Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (22 page)

“I’m keeping my distance, but I’m doing my bit for the twins, as I promised I would.”

“Has he said anything about this pregnancy?”

“Like what?”

“Like whose baby is it, anyway?”

“I told him exactly what I told you I was going to tell him. That I’d been having this relationship with this other guy, and
how I’d forgotten my pill one night, and that was it.”

“Did he even ask if it could possibly be him who’d made you pregnant?”

“I think maybe he was going to, but I kind of cut him short.”

“Are you still sure this is how you want to play it?”

“To be honest, I don’t see what choice I have. Let’s say I took the risk—and it would be a huge risk—of telling Ed the baby
was his. The last thing he could cope with right now is another baby. He’s in mourning, for heaven’s sake. And our few-night
stand was some kind of wild aberration that neither of us wants to think about. So say I tell him he’s the father, what’s
he going to do? Offer child support? Tell the twins? Ask me to marry him? Can’t you see it’s impossible?”

“How do you know he doesn’t love you?”

“Because he loved Ruth.”

“But supposing he does have feelings for you . . .”

“If he does, he has a funny way of showing it. He asked me to babysit the other night when he went out on a date.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“How do you think it made me feel to have the father of my child going on a date? It felt bloody awful. But he’s not to know
that.”

“If you told him, things might change.”

“And if they didn’t, I’d feel even worse. I need to keep myself together for this baby. The baby is the only thing that matters
anymore.”

“Doesn’t the baby deserve to know who the father is?”

“One day maybe it will. Just not for a very long time.”

“I bumped into Ed the other day.”

“And?”

“He said the twins don’t see you as often as they’d like to. But I got the feeling that he was telling me he didn’t see you
as often as he’d like.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Nothing, really. Just a feeling.”

“Case proven. Ed’s not interested in me as anything other than a stable female figure in his children’s lives. And when he
remarries or moves in with someone, he won’t have any use for me at all.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it. Now what about you?”

“Things are calmer with Olly, we seem to have had a bit of a breakthrough.”

“That’s a start. How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

“How awful?”

“As awful as it’s possible to feel. I know it’s probably all psychosomatic, but I feel so physically ill all the time; the
only time my head clears is when I’m out walking. But the anxiety, the brick in my head, the nausea, the funny dizzy feelings,
the panic attacks, the pain in my gut . . . sometimes I think I’m going quite mad.”

“Hope, you know these are classic signs of depression.”

“Of course I’m depressed. My life’s shit.”

“I’m talking clinical depression. You may need some help.”

“I won’t take pills. I won’t. The odd sleeping pill, yes. Prozac, forget it. I’m miserable because my life has gone pear-shaped.
Those pills steal your personality, turn you into a zombie. And I’m already close enough to being a zombie to know it’s not
a good position to be in.”

“That’s not what the pills do, I promise. They take the edge off the pain. They give you the respite you need in order to
start sorting out your problems for yourself.”

“But I know what my problems are. They’re common, boring, everyday problems. I’m not exactly a single mother of seven living
on benefits in a dilapidated high-rise, or a battered wife. I have no right to be depressed.”

“Hope, sorry to be so brutal, but you’re not always what I’d call emotionally intelligent, are you?”

“Thanks a lot, Maddy. And I suppose you’re an emotional genius. I mean, the way you’re handling things between you and Ed,
not exactly mature, is it? The man has a right to know, for God’s sake.”

“How dare you?”

“How dare
you
?”

“Maybe you’re right, Hope. Maybe your problems are of the common or garden variety. Whereas I’ve got two dead parents, one
dead sister, no husband and no prospect of one, and now a baby on the way at the age of forty-four. Were you always so self-absorbed
and selfish, or is this a recent development?”

I slam a fiver down on the table, grab my jacket from the back of the chair, and march out of the café without a glance back.
Maddy and I have been best friends for twenty years. And now, just when we need each other more than ever, we have fallen
out.

Big-time.

T
here are four messages on my answering machine.

“Hi, Hope, Sally here. The press releases were great. Could you get to a committee meeting on the twelfth? Eight o’clock,
my place. We need to discuss the celebrity fund-raiser.”

Why, when I hear the word “celebrity,” do I always want to weep? I’m wondering if the nightmare of trying to persuade celebrities
to appear on the cover of your magazine and having to sweet-talk their poisonous agents and PRs and give in to their preposterous
demands can bring on post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m wondering if, for the rest of my life, the word “celebrity” will
trigger an anxiety attack. No need to check in my diary. Of course I’m free.

“This is a message for Hope Lyndhurst. My name is Harry Sharp, and I’m a headhunter for Creative Talent Search. I would be
grateful if you could call me back on this number . . .”

A headhunter? Someone actually interested in employing me? More likely, he wants me to recommend someone or give a reference
to some bright young thing. Definitely not urgent. I scribble down the number for later.

“Jack here. I’d like to pop by for some of my stuff. Ring me back when you get the chance.” I call back straight away. I leave
a voice message to say he can come by any time after six.
When he comes, be nice, be calm,
I tell myself.

“I miss you, my friend. Can we please kiss and make up? In any case, I’ve had this rather brilliant idea, and I need to share
it with you.” Trust Maddy to be the brave one, the one to make the first move. We haven’t spoken in two weeks and three days,
and it’s felt like a lifetime.

• • •

I go to pick up Maddy from work. After a quick hug, I press my hands to her bump. Obligingly, the baby wriggles, as if to
remind me that I’ll be having to share Maddy with a new little person quite soon. We stroll off down the street arm in arm.

“So, Maddy, are you my best friend again?”

“Seeing as I haven’t had any better offers, I suppose I am.”

“I blame the hormones—they’re plummeting even as we speak.”

“I blame the hormones, too, only mine are heading for outer space.”

“Show-off.”

“Misery.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now that we’ve got that sorted, what’s the brilliant idea you hinted at?”

“You need someone to hug.”

“Too right.”

“You need a dog.”

“A what?”

“A dog.”

“Maddy, my mad friend. Puerperal psychosis I know about. Prenatal psychosis is a new one on me. You may need to see a doctor.”

“Me being mad is nothing new. It doesn’t take away from the fact that you need a dog.”

“I don’t even like dogs. I’ve never had a dog in my life. And look at your dog. Certifiable. Vicious. A tiny little mutt with
a Napoleon complex who can’t leave the house without a muzzle
and
a Halti in case it attacks the nearest Alsatian.”

“But Mozart’s a rescue dog,” argues Maddy. “He was an abused child. He has issues that we’re working through.”

“Oh, so that excuses him from biting Sarah on the knee last year and the fact that she had to go to the emergency room for
a tetanus jab, pouring with blood. Poor little Mozart’s got issues. Mind you, since he has a name like Mozart, I’m not entirely
surprised.”

“Look, it would do you good. Give you something to think about other than yourself.”

Give you something to think about other than yourself
. Didn’t Jack say something similar the night he walked out? This seems to be becoming a bit of a theme.

“Maddy, I know you’re suggesting this with my best interests at heart, but can you really see me with a dog?”

“You were a wonderful mother to Olly. I can’t see there’s much difference.”

“A wonderful mother. If only. I was always in the office. I seem to have spent almost my entire life in the office.”

“Come on now, just because Olly’s been behaving like a typical teenager doesn’t mean you were a bad mother and neglected him
as a child. Do you know something? I’m not even going to apologize for calling you an emotional illiterate before you called
off our friendship.”

“I forgive you anyway.”

“Surely you can remember what it was like? Every second of your spare time, you were glued to Olly. I don’t think you went
to a restaurant or a movie for years. And if you came to me, you’d bring him with you. Remember when I used to want to pop
in after work and you’d reply, ‘Well, all right, but don’t expect me to talk to you. Olly and I are playing tea parties until
bedtime.’ ”

I’m remembering tea parties. The little red plastic cups and the blue plastic tray and the yellow plastic teapot and the brown
plastic biscuits. And my body so heavy with tiredness that I could have lain flat out on the carpet where I was sitting with
Olly and fallen straight to sleep at seven o’clock in the evening.

“It’s all so odd. When I was working, I didn’t feel guilty. Now that I’m not, I seem to have taken up guilt as a full-time
occupation. Retrospective guilt. I keep trying to work out where I went wrong.”

“Maybe you’re looking in all the wrong places, Hope. With Olly, you did everything right. He’ll get over himself—already is
getting over himself, as far as I can make out. I’d focus on Jack if I were you. But there’s no time for that now. I said
we’d go straight round to Marge.”

“Marge?”

“Yes, it’s only a few minutes away. She’s one of my patients. Her Labrador’s just given birth to nine pups, and we’re going
to meet them.”

“You’re impossible.”

“There’s no harm in looking, is there? A little window-shopping. Marge says they’re all adorable. She decided to mate the
Lab because each pup is worth a few hundred quid, and she’s really strapped for cash. Oh, look, we’re already here.”

We stop in front of a well-kept council estate with several large blocks of flats and a half-dozen rows of small houses around
the perimeter. Maddy rings the bell of the only house in the row with a sunburst door. A man’s voice booms out: “Get that,
will you? I’m up to my ears in piss and shit.”

“Be there in a jiff,” we can hear a woman calling. “Comin’ in a sec, don’t go away,” she calls again a minute later. Eventually,
Marge appears, slightly out of breath. She’s of indeterminate age with dark circles under her eyes and a bulk that takes up
almost the entire door frame. Two small children and a large black Labrador are trying to squeeze by her to get a look at
us. Nestled in the crook of her substantial arms, fast asleep, is a sleek and shiny ebony pup.

“ ’Scuse the mess. It’s bleedin’ chaos here. We’ve got rid of four pups, but there are five of the little darlings still to
go. Mitch’ll kill me if we don’t get rid of the rest of them soon, but I tell you this, a little bit of my heart breaks every
time I have to say goodbye to one of them.”

Maddy and I are led into a small kitchen and out through the back, which takes us into the yard. Mitch looks up from poop-scooping
and growls good-naturedly, “You can have the lot for nothing, as far as I’m concerned. It’s like living in a sewer.” He extends
a hairy arm toward me.
M-A-R-G-E
is spelled out on the tattooed knuckles of his five fingers. “I’m Mitch,” he says, shaking my hand, “and these little blighters
are killing me off. Good to see you, Dr. M. Here.” He scoops up a pup and thrusts it at me. “This one’s a proper scamp. Would
chew your leg off if you gave him the chance.”

“You are
so
cute,” I say, stroking his silky pelt, although my body language betrays me.

“Look at you,” says Maddy, laughing. “You’ve gone all stiff.”

Something warm and wet is dribbling down my front. “Yeuch,” I screech, causing the pup to leap from my arms in fright and
hit the ground with a yelp. “Ooh, this is horrible. Your dog has just peed all over me. Now I know for sure why I’m a pet-free
zone.”

Maddy is doubled over with laughter, or as doubled over as it’s possible to get with six months’ worth of baby lodged in your
belly. Marge is looking a little bit desperate, and Mitch is snorting his approval. “If you’re buying, you might as well know
what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“Come back inside, love,” says Marge sympathetically, “and I’ll give you a cloth to wipe yourself down.”

They’re so good-natured, these two, I can’t allow my natural prissiness to override my manners. The little black bundle curled
up in Marge’s arms looks like she’s settled in for life.

“Are you keeping any of them?” I ask politely, trying to save Marge from embarrassment and thinking about how soon I can escape
the menagerie and flee home to a nice hot shower and clean clothes.

“I would, but we can’t afford to. And one dog’s more than enough, what with the three kids and my fat bum and Mitch’s fat
gut taking up all the space. ’Ere, rub yourself down with this.”

I mop up as best I can, but the sour smell won’t go away until I’ve given my top a thorough wash.

Maddy comes back into the kitchen. “They are the most adorable creatures I’ve ever seen. What do you reckon, Hope?”

“Yes, adorable, and a handful too, I imagine,” I reply, looking at Marge. “Does this sweet little mite have a name?”

“Sleeping Beauty is what we’ve called her for the minute. Though when she wakes up, she’s a lively enough little thing.”