Babyville (18 page)

It's sheer and utter bliss.

“Do you want a Bounty?” he asks, midway through the afternoon.

“Mmm,” I groan luxuriously from the comfort of my cushions.

“Right.” He flings on his jacket. “I'm just popping out to the garage. Anything else you need?”

“I wouldn't mind some coronation chicken.”

“You're still hungry after the roast beef?” Aghast.

“Not hungry. Just, you know. A bit peckish.”

“We've got chicken and mayonnaise. I'll see if I can get some curry powder.”

“Great. Thanks.” I've already switched my focus back to the television set, usually a video Mark will have got out for the afternoon, and thankfully we both share the same cheesy taste in old films.
It's a Wonderful Life; Harvey; Some Like It Hot; Gone With the Wind.
Many's the Sunday we've lost ourselves in a fantasy world of an age gone by. The last couple of weeks I've stayed the night.

Don't be ridiculous.

In the guest room of course.

And
that is the most extraordinary thing. Aside from the fact that I am carrying his child, I cannot believe that Mark and I ever had sex. In fact, even though I am carrying his child there are times when I think that perhaps it was an immaculate conception and that I simply dreamed that whole night in Soho.

I even had to ask Stella, just to be on the safe side. Was I actually there?

Mark has become my best friend. He is the first person I turn to when I want to share my news, or have a night out, or just have a laugh. He's always there for me; always steady, reliable, secure. He makes me feel safe, and comforted, and loved. And I mean that in a platonic sense.

Because he's the last person in the world I could ever fancy.

I know I fancied him that night. I have a vague memory of the sex being fantastic, but I still can't quite believe that that was Mark. Mark. The same Mark that's sitting opposite me draining a can of Coke and emitting indecently loud burps every few seconds.

“You're revolting.” I'm smiling.

“God, I know.” He makes a face. “Lawyers are such pigs, aren't they?”

“Not all lawyers. Just you.”

Mark burps particularly loudly and grins. “You could have chosen any man to be the father of your baby, but you chose me.”

“Trust me,” I say. “If I had to make my choice all over again, it would be a very different story.”

But of course it wouldn't be, because, while I don't fancy him in the slightest, he has become, other than Viv, my most favorite person in the whole world, and I cannot think of a better person to be raising my child with. I love the idea that my child will be half mine and half Mark's. To be honest I can't think of a better combination. Other than me and Steve McQueen of course. And that, clearly, is not in the cards.

“You know what you are?” I say, later that afternoon, as Mark sits on the floor tinkering with some Victorian lamps we picked up at a garage sale this morning. (A 6
A.M.
start. I wouldn't recommend it.) “You're the brother I never had.”

Mark makes a face. “Now that really is sick. Disgusting. You're accusing me of incest.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I mean just in terms of us. Our relationship. I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable with anyone other than my family. That's what I meant. You know you're my best friend.” I'm not sure quite what's come over me, because spontaneous outbursts of affection are really not my style, but I don't think I ever really knew how important it was to have someone before.

And I don't mean an “other half.” I just mean someone to share things with. Someone like a best friend. Or a brother. Someone like Mark.

Mark stops tinkering and smiles at me. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Shit,” I mumble, opening
Marie Claire
and pretending to be immediately engrossed in the film reviews, the embarrassment of having been so open starting to hit. “I didn't mean it.”

“Yes, you did. And thank you. That's lovely to hear, and just for the record I feel exactly the same about you.”

“I'm the brother you never had?”

“No. You're the pain in the arse little sister I never wanted. Ouch.” I hit him over the head with the rolled-up
Marie Claire
. And then he sits back and looks at me thoughtfully. “Seriously, Maeve. You've really changed since you became pregnant.”

I snort. “Because you knew me so well before.”

“I didn't have to. I only had to look at you to see how hard you were. You're much softer. More vulnerable. If you pushed me I might say you're a much nicer person.”

“Uh-oh.” I make a face, turning back to the magazine and flicking. “I'm not sure that's such a good thing. No one's frightened of me at work anymore.”

And
although the fact that I don't seem to wield the same power at work bothers me ever so slightly, secretly I like what Mark has just said. I like the way he makes me feel.

Secretly I'm very, very pleased.

18

The secret's out.

Admittedly at six months it's pretty bloody difficult to hide a pregnancy, and now everyone says that they'd suspected for ages but didn't want to say anything in case I'd just put on weight.

Although all the mothers said they knew.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mike Jones wearily when I went up to his office to tell him. This time for real. “So tell me something else I didn't know.”

“How did you know?” He was the first person I'd told, but I was still shocked.

“You've been shouting at people and bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Half the time you walk around looking as if you're in a dream world, and you're eating like a pig but the only place you're putting on weight is your stomach and your . . .” He grins and shrugs. “I'd have to be a fucking idiot not to realize, especially when you'd already told me.”

“So my joke didn't fool you?”

“Nothing gets by me. So now there are two major questions, the first being what are you going to do?”

“As in, am I going to stay?”

He nods.

“Mike, I love this job. I love everything about London Daytime Television, and I still remember everything you said at my interview about the sky being the limit. I never wanted to get pregnant. I never wanted to have a baby, but, now I am, I think it's going to be fine. I'm not mother-material, though, and the last thing on earth I want is to leave my job.” Mike nods approvingly. I carry on. “I have a fantastic support system and of course I'll need to take three months' maternity leave, but that's it. You have my word that I'll be back here to pick up exactly where I left off.”

“Temper tantrums and tears?”

“Um, no. That's just hormonal hell. You'll have the old Maeve back after the baby, and I'll make sure
Loved Up
gets six million.”

“Six million? That's impressive. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I'm sure.”

“That still leaves me with the problem of what to do when you're away for three months.”

“You haven't got a problem. Stella Lord. She's your answer.”

He looks at me, interested.

“Stella works harder than anyone else, she's brighter than anyone else, and she's more ambitious than anyone else. It's about time she was given a chance to prove herself.”

“And you're not threatened? What if she's so good that we don't want you back?”

“Luckily I'm not that insecure.”

If only that were true.

But Stella is the only person I trust to take over while I'm away. She's the only person who will ensure we get those ratings. I could get six million viewers with Stella in the hot seat. I could trust that she would make the same decisions as me.

“I think you've got a point. Ask Stella to come up and see me this afternoon. I'll see how she feels about it.”

“She'll be over the moon.”

“I'm sure. So, now it's time for the second question.” Uh-oh. I know what's coming. “A little bird tells me that rumors have been flying about you and Mark Simpson. Who's the father?”

“Could I tell you to fuck off and that it's none of your business?”

“No. I'd fire you.”

“Okay. Mark Simpson is the father.”

His mouth falls open. “Fuck me. You're joking!” There is genuine shock on his face.

“What? You already said the rumors had been flying. Don't look so surprised.”

“I was joking. I was joking about the rumors. I've just seen you having a drink in the bar with him a couple of times. Fuck.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I wouldn't have thought he'd be your type.”

I don't bother telling him Mark's not my type. That we've come to an arrangement. It's too complicated to explain, and frankly it's just easier for people at work to assume we're together for now. We can always tell them we've split up later.

“Why wouldn't he be my type?” I am slightly curious, despite myself.

“He's not exactly Mr. Outgoing, is he?”

“You're only saying that because the two of you are completely different. Doesn't mean he's a bad person.”

“Nah, nah, don't get me wrong. I don't think he's a bad person. I think he's a good bloke, but I wouldn't have thought he was interesting enough for you.”

“You mean you think he's dull?”

Mike has the good grace to look guilty. “Not dull, but not a challenge. I thought you'd like difficult men. Challenging. Jack-the-lads.”

Rather like you, I think. “Actually,” I say defiantly, “that's exactly what I love about him. He's the most stable person I've ever met. He gives me a security that I've never had before, and I know exactly where I stand with him. He has integrity. He phones exactly when he says he's going to phone, and does exactly what he says he's going to do. There are no games, and I've never been happier in my life.”

Mike looks as shocked as I feel.

Christ.

Where did all that come from?

 “I couldn't
resist. I know I'm naughty, I know I shouldn't, but I just couldn't resist.” Viv's trying to look apologetic as she heaves a huge plastic bag into the living room, but she can't wipe the smile off her face, her excitement at being a grandmother.

“Viv!” I try to admonish, but my heart isn't in it. I've been dying to buy things for the baby, but Mark won't let me. He's suddenly decided he's superstitious, and has stated firmly that neither of us can buy anything for the baby or the nursery until I'm in my eighth month.

It's been such a struggle to walk past Baby Gap and their gorgeous tiny sleepsuits. Such a struggle not to pop up to the fifth floor at John Lewis and spend an hour or so looking at cots and blankets.

So when Viv guiltily pulls out a tiny little pair of green dungarees with a matching jacket, I swoon with excitement, and when she pulls out a yellow-and-white striped sleepsuit, I almost pass out with joy.

“Aren't they gorgeous?” she exclaims with delight. “Aren't they the most beautiful things you've ever seen?”

“Aren't they tiny?” I whisper, rubbing my stomach as baby protests by delivering a swift kick under my ribs.

“Is she kicking?” Viv stops still as I jump and keep rubbing, trying to calm the baby. Not that it's painful, but the shock always takes my breath away.

“It's not necessarily a she,” I say, although I'm sure it is. I'm absolutely convinced that this baby will be a girl. “And yes, she's kicking.”

“Can I feel?” Viv says in awe, and she moves over to sit next to me, placing her hand on my stomach. “Ah!” she gasps, as baby kicks, and we both start smiling broadly.

“Don't cry,” I warn, as tears fill Viv's eyes.

“I can't help it,” she laughs even as the tears trickle down her cheeks. “It's just so amazing. This gift of life.”

“It's more bloody amazing that you felt anything. Every time Mark's around and baby starts kicking, as soon as Mark puts his hand on my stomach, baby stops.”

“How is Mark?” my mother asks fondly, asking about the favored son-in-law, despite never having met him. I know it's strange, but I can't really see the point in them meeting, not yet. He's not my boyfriend, and I'm not looking for her approval, and besides I see Viv so rarely myself, that when I do I like to keep her all to myself.

“He's fine.”

“You're seeing a lot of him, aren't you?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“Are you . . . have you . . . well. What I'm trying to say is has anything happened?”

“Viv! I've told you. It's not like that.”

“But you make him sound so wonderful. And your eyes light up when you talk about him.”

“You know what? If I were the type to settle down, Mark would be everything I'd look for. If I wanted a partner, a husband, Mark is exactly the man I'd choose. But Viv, you know me. You know I'm allergic to commitment. I don't want a husband. I want a career.”

“The only thing I do know is that you're beginning to sound like a broken record.”

“What?” I bark. If she weren't my mother, I'd tell her to fuck off.

“I'm sorry, love. It's just that you've been saying that forever, even though your life has drastically changed. I could understand you saying that if you were still living the single girl's life with no responsibilities, but Maeve, you're having a baby. Your life will never be the same again, and your priorities will have to change.”

“Viv, a child doesn't have to change things. I'm going back to work after three months and Mark and I will raise the baby together. There are childminders or nurseries while we're at work. It's not like your day. Everyone does it now. It's far more normal for mothers to work than to stay at home. My life isn't going to change as much as you think.”

Viv doesn't say anything for a while, just smooths out the tiny outfits with a “You just wait and I'll tell you I told you so” expression on her face.

“Okay,” she says finally, meaning, “We'll see.”

“Okay,” I say finally. “So don't keep asking me about Mark in the hope that we're going to get it together and live happily ever after because I'm very happy on my own and I don't want to settle down. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I don't even sound convincing to myself.

I make Viv a cup of tea as a peace offering, because I don't want to have a row with her when I see her so rarely and love her so much.

“Show me what else you bought,” I chatter excitedly, dragging the bag over toward me as Viv's face, reluctantly, starts to brighten. “Oh! These are the smallest socks I've ever seen!”

“What about you, Mum? How's your life.” Peace is now fully restored. “I feel that these days all we talk about is me and the baby. I don't know anything about you anymore. What have you been doing? Any hot dates recently?”

“I thought grandmothers like me aren't supposed to have hot dates.” She's smiling and I know I've been forgiven.

“Don't be ridiculous. God, if I look even half as good as you when I'm your age I'll be a very happy woman. Actually”—I peer at her closely—“you are looking pretty fantastic. Have you done something?”

“Something like what?” Now she looks coy.

“Viv, you haven't had plastic surgery or anything like that?”

“Maeve! Don't be ridiculous! Where would I find the money for something like that? Not that I wouldn't mind having some of that collagen in my crow's-feet.”

“Crow's-feet? There's barely anything there. Anyway, they give your face character. And as for money, who knows, maybe you've got some wealthy sugar daddy.” I nudge her and she laughs. And blushes.

“Viv?” I'm shocked, because clearly there is something she's not telling me, and that's so unlike Viv, and I'm shocked because I suddenly realize how self-obsessed I have become since being pregnant. I haven't asked Viv anything about herself. Nothing.

But I can make amends now.

“Viv? Tell me why you're blushing.”

She sighs. And smiles. “Actually, I have been seeing someone lovely.”

“That's great!” I hug her. “No wonder you're looking so fantastic. It must be all the sex. So come on, who is he?”

“That's the problem,” she says, looking up at me, her face now serious. “I'm not quite sure how to tell you this so I'll just come out with it.” She takes a deep breath. “It's your father.”

I don't say anything. I can't say anything. My mouth falls open and I just sit there feeling as if I've been winded. Does that sound over-the-top? Well, I'm sorry, but I feel as if I have just been hit with a large sledgehammer.

“Maeve? Say something. Please.” My mother is pleading.

I start to shake my head.

“How can? How? Why . . .?” I don't know what else to say, I only know that my world feels as if it has been turned upside down. Not because my father is a bad person. Not because my father is completely incompatible with my mother. Not because I don't understand why they've got back together after all these years apart.

But because I don't actually know who he is.

Well, I know who he is in that I'd probably recognize him if I passed him on the street, because I used to study photographs of him for hours, trying to etch his face onto my heart.

I know his handwriting from the birthday cards and checks he'd send on my birthday. I'd probably even recognize his voice from the rare occasions when he used to phone.

But that was years ago. I haven't heard from him for nearly ten years. It just became too much of an effort. I kept trying to have a relationship, and he never seemed to be available. In the end I stopped trying.

So did he.

People sometimes ask me about my parents and I speak as if I only have a mother, and luckily no one pushes the point, too embarrassed to stray into territory that may involve death.

Viv sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “Maeve, there's so much you don't know, so much I never told you. I don't even know where to begin.”

“I can't believe you kept this from me,” I manage to splutter.

“I didn't know how to tell you,” she says sadly.

“So how long has this been going on?”

“About six months. Give or take.”

“How could you not have told me?”

She sighs again. “I was frightened. I didn't know what you'd say. And I didn't know whether it was serious.”

“Is it?”

She nods.

“Viv, how could you? He abandoned us! He left you a single mother and had pretty much nothing to do with me, with us, ever since. How can you forgive him?”

“Maeve, it's been a long, long time. Your father was the great love of my life, but he wasn't ready to settle down. I gave him an ultimatum when I fell pregnant with you, and he accepted because he loved me and didn't want to lose me, but he wasn't ready for the responsibility of a wife and child.

“He wasn't ever a bad person,” she continues. “And although I was devastated, a part of me understood. It was the seventies. All of us living outside London had a delayed reaction to the free love and sex of the sixties. It didn't hit us until about 1972,” she laughs.

“You know his biggest regret is you. All he talks about is you. He's sat through all the home movies I ever took of you as a child about a thousand times. He's gone through every photo album. He wants to see you. To apologize. To explain.”

“How do you know he's not going to do the same thing again?” I say bitterly.