by Lee, Mandy
‘Shit.’ I’ve done it now. ‘Fuck.’
I should be happy. I should be dancing with joy. But instead, I stay exactly where I am, perched on a cracked toilet seat and staring in dismay at a plastic stick. My brain descends into abject confusion. Pregnancy. Birth. Motherhood. Teeny-tiny clothes filled with a teeny-tiny wriggling baby. I shake my head. This can’t be real. But in some disconnected, logical part of my brain, I know it is. I can’t ignore the facts any longer, because the facts are lining up, one after the other, relentlessly. My period’s gone AWOL, and I’ve got tender boobs, and tea tastes weird, and there’s this little blue line …
‘I’m not ready,’ I breathe.
And neither, in all likelihood, is Dan.
‘Shit.’
After all my complaints about being kept out of the loop, I’ve gone and made the mother of all decisions behind his back, and I can’t imagine that going down too well.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
How do I tell him? What do I say? And when do I break the news?
I’m tugged from my thoughts by a ping of my phone. Hastily, I wrap the stick in the plastic bag and bury it back at the bottom of my handbag. Digging out my mobile, I’m thoroughly surprised to be greeted by a text from Lily.
Hope you’re ok. Can we meet up? I want to talk.
I stare in disbelief at the words, bristling at the memory of her tone the last time we spoke, dismissive and cold. But I hardly blame her. In her mind, I was the deranged ex-girlfriend. She had no choice but to keep her distance and protect her friend. But why is she contacting me now? With everything else that’s going on, I should simply ignore the text. But I can’t. I’m intrigued by this apparent change of heart. Overwhelmed by temptation, I tap in my reply and fire it off.
What do you want to talk about?
The reply comes immediately. One word.
Dan.
My interest’s thoroughly piqued, my brain whirring with possibilities. Has she finally realised she misjudged me? Or is there something else I don’t know about the father of my child? Going on past form, that’s exactly the sort of blow fate would love to chuck in my direction. Unable to resist, I probe further, asking her what’s going on. Giving nothing away, she insists on talking to me, face to face. And nobody’s to know. Finally, I cave in.
When and where?
The reply shocks me.
Tonight? It’s urgent. Please. I’ll be at my new place until late. The Concordia on the north bank. Problems to sort out. Can you come over?
It doesn’t take long to reach a decision. I’ve got the Steves’ retirement do tonight and I’m hardly in the mood for it. At least this is an excuse to leave early. And if Lily’s changed her mind about me, if Dan’s told her the truth, then I can get a little advice on how to break my news to him.
I’ll see what I can do. Need to show my face at a party first.
Almost as soon as I hit the send icon, I receive her reply.
That’s fine. See you later. X
‘Where have you been?’ Lucy demands.
I take the last step up to the ground floor of the gallery, and say the first thing that comes to mind.
‘On the loo.’
She watches me from the sofa.
‘Bloody hell, you must have the shits.’
‘Yeah,’ I answer half-heartedly.
‘The poshmobile’s waiting outside.’ She waves a hand at the window. ‘Time to go home and get ready for the shindig.’
I look outside, to where the Bentley’s waiting for me, Carl standing by the rear door, checking the street. He’s even more anxious than this morning, and that’s saying something.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘I’m closing up here, going straight over to Covent Garden. Tweedledum and Tweedledee need help. They’re flapping, as usual. I’ll see you there later.’ She frowns. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
But I’m not. Of course I’m not. All I want to do is tell Lucy I’m pregnant, get the truth out into the open, collapse in a heap and cry. Because then I might just begin to process the fact. But as it is, with no release, my brain’s had enough, gone on holiday, cleared itself out and hung up a sign saying ‘back in a while’.
‘I’d better go.’
Without another word, I leave the gallery, nod a greeting to Carl and slide into the back of the Bentley, where I find Gordon waiting for me.
‘Hey.’
‘I didn’t expect you.’
‘An added bonus.’
And a much-needed source of news.
‘How did lunch go?’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here. Carl? Camden if you please.’
With an uneasy glance in the rear-view mirror, Carl starts up the engine and the Bentley pulls away. As we thread our way through Soho, Gordon starts on his story.
‘So, Dean comes over to The Goring for lunch, and Bill was right, by the way. He is a seriously nasty individual. Dean’s still pissed off about losing one of his workforce, even though he’s been royally recompensed, so I let him vent his anger a little. And then, when he’s finished, I make my proposition.’ He leans over to me, lowering his voice. ‘I tell him I want him to hand over Boyd. Money no object.’
Shifting uncomfortably, I peer out of the window. It’s already dark, and the shoppers are out in force. Christmas madness, everywhere.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘Dean says he doesn’t know anyone called Boyd, so I remind him about Isaac’s club, suggest Isaac’s put them in touch. Dean starts to twitch, realises I’ve done my homework. I remind Dean of who I am, as if he doesn’t already know. And he’s interested. Oh yes.’
Straightening the collar of his coat, Gordon gives out a quiet, satisfied laugh.
‘And then?’ I ask wearily.
‘He wants to know why I’m interested in this creature. I explain that you’re the love of my life. I tell him about Boyd’s fixation on you, his vendetta against your ex-boyfriend.’ He does that thing with his fingers, making imaginary quote marks in the air. ‘And then I tell him about the history of abuse. I suggest Boyd might not have been entirely truthful. Dean twitches even more, and I know I’m onto something. Seems he doesn’t like dishonesty.’
‘But he’s a villain.’
‘With a strange sense of morality. Honour amongst thieves and all that. Anyway, that does it. Dean suggests a price, and I agree.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yup. He’ll cough up the goods tomorrow, in return for cash. Foultons oversee the handover. Bill’s contacts take off with Boyd.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘All we needed was the link. And now we’ve got it.’
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. After all this time, we’re finally down to business. This time tomorrow, Boyd will be out of our lives. I swallow back my own sense of morality. Whatever happens to him, he deserves it.
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘None of your business.’
‘Dan’s going to pay you back.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘And he’s not to be involved.’
‘Understood.’
Half an hour later, we pull up outside the flat. Just in time. Nausea’s been building again. Any longer in the Bentley, and I would have been throwing up all over its expensive upholstery. Practically staggering across the pavement, I slam to a halt in front of the door. Roses. Everywhere. Scattered over the steps, stems broken, buds ripped apart, blackened petals, colourless in the dark. My heart beat triples in pace. I freeze and survey the road, wondering if he’s here, watching me, waiting …
I feel a hand on my back.
‘One minute.’ Gordon returns to the car, opens the front passenger door and stoops to speak to Carl.
‘Do you know about this?’
‘It’s only just happened.’ Leaning over, Carl touches his earpiece. ‘Unmarked van. We’re tailing it.’
�
��Call them off. There’s no point now. How many have we got over the road?’
‘Four.’
‘Good. I’m staying with Maya. Come back at seven.’ Gordon straightens up and slams the door. ‘In you go. I’ll clear up this shit.’
‘But you need to get ready.’
‘I’m always ready.’
While Gordon tidies up the ruined flowers, I busy myself with making him a coffee. A good five minutes later, he joins me. I guide him into the living room, leaving him to watch the early evening news, occasionally sipping at his drink, complaining that the English have no idea about decent caffeine.
After a quick shower, I sort out my hair and choose a dress: a short, smart red number from Harrods. With a flourish, I take it off the hanger and put it on, deciding it’s the perfect antidote to Boyd’s latest antics. Drawing every last bit of attention to myself, I’m about to let him know, loud and clear, that I’m anything but intimidated. The usual make-up and a pair of high heels complete the job. And then I spend a moment examining myself in the mirror, eyes drawn inevitably to my stomach, thoughts dragged unwillingly in their wake … to the tiny speck of life hidden away behind the scarlet fabric. Tears blur my vision and suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m certain that raging hormones have nothing to do with the fact that I’m crying; and neither do shock or exhaustion. No. It’s all down some strange, indescribable, instinctive form of love that’s just made a surprise debut in my head. ‘Ta daa!’ it squeals in excitement. ‘I know I’ve never been here before, but I like it, and guess what. I’m never going to leave!’
The Bentley returns at seven, taking us back down to central London and dropping us off at the edge of Covent Garden. With Gordon’s help, I stumble across the cobbles, navigating a path through the evening crowds to the relative warmth of the market halls. I’ve had just enough time to register the wrought iron archways, a piazza overflowing with stalls and shoppers, when I’m guided into the gloom of a pub, through to a function room at the back.
‘Look at you!’ Lucy screeches as soon as I enter. ‘Power-dressing now, are we?’
I smile in satisfaction. My choice of outfit has definitely hit the mark.
‘Flipping heck. Billionaire’s girlfriend.’ Already several sheets to the wind, she smiles at Gordon and punches him in the stomach. ‘How are you doing, big fella?’
‘Fine and dandy.’
It’s a bloody good job he’s not about to become her real boss. If that were the case, I’m pretty sure she’d be searching for a new job come Monday. Dumping my handbag on the floor, I park myself on a stool and scrutinize the room. It’s already filling up with bodies, and the thrum of conversation.
‘This lot have been going for an hour already,’ Lucy informs me. ‘There’ll be carnage later, especially when that thing gets going.’
She motions toward the far end of the room where, in the gloom, a DJ’s busy setting up a disco. Without warning, Little Steve erupts out of the gathering and heads straight for us.
‘Darlings, you made it,’ he gushes. ‘Guests of honour. The new owner and his lady love. Lucy, get these people a drink. On my tab. Get them pissed.’
‘No,’ I hold up a hand. ‘Orange juice.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Little Steve gasps, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘What’s going on here?’ He puts an arm around my back. ‘You’re not preggers, are you?’ He winks at Gordon.
‘No,’ I laugh, far too quickly for my own liking. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just not in the mood.’
‘But orange juice?’ Lucy demands. ‘Not wine?’
‘Not wine,’ I insist, levelling her with an ‘I absolutely mean this’ kind of a look. ‘Orange juice. And don’t lace it with anything.’
‘And I’ll take a pint of your lovely warm beer,’ Gordon adds, leaning over to whisper in my ear. ‘Actually, I’d love a piña colada.’
‘Then have one,’ I whisper back.
He shakes his head.
‘And give myself away? Tonight, I’m as macho as they come.’
And so, the evening begins …
Playing the part of the dutiful girlfriend, I spend an age circulating at Gordon’s side, making endless small talk with Slaters’ clients, past, present and possibly future. Soon enough, I’m worn out and feeling distinctly sick, but it’s still too soon to make an exit. After managing to extricate myself from the public relations exercise with the excuse that my feet are killing me, I’m heading back to my stool when music blasts into life. The Weather Girls. ‘It’s Raining Men’.
Before it even happens, I know what’s coming.
‘Dance!’ Lucy barks, grabbing me by the arm.
‘No, not now!’
‘Yes! Now!’
Ignoring my pleas, she drags me onto the dance floor and begins to gyrate, swiping her hands through the air and singing along like a woman possessed. Within seconds, we’re surrounded by others, and I have no option but to join in. Feeling distinctly awkward, I begin to move, doing my best to seem like I’m having a ball, but it’s nothing short of torture. When the song finally draws to an end, I decide I’ve had enough. As Gloria Gaynor launches into ‘I Will Survive’ and Lucy twizzles round on the spot, I take my chance and make a hasty escape. I head back to the bar, dead set on returning to my stool, more than slightly triumphant when I reach my target.
I’m quickly joined by Gordon.
‘Well, this is painful. A gay man, at a gay party, pretending to be straight.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘It’s worse than bad,’ he grimaces. ‘I’m like a child in a sweetshop, only I’ve been told I can’t have any sweets because I’m off to the dentist.’
I laugh.
‘Well, I’m at a gay party, pretending to be attracted to a gay man.’
‘Then I’d say we’re both in a pickle.’ A glass of wine is thrust at him by an unknown admirer. He grabs it and slugs it back in one go. ‘We’d better dance … together.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what couples do.’
Utterly fed up, I follow him back onto the dance floor and do my duty. After three songs with Gordon, I’m temporarily back with Lucy before being passed from one Steve to the other. Before long, I’m exhausted, on the verge of throwing up over everyone, and maybe passing out.
‘I need a wee,’ I shout at no one in particular, making a second escape and slumping back onto the stool. Relieved to be left alone, at least for now, I close my eyes and steady my breathing. All I want is to go home and dive into bed, to brood over the whole pregnancy thing, and then sleep away my last night without Dan. When I open my eyes again, the crowd seems to have parted, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing: Gordon, right in the middle of the dance floor, getting into the groove with the Steves, singing along to Queen’s ‘I Want to Break Free’.
‘Anybody would think he’s gay,’ Lucy grumbles, leaning against the bar next to me.
‘Having fun?’ I ask.
‘Hardly.’
Which is obvious, seeing as she’s on the verge of tears.
‘I miss Clive.’
I slip my arm around her and draw her in tight. What on Earth do I say? Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. And he’s missing you just as much as you’re missing him. Just go and dance with a few gay men to pass the time, and that includes Gordon, by the way. I say nothing, of course. As it turns out, there’s no need. She’s distracted by something at the far end of the room.
‘Oh, no.’ She points at the stage. ‘This isn’t good. He’s had at least eight margaritas.’
I follow the direction of her finger. Little Steve’s tottering at the centre of the stage, a microphone clutched in his hands.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he begins as the music dies down. ‘Silence, please. I need to speak.’
‘Oh God,’ Lucy groans. ‘I’d better sort this shit out.’
She’s not quick enough. Before she can make it to the stage, Little Steve’s already s
lurring through a clearly heartfelt but largely unintelligible speech. Finally, I begin to make some sense of it.
‘So, as you know, me and my darling have been wanting to sell up for a while, and now we’ve got a camper van. Or should that be a camp van. Ooh er, missus!’ He titters. ‘Anyway, we’re here tonight to celebrate the end of twenty … oh, I don’t know, quite a few years in the business, selling paintings and all that …’
Lucy climbs onto the stage, almost loses her balance and manages to grab the microphone. Little Steve glares at her, and grabs it back.
‘Our new owner is here,’ he ploughs on. ‘Where is he? Gordon? Gordon? Cooeee!’ Shielding his eyes with his free hand, he finally spots Gordon waving from the crowd. ‘There he is. Dances like one of us. In fact, I wonder if he is one of us.’
While Gordon makes a point of fighting his way off the dance floor and joining me at the bar, Little Steve staggers over to the DJ, issues an instruction and staggers back.
‘Let’s test it out. Where’s Maya?’ He hiccoughs, and seems to retch. ‘Millionaires. Flies round a cow pat with that one.’ He snorts like a demented pig. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He points directly at us.
My body tenses.
‘Now then, you two haven’t had a kiss all night and he dances like a queen, so. Time for the test! Take it away, maestro!’
The song begins. Cher, ‘It’s in his Kiss’. And I can’t stop the horror from spreading across my face.
‘What do they want?’ I shout.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Gordon points at his mouth.
‘No. I can’t do it.’
‘I think we’d better.’
He nods at the crowd on the dance floor. Without exception, they’re all staring at us, clapping maniacally, urging us to get on with it.
‘This is a complete fucking nightmare,’ I complain.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Now!’ Little Steve screeches into microphone. ‘Do it!’
I know it’s a drunken joke, but this really is pushing things too far. Hopping off the stool, I plant a quick kiss on Gordon’s lips and grab my handbag.
‘Get Carl to pick me up.’
And with that, I march towards the door. It’s time to get out of here. I’ve made it through the bar and out into the market hall when Lucy catches up with me.