OMG Baby! (2 page)

W
e descend
into Cadaqués and it isn’t the rocky herdsman’s outpost in the wilderness I’d imagined, rather it’s a stunning, arty fishing village.
As the road snakes lower, I look back through the trees at the town; it clings to the land between the obscene roll of two mountains, a white jostle of buildings like washed-up paper. I see why Max chose to stay here; the narrow streets of the old quarter are packed with little galleries and studios. So what I need to do, is make him fall deeply in love with me again, make him so in love that he’s willing to return to the scruffy arse end of London and live in a bedsit with me. I’m a resourceful girl, but I have to say it’s looking like a challenge. We park the van and climb some steps to a tall whitewashed building. I hope it’s not much further: I’m hot and tired, and one of my sandals is beginning to rub on my heel.

‘Here we are.’ Max unlocks a heavy door. He grabs the bags and steps into the darkness, while I hesitate. He clatters about inside, battling with the shutters of two huge windows. Rectangles of sunlight spill over the stone floor. ‘Come in,’ he says over his shoulder.

I follow him into the cool room. White breezeblock walls with various canvases and half-finished paintings propped against them. A shelf made from old crates crowded with jars and paint and brushes. Piles of papers and books and a huge ironwork bed with bricks for legs. There’s a bent wooden chair and a chipped anglepoise lamp balanced beside an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen alcove is a cupboard, with an ancient fridge and an encrusted stovetop. To one side of the space, a faded green fabric panel is slung behind a giant old hook, sectioning off a small sink, a toilet and a showerhead, hanging over a sloping little drain. The place has a tomb-like smell of old wet stone.

Max runs a hand through his hair. ‘Er, welcome . . . Make yourself at home . . . Sit anywhere,’ he says, waving his hand around as if there’s a three-piece suite and assorted armchairs.

I put my handbag on the bed.

‘Well, I love what you’ve done with the place.’

‘I was going for minimalist.’

‘You’ve achieved it.’

‘Would you like a large drink?’

‘This is where you’ve been living.’ I sit on the bed.

He doesn’t answer. It seems as if he hasn’t heard. He’s just watching me intently. I’m left grinning, grappling for another line.

‘It’s very neat, though, in here . . . Not like you, really.’

He walks towards me and kneels between my knees, but he isn’t smiling. He strokes my cheek, holds my chin. I move my eyes side to side jokily. His eyes seem almost black under the dark frown of his brow.

‘Vivienne,’ he says.

‘Hello!’

‘Don’t fuck with me. It can’t be like before.’

I open my mouth to speak but think better of it and try to touch his face, but he jerks his chin away and grabs my hand.

‘I want you, but only if you want me. If you have doubts, just get on the next plane home – no hard feelings. I don’t want pity or to be friends.’

‘I won’t hurt you again. I just want to love you.’ His mouth is close to mine. I listen to our breath. Feel our lips brush. ‘As soon as possible.’

Then he kisses me and I move my hand up into his hair, feeling something like panic, an almost painful heart-thumping crashing in my ears; my arms go weak.

‘Lie down,’ he says quietly.

I flop back on the bed without taking my eyes off his face. He’s kneeling between my legs. I see a tiny movement in his neck as he swallows. Then he takes off my pants. His face serious and his eyes dark. He pulls off his T-shirt and unbuckles his jeans with one hand. I feel the other everywhere: on my breasts, my belly and then between my legs, stroking and inside me. I see him for a moment kneeling over me, the bulk of him, his wide shoulders filling the window. Outside, I hear a shout, but all is quiet in the room except for our breathing and the rustle of the sheets as we move. I try to wrap my legs round him, but he pushes them down.

I feel the weight of him pinning me down. I look sideways at his tanned arm and feel his mouth against my ear.

‘Vivienne,’ he sighs. His fingers move on me. ‘I’ve been dying for you,’ he whispers, as he pushes into me, and I feel my body pulling him in.

A
fterwards I’m lying
half on him, my head resting on his armpit, thinking, If I died now, it would be OK. I’ve lived a good life. I’ve known passion, bitten into some lovely things, tried to be nice to most people most of the time . . . Then I want to throw up. My mouth feels dangerously watery. I look towards the unscreened toilet and imagine suddenly having to puke there, naked apart from my sandals. That can’t happen.

‘Would you like a vodka?’ Max asks lazily.

I tilt my head back to look at him. ‘Something fizzy.’

‘I could go and get something.’

He shifts his body and slightly presses against my chest, making my boobs hurt. I turn onto my side.

‘Will I go?’ he asks.

‘We’ll both go, in a minute,’ I tell him, curling into the recovery position, too weak to leave the bed.

He puts his arm round me, stroking my bicep with his rough fingertips over and over.

‘You’re so beautiful, Viv,’ he says. ‘I have wanked so many times thinking of you.’

‘God, that’s really sweet.’ I bat his hand away; he moves it onto my bottom.

We lie there in silence. His eyes begin to close. I take deep breaths against the nausea. It comes in waves, insistent.

Oh shit, I’m pregnant. I am pregnant. I lift the sheet and look down at my body. My nipples look weird. I bite my lower lip, thinking, my heart filling with terror and maybe a faint twinge of excitement. I’m not. I can’t be. A brief moment of relief before the angel voice, now preceded by some sort of harp twang, sings, ‘
You know the truth
.’ This is making me panic. I’m pregnant and hearing voices.

Max gently snores. I whack him awake.

‘So, what about Lucy getting married?’ I ask loudly.

He smiles, eyes still closed. ‘She’s the last person I’d expect.’

‘Why?’

‘Remember her at uni going on about the patriarchy? She’s anti-commitment.’

‘People change. She’s very pro-commitment now. Well, pro- with one man in particular.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Reuben. Colombian.’

‘Ah.’

‘He’s sexy, into toys.’

‘Good on her.’

‘Yes, good on her. She’ll be pregnant next, I suppose.’ I glance at his face.

He opens one eye. ‘Guess so.’

‘Imagine that. Lucy, a mum.’

‘I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.’

‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a parent?’

‘Nope. I know. Terrible. Not a moment’s peace.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘Growing up in my family, hundreds of kids always running around . . . chaos.’

‘So you don’t want kids?’ I ask, and he lifts his head a little to peer at me suspiciously.

‘We’re talking hypothetically here?’

‘Course.’

He flops back, laughing nervously, sensing a trap.

‘Your answer, please . . . Do you or do you not want kids?’

‘Well,
hypothetically
I always thought I don’t.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because of the planet.’

‘Because of the planet?’

‘Yeah, like the population is too large already,’ he says, gazing dreamily at the ceiling without a care in the world.

‘You don’t want kids because of the planet.’ Of all the answers! He’s suddenly become a green warrior? He laughed when I said I wanted to live in one of those eco cave houses for the good of the planet. What an annoying hypocrite he is! I stand up and pace, wearing nothing but my sandals and a frown. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a deal-breaker, don’t you think?’

‘Huh?’ He sits up, leaning on an elbow.

‘You shouldn’t go shagging thirty-something women, then, should you?’ I snap. Bits of spit fly.

‘Viv, what are you on about?’

‘The planet! I thought you were a Catholic?’

‘Lapsed . . . Nice muff, by the way.’

‘Thanks. Well, other Catholics have loads of kids – in drawers.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Because they have so many that they just don’t have enough room or beds or cots! I saw that on a documentary where a woman had twelve kids and that was in Ireland!’ I jab a finger at him. I’ve won. How can he come back on that? He makes a confused/aghast noise.

‘What are you saying? Do you want kids?’ He kneels up now.

‘Yes! No. I’m talking about principles!’ I say, jutting my head at him like a chicken. ‘It’s all very well going environmental, banging on about the planet, growing a big fucking beard and shagging women left and right with no care for the consequences!’

He actually laughs out loud and I nearly do too but manage to hold it together.

‘“Shagging women left and right”!’ he snorts.

I burst into tears.

He jumps off the bed. ‘Hey . . . are you . . . ? Come on.’ I drop my head and sob loudly, surprising myself. ‘Come on.’ He leads me to the bed and sits me down. He kneels in front of me, rubbing my legs.

Then I look right into his eyes, willing him to know. They flicker with recognition.

‘Vivienne?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

W
e decide
to get out of the room, walk, get air. Down through winding cobbled lanes we stumble with the news, hand in hand, under balconies dripping with geraniums, towards the sea. We pause to look out over the waves, contemplating our new roles – ‘mummy’ and ‘daddy’ – trying them on like expensive, impractical coats. I squeeze his hand, feeling the long, blunt fingers. He scoops up a stone and throws it. We hardly speak as we follow the coastal path out of Cadaqués. There’s no beach, only rocky coves. The sea fizzes over small stony islands, making clear pools. It glitters on towards the horizon, shining turquoise and navy. Some of the windows are lit now, and the restaurants on the seafront glow like yellow lanterns. Ahead is a bar that seems to be set into the stone of the cliff. There’s music and frying fish in the air. I make for the small metal table out front. He sits beside me and smiles. I look at his brown eyes. He looks steadily back, leaning his elbows on the table, hunching his big shoulders towards me.

‘What do you think?’ I ask.

‘We’d better get ourselves a cot.’

We look away from each other. My thoughts race like a rat in a maze, going over all the possibilities, trying to grasp how the world has just shifted.

Max jerks his head as if he’s been hit by a realisation. ‘How long have you known?’ he asks.

‘It really only just dawned on me, at the airport.’

‘Huh that’s the kind of intuition you’re known for, Viv.’

‘I mean, I thought . . . you know . . . but I can’t believe it.’

‘If you’re pregnant, when do you think it . . . happened?’

‘It’s yours.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you mean, “What do you mean?”? I know what you’re thinking. I never slept with anyone else.’

‘You were back with
Rob
, though.’ He spits the name of my ex-fiancé.

‘I didn’t sleep with him.’

‘Well, Viv, I hate to have to spell it out for you, but it’s not the sleeping part that does it . . .’

‘I did not have sexual relations with him.’

‘No, but, by God, you did with me, didn’t you, girl?’ He grins and nods to himself.

‘It’s your baby,’ I say.

‘Of course she’s mine.’ He pulls my chair towards him, kisses me clumsily on the head. ‘Ah she’s a blessing, isn’t she?’ he laughs.

‘She? You think it’s a girl?’

‘Oh yeah. I see myself with a daughter.’

I feel a massive thrill, a jolt of excitement like an orgasm.

‘Oh my God. We’re having a baby.’

‘Obviously we’ll need to teach her about art, and she should play the fiddle. She might start a revolution. We’ll make a list. Daddy’s girl will be number-one priority.’

Then everything is subtly different, the same but more beautiful, like waking in the morning and discovering a sparkling frost has altered the view. I’ve become like some sort of sacred vessel controlled by an angel within, one that speaks to me. As I listen to Max’s voice, my mind seems to float inside with my baby. The ethereal music starts up.

‘I suppose we need to do a test,’ Max says, bringing me up short. The music stops with a scratchy-needle noise. A test! It’s not confirmed yet, is it? I might not be a sacred vessel at all. I put a hand over my belly.

‘
All will be well
,’ says the voice, and then, in a harsher tone, ‘
Eat food now
.’

T
he waiter brings our food
, plate by plate. Sea bass for Max. I pick up a white-eyed sardine by the tail and slice the flesh off its comb of bones. Of all the food I’ve ever tasted before and, I’m convinced, ever after, this sardine is the best. Hot, salty and tasting of the sea, eaten beside the ocean, starving.

It’s dark when we walk back towards the town. We take the coastal path again and I hear the hush of the waves, but looking across to the horizon, I see nothing except blue-black space, as if we’re walking along the lip of a great gaping mouth. We’re having a baby. I pull Max’s arm tighter around me.

‘What would you be doing now if I wasn’t here?’ I ask him.

‘Probably I’d be in the internet café with a bottle of vodka obsessively Googling you, cursing the amateur rapper Viv Summers from Texas who keeps clogging up my search.’

‘And after that?’

‘Ah, you know, meet up with a few people, or read, or paint.’

‘How could you stand it for all this time? Didn’t you miss London?’

‘I wanted to be away, Vivienne, that’s the idea.’

‘I couldn’t do it.’

He glances at me sideways. ‘I know.’

‘So did you find yourself, then?’

‘Yeah. I’m a complete dickhead.’

‘I could have told you.’

‘And I started painting these abstract landscapes. Some of the scenery here is stunning, and you know it’s harder to paint a landscape well than it is to paint a person. With a person, you can use some of their character and it lends the work a sort of energy. With a landscape, it’s about your eye, the view you take; the character has to come from the artist.’

I narrow my eyes in the dark. ‘Is that true, or are you trying to get into my pants?’

Max laughs. ‘Both,’ he says.

‘And are they any good, then, these landscapes?’

‘Ah well, that’s not for me to say. I sold some, though.’

‘I saw the painting of me. I went to the gallery.’

We cross a little square, through the bright lights of the seafront restaurants and uphill along a street lined with gift shops and boutiques.

‘I like the way you painted me. I looked cool.’

‘Which is a feat of brilliance in itself.’ He smiles. ‘Someone wanted to buy that.’

‘You didn’t sell it?’

‘I did.’ When I gasp in shock, he says, ‘What? You’d left me.’

‘So you just sold me?’

‘Needed the cash.’

‘Well, I’ll bloody well buy it back! How much did you sell it for?’

‘Four grand.’

‘Four grand?’ I cough.

‘The guy got a bargain. It’s a masterpiece.’

I think of someone in a mansion somewhere and on his plain white wall, probably over the stairwell, there’s me, in an Arsenal T-shirt. I’ve been sold like chattel, robbed of my spirit.

‘Well, I’ll save up and buy it back. I knew I shouldn’t have let you paint me. Now I’m on some random person’s wall!’ I pull away from him, pretending to be interested in some tie-dye balloon pants hanging outside a shop.

‘I didn’t really sell it,’ he says.

‘I don’t believe you. Look at you. Who knows what you’re capable of?’ I look at him standing in the path in his ‘good trousers’ and his crumpled white linen shirt.

He steps towards me with his head to one side as if coaxing a child. ‘I turned down two offers.’

‘Two offers of four grand?’

He nods. In the half-light from the boutique his smile flashes a crescent of white.

‘Is this the kind of business acumen you intend to use to support your child?’ I brush past. He follows, waving his hands as he speaks.

‘I’m planning my own exhibition mid-October. You know the gallery in Westbourne Park that take pieces of mine? They’ve agreed to let me take over for a month. The whole gallery will be showing only my landscapes, and if that goes well, it will be a regular thing.’

‘So you are planning on coming back to London?’

‘I’ll have to now you’re up the duff. She’d go to any lengths to get her man.’

‘I’ll stop at nothing. But a day ago you were all mysterious about ever coming back. I don’t want you doing anything out of duty just because I’m . . . might be pregnant.’

‘Actually, I miss the whores and the druggies.’

‘And they miss you. So you’ll come to Lucy’s wedding?’

He pulls me into a doorway and places a palm over my belly. ‘Vivienne,’ he begins, and then closes his eyes, trying to say something that’s difficult to begin. I wait, feeling slightly nervous. ‘How do I tell you?’ He kisses me. He rests his lips on the bridge of my nose. I press my back against the cool brick. ‘Don’t you know I’m mad about you? I’d go anywhere as long as I’m with you.’ He grins at me crazily. ‘I’ll have to come to the wedding because deep down all I want is to follow you around . . . licking you. I’ll not let you down, or her.’ Here his voice cracks a little and he bends to kiss my belly.

I look down at the comb marks in the hair wax he must have slapped on his head and smile.

‘None of your Irish blarney, now. Tell me how you really feel.’

He looks out of our little doorway and smiles up at the sky. He leans a hand on the wall behind my head.

‘You tell me how you feel,’ he says.

I narrow my eyes, pretending to think.

‘In my life I’ve often been glad you exist,’ I say.

‘Ah, see, succinct.’

‘I like what you said,’ I say, and stretch up to kiss him.

I take his hand when we walk on and we fall into silence. He loves me. I’ve got him. I imagine telling Dave, ‘I’m bringing him home, boy!’ I look up at the sky; it’s a clear night with millions of stars. This is a moment I want to freeze-frame, to unwrap at a time far from now, when I’m bored on a slow train, in a light drizzle. I imagine Max with his own successful exhibition. I see us playing with our baby, raising her into the sky; she’s smiling, her dimples showing, until Max drops her and then we row about whose fault it was . . . Imagining myself as a mother uncorks a terrible cocktail of emotions; it’s thrilling, terrifying and exciting. Being part of something real, having the massive responsibility with no return, ever. When else does that situation arise? Most other things in life you can wriggle out of.

I think of my own mother, how she must have felt being pregnant at sixteen. How she left me with my nana when I was seven. Then a string of thoughts: could I ever leave my child? Why do I want to talk to my mother? Why is she the first person I want to tell, not the lovely nana who raised me? And then with a rush of clarity I know I’m going to contact my mother and tell her and show her
this
is how to have a happy pregnancy. This is how to have a baby. This is how to be a mummy. I want her involved. Her leaving and me being pregnant are the biggest things that have ever happened to me and they are somehow related. I feel alive with the thought that I’ll find her and the certainty that she’ll come. We pass by a fruit seller just then. Momentous things are happening, and meanwhile I must eat nectarines immediately.

W
e return
to Max’s room with bags of food. Fruit, bread, jam, biscuits, wine and fizzy water. I lie down on the bed, hot and exhausted. Max takes off my sandals.

‘Oh, thank God!’ I say, as he rubs my feet.

‘You’ve lovely feet.’

‘Do I?’

‘I don’t know how, with all your crazy shoes.’

I prop my head up on a pillow and start on a nectarine, watching him.

‘There’s a lot to be said for sensible shoes,’ I say.

‘Really?’ He lifts my leg a little. I see him glance at my thighs.

‘Like they are actually designed for walking in, which probably should be the first rule of thumb if you are thinking of a shoe.’

‘Not really . . . Some shoes are designed for sex.’ He bends to kiss the top of my foot. ‘Vivienne?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Your naked feet are giving me the horn.’

‘You might have one of those foot fetishes.’

He’s massaging my toes, pushing his fingers between each one, and then he places my foot onto the front of his trousers over his erect penis. I feel a shock run from the soles of my feet up my thighs and into my belly. As he takes off his shirt, I clench my toes over his cock.

He turns his head to the side. ‘Vivienne?’

‘Yeah?’ I say, popping the last bit of nectarine in my mouth and beginning to move my toes up and down.

‘Would you take off your dress, please?’ I pull it over my head and lean back in my underwear.

‘And please will you remove your bra.’

I unclasp my bra. My tits might be sore, but I must say they look magnificent in this lamplight. Are they a whole cup size bigger? I’d quite like a photo of them actually, just so I know they were once this great. Max sits beside me and begins to kiss my shoulders. He trails a finger down my arm. Then I kiss him and we’re falling back together. I wriggle further up the bed and he catches hold of my pants, pulling them off. I wrap a leg round his waist and pull him on top of me, wanting to feel him inside me but he stops, his eyes searching my face.

‘Viv, I can’t hurt the baby, can I?’

‘No!’

‘I don’t want to poke her in the eye.’

‘Don’t be thick. You won’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘She hasn’t got eyes yet.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t think so . . . Anyway –’ I reach up and hold the back of his neck ‘– come on, Irish. You’re so big and hard I’ve got to have you.’

‘OK, I’ll do it,’ he says, ‘since you put it like that.’