Babyville (17 page)

“Your house is lovely,” I said, pretending not to have noticed that it's probably one of the biggest houses I'd ever been into. Pretending not to be impressed by the large square entrance hall and steps down into a bright, airy kitchen. Pretending that I, too, lived in a house much like this one. Only smaller. Much, much, much smaller.

“Drink?” he said, pouring what looked suspiciously like carrot juice into a glass.

“That looks disgusting. I think I'll pass.” I sniffed it gingerly.

“It's not disgusting. It's delicious. And it matches your hair. It's a homemade mango and banana smoothie. Delicious and nutritious. Try it.”

I tried it. It was delicious (and nutritious). “Mmm. Something smells completely amazing.” I eyed the various saucepans on the stove and noted that the smell was definitely coming from the oven. “Who'd have thought the London Daytime lawyer would be a cook.”

“There's only one thing I enjoy more than a bloody good litigation, and that's slaving over a hot stove. Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and I sat, grateful for his kindness.

“See how solicitous I am?” He took my coat and left the room to hang it up.

“Not bad for a solicitor,” I grinned, as he offered me a choice of snacks.

“What? No nuts?” I couldn't help it. I'd peeked into the books he'd bought me, and I knew that pregnant women who binge on nuts often end up giving birth to children with severe peanut allergies. And I knew he'd know this too.

“Er, haven't got any, I'm afraid. You're not, um, craving nuts, are you?” Mark looked so worried, he was so transparent, that I started to laugh.

“Relax.” I slurped my smoothie. “I haven't had a single peanut in at least three months.”

His sigh of relief was audible.

I stood up and wandered into the living room, looking at the few photos dotted around, examining his bookshelves, idly picking up CDs and putting them back, when I realized that, were it not for the fact that I knew Julia had left only a few weeks ago, I would have thought that Mark had never shared this house with anyone. There wasn't a single sign of a woman living there. Nothing.

The photos were all of people I didn't know. None, incidentally, of Julia. The books were mostly legal tomes, or biographies, or nonfiction stuff that I would assume was typically male, and there seemed to be nothing that would belong to a woman.

“How come there isn't anything of Julia's around?” I asked, wondering whether it was still too painful for him, whether he had already had a chance to remove everything.

Mark came into the living room and topped up my smoothie. “I know this sounds completely weird but last week I was thinking exactly the same thing. And then I realized that there never was. She never felt at home here. She always felt the house was mine. That it was too big for her. And I never noticed that she never had anything here, any stuff.”

“So why did you buy it?”

“I loved it here. Still do, and I suppose I was selfish. I knew Julia loved her small house, loved small, cozy rooms, but I thought she'd get used to it. I thought that it was inevitable she'd fall in love with it. But now I know she always felt overwhelmed by the size.

“Can you believe I didn't even realize until she'd gone that there was nothing of hers around? That's how selfish I was.”

“I don't think that sounds selfish. I think it just sounds as if you were two very different people.”

“So tell me something else I didn't know.” He smiles sadly.

“Maybe I shouldn't ask this, and if it's none of my business that's fine, but what's going to happen when she comes back from New York?”

“She's not coming back.”

“What?”

“She called two days ago. She's been offered a job with BCA, and she's going to take it.”

“Jesus. Has she told anyone at work?”

“No, so do you mind not saying anything?”

“No! Not at all.” I looked at him closely, “So how do you feel?”

“Sad at the loss of our relationship, but relieved at the same time. I think more than anything else I feel an enormous sense of relief. I'm sure what I'll miss most is being in a relationship, but even that's ridiculous because we barely spent any time together. Anyway, enough about me.” I could see he was growing uncomfortable talking about it. “Are you hungry? I think it should be just about ready.”

We
went into the kitchen and sat down to carrot and coriander soup, with hot, crusty French bread.

I slurped it up, starving, then sat back, eagerly awaiting the main course.

“This is so delicious,” I moaned, three mouthfuls into roast lamb with crispy roast potatoes and homemade mint sauce. “I haven't eaten like this since I lived at home.”

“That's what Julia used to say when we first met. But then I think she got bored.”

“Bored with roasts? Is she mad?”

“Bored with living with someone who loves being at home.”

“Oh please. Home is the best possible place to be.”

“Now you're surprising me.” Mark raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You're a party girl. A career woman. Home life isn't your thing, surely.”

“It's precisely because I work so hard that home is so important to me. The last thing I want to do after work is go out and live it up. But ssshhh,” I whispered, “don't let my secret out. Meanwhile,” I continued, “I love being at home, by myself, being totally selfish and not having to compromise for anybody. Whereas you, on the other hand, are a completely different kettle of fish.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someday, Mark, you'll make someone a wonderful wife.”

“Only if ironing isn't written into the marriage contract.”

“Oh, so you mean there is something you're not good at?”

“I didn't say I wasn't good at it. I, naturally, am God's gift to ironing,” he said, grinning, “but it's the one thing I can't stand, the one thing I pay someone else to do.”

“Together with a cleaner, a gardener, and God knows how many others it takes to help you look after this palace.”

“A cleaner, yes. I'll grant you Lizzy, who comes in twice a week, but gardener? Absolutely not. See these fingers?” He extended his hands and they were really very nice. Big hands. Strong hands. Oooh. Imagine what those hands could do (for I had forgotten what those hands had already done). A shiver ran through me. No, Maeve. This was the very last thing I needed.

I nodded, still staring at his fingers.

“Alan Titchmarsh has nothing on these fingers. My fingers are so green they're practically in bud.”

I started to laugh.

After
lunch I collapsed onto the fabulously squishy sofa in the living room, while Mark tried to froth some milk for my decaf cappuccino.

And then I woke up.

The lights were dim. It was dark outside, and for a moment I was completely disoriented. And then I saw Mark, sitting on the sofa opposite me, reading the
Sunday Times.
A fire was crackling and I sat up quickly, embarrassed by having fallen asleep, horrified at the rudeness, at the thought of having dribbled all over his cushions in my unconscious state. Or worse.

Mark glanced over the top of his paper at me and smiled.

“Hello, Sleepy. Or should I say Grumpy?”

I was in no mood to smile back. I know what my hair looks like after I've fallen asleep on a sofa. “Tea?” he said, and I nodded gratefully, watching him as he walked out of the room and wondering idly why on earth a man like him hadn't been snapped up years ago.

Not that I was interested. I didn't feel anything more that afternoon than I did that morning. I'd had a lovely day, and he was everything I thought he was (except he didn't learn violin at school, it was the clarinet, and his first car was neither an MGB nor a Triumph Stag but an E-type Jaguar); however, I wasn't interested in him in that way.

But the one thing I did have to concede, as I fought off the tiredness driving home later that evening, was that it had been lovely being looked after all day. I hadn't ever been looked after before. Only by Viv, and I wasn't sure that really counted.

Oh and one other thing. I agreed to go for a scan.

Just to be on the safe side.

17

I'm still not altogether sure
why I agreed to have the scan. I was tired, it had been a long day, and I felt so comfortable, so nurtured, I didn't want to spoil it all by having an argument.

And I really could see that Mark would be a wonderful father.

Which helped.

I suppose I'd never thought of the reality of the situation before; had only thought I'd be saddled with a child I didn't want; that I'd turn into a stressed-out single mother who tried desperately to juggle her child with a career and a string of unsuitable boyfriends.

But after that day at Mark's, after seeing what he was like, where he lived, how he lived, I could see that I wouldn't be on my own, and more than that I could see that it wouldn't have been fair to deprive him of what he so desperately wanted.

We could share a child, I started to think on the way home. Maybe Mark would have the child during the week and I'd have it on the weekends. A picture of a little girl, looking just like me, forced itself into my head. A little girl wearing those cute little OshKosh dungarees (for no child of mine would be made to wear frilly pink dresses), a little girl so sweet and good that everyone would stop to smile at us, marvel at how I, the head of London Daytime Television (if you're going to have a fantasy there's no point in being half-assed about it), managed to bring up such a beautiful well-behaved child as well.

She'd be the perfect accessory.

We'd go to the park wearing big boots and woollen hats, and handsome single men would find us irresistible. We might even have to get a dog. And maybe a holiday home on the coast somewhere. Not too far, maybe near Viv, but we could play on the beaches and spend our evenings reading Dr. Seuss in front of the fire.

I could teach her everything I know, watch her grow into a little person with her own thoughts, own opinions, and I could stand back proudly as she grew into a beautiful woman.

Hmmm. A little me is really rather enticing.

So when Mark gently suggested it might be a good idea to see a doctor and book a scan, I agreed.

What harm can it do?

Although it doesn't mean I've made a decision.

It doesn't mean I'm definitely keeping the baby.

Not definitely.

 “Can
you see the leg move?”

I'm lying on a table, craning my head around to see the screen, while the sonographer presses down on my stomach, keeping her eyes on the screen, stopping only to note measurements.

Mark's sitting next to me, holding my hand, which in other circumstances I might find off, but in these is enormously reassuring. We're both staring at the screen, and I don't know what the sonographer's talking about because I can't see anything at all other than a greenish tunnel, and suddenly my heart flips over and Mark and I gasp, squeezing each other's hands tightly.

“Oh my God!” we whisper in unison. “Did you see that?” And suddenly the screen becomes clear. There is a tiny leg kicking up in the air, and we follow the leg up as we start to define the shape of a baby. My baby. Our baby. A living being inside of me.

Oh my good God.

I turn quickly to Mark, who has tears in his eyes and a huge smile on his face, and we grin wordlessly at one another before turning quickly back to the screen so we don't miss anything.

“Can you see the spine?” She presses down to the left and points at the screen and I nod, a lump suddenly in my throat.

“Whoops, the baby's on the move,” the sonographer laughs, and I watch in awe as an arm stretches out and the baby arches its back.

I start to laugh. And cry.

“Don't worry,” she says, handing me a tissue from a box at her side. “First-time parents often find it a bit overwhelming. It's incredible, isn't it? That's your baby!” She smiles indulgently at us. “Everything seems to be fine. See that flickering there?”

A tiny flickering, barely noticeable.

“That's the baby's heartbeat. Nice and strong. You're thirteen weeks and four days? Five days?”

I nod. Thirteen weeks and five days exactly.

“The measurements are incredibly precise at this stage,” she says, “so the due date is . . .” She turns to check but Mark and I get there first.

“The thirty-first of October.”

“Spooky,” she says, grinning, and I don't laugh, because it is at exactly this point that I know there's no going back. No way. No how. My life, from this moment forward, is irrevocably changed.

She carries on for a while, and I try to follow the shape of the baby, but every time the screen changes all I can see are indistinct markings, and after a while I stop looking and turn to Mark.

“You okay?” he whispers, giving my hand a squeeze.

I nod. “You?”

“I think this is the greatest day of my life,” he says, smiling.

I smile back.

I don't need to tell him I feel exactly the same way.

Mark
drives me home and goes into the kitchen to heat up a can of Heinz tomato soup for me (can that really be called a legitimate craving?), while I head for the wardrobe and pull out the plastic bag from Books Etc.

Page 36 of
What Does My Baby Look Like Today?
tells me exactly what I wanted to know.

Welcome to the second trimester! If you've had morning sickness, it should be starting to subside, and miscarriage is less of a risk.

You should see your doctor and discuss what precautionary measures you should follow to avoid infection by salmonella, listeria, etc., and what tests you'll need to take, for example, toxoplasmosis.

What's Going On with My Baby?

The vocal cords are developing, and the voice box has formed. Your baby's intestines are now coiled and contained inside the abdomen, while the liver secretes bile and the pancreas secretes insulin. And now the really exciting stuff starts! Those little fingers and toes are no longer webbed and the nail beds have begun to develop.

“What are you doing?” Mark comes in and places a mug of soup on the bedside table, then sits next to me on the bed to look at the book. We sit in silence for a while, and eventually Mark touches my arm.

“Can we talk about this now?” he says gently. I nod. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared.”

“Does that mean . . .” He pauses. “You're going to . . .” He looks up at me, eyes filled with hope. “. . . Have this baby?”

“Of course I'm going to have this baby. It's a baby! There's a baby growing inside of me, for God's sake, and I've seen it! Mark!” I look at him and catch my breath as the full realization hits me in the face. “We're going to have a baby!”

“I know,” he laughs, putting his arms around me and enveloping me in a hug so tight I practically lose my breath. “Isn't it fucking amazing!”

Mark
stays for supper. I wish I could tell you I provide him with a similar gastronomic experience to his Sunday lunch, but in the event we order in a curry from the Indian restaurant in the village. I do, however, manage to supply the mango chutney.

We talk for a long, long time. At least it feels like a long, long time, but when I eventually say goodnight and climb into bed, thoroughly exhausted, I manage to catch sight of the clock just before I fall asleep, and it's 9:22.

What did we talk about? We talked about our child. About our values. About children of friends, and what we like and dislike about their upbringing, how we would do things differently with our own.

We didn't talk about the logistics. How two people will jointly raise a child when they are not together, but really, that's no big deal. Look at the divorce statistics in this country, for heaven's sake. Isn't it one in three? Or maybe even higher. It's just as normal for children to grow up in one-parent families, and at least our child won't be subjected to any bitterness or acrimony between its parents, because we were never together in the first place. Well. Barely.

Mark can fulfill his dream of being a father and I can carry on with my career just as I was before.

“The only thing is,” I said, when we'd exhausted our dreams, “how the hell are we supposed to tell everyone at work?”

“Ah yes. That had crossed my mind.” Mark sighed.

“I told Mike Jones I was pregnant just to see his reaction and he practically had heart failure in front of me.”

“What?” Mark was horrified. “You told him?”

“Don't worry. He thought I was joking. I just wanted to test him, and the result wasn't what I wanted to hear.”

“So don't tell anyone.”

“Oh, be serious. You think that somehow they won't notice?”

He shrugged. “You don't have to tell anyone yet. You're not showing, and we can work out the best way to tell people in a few weeks.”

“So you're okay about them knowing it's your baby?” I was flabbergasted.

“I want the whole bloody world to know it's my baby! Especially when everyone knew Julia and I were trying and presumed it was my fault when nothing happened. I don't just want to tell them, I want to commission a television series about it.”

“Good idea,” I mused. “But not great. Surely a whole series is just a touch over the top? How about a short thirty-second ad to go out just after
Coronation Street
for a week? That's much more low-key.”

He smiled, but his attention was elsewhere and I knew what he was thinking.

“Mark? What's the matter? It's Julia, isn't it?”

He smiled sadly. “I've been so excited I haven't even thought about Julia in all this. And I suppose if it isn't me, then it must be her, but even if there's nothing wrong at all, how in the hell is she going to take this?”

“Mark, if no one else is going to know for a while, then Julia doesn't need to know either. But when we do start telling people, make sure you tell her first. I can't imagine anything worse than Julia hearing this from someone else.”

“I know,” he said, nodding, still thinking about her pain. “I know I'll have to tell her myself.”

I am
a woman obsessed.

I am also a woman who is slowly losing her mind.

I have gone from pretending this baby never existed to longing for my belly to show, longing to be able to tell people that no, I'm not just fat, I'm actually pregnant.

I'm still being careful at work, careful to wear big, baggy clothes to disguise my ever-growing stomach, but I'm so desperate to talk about it, for people to know, I'm accosting strangers in order to share my good news.

“Excuse me? Do you have this sweater in a large because I'm nearly four months pregnant and nothing's going to be fitting me soon?”

“Hello? You don't know me, but my name's Maeve Robertson and I'm a friend of Stella Lord. She recommended I call you because the central heating's not working properly and I'm four months pregnant and for some reason I'm getting really cold so do you think you could send a plumber around today?”

“I'll have avocado, crabsticks, and coronation chicken on granary please. I know it sounds really strange but I'm four and a half months pregnant and I'm desperately craving coronation chicken but it could be worse, ha ha. At least I'm not craving anything weird like soil. Do you have any kids yourself?”

“You look like you're just about fully cooked! How many weeks are you? Thirty-six? You poor thing. Is this your first? I'm only twenty-two weeks and I'm completely shattered so I can't imagine how you must be feeling.”

I've resisted the urge to buy maternity clothes for ages, but now I can't resist it anymore. I did actually drive up to Formes at sixteen weeks. I walked in, looked around, and wondered why everyone in there was super-skinny and the sales assistants had to give them cushions to shove under their sweaters to simulate pregnancy.

“Are any of these women actually pregnant?” I whispered to one of the younger shop assistants.

“Oh yes,” she whispered back. “I think a lot of our ladies like to come in very early on. Wearing maternity clothes is often the first real sign of pregnancy and they can't wait to show it off.”

I turned and saw exactly what she meant, as a woman with model proportions idly flicked through the racks, wearing an empire-line smock that clearly had more space underneath it than Tower Bridge.

“Would you like to try anything on?” the assistant said, reaching behind the till. “We have cushions if you like.”

“I'm fine,” I said with a condescending smile as I headed toward the door, but I spent the journey home kicking myself. Me and my bloody pride. I was dying to try everything on.

Everyone
I reveal my pregnancy to is so kind, which makes it bizarre not to be able to reveal it at work, where everyone treats me as they always did. At work I'm still the same old Maeve Robertson. Only fatter. And more forgetful.

I can't tell which is worrying me more: the fact that my memory has gone absent without leave or that my waist has disappeared.

Of course no one would tell me I've put on weight, and I don't think anyone's guessed yet, but I'm definitely aware that, walking through a crowded canteen at one o'clock, I don't get anything like the admiring glances I did before.

“Do you swear I don't look enormous?” I whisper to Stella, as a floor manager on the breakfast show walks past and smiles at me, all hint of flirtation very much gone.

I want her to say I don't look fat, I look pregnant. I want her to validate me. I want her to give me permission to tell everyone.

“I swear you just look voluptuous and gorgeous.”

“So you can't see my bump?” I stick my stomach out, longing for her to say she can see my bump.

“That's no baby,” she laughs. “That's just a brie and onion baguette and a double-decker.” I laugh too. Even though it isn't the right answer.

“Are you sure I don't look enormous?” I say to Mark, lying on his sofa after we've watched the video of Lord Winston's
The Human Body,
marveling at the footage of a baby when it's still inside the mother.

It's a Sunday. We spend Sundays together now, Mark and I, and occasionally a couple of evenings during the week as well. But Sundays are a regular routine: I drive over to his house, he cooks a delicious meal, and I lounge about all day doing absolutely fuck all while he runs around like a headless chicken making sure the mother of his child is happy.