’ I knew that the dating show, where contestants chose a potential partner based on their bodies in the buff, revealed from the bottom up, was a guilty pleasure of Megan’s, just as it was of mine. ‘My God, that was awkward. I know we get pretty involved in the intimate details of our clients’ lives, but not that intimate.’
‘I was legit watching between my fingers, like a kid with Doctor Who.’ Remembering, Megan covered her face with her hands.
‘I cringed so hard I almost broke a rib,’ I agreed. ‘But you have to admit, she totally stole the show.’
‘Those legs,’ Megs sighed in admiration.
‘That six-pack. That booty. That piercing.’
‘I know, right. I mean, each to their own and all that, but if anyone ever comes near my clit with a jewelled titanium bar, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’
‘But that poor guy – what was his name, Robbie? – it was like he was under some sort of spell.’
‘And the poor other girls looking for a date. None of them stood a chance.’
‘And then he picked her and they went on their date and Ruby-Grace was like, “Sorry, I’m in love with someone else.” And basically propositioned Sam right there on TV.’
‘He didn’t stand a chance, either.’ Megs shook her head in wonderment.
‘You know what, though, I think under all the superficial stuff, Ruby-Grace is actually a sweet girl. She works incredibly hard – she’s in the gym for three hours a day and Sam says Edward Reeves says she’s wonderful to deal with and incredibly committed. On the school visits and stuff she’s done for Clear Future she’s dialled the look right down and been totally natural and approachable. The kids really relate to her.’
Just saying Edward’s name made me feel a pang of sadness, and it occurred to me that, if we did sack Sam, I’d have to revert to handling the business relationship with Edward. If that happened, I wasn’t sure I could resist temptation.
‘So strictly speaking,’ Megan said, ‘it was Ruby-Grace who instigated the relationship and not Sam at all.’
‘That’s true,’ I said, realising that she was just as keen to break the rule as I was.
‘You know what, I’m not in the business of screwing over people’s careers before they’ve even started.’
‘I totally agree. And Sam’s got so much potential.’
‘That’s because he’s learning from the best.’
Megan and I smiled at each other across the table and then, both at once, our right hands came up and smacked into each other in a high five.
Thirty-One
Beatrice and I spent Christmas Eve alone at home.
I’d put cheesy festive music on the radio while I baked up a storm: an elaborately iced fruit cake, two dozen sausage rolls and a load of butter tarts, made with my stepmom Maura’s traditional recipe.
The little Christmas tree had been up for a week, and I still smiled in pleased surprise when I walked in from outside and breathed in the fragrance of its needles. Beatrice, in contrast, was more interested in trying to climb it and, when that failed, carrying swathes of tinsel around the house and hiding them in random places.
I’d been resigned to spending Christmas on my own – not that you really are alone when you have a cat, as I told Beatrice – but to my surprise I’d been inundated with invitations. Dad had offered to pay for me to fly out to Ontario to spend the holidays with him and Maura, but I’d declined this time, worried that Beatrice might think she’d been abandoned again.
Megan and Matt had invited me round to theirs, but I knew that however warmly they’d welcome me, they’d probably rather spend Ethan’s first Christmas as a little new family of three. Gemma had suggested I join her, Raffy and a bunch of their mates for what promised to be a champagne-fuelled and hilarious celebration, complete with delicious food cooked by Raffy and less successful attempts by Gemma herself, but again I’d declined – much as I loved her, I wasn’t exactly up for boozy partying.
So Bianca and Michael had won the dubious prize of having me over on Christmas Day. Vivienne would be there, I knew, as well as Bianca’s brother Henry and his wife (who’d finally forgiven Bianca for the scene at their wedding) and a few of their friends. Under the tree was a pile of carefully wrapped gifts for them all: an embroidered velvet dressing gown for Vivienne, a hand-knitted cream cashmere shawl I’d bought in a craft market for Bianca, the director’s cut of Blade Runner on DVD for Michael, and assorted bottles of champagne, artisan gin and perfume for everyone else.
Now, I had nothing more to do except relax in my living room with a plate of smoked salmon, which Beatrice had indicated she expected to share, and think.
Two days before, I’d signed documents from our solicitor finalising the sale of Myles’s and my old home. By now a new family – Ben, Harriet and their baby daughter Elsie – would be moving in, filling the house with their furniture, the sound of their laughter, the smells of their cooking. And now, perhaps, I could talk to Eileen about going from being her tenant to being her purchaser. The little house, which had felt like a bolthole at first – a port in a storm – had become a proper home.
Myles and I had gone for a coffee together after we left the estate agency, as if tacitly acknowledging that this might be the last time we ever saw each other. It had been an awkward half-hour; I’d felt reticent with him, the deep wounds he’d inflicted on me too recently healed for me to relax in his company. But he could still make me laugh – albeit silently, as I translated what he said to me into what he really meant.
‘So, are you seeing anyone, Sloane?’
I’m seeing someone.
‘Not right now. I was, kind of, but I thought it was best if I had some time on my own. How about you?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been on a few date
s.’
I’m getting all the sex.
‘That’s nice. Anyone serious?’
‘Well, there’s this one girl. I met her at the gym.’
She’s ripped. And – go on – ask me how old she is.
‘I’m glad you’re having fun.’
‘Yeah, I am. But, you know, sometimes I miss… us.’
Let’s see if I can still jerk your chain.
‘That’s natural. We were together a long time.’
‘And we made a life together. A home.’
That girl I’m screwing won’t iron my shirts.
‘It’s weird how quickly my new place has started to feel like home. Having a cat helps.’
‘Sloane? We can still be friends, can’t we?’
Tell me what I did wasn’t so bad after all.
‘I really don’t think so, Myles. You see, I’ve moved on.’
I bore him no ill feeling, though. I remembered Vivienne’s words – Will he hold your heart safe in his hands? – and I was glad that I’d learned the answer to that when I had. Myles would never keep anyone’s heart safe, perhaps not even his own.
And now, I was holding another heart in my hands. And I was going to have to decide what to do about it.
The realisation that something might have changed came to me quite suddenly, when I was doing my Christmas shopping in town. Covent Garden Market was garlanded with wreaths of holly, twinkling with gold and silver pinpoints of light. Giant bunches of mistletoe hung from the roof, waiting for lovers to kiss under them. An enormous Christmas tree gleamed with red baubles.
And there were children everywhere.
In front of me, a woman held her toddler up above her head, encouraging her to look at the pretty lights, while the little girl laughed with pleasure. In a café, a woman was breastfeeding her baby while she sipped a coffee. A whole choir of adorable primary-school kids were singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, their clear voices drifting like snow into the winter darkness.
I heard myself say out loud, ‘Oh shit!’ and I dashed into Boots as quickly as I could.
I needn’t have bothered with the test. It just confirmed what I already knew, as soon as I allowed myself to think about it. My breasts had felt tender – almost sore – for the past few days. I’d been ravenously hungry all the time. There was a weird taste in my mouth that I couldn’t shift no matter how many times I cleaned my teeth. And my period was AWOL – almost a week late.
It had been two weeks since I’d sat in my bathroom, staring at the digital display on the pregnancy test, feeling alternately elated, terrified and strangely calm. And since then I’d changed my mind over and over again about what to do. I hadn’t talked to anyone about the decision I was facing – it felt like it would have been unfair to involve any third party when the second party didn’t know what was up. All the options that were open to me felt flawed in their own way, yet the biggest choice that I was making – the choice to have this baby, come what may – was so obvious it was barely a choice at all.
But then. Edward. That last night here in the house, with him, something must have gone wrong. We’d been careful – as careful as two sensible adults caught in the throes of what felt like insatiable desire could be. But still – well, here we were. And this was Edward’s baby for sure. Since I spent that last night with Myles, there had been no one else but Edward.
I knew, rationally, that the decision was only mine to make, and I’d made it alone. But now there was a whole other, more complex choice facing me.
I could, I supposed, just go it alone, the way I would if I’d been one of those fiercely independent women who strode confidently off to a sperm bank and said, ‘I’d like the six-foot blond semi-pro cyclist with the PhD, please.’ That would release Edward fully from any obligations towards me or his child. I could even do it without saying a word to him, so that he could carry on with his life unencumbered by even the knowledge that he was a father.
But that would be wrong. It would deprive him of the choice not to be released, if he didn’t want to be. And it would deprive our baby of a possible relationship with their father.
I could, of course, inform him that I was having his baby but I didn’t want him in my life, although of course I’d be making sure he did the right thing and paid to support the child he could have chosen not to conceive by – well, not having sex with me. And then I could say that if he wanted a DNA test, he was free to bring it on.
But that approach – which I would have fully supported if a friend had told me she was taking it – didn’t feel right, either. Edward wasn’t some philanderer who went around impregnating women and then dodging his responsibility towards the children he’d fathered – at least, I didn’t think he was.
So, eventually, I’d come to a decision.
I was going to tell him. I was going to say that, like it or not, he was going to be a father – but that it was entirely his decision what kind of one he was. I was going to say that we could take it just one day at a time, see how things worked out, see whether we still had feelings for each other and what they were. Once the baby was born, he could see how he felt about that – and about me.
Whatever happened, I knew that I’d be all right, and so would my baby. Inside me, so tiny it was barely more than a few cells, was what would become my daughter or son’s heart – and I was going to keep that safe, come what may.
And I knew that part of that was keeping my own heart safe. I’d seen enough from the experiences of Vivienne, Bianca, Megan and my own mom to know that motherhood had its own, uniquely powerful way of tearing women apart. I knew having a child wouldn’t be all gurgles and cuddles. I knew my future could hold pain as lethal as stepping on a Lego brick in the dark.
And I wasn’t going to add to that pain by trying to persuade a man who didn’t want to be part of his child’s life to be a father in any meaningful sense.
I wasn’t sure if there was a better way to do what I was about to do. If there was, all my mental gymnastics had failed to come up with it. So I was going to work with what I had.
I picked up my phone and I dialled Edward’s number.
I hadn’t deleted his contact details and I guess he hadn’t deleted mine, either, because there was no mistaking the joy in his voice when he said my name.
I said his back, and then we talked for a long time. By the time we finished, Beatrice had eaten all the salmon.
Thirty-Two
Ten months later
I woke up from a sleep so deep it had been like falling off a cliff, and the first thing I noticed was the smell of my baby’s head. Juliet Linda, named after the daughter her godmother – one of them; of course Megan was the other – had lost all those years before, and my own mother, was still sleeping peacefully, next to me in her cot, the bars dropped down so I could reach for her whenever I needed to, but in careful compliance with the safe co-sleeping guidelines I’d read over and over.
She was lying on her back, her arms up by her head like an angel’s wings, her little hands furled like ferns on either side of her peachy cheeks. I sat up as quietly as I could and yawned hugely. Juliet didn’t wake, but Beatrice, curled up by my feet, did, and she yawned hugely too. Then she hopped down off the bed, stretched systematically, and trotted out of the room with an air of intense purpose.
It must have been the smell of roasting turkey that had woken me – and my cat, too. But Juliet was oblivious – at just six weeks old, the only food she cared about was what my own body made for her. I leaned carefully over to look at her, wondering as I always did whether I’d ever get tired of admiring her perfect eyelashes, the rosebud pout of her mouth – still and soft now in sleep but able to transform in seconds to bawling fury – and the shock of dark hair that made her look like a tiny emo.
As if sensing my gaze, she opened her ink-blue eyes – and, seconds later, her mouth, too. Before she could utter more than a couple of grumpy squeaks, I gathered her in my arms, feeling the warm, sleepy weight
of her and guiding her mouth to my breast. Megs was right – it had hurt like a bastard in the beginning, but Juliet and I were both getting better at this whole being a baby and having one thing.
Soon, she was chonking away like a pro. Careful not to disturb her, I adjusted my position on the pillows more carefully and took a deep, appreciative sniff of the smells coming from my kitchen. There wasn’t just roasting turkey – there was bacon, too, and the spicy, buttery fragrance of a pumpkin pie and the savoury, sage and onion smell of stuffing.
‘You’re not the only hungry one here, you know,’ I told my daughter, cradling her head in the palm of my hand. ‘Mommy’s also taking a keen interest in the catering arrangements.’
There was a soft tap on the door, and a couple of seconds later it swung open, letting in a fresh waft of cooking smells that made my stomach rumble.
‘Dean seems to have everything under control in the kitchen,’ Maura said. ‘So I wondered if you’d like a shower? I could take the little one and then maybe give her her bath? Unless you’d rather…’
When my dad and stepmother had landed at Heathrow two days earlier, Maura had been so overcome by the sight of her new granddaughter that she’d hardly been able to bring herself to touch Juliet, in case she dropped her or squeezed her too hard or gave her some exotic Canadian virus. And to make things even more difficult, I could see she was terrified of interfering, or giving me the impression she thought I wasn’t doing a good enough job. It had taken all my powers of persuasion to get her to cuddle Juliet, change her nappy, give her a bath – all the things I knew she was absolutely longing to do.
So now I said, ‘Oh my God, Maura, that would be amazing! I’d love a quick shower and it would be brilliant if you could give her a bath. You’re much better at it than me, anyway.’
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 29