Babies in Waiting (3 page)

Once she had finished, she left the flat and took a long walk along the Thames. She stopped for coffee, then walked some more. She stopped somewhere else on the river for lunch. By then she was tired and her feet hurt. She found a nearby cinema and sat through an afternoon showing of a really soppy romantic comedy. She was one of three people in the cinema, and the only one under sixty. It was exactly the brain popcorn she needed, and she switched off totally for the two hours of the film. Leaving the cinema, she decided to pamper herself and hailed a black cab. The cost was eye-watering, but the trip back to Simon’s flat was painless and speedy.

When she got upstairs, Simon was already there, stirring a pasta sauce that smelt of basil, tomato and luxury, and listening to classical music. He kissed her absentmindedly on the cheek and directed her to the fridge to get a drink.

She loved it that they didn’t need to talk. She poured herself a fruit juice and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, vaguely paging through the newspaper. Simon put a saucepan of water on to boil and took some beautifully yellow fresh pasta out of the fridge. Yes, it was excellent the way they could sit together in silence. Louise turned the page of the newspaper and stared unseeing at the words on the page. She sipped her fruit juice and sneaked a look to see if Simon was watching her. He wasn’t. He was carefully slicing cucumber, humming softly along
with the music. Ah yes. Companionable silence. So soothing. So refreshingly unusual, so, so
annoying!

‘Oh Christ, just ask!’ Louise burst out.

‘Ask what?’ Simon asked, innocently.

‘If I’m keeping it.’

‘Keeping what?’

‘Keeping it. Keeping the . . . the baby. My baby.’ As she said it, Louise felt something give gently in her heart, and the tears began to flow.

Simon stepped around the counter and wrapped his arms around her.

‘Well, old girl, there’s my answer.’

‘What?’ she hiccupped.

‘You called it “my baby”.’

‘I know. It’s all your bloody fault. You made it real. I tried to turn it into an inconvenience . . . a problem I could manage, but you came along with your pictures and your plans. Then I started looking at numbers . . . and let me say right now I really, really can’t afford to do this and your niece or nephew is going to grow up in rags and sleeping in a drawer . . .’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it. I’ll buy it John Lewis’ finest crib. Promise.’

Louise hugged him harder. The she spoke quietly. ‘When I started thinking about it as a possibility, I couldn’t unthink it. He or she is real now. I’m going to do it, Si. I’m going to have this baby. I’m terrified, totally terrified, and I have a million problems and no solutions, but I’m going to be a mum.’

‘And what about . . . ?’ Simon said carefully.

‘Brian? I don’t know. I’ll have to tell him. But I don’t want him involved in any way. I know he won’t want to be, but I want him to understand that I won’t ask for anything from him.’

Simon nodded. Whether he agreed or not, he clearly wasn’t going to say. ‘Well, first things first, you’re going to eat your dinner. Get your strength up, as Mum used to say,’ he said, giving her one last squeeze and taking the saucepan to the sink to drain the pasta. ‘Then we’ll sit down and look at numbers together and see what I can do to help.’

A couple of hours later, they sat side by side, staring at the computer screen. They’d been over the possibilities time and time again. They’d made a few plans, but things still looked pretty bleak for Louise.

‘It’s going to be tight and no mistake,’ said Simon.

‘Really?’ said Louise tensely. ‘Looking at this, it looks like my choice is rent or food.’

‘I keep telling you, I’ll give you money . . .’

‘Si, I can’t take your money. If, like you said, when I first move down here I can stay with you, that’ll be a big help. But I can’t be your charity case.’

‘You’re not a charity case. You’re my sister. And that’s my niece- or nephew-to-be.’

‘I know, I know, but you have your own future to think about. You might want to travel. You might get a great new job offer. Who knows? Mr Right might be just around the corner.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Not rubbish! And if he is, I don’t want you to miss out on opportunities because you’re financially and emotionally tied up with me and my problems!’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts. I’ll stay with you for three months. Just long enough to get me on my feet one way or another. Then I want you to be the best uncle in the world. But that’s it, okay?’

‘Can I still buy the crib?’

‘You can still buy the crib.’

‘And lots of cute outfits?’

‘Go crazy. The cutest you can find.’

‘And can I be at the birth?’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Not at the business end. Good Lord. I’ve made a lifestyle choice never to view women from that angle. I’m not about to start now. But I could stand at your head and say encouraging things and mop your brow.’

‘It’s not a film, Si . . . it’s messy. There’ll be blood and screaming.’

‘There’ll be no screaming! You’re made of tougher stuff than that. You can maybe purse your lips a little bit.’

‘Well, let’s both learn a bit more about the whole thing, and then we’ll decide. To be honest, I don’t know the first thing about babies, or giving birth or pregnancy for that matter.’

‘Really?’ said Simon, ‘I thought at your age . . .’

‘Thanks a lot. You thought I’d have lots of friends having babies?’

‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘I’m sure women my age are popping them out all the time, but not my friends. Actually, most of my friends are men anyway, and the ones who do have children don’t really talk about them a lot. I’m a working woman, Si, not a member of some yummy-mummy Surrey set.’

‘Oh Lord,’ Simon said suddenly.

‘Oh Lord what?’

‘Speaking of Surrey yummy mummies, or not mummies as the case may be . . .’

‘Rachel,’ Louise said soberly.

Rachel was the youngest of the Holmes siblings. She’d studied Media at university and worked for a short time in marketing for an investment bank, before marrying the richest, handsomest banker on the trading floor. She’d then immediately given up work and stayed at home in Richard’s Surrey pile, waiting to fall pregnant with the first of the three perfect blond children that she would spend her life raising. She filled her days with charity work and volunteered as a classroom assistant at the local nursery . . . all things she could drop at a moment’s notice as soon as she conceived. Unfortunately, ten years later, there was no sign of the blond children. Rachel had undergone every test under the sun. Richard had been shunted off to have his sperm count checked. There was nothing physically wrong, yet Rachel could not get pregnant.

Both Simon and Louise didn’t have much to say to a
sibling who had never really worked. She had no idea of the day-to-day realities of earning a living, having to save for something you wanted, or being too busy at work to listen to a twenty-minute-long description of something a cute child in the nursery she worked at did today. Rachel was quite clever enough to know they found her boring. She also knew Simon and Louise were very close and she was horribly jealous of their easy and intimate relationship. She wooed Simon constantly, playing on the fact that he lived so close to her, and she patronised Louise whenever they spoke, not so subtly implying that Louise was well on her way to becoming a dried-up spinster, or a hairy-legged, feminist ball-breaker.

And now, this had happened. Louise had achieved the one thing Rachel couldn’t do without even trying. Not only that, but Simon was closely involved. There was no doubt about it. Rachel was going to be devastated.

‘Yes, Rachel,’ Simon said. ‘I didn’t tell you this before, because, frankly, we’ve had one or two other things to discuss. But she heard you were coming down to see me, so we’re expected for lunch on Sunday.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Exactly. Do we tell her?’

‘And have her go on at me for the whole meal? No thank you.’

‘Or she could find out later, and work out that we knew when we were there for lunch and didn’t tell her?’

‘Would she care?’

‘Would she? She’s got nothing else to think about.

Babies, fashion, gossip and family drama. Even if there wasn’t drama in this situation, she’d make some.’

‘So what’s your suggestion?’

‘Tell her. Tell her everything with the minimum of fuss and give her lots of details. It’ll keep her busy for a while. If you like, you can pretend I don’t know and you’re confiding in her first.’

‘She’d never buy that.’

‘No, you’re right. You two have never been joined at the hip.’

‘I’m sure I can make it sound like I need her help too, though.’

‘Good call.’

Louise laughed suddenly and clutched Simon’s arm. ‘Good God. I don’t believe I have to go to lunch with Rachel and Richard and endure a major family trauma, and I can’t even drink!’

That Sunday, Louise and Simon took the train down to Oxshott. Richard roared up to the station in his 4x4 Porsche and whisked them along the winding roads back to the house. Rachel, as always, had created a perfect social setting. They walked into the house to be met with the scent of lilies and roses. She’d arranged a huge bowl of flowers in the entrance hall. Moving into the living room, the smell of roast lamb wafted to meet them, and soon that was blended with a waft of Rachel’s expensive perfume as she swept out to kiss them. She was very slim, Louise noticed. Her hair was an expensive shade of blonde
and her skin was polished and much more bronzed than you’d expect for a chilly January.

‘You look lovely,’ Louise said. It was true. She liked to dress smartly and stay in shape, but even with all the time and money in the world, she’d never have Rachel’s expensive elegance.

‘Thanks, Lou. You look . . . fine,’ Rachel replied. She turned to kiss Simon. ‘Hello, gorgeous brother.’

‘Drinks?’ Richard boomed, rubbing his hands together. He and Rachel liked to play very traditional couple roles. He’d never dream of setting foot in the kitchen, and she wouldn’t have poured a G & T if her life depended on it.

‘A gin for me, please, Richard,’ Simon said quickly.

‘And I’ll just have a fruit juice,’ said Louise. Richard looked at her as if she’d just made fun of his golf game. ‘I’m on antibiotics. Teeth,’ she explained. He relaxed a little, although he was still clearly horrified that someone would miss out on a pre-lunch tipple.

‘And a sherry for me, darling,’ Rachel chipped in. ‘Simon, you must see the blinds I had made. The most perfect shade of duck-egg blue.’

Richard got the drinks, and Simon walked around the living room with Rachel, making the right noises about the additions to her decor. Louise stood slightly awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to get in the way. Their plan was that they’d wait till lunch was underway before dropping their bombshell. They’d decided that if Richard had a few drinks in him and Rachel had been softened by an endless stream of compliments about her
home and food, the fallout might not be too ghastly. Still Louise found herself wishing it was all over already. She had a sick feeling low in her stomach, as if she was waiting to see the headmaster.

Simon and Rachel had finished their grand tour and Richard had placed drinks in everyone’s hands. ‘Cheers, dears!’ Rachel said brightly and raised her glass. ‘Lovely to have you both here, for once!’

Just as Louise opened her mouth to reply, the doorbell pealed.

‘They’re here!’ Rachel trilled. ‘Let them in, Richard!’

‘Who’s here?’ Simon asked as Richard went to open the door. He exchanged a quick glance with Louise. This was an eventuality that hadn’t even occurred to them . . . other guests.

‘Our dear, dear friends, David and Samantha Hamilton,’ Rachel explained. ‘David is Richard’s boss, and they play golf together
all
the time. So Sam and I are golf widows and console each other . . . although we’re on quite a few of the same committees!’

So this was an aspirational lunch . . . Rachel and Richard were showing off for the boss and his wife, and Simon and Louise had been invited to provide some family colour.

David and Samantha came in, with Richard rubbing his hands behind them like a toadying Dickens character. David was tall, with a mane of silver hair that he wore a fraction too long, and a handsome, if slightly hard face. Samantha was blonde and Louise suddenly saw where her sister’s polished new look came from: she was trying to
be a Samantha clone. There was air-kissing, introductions and drink-pouring, and everyone sat down in the living room. Simon squeezed Louise’s hand surreptitiously. Their announcement would obviously have to wait. Rachel rushed off to bring in trays of appetisers, and Richard and David started teasing each other boringly about golf.

‘So! David!’ Rachel said brightly, as she handed him a blini with caviar. ‘This is my sister I’ve told you so much about. She’s quite the career girl! She works at a printing shop.’

‘Actually, I run a branch of a printing company,’ Louise said, hating herself for rising to the bait. The way Rachel had said it, it made her sound like she tottered about photocopying things for people. ‘We’re one of the largest high-volume printers in England. Barrett and Humphries?’

David nodded dismissively, and carried on telling a story to Richard about someone called Binky and some futures. Louise wished heartily she could slurp up an enormous glass of wine to make the afternoon go quicker. But there was no wine for her, and the meal seemed to go on forever. Rachel kept bringing out course after perfectly made course, and making slightly barbed comments at Louise while fawning over her guests. Louise toughed it out, teeth gritted, determined to stick out the meal and get a chance to chat to her sister on her own. But she soon had to admit defeat. There was no way they’d be able to outstay the Hamiltons – David and Richard had gone on to cigars and brandy, as if they were members of the Victorian gentry. So an hour or so later, Louise and
Simon managed to excuse themselves, making excuses about her early start.

They were both quiet on the train on the way home. Simon broke the silence when they got back to the flat and were curled up on the sofa with cups of tea.