by Sophie White
Once she was settled on the upper deck, she uploaded her outfit pic to Stories. She’d gone with a stretchy navy polka-dot dress that looked cute and retro, plus it showed off ‘the milkers’, as Liv had taken to calling her new pregnancy mega boobs, with some neon trainers and a denim jacket. She’d taken care with her make-up, but it was a fair bit more toned down, her love affair with contouring having waned slightly. She’d barely bothered with her tan in the last few months, but now that she was doing a bit more on the ’gram it actually gave her a bit of impetus to make an effort with her appearance again. She considered the caption for the outfit of the day.
TFW your outfit needs to say ‘Yes, I was a lying psycho but also I love the hell out of you – please forgive me?’
She nervously swiped to try a couple of filters before settling on the unedited image. She considered the consequences of sharing it. Would Sam see? Would he be mad? Madder than he already was?
She stared out the window at town rushing by and tried to imagine his reaction, then she caught herself.
No, Ali! You can’t be changing the way you act to appease him. She thought back to Mini walking in on her and Liv watching Grease when they were thirteen.
‘Turn that shite off.’ She’d been withering and Ali was mortified.
‘My mum is such a snob,’ she’d told Liv by way of explanation at the time and later she’d whinged at Mini over dinner.
‘Why’d you always go out of your way to embarrass me? It was just a stupid film. Everyone in school loves it.’
‘It is a stupid film,’ Mini agreed. ‘Watch it if you want but the message is bullshit. Remember Sandy wearing different clothes and changing herself to be with Danny, Alessandra. It’s never a good idea. Always remember that. Oh, and leather is very unforgiving.’
Ali leaned her head against the window, smiling at the memory. Miles had chimed in at that point.
‘Remember, I had leather pants in eighty-three? One of the most uncomfortable years of my life. Ever heard of trench foot? The soldiers in World War I got it from never, ever having dry feet. Well, those leather pants gave me trench crotch. It was a moist hell of my own making.’ He had sighed, shaking his head regretfully before they all shouted him down.
Trench crotch! She shuddered at the memory and then smiled weakly to herself. So unfair that Miles and his idiosyncratic wit was no more. He would never gross her out or make her laugh again. Sure, he hadn’t really said much in his last years but, as time crawled by in this new world that didn’t contain her sweet, funny dad, she’d found that she remembered more and more of the real Miles.
Even after he had become vague and vacant from the illness, she’d occasionally get glimpses of the real Miles. She remembered a late autumn afternoon in Ailesend when the nurse had presented him with his various pills and he had looked up with a flash of the trademark glint in his eye and said, ‘Yum! The red ones are my favourite!’
Ali turned back to the phone and hit Share on her pic. She was sorry. But she wouldn’t be spending the rest of her life apologising and pretending to be something she wasn’t. Life, after all, was finite and if Sam wasn’t going to come around, then so be it.
She strolled from the bus stop on O’Connell Street to the Rotunda and practised her opening gambit.
‘Hey, you might remember me from such public debacles as the doomed family dinner with the Khans or the great foetus fakery of 2019?’
Hmmm, maybe too glib, even for me. She sighed as the sliding doors into reception eased open for her. She hurried to the lift and made her way to the second-floor neonatal assessment unit. Seeing the sign directing her to the small waiting room set off a whoosh of anxiety. With all her Sam angst, she’d virtually forgotten that this was the ‘big scan’. Lil Pea felt chipper enough in there, bopping around when she lay down at night, but a sudden hollow feeling in her stomach reminded her how much was unknown in this baby-making business.
She took her seat among a selection of similarly nervy-looking pregnant women and tried not to think about what the sonographer might see on the screen. The minutes ticked by and she tried to calm the mounting anxiety. She typed a message to Liv.
I should’ve forced you to come with. He’s late. Maybe he’s gonna jilt me at the baby scan.
Liv’s reply dropped in in a matter of seconds.
Don’t catastrophise, remember the gif. A gif is very positive. Playful, even. I would never give gif if I wasn’t feeling fairly warm towards the person.
Liv followed this with a reassuring Maya Rudolph blowing kisses gif.
‘Yes, you’re right, it’ll be fine, it will all work out,’ Ali typed, adding a gif of people dressed as poodles doing an ’80s-style workout.
She flicked over to Insta to check in on her #OOTD post. There were loads of comments. More than 30 already. Oh God. She hit the icon with trepidation. She couldn’t face a barrage of negativity right now. She looked at the phone side on as the messages loaded, as though not looking directly at it could shield her from the hate. ‘Yay go, Ali! We’re rooting for ya’, the first one cheered. The next were equally encouraging.
Lying psycho!!!! Never change Ali!
He’ll come around bbz, we’ll start an Uplift.ie petition to get yis back together if he’s holding out on you #TakeHerBackSam
‘Ali Jones?’ a young man called from the door to the waiting room.
‘Yep, that’s me.’ Ali rose reluctantly and moved towards the door. She couldn’t believe Sam hadn’t turned up. She checked the clock. It was five past two. What if she went in and then he arrived? He wouldn’t know where to go.
‘Ms Jones?’ The sonographer was waiting expectantly down the hall.
‘Yeah, em. I’m coming, it’s just my … eh … the—’
‘We’ve a lot of appointments to get through, Ms Jones,’ he cut her off abruptly.
‘Ali?’ Ali whipped around to see which of the pregnant women still waiting behind her had just said her name.
‘Hey!’ A girl to her right waved shyly. ‘I follow you on Insta.’ She grinned. ‘We can tell Sam you’ve gone in.’ She lowered her voice delicately to add, ‘If he comes.’
‘Yeah, he’s a dick if he doesn’t show,’ chimed another woman across from the first. ‘We’ll show him where you are. Good luck!’
‘Everything’s crossed for ya, Ali,’ called another woman sitting at the very back. ‘Well, my legs are crossed ’cos I’m on my third and the old pelvic floor isn’t up to much anymore. One sneeze and the floodgates are open. But we’re all behind ya.’
Ali smiled gratefully at her unlikely allies.
‘Room four, Ms Jones,’ the sonographer called impatiently, and Ali jogged after him slightly dazed from the sudden outpouring of support.
‘Right, sorry for rushing you along there but we’re under immense pressure in here each day. I’m sure you can understand. I’ll assess now and if there’s anything we need to discuss further we will of course wait until you have your partner or family or whoever present for a bit of hand-holding, K? Hop up there now and pull that dress up, thanks,’ he finished in a bored voice.
Ali obeyed in slightly stunned silence. Thanks for the fucking shred of consideration, she huffed inwardly. What a prick. She lay back on the bed and hiked her dress up over her bump, drawing the cardboardy hospital blanket over her knickers. Dumb pink knickers she’d worn in the hope that Sam would see them, although romancing the father of your child during a foetal assessment is probably considered somewhat problematic anyway. She glared at the ceiling waiting for the Prickologist to get on with his job.
‘Jesus Christ! Is that a tattoo?’ he yelped, momentarily distracting her from her grump. Oh God, the stencil. She’d completely forgotten it said …
Executive Producer
Dick Wolf
… in giant letters across her bump.
In romcom-worthy timing the door to the examination room burst open at that exact moment and a sweating, discombobulated Sam practically fell in.
‘Jesus Christ! Is that a tattoo?’ he unwittingly echoed the sonographer.
‘Yep, it was a hormonal decision but one I’m happy with,’ Ali deadpanned. ‘I just want lil Pea to understand his heritage.’
Sam’s face hung in a stunned expression for a nano-second before he looked at the horrified look on the sonographer’s face and burst out laughing.
‘She’s messing,’ Sam reassured him.
The guy was looking more bewildered, not less, at this information.
‘Why is that funny?’
Sam fully doubled up at this.
‘It isn’t really.’ He laughed. ‘But your face is now making it seem hilarious.’
‘Right,’ the sonographer said coldly. ‘We’ll get on with the exam now.’
Ali grinned from the bed, delighted with the sudden turn things had taken, as Sam wiped his eyes and took his place on a little stool beside her.
‘Don’t worry, he was being kind of a dick before you even got here,’ Ali explained matter-of-factly, as the sonographer paused in squeezing cold jelly on her belly to glare at her. She beamed back at him and Sam snorted again.
Ali didn’t want to hope but somehow this really was feeling like old times. She caught Sam’s eye and grinned. He looked back at her, but she couldn’t quite decide just what he might be thinking. His smile seemed suddenly dimmed, tinged with regret.
The sound of their baby’s heartbeat drew her focus instinctively towards the screen, where the grainy, grey image showed a very baby-like creature with a strong, rhythmic flicker of life blinking at the centre. The moment was more momentous than Ali had anticipated. She suddenly wondered had Miles and Mini looked at her on the screen like this twenty-six years ago. They would’ve been young, like her and Sam, though presumably less dumb and more united, more prepared for this unknown about to take over their lives.
She didn’t notice that tears were streaming from her eyes into the hair at her temples until Sam brushed them away gently. He laid his hand against her cheek, and more of her tears spilled into the creases of his palm.
‘Right.’ The sonographer was either oblivious to or bored by new parents emoting in front of him. ‘All looks good here. I’ll just take some measurements, and I can get you some piccies for the grandparents.’
‘Huh.’ Sam stayed staring at the screen. ‘We’re a bit short on those. How’s Mini with babies?’ He cocked a playful eyebrow at Ali.
Ali grimaced to try to cover how bereft she suddenly felt about the fact that Miles would never know her baby, nor would Sam’s mum. And Sam’s dad barely knew about Sam. It was all so unfair. Why did the good parents die?
‘Hah. I can’t quite picture her grandmothering, but I’m sure she’ll schedule Erasmus in for any of her obligatory granny duties!’
‘Poor Erasmus.’ Sam grinned. ‘How is he?’
‘Tormented. He’s still getting over driving our getaway car a couple of days ago. Let’s just say Mini’s idea of a moving, low-key ashes-scattering diverges quite significantly from what any normal person would come up with.’
‘Oh ho, you can’t give me that clickbaity headline and leave me hanging …’ The sonographer moved to the printer to retrieve the pictures of the baby. ‘Will I buy you a carvery after?’ Sam suggested.
‘Wow, overcooked meat! I thought you’d never ask.’ Ali made a stab at trying to sound flirty. Though, with a giant veiny belly covered in scan jizz, it was a pretty futile attempt. Sam pulled his hand back and rubbed it awkwardly. It must be wet from her tears, she realised. He pulled himself upright and seemed to shake off something of the sentimental glow that had settled around them just seconds before.
‘Well, yeah, of course, I mean, you’re providing a meat cave rent-free to my kid so, I guess, I owe you.’
‘Yeah, cool,’ Ali agreed and tried not to sound as disappointed as she felt. She was certain they’d been having a moment there. She accepted the roll of paper held out to her by the sonographer and began scraping the jelly from her bump. She pulled her dress back down and slid off the bed. ‘Thanks for the lil show and tell there. I’ll be leaving a full review on Yelp but some top-line feedback? It wouldn’t kill you to be just a shade nicer to these preggo bitches, especially the ones that come in alone.’ She flounced out of the room, leaving Sam to just grin awkwardly at the guy.
Walking back past the waiting room, Ali found several of her cheerleaders from earlier still parked, waiting to heave their bellies down the hall to be jellied up.
‘He’s not the worst,’ called one, smiling. ‘He came, that must mean something, Ali.’ She offered a big thumbs up.
Ali grinned and mouthed ‘thank you’ just as Sam caught up to her.
‘Aw, yous two are so good together, would ya not forgive her, Sam?’ one of the others piped up as she snapped a quick pic of Sam’s startled face. Ali seized his hand and half dragged him down the hall to the exit.
Once out on the street, she tried to brush it off as nothing, but she could tell Sam was preoccupied.
‘So, how’s everything been going?’ Ali needed to distract him. ‘How’re the lads?’
She’d never grasped the individual identities of Sam’s friend gang. In her mind they were an amorphous mass of pasty, freckly Irishman all called some variation of Sean or Schmiddy or Murph, working in the kind of places where they had nap pods, free lunches and a statement wall with artful graffiti on it. She realised now that she’d always resisted his attempts to include her on nights out with ‘the lads’ because the less face-to-face contact she had with people in Sam’s life, the easier it had been to lie to him day in, day out.
‘Yeah, they’re grand.’ Sam was carefully maintaining a distance of about two feet from her at all times. He’s really making sure he’s not sending the wrong signal, Ali thought ruefully. ‘Schmiddy and Sinead are actually getting married in a couple of weeks. The first to succumb.’
‘Wow, that’s so proper,’ Ali marvelled.
‘Ha, well, so’s this thing.’ Sam tapped her bump and then snatched his hand back as though it had burned.
‘You can touch it.’ Ali took his hand and pressed it to her belly. She watched his face, searching for anything of the old way he used to look at her, but he was studiously avoiding her eyes. Instead, he gazed at the firm little bump. It seemed so insistent, always right there between them, binding them in spite of everything.
‘Can you feel it yet? Move, I mean.’
His eyes flickered to hers and the desolate look there felt like a punch to Ali.
‘Yep, starting to. It’s lovely. You’ll be able to feel it soon too if … if you’re around, like …’ she trailed off awkwardly, letting his hand drop and resumed walking. ‘Anyway. So dying to murder this carvery! Not something I think I’ve ever said before.’
‘Yeah.’ Sam seemed thoughtful and neither of them spoke until they came to the Merry Cobbler, which seemed to be emanating a powerful gravy fug.
‘You sure this is what you want to eat?’ He looked sceptical but Ali was already feeling the crazed hunger setting in.
‘Tinder, we are not above a carvery. Now, in!’ Ali was adamant that she was going to make the most of this non-date. ‘It’s demented how hungry you get when you’re preggers – you can go from zero to this crazed cannibalistic hunger in minutes,’ she explained as they found seats. ‘And it’s always this, like, really specific thing. The other night I could not rest until Liv went down to the shops for mushrooms for me. She fried them and I ate them straight out of the pan. It was weird. Then other things you normally like are suddenly completely foul. I read that some women eat things that are not even food!’
‘Like carvery?’ Sam grinned.
‘You’re such a snob.’ She mugged. ‘Though Miles would be turning in his grave if he knew I was about to pound back some leathery meat drenched in demi-glaze and served with scoops of smash. If he had a grave, obvi. What can ashes do?’ she mused. ‘Rustle in their jar?’
Sam laug
hed awkwardly. ‘So, what did happen with that? And why was Erasmus there? Where did you scatter Miles?’
‘Oh. You do not want to know.’ Ali grimaced. ‘It was so bad. It might even be slightly illegal. I’m not sure.’ A server appeared with plates and instructions on the carvery, which was laid out under glowing heat lamps in the centre of the dark pub.
‘You can help yourselves to our buffet-style carvery. Feel free to go up as many times as you like. There’s also a cold buffet with starters like prawn cocktails and crab salad,’ he advised.
‘Brill, thank you.’ Ali smiled and, tucking the plate under her arm, moved toward the trays of meat and veg.
‘Hang on, wait up.’ Sam hurried after her.
‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m only the host body.’ She shrugged as she slapped a slab of meat-like something on her plate. ‘The lil parasite is in charge. I’m just doing its bidding, ya know? I think I’m going to need a separate potato plate,’ she muttered thoughtfully, scanning for the server.
Once they were settled back at the table, Sam began to fill her in on Schmiddy and Sinead’s wedding.
‘It’s huge. They’re having about 300 in Strokestown House. I’m a groomsman and I’ll be doing a short speech after the best man.’
‘Oooh, pressure. I wish I could be of some help, but we all know what happened the last time I was hauled up in front of a crowd.’ It was a gamble, she knew, to refer to the fateful night that Blake Jordan had announced she was pregnant at the Glossies WildCard launch. Luckily, Sam managed a laugh.
‘Yeah, maybe I could say I was pregnant and just kind of stun them into not even noticing how shit my speech is.’ He winked.
‘Just, please, whatever you do, don’t spend the whole speech going on about what a gas lad Schmiddy is and then be all “fair play to Sinead for taking him on, she’s a lovely girl”. I hate that. It always makes women out to be so boring. Just these totally bland, anodyne girls who will be “taking on” the burden of some “mad gas man”. Women are way fucking better than that. Dig up a bit of dirt on her too!’