OMG Baby! (17 page)

I
t’s
dark outside and cold when I leave Lucy. I hail a cab and it pulls up outside the Portland Hospital with tyres hissing on the wet tarmac.

I tell the driver the address of Max’s studio in Kilburn Park and he makes a U-turn, passing a busy restaurant. I glimpse a scene of cool London, girls in bars instead of in hospitals.

Lucy’s doctor wanted to keep her overnight and perform a procedure for her in the morning to make sure she doesn’t get an infection. Lucy’s scan showed a dark, empty coffee-bean shape where her baby used to be. No heartbeat and no baby – no viable pregnancy, they said. It seems she miscarried. I hate the word ‘miscarried’, with its implication that she’s to blame. I hate that she’s not pregnant anymore, and I hate that she’s sad. Part of it is selfishness. ‘It just slipped out’, those horrible words she said. What if it happens to me? I feel a tear spill as I place a hand over my belly. Poor Lucy. Who now understands how it feels to carry a baby? Who can I talk to? Who knows everything? It was Lucy. I’m then awash with loneliness and wishing for all I’m worth that she’ll be pregnant again and soon.

I look out of the window at busy Baker Street Station as we pull up at the traffic lights; I gaze at the red reflection on the shiny road and try to focus on the fluttering movements of my baby. I can’t face that yoga class without Lucy, that’s for sure. In fact, all of the exciting classes and shopping and learning just seems pointless now.

‘
All is as it should be
,’ whispers Angel.

I
struggle
up the stairs to Max’s studio, heavy and soon out of breath, and after a while he opens the door to see where I am and skips down to help me up the last flight. When we get behind the door, he hugs me to his chest. He smells of cooking, like frying onions.

‘How’re you doing?’ he asks, and in the scruffy little entrance hall, I tell him about Lucy, my face pressed against him, speaking into his shirt. He doesn’t say anything, and when I’ve finished, he leads me through to the studio, offering me some stir-fried chicken that he made. The studio looks cool, lit up with his collection of tatty lamps. Some jangly world music plays. The canvases are stacked away. I look at my reflection in the large dark expanse of window; my pale face seems to float above the black dress. I look away around the room and notice a half-bottle of wine and a glass. Max brings a plate and I realise I’m starving. He sits across the room, picks up a pencil and begins to sketch while I eat. Dave sits at my feet offering his friendliest face, all purrs and hopeful blinking. Max sketches, occasionally taking good big slugs of wine. It feels peaceful. I’m glad he doesn’t talk about Lucy.

I get up and take my plate to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

‘Do you not want a glass of wine?’ asks Max.

‘No,’ I say, and down the water.

‘Pretty rough evening,’ he says.

‘Terrible. Sad.’

‘I’m staying here tonight,’ he tells me. I lie down, resting my ear against the arm of the chair. ‘Stay here with me.’

‘OK.’ I feel I could be asleep in seconds. I don’t really care where.

He walks over, the bottle of wine and glass dangling from one hand. I look at the long toes of his bare feet. He takes my hand and I follow him to the bedroom. I watch as he pulls the pea-green curtains closed. We lie on the bed together. When he kisses me, I taste the wine, a deep red berry taste on his mouth. We don’t speak. I move my mouth away from him and he stretches to kiss me again. Our teeth tap together. I listen to our breathing as he moves over me and pushes up my dress. I lie completely still and watch his face. His hair and beard and eyebrows dark like the hollows of his eyes. The dim light from the open door falls on his cheekbones and the curve of his shoulder. His lips part as he moves and I glimpse the white of his teeth.

He drops down onto his forearms and touches my nose with his. ‘Think about this,’ he says, ‘think about us,’ and he moves a hand between my legs.

I link my hands behind his neck, concentrating on the sensation of his fingers on me and feeling him inside me, and feeling the muscles of his shoulders moving.

Afterwards he pulls the sheets up to his waist and sits back with his wine. I watch him. Something about the way he is makes me relax. He’s calm. The bulk of him somehow makes everything seem easy and better.

‘You bit me on the ear,’ he says, rubbing it.

‘It’s my latest craving, Irishmen’s ears,’ I say, stretching up my arms. I glance sideways. He sips the wine moodily. I roll onto my side now and rest my chin in my hands.

‘I’m staying here until your mother is gone,’ he says. ‘When is she going? You said a week.’

I get jolted out of the peaceful feeling. I’m not prepared for the big speech.

‘Soon. She hasn’t found a place to stay yet,’ I lie.

‘Viv, she’s not looking. Any fucking idiot can find a place to stay in London.’

‘She can’t go just anywhere, can she? Anyway, she will be gone soon.’

I watch him. He looks away. I realise suddenly that I’ve been hoping that this situation would just go away, that somehow we’d start to get along, that they’d love me enough to make it work and we’d end up being a happy family. Max is glowering into space, obviously thinking about Rainey.

I touch his arm gently. ‘You can’t stay here. You live with me.’

‘I live where I like,’ he snaps.

I don’t like the way this conversation is going. I get up and pull my dress down.

‘If we’re going to talk about this, let’s not do it when one of us is drunk, hey?’ I say quietly, and start towards the door.

‘Neither of us is drunk, Vivienne!’ he shouts.

I go into the studio and stand there not knowing what to do, while he pulls on his jeans and follows. ‘Don’t fucking walk off!’

‘I’m trying to get rid of Rainey, OK?’

‘No, you are not,’ he says, glaring.

‘If you stay here . . . it’s like leaving me. I know she aggravates the shit out of you. She aggravates the shit out of me, but she’s going.’ He shakes his head angrily. ‘She
is
going, Max. I told her she has to go, and she will, and meanwhile I’m pregnant with your baby and I need you with me, helping me! Not fucking sulking.’

‘I do not sulk!’ he shouts, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. ‘I don’t need to sulk!’ He walks away.

‘Do you know what you are?’

‘Oh, I think you’re about to tell me!’ He turns to me, pulling a mad, angry face.

‘Fucking selfish!’ I point at him now. I’m on a roll and he’s swaying uncertainly. ‘I’m having a baby, OK? You might think it’s nothing, that women do it every day, but it’s a pretty big deal to me, actually, and it’s not good enough you smoking out of windows and going on about blow jobs in baby shops and making me . . . upset!’

He scratches the back of his neck and frowns. ‘I was joking about the blow job . . .’

‘Do you know today I read in the paper that Harold Pinter used to fill every room of the house with flowers for Antonia Fraser!’

‘What?’

‘Yes, and when I read that, I thought, How romantic! I’ve never been treated that romantically. You treat me like your mate or something!’

‘No . . .’

‘Yes, you do!’ My voice wobbles as if I might cry and he steps towards me, but I hold up a hand.

‘I’m the one who wants to get married!’ he says, jabbing his own chest.

‘So do I!’

‘You don’t. You won’t even set a date! Am I not good enough for you? Am I not rich enough, is that it?’

‘Don’t you dare say that.’

We glare at each other. He looks away first.

‘I love you and that’s all,’ he says quietly. ‘Maybe I’ve been a dick.’

‘You have been a dick, a selfish dick,’ I say, and he looks up sharply. ‘An unsupportive, selfish dickhead. Babyish too.’ I like insulting him. I smile.

‘Well, then I’m sorry, Viv.’

‘Yes, well, just, you know, be better!’

‘Am I not supportive?’ He shakes his head. ‘You mean everything to me. All I want is to be with you and do my painting.’

‘Well, you just described your life! That’s what you do.’

‘I mean make a living painting.’ He looks into the middle distance, thinking. ‘My da always said, “You’ll never make a living painting pictures.” Thought I should be a painter and decorator. I want to make some money, Viv. I want to support you and the baby.’

‘Your dad’s wrong. You’re the only one who’s earned a penny this month.’

He walks over to the stacked canvases and picks one out, leaning it against the wall. It’s the painting of me in the wedding tutu.

‘Guy is closing my show early,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘Not enough sales.’

‘But doesn’t it take time?’

‘No, Viv. It wasn’t successful.’ He takes out his plastic wallet of tobacco and starts to roll up a cigarette, leaning on the chair arm. If he wants to smoke out of the window, I’m going to be fine with that, I decide. He watches me as he licks the paper. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to get a job.’ He turns to me, half smiling. ‘Do you think I’d make a good postman?’

I shake my head.

‘No?’

‘You’d be the worst postman ever.’

‘Ah, you’re right. What about a courier? I could get my bike back.’

Shit, he’s really thought about this. He’s actually considering a job other than painting. I feel my heart pull – it’s just too sad. He’s only ever been interested in art. All the way through university he worked hard at it. He loves it and he’s so good. It’s what he was born to do. He puts the roll-up cigarette away in the pouch and closes it.

‘You’re an artist. The only other thing you’ve ever done profitably is make bongs from household objects,’ I say.

‘Not true – I once worked as assistant to a dog groomer who said I had talent. I was good at cleaning the arses.’

‘Oh yeah, and I suppose there’s your recent business idea of knitted companions for the bereaved?’

‘It was crochet companions.’

‘Look, Max, we still have options. We can get rid of my flat and live here, and I’m on the brink of a deal at work, I know I am. We’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the product and we have another sales meeting coming up,’ I say, trying to sound confident.

He smiles sadly. ‘I can’t paint. I feel like I’ve lost my edge, lost my passion,’ he says, and looks off to the left forlornly.

‘Can’t you divert some of the energy you use to hate Rainey?’

He laughs and stares at his feet.

‘Max! Fucking hell, snap out of it. You don’t have the luxury of losing your passion. We need you, so you’ll have to just get on with it. You’re a great artist.’ I take out all the canvases and line them up. They’re all me in different poses and in different phases of pregnancy. ‘You can’t sit about wondering if you’re good enough. Just accept that you are – look.’

‘I can’t
sell
any of those – you don’t like paintings of you sold,’ he says.

‘I’ve changed my mind. Sell me. Paint some more and sell them. Put on another exhibition.’

‘Guy won’t want another exhibition of my stuff.’

‘There are other galleries.’

He sighs.

‘You can’t give up – you’re too good.’

‘You love me, don’t you?’

I leave a pause and pretend to think about this. ‘Yeah, I suppose I love you,’ I say resignedly.

‘Hey, Viv, will you marry me?’ he asks. He walks over, puts his arms round my neck.

‘Yeah,’ I say.

We kiss and go back to bed. I curl up next to Max and hold his hand with rocks in my heart because I’ve lied to him good and proper now. I’ve told him Rainey is looking for a place to stay when in fact she’s making herself at home, settling in for a few months. ‘Stay as long as you like,’ I told her, and I can’t un-tell her, can I? Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘You all right?’ asks Max, putting his arm over me.

‘I’m just thinking about Lucy,’ I tell him, and I think about Lucy. I hope she’s asleep now and not staring at the moonlight through the curtains like me.

‘
W
hat’s occurring
, people?’ asks Michael, moonwalking in backwards, ten minutes late for our Belle Peau briefing.

The boiler has broken, so Christie and I are wearing coats and pretending to smoke using pens and our visible breath as props. Christie now gives up trying to do smoke rings and pulls the funnel neck of her mohair jumper dress over her nose.

‘Jesus, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in here,’ says Michael.

‘We’re just going through the website, Michael,’ I say. ‘You’ve done such a great job. It really looks perfect. I love the build-your-own cracker option too.’

‘I thank you,’ says Michael, joining us at the little office meeting table. ‘That’s what you don’t pay me for.’ He puts up the hood of his old duffle coat.

‘So, for Belle Peau, we’re showing the cracker samples in different colours so they have something to handle as well as the website, aren’t we?’

‘We have the tangerine and the pearlised pink and the grey,’ confirms Christie.

‘The lines we’re looking at are: I’m attracted to you, “Sexy Bride”, “Out of the Closet”, “Still a Virgin”, “Like a Virgin”, “Not a Virgin Anymore”, “Suddenly Single”, “Girls’ Night Out”, “Hen Night” and “I Love You, Valentine”.’ Michael and Christie nod sagely. ‘I got these Belle Peau panties to use for one of the samples.’ I take the scant scrap of peach satin and black lace from its tissue-lined box and Christie gasps.

‘Oh my God, they are gorgeous.’ She takes them, fingering them in awe.

‘Just seeing those in a female hand is giving me a twitch-on,’ says Michael.

Christie giggles.

I give Michael a stern look. ‘Those cost seventy pounds – don’t put your greasy fingermarks on them.’

‘Not greasy, Viv, warm and dry,’ he says, wiggling the fingers of his right hand.

‘Right,’ I continue. ‘We have to decide which product to put in with the pants – there’s the upmarket scented candle, the luxury lollipop or the massage oil.’

Just then Damon bursts in holding a spanner, managing to look even more disconcerting by wearing a woollen hat with a peak and leather earflaps, accentuating his brow overhang and flapping jowls.

‘Is that radiator on there, Viv?’ he booms.

I reach out a hand but detect no warmth. ‘Sadly no,’ I say, and he stomps over to feel for himself at the bottom near the pipes, wafting around a peculiar smell that reminds me of a pet gerbil I once had called Bubble who fell in the toilet and drowned.

‘So, this cracker will retail at a hundred pounds,’ I continue.

‘Then definitely put the massage oil in. I mean, it looks like the most value, and also you’re led to believe that by buying it, you’re either going to get rubbed down with it yourself or you’re going to get to rub this oil all over a loved one,’ says Christie gravely.

‘You know what? I agree with you, Christie. Very insightful. Well done,’ I say.

‘What transition is it?’ asks Damon from under the radiator.

‘“I Love You, Valentine” or “Sexy Bride”. It needs to be an occasion to spend that kind of money,’ I say, feeling the end of my nose turning numb. ‘Damon, is this building going to be heated today? Because I don’t think we can work under these conditions.’

‘Keep wrapped up and you’ll be all right, or dance around a bit.’

‘Dance around a bit?’

‘Yeah, have a little jig about,’ he shouts over the clatter of spanner on pipe.

‘Damon, mate,’ Michael calls out, and the hammering stops, ‘it’s mid-November, yeah? Viv’s pregnant. Her baby’s trying to lay down fat and grow eyelashes. It needs to be warm.’

I have to say Michael’s in-depth knowledge of pregnancy is becoming a bit spooky, especially when he says it’s all based on fish-breeding. He squints at me now as if I’m something in a tank.

Damon appears, on his knees, and lays down the spanner.

‘All right, all right, I know what this is leading up to! Free rental of the office space as compensation. What say I give you the rest of November free?’

Christie and I look at each other. This hadn’t occurred to us. She raises her eyebrows and nods.

‘On one condition!’

‘What’s that, Damon?’ I ask.

‘Fifty per cent of the business.’

‘What? No way,’ I say, setting my mouth into a firm line.

‘Then I’m out,’ he says.

‘No, Damon, we’re out. I’ll tell you what – we’ll go to a café for the morning to prepare because we have a very important meeting this afternoon. If the heating isn’t fixed by tomorrow, you’ll give us two weeks’ free rent for the inconvenience of being freezing, not to mention the loss of revenue.’

Damon drops his head in defeat. ‘All right, Viv, you win,’ he says.

Christie holds up her hand to high-five me, but I’m already packing up our equipment. Damon glowers under his hat like some kind of weird troll.

Then Michael puts his face close up to Damon and turns a finger round near his own ear. ‘Don’t you know she’s loco?’ he says. Then he sucks his teeth, turns and saunters out.

B
elle Peau’s
head office is in Soho. It’s above their flagship store, which drips luxury from every padded hanger and puts you in mind of saucy mistresses and bordellos. Upstairs in the office, the walls are papered in purple flock, and there’s a sweet heady fragrance of red roses.

We meet with the buyer, Sebastian, who’s tall and thin with an upsweep of grey hair like a feather, and a voice with a whistley ‘s’. He seems to use more words with an ‘s’ than normal. He likes us. He wants to give us a break. He likes our products, thinks it’s a fabulous concept, but in his mind’s eye he can’t separate crackers from Christmas, so he wants us to quote for luxury festive crackers for next year, and in the meantime he’ll share our website with the rest of his colleagues. We leave, going back through the scented dream world of silky French knickers and lace teddies, and then out onto the shiny pavement of a wet and windy already-darkening afternoon.

We stand for a moment looking around as if we’ve only just been beamed down. I try to process the meeting. What just happened? We should be cheered by the fact that he actually wants us to quote even if it is next Christmas. The trouble is, by next Christmas we’ll be toast. Across the road, I spot the glowing lamplights of a pub inviting us and so, since our office is out of service, we settle in there for the rest of the working day.

The atmosphere at our table is gloomy. Christie is talking about getting a better-paid job delivering pizza, and Michael is already applying for work. I wonder if I should do the same, but then I’m pregnant, aren’t I, and no one is going to want to employ me. In any case, I don’t want a job, I want to run my own business, and if Belle Peau are interested in the product, well, that means something. Businesses take time to set up and turn over a profit. I’ll find a way to make it work. I’ll get a loan or something.

I look at Christie gazing into space with her head at an angle and Michael rocking his crossed legs on one foot. I need to deliver a rallying speech and fast.

‘Slowly, slowly catchy monkey,’ I say, raising one finger wisely.

‘You what, Viv?’ asks Christie.

‘Slowly, slowly catchy monkey, Christie! It means things take time. We must be patient and concentrate, and then we’ll get what we want.’

They both mull this over. Christie’s lips move as she repeats the phrase.

‘We need a buyer quickly, quickly, though,’ Michael points out with the kind of insight he’s known for.

‘We do, Michael, and that is where you come in, my friend.’

They both sit up a little now, interested.

‘Me?’ asks Michael.

‘Yes, you. You are irresistible to women, self-proclaimed albeit. Well, let’s put that to the test. Let’s
capitalise
on that.’

Christie looks at Michael anew with a puzzled little frown.

He leans forward and starts chewing imaginary gum, eyes narrowed. ‘Go on,’ he says.

‘Barnes and Worth,’ I say, and lean back triumphantly.

‘Oh no. No way,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

‘Oh, I have never been more serious.’

‘I won’t go crawling back to that Medusa!’ he spits.

‘Look, Michael, Mike. Don’t look at it as crawling back. All I want you to do is influence her a bit and get her to buy some transition crackers pronto, like.’

‘You mean Mole?’ asks Christie, for whom the penny has yet to drop. ‘Our old boss Mole, who was engaged to Mike and then was sexually harassing him?’

‘Was it sexual harassment, though, or was it just a bit of fun?’ I say, not liking the sound of myself ethically but getting over it by thinking of a big fat order from Barnes and Worth.

‘Vivienne, that sister haunts me day and night. Before I left Barnes and Worth, right? She gave me a CD; of course I played it, thinking it must be some of our get it on songs. Do you know what was on that CD?’ he asks, and we shake our heads in unison. ‘a lot of banging and her crying for twenty minutes.’

Christie looks at me and gulps.

‘People grieve in different ways, Mike. Some are more socially acceptable than others.’ I shrug.

He giggles sarcastically, ending with a totally straight face. ‘Viv, two words: forget. It.’

‘Yeah, just hear me out. She wants you, and we want her to place an order,’ I say, pushing his pint of beer closer, ‘and if she places an order, I’ll be able to pay you – it’s win-win. It’s just about leverage and low-hanging lemons and that.’

‘So let me get this straight – you want to dangle me like wriggling bait above the enormous toothy jaws of that she-devil, my sworn enemy so that she’ll place an order?’

‘Well, that’s it in a nutshell,’ I say.

‘Er, not even legal. That’s harassment. You’re using my sexuality to ensnare.’

‘Yes, OK, I am. But women are subjected to this kind of thing all the time and no one bats an eyelid, do they? You’re just making it a teeny bit more even. And we won’t actually let the she-devil get the wriggling bait, so . . . no biggie. Anyway, it’s our last chance. It’s harassment or foraging for roadkill to eat.’

‘This won’t even work,’ tuts Christie, ‘How will it work?’

‘It works like this,’ I say, smoothing out the air with a hand for effect. ‘We get a meeting with Mole at Barnes and Worth, and we let Mole – I mean Marion believe that if she places an order, she’ll win favour with the lovely Michael. A big order, mind – we’re not throwing him into the lions’ den for nothing!’ I catch his horrified expression and add, ‘Or at all, really.’

They both stare at me for a long moment and then Christie shakes her head. ‘It’s not like you, Viv. You’re not the Viv I know – since you fell pregnant, you’ve gone all hard,’ she says, eyeing me sadly.

I consider this, picturing myself as some sort of lioness: predatory, dangerous, willing to risk anything to provide for my young.

‘Needs must, Christie. Needs absolutely must,’ I say into her baffled face.