Dear Thing (35 page)

She loved the baby, but she had no idea how she would go it alone. She couldn’t work out any way that this could end happily for everyone.

‘I’m the only one of the three of us who has no legal right
to the baby,’ she said. ‘So it doesn’t really matter what I think.’

Her mother sat down again and took both of Claire’s hands in hers. ‘If you believe that you are the best mother for this baby, and I can’t see how you wouldn’t be, then you must fight for him.’

‘I should see my lawyer.’

‘You should definitely see your lawyer. Do you want to talk with Mr Fredericks? Your father can give him a ring for you.’

‘It’s tempting, Mum. But I need to get used to doing things for myself. I just wish— I wish I didn’t understand her.’

‘You understand her?’

‘Of course I understand her. She wants all of the same things I want.’

‘You’re a better person than I am, darling. I want to rip her face off with my nails.’

‘Mum!’

‘I’m just calling it as I see it. When someone threatens your child, you become a mother bear. But you were always fair-minded.’

‘I wish I wasn’t,’ said Claire unhappily. ‘I love this baby, Mum. I was frantic when I thought we might lose him. And I dream about him, and think about holding him, and make plans for him. He was promised to me and I want him very, very much.’ She swallowed. ‘But I don’t want him more than Romily does. When I read Romily’s letters, he was there inside her words. She knows him. Much better than I do.’

‘You can learn to know a baby. You can learn to love him.’

‘But can you learn
not
to love him?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said her mother. ‘I’m so sorry, Claire. But I don’t think you can.’

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
, being thirty-seven weeks pregnant was fairly awful. Romily could barely fit in the shower, she couldn’t put on any shoes with laces, she huffed and puffed whenever she walked or climbed stairs, her bum hurt when she sat down and her ankles swelled when she stood up. She had itchy red stretchmarks on her belly, she had developed odd tags of skin on her neck, she needed an industrial-strength bra and she could not stop eating mince pies. She had to go to the toilet every five minutes and her back had been aching continuously for two days. She also cried at nappy ads – so much so that she had stopped watching any telly at all.

The nappy ad crying was worrying her. She had dealt with many gross things in the course of her career – some might say many extremely gross things – but a disposable absorbent wrapper filled to the brim with mushy baby poo was worse. She’d spent two years gagging every day until she had Posie safely potty-trained. She should not feel sentimental about nappies. But once this baby needed nappies, he wouldn’t be hers any more.

And then she was so very pregnant that every unavoidable
encounter with a stranger prompted questions about the baby’s due date, its name, its sex. Everyone was being kind, but her breezy ‘Oh, I’m a surrogate’ response had vanished, and it was torture to have to mumble a non-committal answer and move on as quickly as possible.

It was, she knew, the same way Claire had felt every time she saw someone else’s children.

Jarvis had offered to look after Posie tonight so that Romily could go out and relax, but she’d declined. She didn’t have anyone to go out with, for one thing. Even Hal was busy on Friday nights. And she hadn’t invited Jarvis to stay in with her after Posie went to bed, either. She didn’t need any more confusion in her life. Not now.

Instead she sat on the sofa with her feet up on a cushion and her laptop balanced on her belly, pretending to look for new research jobs by the light of their sparse artificial Christmas tree. When Thing kicked, the laptop jumped.

She’d promised Jarvis she wouldn’t shut down and avoid reality, for Posie’s sake. The problem was, what should she be doing instead? She’d helped Posie with her homework and spent as much time with her as she could. Jarvis had met them from school every day; this afternoon they’d done some Christmas shopping and decorated the tree, such as it was. She’d given Posie extra cuddles at bedtime, lying beside her in her single bed and talking. She’d tried to explain that Ben and Claire splitting up had nothing to do with Posie, and that probably it was temporary – but it was nearly impossible to explain to a seven year old what was really going on. It would help if Posie could see Ben or Claire, but Romily wasn’t brave enough to answer Ben’s text. She would. But not quite yet.

She should set up a playdate with someone from Posie’s class. She could screw her courage to the sticking point and
ask Eleanor about that. Posie had never mentioned being friendly with Eleanor’s daughter Emily, though at this point, that probably didn’t make much difference. But again … courage.

How could she get up the courage when she couldn’t even face turning on the television?

A knock at the door. Ben’s knock.

She had enough time to feel elation, panic, fear, longing as she carefully put the laptop on the coffee table, hauled her bulk off the sofa, bracing her aching back with her hand. It still didn’t prepare her for seeing him standing there, the punch of emotion.

His chin was rough. There were dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t wear a coat.

‘You look awful,’ she said.

‘I’ve got to talk with you.’

He came in. She could smell alcohol on him. ‘I’ve been to the pub,’ he said. ‘I needed a bit of courage.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘I wanted to say that— I just wanted to say— Where’s Posie? Is she asleep?’ Before Romily could answer, he went to the doorway of her room and looked in. After a long moment, he shut the door and came back. ‘I’ve missed her. God, so much.’

‘She’s missed you. She’s the one who sent you that text.’

‘Oh? Oh.’ He frowned, but didn’t say anything more. Romily waited, her heart thudding.

Ben knew everything about how she felt. For the first time since she’d met him, he knew.

It should be happy when someone knew you loved them. It should be the beginning of something. Not the end of everything.

‘How’s the baby?’ he asked, at last. ‘It’s a boy?’

‘Yes. He’s fine.’

‘You’re huge.’

‘Thank you.’

He sank into his chair, his head hanging, rubbing his face. Romily remembered another time when he’d looked like this, half-drunk and full of despair, that night in the pub when she’d offered to carry his baby. That was when this had all started.

Though if she wanted to be honest, this had all started years and years ago, when she’d realized she felt something more than he did, and instead of walking away, she’d stayed and hidden it as deep as she could. When she’d started lying.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘You’re sorry? No. No, Romily, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry about what I’ve done to you.’

‘What
you’ve
done to
me
?’

‘I saw Jarvis.’

‘Oh God. This is really messed up.’ The baby, responding to his father’s voice or to Romily’s adrenaline rush, kicked her in the ribs and she winced. She perched on the sofa, upright so as to give her belly more room. ‘Jarvis found you?’

‘I ran into him at the station a couple of hours ago. I think he wanted to give me a pounding.’

‘Oh no.’ Romily dropped her head into her hands. ‘Please tell me you didn’t have a fist-fight on the concourse of Brickham station. I’m thirty-seven weeks pregnant and I have enough drama in my life right now.’

‘No. He told me very quietly, very calmly, just what he thought of me. He told me that I’ve been stringing you along for years. He said that you could be happy right now, if not for me.’

‘You haven’t been stringing me along. I had no hope that
you would ever be …’
In love with me.
She couldn’t say it. It was bad enough that he knew it.

‘I’ve known you for years, Rom. How could I not sense how you felt? Why didn’t I?’ He pushed his hands through his hair.

‘I never meant for those letters to be seen. I wrote most of them late at night, when I couldn’t sleep. I think some of the language got pretty flowery. I probably exaggerated a lot.’

‘Did you? Did you exaggerate how you felt about me, Romily?’ He was looking directly at her in a way he’d only done a handful of times.

‘No,’ she said. She bowed her head.

‘I’ve had a lot of time to think,’ he said. ‘More time than I’ve had for years. Claire wanted to give up. She said we could be happy without children and I didn’t listen. And then there was you. I never even thought about how it would affect you.’

‘Listen, I knew the situation. I knew there was never going to be anything between us. It was okay.’

‘Jarvis didn’t think so. Jarvis thinks that you chose to stay in Brickham because of me. Jarvis thinks you could have had chances for better jobs and more money elsewhere.’

‘I couldn’t leave Amity’s bugs.’

‘He thinks you might have found someone to be a proper father to Posie. I think he means himself, by the way, but other than that, he has a point, right?’

She just kept on looking down. The carpet had a Ribena stain on it.

‘God, I am such a wanker,’ Ben said. ‘And I thought I had everything. Perfect wife, perfect house, perfect job. The only thing I didn’t have was a child, so I went about finding a solution to the problem. Letting my wife be subjected to every procedure under the sun and then when she didn’t
want to do it any more, I pushed her harder. And then you offered to get pregnant for us and I jumped on it. I didn’t think it through. It was all about what
I
wanted.’

Romily sat up straight, ignoring a twinge from her back. ‘Stop it. I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions. Claire can, too. You didn’t make me fall in love with you. I did it all by my stupid self. I knew that you loved Claire and that I never had a chance. I stayed anyway.’

‘It’s my fault.’

‘Because you’re so irresistible? Give me a break.’

He was staring at her. ‘Why did you fall for me? How long has it been going on?’

‘I am not going to talk about that.’ She swept her hands briskly in the air, as if clearing the topic out of the room. ‘The important thing is what happens next. You have to get back together with Claire because this baby needs its parents.’

‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Of course it is. The baby’s the most important thing. We have to do what’s best for him.’

‘Claire says that you want to keep the baby. That you love him.’

Romily set her jaw. ‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Why do everyone’s feelings matter except for yours, Rom?’

She shook her head.

‘It’s our baby, too,’ Ben said. ‘Yours and mine. We made it because we trusted each other and because of how we felt about each other. That’s what I can’t get out of my head. People stay together for a lifetime for less reason than that. And when I see you, like this, with the life that we created growing inside you, I feel …’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never felt quite like it before. That’s why when Claire asked me if I loved you, I couldn’t say no.’

Romily felt every cubic centimetre of air leaving her lungs. It was thick, heavy.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,’ he went on. ‘Maybe I should have ignored everything and concentrated on making a perfect home for the baby. But I owe Claire the truth. I owe you, Romily. If I’ve made a mistake, I need to try to fix it. But whatever I do, someone is going to be hurt. I feel like it’s up to me to choose which one, and I can’t do that.’

‘You love Claire,’ she whispered. ‘Claire.’

‘Yes. But look at what you’re doing for me. And then when Jarvis showed me how much you’ve given up for me … I can’t ignore that. I can’t just take the baby and leave you behind. He’s yours too.’ He raked his hair again. ‘It’s going through my head and through my head and it’s driving me mad. I don’t know what to do for the best. I don’t know how to make it better.’

The pain on his face was so naked that Romily had to hold tight to the sofa cushion she sat on, plant her feet hard on the floor.

‘I think I might have ruined everything with Claire. I don’t know if she can trust me any more. Last time I saw her, she was like a stranger. She looked as if she hated me. And I can’t blame her. But you – I can’t disappoint you, can I? I’ve already done the worst thing to you that I can do.’

‘No.’

‘She asked me to choose and I can’t. It has to be your choice, Romily. You’ve got the most at stake. You’ve got our son. He belongs to you. Do you want him?’ He gripped his hair, as if he were going to tear it out by the roots. ‘And if you want him … do you want me, too?’

THERE WERE NO
seats left in the back rows, but Claire slipped into a lone chair against the back wall while everyone was chatting. The hall was decorated for Christmas; a large tree sparkled on the side of the stage. Paper chains made by Year Seven festooned the walls. Beside Claire’s seat, a long table covered with a green cloth and tinsel held rows of glasses waiting to be filled with wine and squash. It was tended by Octavia and Felicity, two of Claire’s former A-level students. When they spotted Claire their eyes widened in surprise but they recovered themselves quickly and smiled at her. She’d go and speak with them before she left, ask them about their lives, and never mind about the gossip in the sixth-form common room.

She had been to dozens of these, maybe hundreds. Usually she sat up at the front with the rest of the music department where she would be visible to the students in case they needed her. Over the heads of the audience, Claire could see a woman with short iron-grey hair sitting in the front row beside Lindsay. She was wearing a navy-blue jacket with visibly padded shoulders. Claire would speak with her, too;
she wouldn’t want her replacement, Mrs Radcliffe, to think she was afraid of her.

Claire had changed three times before she left the house. She had scheduled an appointment for a trim and blow-dry at a salon in a Brickham department store where she had never been before. She had painted her nails carefully with transparent lacquer and she had spent a full forty-five minutes applying make-up, trying for a well-groomed effect that would mask the shadows of weariness on her face and yet still look natural and effortless. War paint, all of it. A necessary façade. Nevertheless, when she reached the St Dominick’s car park she still had to sit for five minutes before she got out of the car. She had to remind herself of Max’s latest email.
I’d love it if you could come. I wouldn’t be doing this if not for you. PS I am scared shitless
.