Babyville (13 page)

“Oh, Mark, what is it?” Surely the fast, furious fuck of a few minutes ago happened to someone else. I feel like a stranger again, and put an arm round his shoulders awkwardly to comfort him.

“I'm sorry,” he blurts out. “Oh fuck. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . Christ.” And neither of us knows what to say.

But I know one thing. I can't send this man home like this.

“I swear on my life that I'm not making a pass at you,” I say gently, feeling as if this whole situation is completely unreal, “and I understand that you might feel very awkward about this, but I think you need to talk to someone. Why don't you come back to my flat, just to talk? I'll make you some coffee and then you can go home.”

By
the time we walk through my front door, I'm really not sure whether anything actually happened. I look out of the cab window on the way home (it did take forever, but we finally got one) and wonder whether I fell asleep at the table and dreamed that I had the most passionate fuck of my life, with Mark, in a seedy alleyway on the way home. Wonder seriously whether it was only wishful thinking.

I make coffee and we sit on the sofa, a yard between us, neither wanting to be the first to speak, neither knowing quite why we are here.

“This is ridiculous,” Mark says. “First of all I don't know you, other than, um . . .” He has the good grace to blush, and I realize that it wasn't a dream after all. We definitely fucked or he wouldn't be blushing. He continues: “. . . and you work for the same bloody company and I can't believe what happened tonight, and now I can't believe I'm even here, and—”

“Mark.” I stop him, laying a hand gently on his arm. “I know this sounds bizarre but sometimes it's far easier to talk to strangers than it is to talk to people you know. I am renowned for many things, but what I am really famous for, other than my spectacular ability in bed” (I only threw that in to lighten things, and although it could have been entirely inappropriate it works and Mark does manage a small, sad smile) “is my discretion. This may be none of my business, but you don't seem happy, and you seem to be a man who is shouldering an extremely heavy burden. You don't have to explain anything to me, but, and I'm not saying this because I want a repeat performance, but I would like to help, and I'm saying that because I think you're a nice guy and you seem like you could do with a friend.”

I stop to breathe.

“I don't know where to start,” he says, before laughing bitterly. “If I started with the events of tonight you probably wouldn't believe me.”

“Go on. What happened tonight?”

He tells me he went home and found his girlfriend and one of her friends dressed in white sheets and dancing round some sort of occult circle, almost in a trance as the flames of the candles scattered round the room tried to lick the bottom of the sheets.

“It was actually quite beautiful,” he says, “but we ended up having a huge row because the whole premise of it was completely ridiculous. She's desperate to have a baby, has been for ages, and we can't get pregnant, and instead of actually doing something practical about it, going to see someone, she's doing these ridiculous things like making me carry juniper berries in my wallet because it's supposed to increase a man's potency, and dancing round these stupid bloody candles with penises on them.”

I can't help it. I start laughing. “What?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, candles with penises on them?” I don't even want to begin to describe the picture that flashes into my head.

“I don't know,” he says, shrugging. “There was a big candle with an erect penis carved into it.”

“Okay.” A thought occurs to me. “Do you carry juniper berries, then?”

Mark reaches into his inside pocket, opens his wallet and pours a dozen juniper berries on to the coffee table with a sigh. We both pick one up and examine it.

“It sounds like she's scared,” I offer finally.

“Of course she's scared. I'm scared too. But being scared isn't going to make her pregnant. She has to be more practical.”

“I understand that, Mark, but it must be the worst feeling in the world to not be able to get pregnant. I'd be lying if I said I understood it, because children are really not on my agenda, but I'm sure that infertility would compromise your very womanhood.”

“But what about me?” Mark says, and as he turns to look at me the pain in his eyes is frightening. “She said it was my fault. That she'd been pregnant and therefore I had to be firing blanks.”

“Jesus.” I let out a long whistle. “Did she actually say that?”

“Basically.”

“That's tough, Mark.” We sit in silence for a while. “Can I ask you something else?” He looks at me, and I'm not even sure I ought to be asking what I'm about to ask, but I can't not ask him, it's too urgent. “Do you actually want children?”

“Yes. Of course. I love children. I've always wanted children.”

“Okay, let me put it another way. Do you actually want children with Julia?”

It's a loaded question and Mark catches his breath. “What are you asking?”

“I'm asking whether you're happy with her. Happy enough to spend the rest of your life with her. To wake up next to her every morning, for her to be the one you kiss every night before you roll over to sleep.

“I'm asking you, Mark, whether, should you actually get what you're looking for, you want Julia to be the mother of your children. Your partner for the rest of your life. That's what I'm asking. That's all.”

There's a very long silence while Mark drops his head into his hands. At first I think he's crying, but after a while he looks up at me and his eyes are dry. “Once upon a time I would have said Yes. Definitely. But now I'm not sure of anything anymore.”

13

I love my mum. I mean,
I really, really love my mum. She's my best friend in the whole world and I've never understood how my friends can have so many problems with their mothers, because isn't it the most important relationship a girl should have?

Maybe it's because my parents divorced, because my mum and I only had each other, but throughout my teenage years, when my friends would turn up huffing and puffing about how much they hated their mothers and how stupid their parents were and would it be okay if they came and lived at our house, I thought my mum was fantastic.

She truly was the big sister I never had. It helped that she looked just like me, and that she didn't look very old, but then again she actually wasn't very old, as she had me when she was twenty, so when I was a teenager she was, Christ, she was pretty much the age I am now.

God, that's spooky. I could have a twelve-year-old daughter. I see women like that all the time. Women my age with that constantly harassed and tired look on their faces, pushing buggies, explaining things to toddlers, accompanied by pissed-off twelve-year-olds desperate to grow up and get away.

Children have never been part of my scheme of things. Should I spot a Mothercare looming on the particular street on which I'm walking, I will make sure I avert my eyes. So-called cute adverts featuring babies and their bottoms have never done it for me, it's just a cynical manipulation of emotions, and luckily I was born without the baby gene.

I'm not interested in babies, and I'm not interested in talking about babies. I could say they're not a part of my life, but unfortunately they have affected my life, as every time a friend rings me up to tell me excitedly she's pregnant, I'm expected to jump up and down with joy, when in fact my heart plummets to the floor.

And another one crossed off the Christmas card list, for I know exactly what will happen. The more sensitive friends will still see me when pregnant, and will manage to carry on a normal conversation. We will talk about work, friends, life, and men, although not necessarily in that order. I might ask how they are feeling, and they will say fine, and we will leave it at that. The less sensitive will sit there all evening and presume I am desperate to hear about their scans. They will presume I am fascinated by tales of their morning sickness, by amusing anecdotes they have built around their swollen feet to make their tales more palatable. They will bang on and on about pregnancy and babies, and nursery decoration, and I will be mentally checking off the minutes, and wondering how soon I can leave without seeming rude.

Although by that stage I'm not even sure I care.

However sensitive the friend, the final outcome is always the same. You send the obligatory card and flowers when the baby is born, and are then expected to pay a visit. You sit there, bored to tears as they cuddle a screaming infant, and try to look interested as you listen to them recounting their birth story for the hundredth time that week.

You go home filled with sadness, because however close you are, you know that's another friend you won't be seeing anymore. You won't have anything in common anymore, since you are not interested in babies, and they are no longer interested in life.

I shudder even thinking about it.

My amateur psychologist friends (the ones without babies) claim that I'm protecting myself from being hurt. I associate commitment, children, with my parents, and my parents with the pain I felt when my father left. They say I don't want to get married or have children because I'm scared.

I say it's because I have more important things to do.

And it's not as if I had a horrible upbringing, terrible parenting, and don't want to inflict that on any children of mine. Sure, the first year was tough. My mother was, to put it mildly, devastated. I'd bring her cups of tea when she was crying, and curl up next to her on the sofa, stroking her hair because that was what she used to do to me when I was upset, and I didn't know what else to do.

Eventually she cried less and less, and soon there was a series of friends passing in and out the door, none of whom was permanent, but all of whom helped to keep a smile on her face most of the time.

“Not ‘uncles,'” she'd say to me, when I questioned why friends of mine were allowed to call their mum's friends “uncle,” and why her friends were just Bob. Or Michael. Or Richard. I understand now, of course. She didn't want to be married. She didn't want commitment. Been there, done that, she'd laugh merrily. She wanted fun. She wanted to feel beautiful, and she wanted to be treated well. Naturally there was sex involved, but it was far more about the attention. And when she felt their attention waning, she'd move on.

So “uncles” implied a familiarity and a permanence that she neither wanted nor needed. A familiarity and a permanence that were never going to occur, even though some of them were really very nice. I remember being particularly fond of Bob. He clearly thought the way to my mother's heart was through her daughter, and, thanks to Bob, my Girl's World had more makeup than any of my friends'. Not only that, my makeup was real makeup and could be used on us as well.

The older I grew, the closer my mother and I became. Some said it was unhealthy, that there ought to be boundaries between a parent and a child, but I loved the fact that I could call her Viv and she didn't mind; that she'd borrow my ra-ra skirts and I'd borrow her jodhpurs; that when I decided to go on the pill at fifteen (not because I was actually doing anything but because I was hopeful), the person who accompanied me to the family planning clinic was my mother.

I loved the fact that after our respective dates had gone home, be it that night or the morning after, we would sit together on the sofa and recount every detail, giggle together, drink vodka and tonics when we were happy, and eat giant-sized Cadbury Dairy Milk bars when we were sad.

She lives in Lewes now. Still single. There are times when I think she ought to settle down. Not because she's unhappy, but because the older you get, the harder it is on your own, and because I think she deserves someone to take care of her. But she has her friends, her dog, and now her bridge, and she says that's all she needs in life. Oh, and me of course, which is why she's coming to see me this weekend.

 “So
come on, cagey.” Viv's had the guided tour of the Belsize Park flat (which took all of five minutes), and has whisked me up to town to do some shopping. We hopped on the bus at Swiss Cottage and are heading up Wellington Road toward Selfridges, also known, to my mother at least, as Mecca.

“Come on what?”

“I've seen the flat, I've seen how well London suits you, I've heard all about your work, but I haven't heard a murmur about your love life.”

“What love life?” I mutter darkly, because that's the one area that hasn't been going too smoothly. In fact, since that one episode in the alleyway with Mark, there's been nothing. And really, I can't count that. Yes, I found him incredibly sexy that night, but it was a true one-night stand if ever there was one, and not something either of us will be repeating.

“Didn't you mention something about a man at work? The, what was it . . . accountant? No! The lawyer. Didn't you have a bit of a fling with the lawyer at work? What happened to him? He sounded pretty nice.”

Bugger. I forgot I had spoken to her the next day, and had told her all about it.

“Nothing's going on,” I sigh, looking out the window. “Lovely guy, but he's got a girlfriend and he's at work so it would be complicated even if he didn't, and he probably isn't for me anyway.”

“Funny isn't it.” She turns to me. “I always thought if I moved to London I'd definitely find a man. I thought the streets were paved with men. I suppose, though, wherever you go, your life is still your life and you're still you. But I always thought things would be different in London. More glamorous. More exciting.”

“What do you mean, you thought you'd find a man? You never wanted a man, remember?”

She smiles. “Ah, is that what I said? I suppose I never found a man who matched my requirements.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “The more time I spent on my own, just you and me together, the more expectations I had. It wasn't enough that someone should be loving, or loyal, or good to you. I thought that he also had to be handsome and funny and clever and creative, and in those days I thought money was important too.”

“But those things are important,” I say, confused.

“They can be, but they're not crucial. I had relationships with wonderful men, but I expected too much from them, and always moved on thinking I'd find the perfect man out there. Someone with whom I would fall passionately in love, who was my soulmate. My other half.”

“You might still find him.”

“I think I found him many times,” she says sadly. “Except I wasn't prepared to compromise. Do you remember Bob?” I nod. “I see him sometimes at the Bridge Club. Lovely man. He was a lovely, lovely man, but do you know what? I thought he wasn't good enough for me because he was a builder. He loved you, he treated me like a queen, and we had fun together, but I was young, and arrogant, and I threw away a chance of real happiness.”

“Is he married now?”

“Oh yes. He married Hilary Stewart.” I draw a blank. “Remember Josephine Stewart? You were at school with her? A few years after Rodney died, Bob and Hilary started courting. And I hear they're very happy.”

“Jesus.” It comes out in a whistle, because Josie Stewart was the richest girl in the class. They lived in a huge white detached house and she was driven to school in a dark green Rolls-Royce. Jesus.

“So Hilary didn't have quite the same expectations, then?”

“Easier when you're not used to being on your own.”

“I can't believe you're saying all this. I always thought you were on your own because you wanted to be, because you were happiest on your own.”

“I'd be lying if I said I was unhappy. I had you, and we built a lovely life together, but would I have been happier with a man in our lives?” She shrugs sadly. “I suppose I'll never know.”

“But you're my role model.” I feel confused and I'm not altogether sure why. “You're the reason I give as to why I don't want to get married. I tell everyone about you, and about how you didn't need anyone, and about being happy as long as you have a support structure of friends and family around you.”

There's a pause before my mother answers. “Maeve, love,” she says, “do you have a good social life here in London? Do you have friends? Are you happy? I'm not saying you have to have a man to be happy, but I know how lonely life can be on your own, and I worry about you when I'm not living round the corner. I know how self-sufficient you are, and I know you think you're fine without a man, but don't do what I did. Don't sacrifice a wonderful man because of your principles, whatever they are.”

“Pfff,” I snort. “Chance would be a fine thing. London, as you can see”—I gesture outside to Baker Street—“is most definitely not paved with eligible men. Not even when you work in television.”

I love
that my mother doesn't even bother looking at Jaeger. We head straight up to the second floor at Selfridges, via the loo because I'm bursting, and hit the funkier, younger stuff. Within minutes I've got a tight green cardigan to try on, a hot pink stretchy top, and a pair of navy straight-legged narrow trousers. My mother's holding a black lace shirt that should be far too young for her but will definitely look fantastic, and a tight black skirt.

We share a changing room, and decide to take it in turns to try on, as it really isn't big enough for the both of us, but it's much more fun doing everything in pairs, so she perches on a stool while I try on the tops.

“Well, that's weird,” I say, because the cardigan, my normal size 8, is gaping in between each button, showing large expanses of white flesh.

“Have you put on some weight?”

“I didn't think so, although . . .” As I think about it, I realize that my clothes have definitely been feeling tighter. Just the other day, after lunch, I actually had to unbutton the waistband of my trousers to get comfortable. And strange only because my weight has barely fluctuated since I was a teenager. I'm a size 8, no more, no less.

Except clearly I am not. Anymore.

I try the trousers on and turn to look at my mother in confusion, because these aren't even meeting. Not even close enough to shout hello.

“They must be the wrong size. They must have labeled them wrongly.” I swivel to see the label, which is tucked inside at the back.

“Bugger. They are an 8. What do you think, Viv? Have I put on weight?” I feel a panic that I've never felt before, because I've never put on weight, never had to think about it, and this is an entirely new problem for me.

“Well, you are looking a tiny bit bigger. But tiny. Hardly noticeable.”

We both look at the clothes and look at my body. “Your boobs are rather large, though,” Viv says, peering closely. “You're not by any chance premenstrual, are you?”

I start to laugh. “That's why I love you, Mum.” I give her a hug, the buttons now almost popping off the cardigan. “I completely forgot about my bloody period.” I lean down and pull my diary out of my bag, and flick through as I am so completely crap about remembering my periods, I have to write down a large PD—Period Due—on the due date, except most of the time I even forget to do that.

“Shit.”

“What's the matter?”

“I must have forgotten again.” I flick back to the last period I wrote down, which was six weeks ago. Which would mean I'm due in two weeks' time. No, that can't be right.

“No, that can't be right.” I flick back and try to work it out again.

“So when are you due?”

“I don't know.” I hand the diary to my mother. “You work it out. Look, my period was on the twelfth of February, so I would have had another on the ninth of March, which means it's due on the third of April, so why have I got all the PMS symptoms now?”

Viv looks at the diary, then looks into space as she checks off her fingers, then back at the diary. “You did have a period on the ninth of March?” she says slowly.