OMG Baby! (10 page)

I
return
to the flat just after six, hoping to have time for a rest. It’s the opening night of Max’s exhibition this evening. I’m going down to the gallery later to be supportive. I’ll probably stand beside him and smile lovingly at him, that sort of thing. I can’t wait, but my legs feel like lead. If I could just lie down for half an hour. . . As I kick off my shoes, I’m hit with a cloud of pungent incense, and I step into the living room to find Rainey sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a tiny silver bell. Her hands rest on her knees, thumbs and forefingers pinched together like little ‘o’s. Her grey silk harem pants are low cut, and she wears a short fitted Indian-style top, showing a swathe of loose belly skin. The furniture has been rearranged – the sofa is now against the far wall, and the television is covered with a green patterned sarong – and there’s a huge cheese plant by the kitchen door. I walk past her, but her closed eyes don’t even flutter. I wait in front of her. The sun streams a halo around her hair; her eyelids shimmer pale green; she silently mouths some sort of chant, her lips repeatedly making the same shapes, nostrils flaring with each in-breath.

‘Hello?’ I say softly. No response.

I flop onto the sofa and lie on my back. My legs throb. I raise them up onto the arm of the sofa. I lift my shirt and undo the improvised hair-bobble fastening on my trousers. The skin of my belly is taut for the first time in my life. There’s a noticeable bump now, I think, if you really look. It looks like a baby rather than too many takeaways. A baby growing in there! How incredible is that? I hold both hands over it and breathe out, long and slow, trying a bit of meditation myself. After a few goes, I turn my head back to Rainey. Her lips move quickly. I squint at her, trying to lip-read. Amber beaver? Satin amber beaver? Big brown beaver? I don’t know. I kind of wish she’d open her eyes now and make me a cup of tea and maybe a sandwich. What has she been doing all day, I wonder, apart from rearranging my flat and buying big cheese plants?

I look at the ceiling, thinking about that green wraparound dress I wore at Lucy’s wedding. I’ll wear it tonight. I think it suits me. It fits.

‘Ommm,’ Rainey says quietly. ‘Ommm.’ Then she picks up the silver bell, it tinkles prettily, and her eyes snap open, the colours like galaxies, whole universes in there. ‘Vivienne.’ She smiles.

‘Hi.’ I lift a hand to wave and let it flop. ‘I am absolutely knackered. My clothes don’t fit. My work life makes no sense at all, even to me. I must have tea and something to do with cheese.’

She stands, seeming to draw herself up by her head, and disappears into the kitchen on her dancer’s feet. I feel relaxed and heavy, teetering on the edge of sleep. She returns, handing me an orange-coloured drink. I take a sip. Carrot juice, quite nice.

‘With proper nourishment, you won’t feel tired or sick,’ she says, dropping like a severed puppet onto the floor beside me. ‘The women of Patagonia don’t suffer in pregnancy like Western women, mainly due to their diet.’

I close my eyes and laugh to myself. ‘Oh, what do they know? They aren’t running businesses selling sex crackers, are they? They’re just sitting around, occasionally going on foraging duty.’ I lift up my head to peer at her. ‘Thanks for the juice, though. What have you been doing today?’

‘Viv, you’re an idiot if you don’t take nutrition seriously.’

‘I do take nutrition—’

‘You think it’s all flimflam.’

‘Flim—’

‘You think I’m full of mumbo-jumbo.’

‘No.’ I sit up, confused.

‘You are wrong about Patagonian women, but anyway . . .’ She looks away. The side of her mouth twitches.

I don’t know what to say. We sit in silence for a few seconds.

‘Well . . .’ I begin.

‘You asked what I’ve been doing today. I’ve been sorting out the flow of chi in this apartment,’ she says, glancing sideways at me.

‘Thank you. That’s very . . . It looks really cool. I like the big old plant there.’

‘And you may like to know I’ve stocked the fridge with vegan power foods to nurture the baby. Have you had any cravings?’

‘Cravings? Yeah. I have a strong yen for cheese, but also meat and chocolate constantly.’

She tuts.

‘You need protein. I’m making my vegan tofu stir fry for supper.’

‘Wonderful . . . Ah, thing is, I’m going out. It’s Max’s opening night at the gallery, so I think there’ll be nibbles there.’

‘Nibbles? Well, OK, then, Vivienne, you know best,’ she sighs sadly, getting up and floating away.

‘No, I don’t! I don’t know anything! Please can I have the tofu?’

She half turns and looks at me with pursed lips.

‘I want tofu!’ I cry, and that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

I
t’s chilly
out and already getting dark. Piles of leathery leaves are gathered by the kerbside, and I shiver in a denim jacket that won’t meet over my breasts. I take the Tube to Westbourne Park and, following Max’s directions, find the gallery a couple of streets away, on the corner of a street filled with expensive-looking houses. It’s small and exclusive, beautiful with shiny green paintwork and huge sparklingly clean windows. A poster of one of the red-brown abstracts is displayed on the door: ‘Max Kelly’ is printed in plain black capitals, ‘Mountain and Plain. Reception for the artist Monday 15 October, 8–10 p.m.’

Seeing that poster, I feel suddenly vulnerable for him and for me, as if we ourselves are on display, open to inspection and therefore rejection. I smooth down the front of the magic green dress, check my flicky black eyeliner in the glass, hoping I’ll be worthy, and then open the door. A bell rings softly and I hear voices coming from another room out of sight, up a couple of steps. I smell polish and coffee. I move to inspect the row of abstracts hanging on the white-painted brick wall in front of me, my brogues tapping on the solid oak floor. The paintings are well lit, the shadow and light picking up on the layers and textures. I peer at the information. ‘
Solo
, Max Kelly, acrylic on canvas, £2,000.’ Then somewhere I hear his voice, followed by his big loud laugh. I follow the sound, up the steps, into another small gallery with three or four people, and there he is in his gallery uniform: long legs in black jeans, black crew neck that was drying on our kitchen radiator yesterday, mad black beard trimmed, wild hair combed and gelled into submission, looking so achingly cool and lovely that I suddenly feel I’ve no right to him and should shuffle back into the shadows and leave him with the beautiful people. One of those beautiful people has her porcelain hand on his forearm right now, her cherry-red lips close to his ear. He’s looking at the floor, all smiles, listening. He nods and takes a sip of champagne.

He lifts his head. ‘Ah,’ he says, and his dark eyes glance her way and then they turn onto me and it’s like being plugged into a power source. ‘Viv!’ he says, and flashes his chipped-tooth-pirate smile. ‘Excuse me,’ he says to the beauty, and he walks over to me with his big bear walk and puts his arm round me. ‘You OK?’ He kisses me, squeezes my shoulder. ‘What do you think?’

‘Amazing,’ I say, and he nods excitedly. I turn to him, putting my face close to his, trying to shut out everyone else. ‘I fancy you like mad. I’m so proud. You are getting it later fo sho.’ I look at the crinkles at the corner of his eye, the handsome groove his smile makes on his cheek.

‘Are you OK to hand out drinks to people?’ He pats my bottom.

‘Show me the tray.’

‘Champagne or orange juice, all up here. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

I follow him back to the group, arranging my face into a polite smile, aware of the interest of the beautiful girl, who I now notice looks familiar. I see her eyes slide down to my shoes and back to my hair, and when she looks away, I check her out. Long glossy dark hair, short curled-under fringe, amazing eyes, better flicky eyeliner than mine, red heart-shaped mouth, skinny, midnight-blue tunic dress, unbuttoned to show lace undergarment, shiny gold leggings, studded ballet pumps.

‘Vivienne, this is Lula,’ Max introduces us. ‘Lula’s one of my models.’

‘Oh yes, hello! I thought you looked familiar.’ I smile. ‘I recognise you from the painting, only now you have clothes on, of course. Ha, ha! Nice dress, by the way.’

‘Hi there,’ she says, and looks at Max in a way that I don’t like – proprietarily.

‘Lula, please be nice to Viv,’ scolds Max flirtily. I look to the next person in line and try to ignore Lula. Why wouldn’t she be nice to me?

‘Guy,’ says Max to a tall man who has the look of Chewbacca, ‘here’s my girl Vivienne Summers.’ The man shakes my hand. ‘Vivienne, Guy owns the gallery.’

‘Good to meet you, Vivienne,’ he says.

‘Thank you. Nice to meet you, and thanks so much for having Max’s exhibition here.’ Is that an OK thing to say, or do I sound like Max’s mother?

‘No, he’s a great talent. We’re lucky to have him.’ We stand smiling at each other for an awkward moment. I feel hot. Max is distracted by another man and has his back to me.

‘He is a great talent,’ I repeat.

‘He is, he is,’ says Guy.

‘So have you had the gallery for long?’ I ask.

‘About four years now.’

‘Good, good, and who cleans your windows?’

‘Uh, just a local guy.’

I laugh, but Guy doesn’t. I gaze around the room.

‘And how’s business? They say art is recession-proof, don’t they?’ I ask. Yes, good one. Luckily Guy is a pro: he talks about art and his gallery for a long time, filling in all gaps with little stories until I’m called away to sort the drinks and I don’t have to ask any more questions, which is good because the only thing I could think of was to ask for the window cleaner’s number.

Max is mingling with guests in the main room while I hand glasses of champagne to people, nice people, and try not to get into a conversation with anyone. I can’t think of a single thing to say. It’s nerve-wracking. I’m worried I might just blurt out something shocking, and also the damned tofu stir fry is repeating on me.

Each time I pass Max, I try to catch his eye, but he’s always deep in conversation about paint/emotion, et cetera. I know he’s trying to sell paintings, but I had thought we’d be more together. As it is, I’m actually a waitress here. It’s really filling up as well. I make a loop with my tray and go by Max again, thinking I’ll just get a sniff of him or maybe a quick feel, but there’s Lula standing with him. They’re talking to a little elderly lady and laughing, and Lula has her hand on Max’s arm again. As I approach, Max takes a glass of champagne from my tray, gives it to Lula, winks at me and carries on chatting. I open my mouth, beginning to say something. Then, seeing his shoulder turned towards Lula, I close it again.

I know he has to schmooze, but why does she have to hang off him? Why isn’t she giving out the drinks and I can be the one who does the hanging-off? I linger next to them, shooting looks at Lula, but she ignores me knowingly out of the corner of her eye, and then I have to circulate because someone at the back is saying, ‘Where’s that funny little waitress with the drinks?’ I go around the room for most of the evening, and every time I pass Max, she’s with him. I feel a ball of fury growing inside.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin and I’ve handed out the last bottle of fizz. My very bones feel heavy. I’m sitting in the little back office, with my puffy ankles up, thinking about undoing my bra, which is really digging in.

Max bobs his head round the door. ‘There you are. We’re off for a curry. Come on.’

‘A curry? What, now?’ I pull a face. I thought that was it. I thought I’d done my supportive bit and was looking forward to having Max all to myself again, and also to having a right go at him about his flirting/ignoring.

‘Everyone’s starving.’

‘Who’s everyone?’

‘Me, Guy, Lula . . .’

‘I don’t want to.’ I look away and rub my ankle.

He sits opposite me and takes my feet onto his lap. ‘Come on, beauty – you have to.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You do because I need you.’

‘Why, are they short of waitresses at the curry house? Or do you need me to serve drinks to your lover!’ I know this is completely jealous, over the top and not at all what a cool chick like me should be saying, but I’ve lost control. He smiles and looks down.

‘My “lover”? What are you on about, Viv?’

‘Old wasp hips in there. Don’t tell me there’s nothing between you two.’

‘You mean Lula?’

‘She’s all over you.’ I shake my head bitterly. ‘What I can’t understand is why you brought me here. Was it to humiliate me?’

‘Viv, stop being a total loon.’ He actually laughs then, in my face.

‘Loon, am I? Might I remind you I’m the loon who’s having your baby!’ I hear my own voice screeching, then hearing laughter from the gallery, I shout-whisper, ‘I’m the loon you proposed to!’ I take my feet off his lap, making a show of putting on my shoes.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going home! I’m not your muggins!’

He says nothing. He watches as I fasten laces and straighten myself up. I’m about to flounce out, but I imagine myself heading home alone, leaving Lula to comfort him. A little sliver of doubt makes me hesitate. I stand staring at him and he stares at me.

‘Vivienne,’ he says softly.

I shake my head and look away.

‘Come on, Viv – you know I only have eyes for you.’

‘Funny way of showing it,’ I mutter sulkily.

‘Come for a curry. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.’ He stands behind me now and rubs my neck. I let him. ‘We won’t be long. You know you love curry . . .’

‘I don’t feel good,’ I snap.