OMG Baby! (20 page)

I
wake
up on the sofa bed on Christmas morning with zero enthusiasm and lie there in listless C-shape, feeling sorry for myself and gazing at the cat scratches on the side of the armchair. Because we are skint, Max and I said no presents this year. What seemed like a very good idea in November turns out to be a shitty idea on Christmas Day. Of course, I didn’t mean no presents. What I actually meant was a stocking full, especially as I’m doing all the hard work of carrying our baby, not Max – after all,
his
pelvis isn’t threatening to uncouple itself when he walks, is it?

It’s freezing in here – I can see my breath rising to meet the hastily Sellotaped tinsel on the ceiling. I sit up and, reaching to my left, turn on the Christmas-tree lights. The tree is kitsch white, with luminous baubles. It was in the sale at the supermarket and I thought it would be cool – I thought I’d do this whole winter-wonderland theme, with a lot of white pompoms and deer and silver twigs, but I didn’t get round to it and now that tree just pulls all the hope out of me. I look down at Max asleep with the quilt pulled up to his ears. He looks too big to be sleeping in this bed. Rainey asked me not to tell Max about the lump. I explained she’s not very well and reassured him that she’s really searching for a place to stay and will move out after Christmas. He looked at me with disappointed resignation but has since become Mr Supportive. I couldn’t fault him: quitting smoking, hardly drinking, not punching Rainey. They’ve now reached a sort of understanding; they circle each other trading insults, but it never turns into a full row.

I’ve given Christie three weeks off on half-pay to save money while we don’t have much to do, and Max and I are planning to visit his family in Dublin for New Year. All in all, I’m hopeful that things between us can move positively forward from here and with careful refereeing we can reach a satisfactory resolution. Jesus, I’ve got to stop reading those mediator websites – I don’t even sound like myself in my own head anymore.

I look at the white winter sky framing the blind. Christmas morning in London town. Somewhere a church bell is ringing. I feel the soft flutter of the baby moving inside.

‘Things will be different at Christmas when you’re here, Angel,’ I say, and stroke my belly, feeling little kicks against my hand. ‘What? Of course we’ll have a real tree! Yes, and presents! Oh yeah, babies get them, what are you on about? Babies get the most! And you’ll have a little Christmas outfit . . . You could be a snowman or a mini Santa . . . No, I don’t think they do stars for babies . . . Oh, in Mothercare? Did you? OK, then, and your daddy . . . Yes, that big Irish man you’ve been hearing . . . Ha, ha. No, he isn’t that bad! He’ll make us all a big dinner with champagne and Christmas cake.’ I smile.

‘Oi, Little Match Girl, pipe down, will you? I’m sleeping here,’ says Max from under the covers.

I slide under until we’re nose to nose. ‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.

‘Merry Christmas yourself.’ He smiles.

‘Where’s my present?’

‘Ah no, see, I knew you’d do that!’

‘I
want
a present. It’s Christmas, you fecking miser.’

‘It was
your
idea not to.’

‘I don’t care. I want one.’

‘OK, here, I’ve got something for you,’ he says, taking my hand and putting it over the erection straining against his boxers. I kiss him and he’s just beginning to slide a hand up my T-shirt when we hear the bedroom door open and shortly afterwards Rainey walks in.

Max raises himself onto one elbow. ‘Ah well, if it’s not one of Santa’s little elves!’

I sit up. Rainey is standing by our bed wearing a green shiny kaftan and holding two parcels wrapped in reindeer paper.

‘Season’s greetings,’ she says, handing me one of them.

‘Thank you, Rainey. The first gift you have ever given me,’ I say in awe.

‘Apart from the gift of life.’ She smiles, raising her eyebrows. ‘And compliments of the season to you too, Max,’ says Rainey, handing him the other parcel.

‘Thank you, Lorraine,’ he says, and rips off the paper. Inside is a scratched pink plastic pig that oinks and hoovers up crumbs, or at least it did before it lost its batteries and battery cover. ‘That’s, er . . . I don’t know what to say. What did you do, open eBay, slam your head on the keyboard and buy the cheapest thing that came up?’

‘Oh, something about that pig reminded me of you.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘Open yours, Viv.’ I tear the paper off a box containing two squashy rubber balls. I look up quizzically. ‘Birthing balls,’ she explains. ‘Squeeze them rhythmically through the pain.’

‘How useful. Rainey, you really shouldn’t have,’ I say, trying them out. ‘Would you like a go, Max?’ I ask.

‘No, thank you, my love,’ he says with a forced smile.

‘Oh well, cup of tea, anyone?’ I say.

‘I’ll make it,’ says Rainey for the first time ever, and Max narrows his eyes suspiciously. She disappears off into the kitchen.

‘Well, that’s very nice of her. Maybe she’s been visited by the Ghosts of Christmas,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I got you a little something. I know we said we wouldn’t, but . . .’

He rolls his eyes as I hand him a shoebox wrapped in newspaper and left-over ribbon.

‘Ah, now I feel really bad,’ he says, ripping it open. ‘No, I don’t – single malt! A woolly hat! And what’s this? Pralines! It does not get any better.’ He puts on the hat, takes a good slug from the whisky bottle, wipes the top and passes it to me with a big smile.

‘No, thanks,’ I say, feeling as if I’m in a shelter for the homeless. I stare at him expectantly.

‘What?’ he asks, stuffing in a chocolate, and it dawns on me that he’s kept to our bargain. I can’t believe it. He hasn’t got anything for me on our first Christmas together. My throat tightens with self-pity just as he starts to laugh. He reaches down and brings up a white knitted stocking. ‘Merry Christmas, baby,’ he grins.

I snatch the stocking off him. ‘I thought you’d kept to the deal,’ I gasp, holding it to my chest in relief.

‘Viv, come on. I’m not stupid.’

‘You can be, sometimes.’ The stocking is full of goodies I’ve been hinting about: ribbed grey maternity tights, posh mascara, Chanel nail polish, silver and pearl dangly earrings, mint Matchmakers and a miniature bottle of champagne.

‘Thank you.’

‘Come and give us a Christmas kiss,’ he says, lifting the quilt.

‘No.’

‘Give us one of those Matchmakers, then.’

‘No way.’

‘Give me one or I swear to God I’ll take them from you.’ I hold them in the air, but he pulls my arm down easily. There’s a tussle, he pulls me under the covers, I try to kick him, but he emerges with the Matchmakers and my knickers. By the time I struggle up, Rainey is back with the tea.

‘My God, your daughter is a strong one. It’s like wrestling a conger eel,’ he tells her, and starts dipping Matchmakers into his tea.

She settles on the armchair with a look of disgust.

‘I have a little something for you, Rainey, from me and Max.’ I reach under the bed and hand her a soft package – it’s a scarf from Liberty. I found it half-price in the pre-Christmas sale. She opens it, holds it out, then quietly folds it back into the paper.

‘Thank you, Vivienne,’ she says.

‘Do you like it? I thought I’d go for warm colours. I know you have a lot of blue and green.’

‘Yes, well, there’s a reason for that.’ She smiles and I smile too, thinking, What an ungrateful cow. Everyone knows you should accept any gift gracefully, then ask for the receipt later.

‘So it’s Christmas Day! I say let’s jack up the heating and break out that Baileys. I got a Marks and Spencer turkey crown with
some
of the trimmings at a knock-down price, and they had Christmas puddings and mince pies on a buy one, get one free, so . . . happy days!’

‘I have something else, for both of you,’ says Rainey, her voice hushed and serious. She walks out towards our bedroom. Max and I look at each other, frowning.

She reappears sliding a large flat rectangle. The front is covered in reindeer paper. The back is open, it looks like a canvas, and she slides it my way.

‘Wow, this looks expensive,’ I say.

‘It was for what it is,’ she murmurs, as I rip off the paper to find one of Max’s landscapes. I look up at Rainey and catch something shining from her eyes; what was it, triumph?

Max springs up from the bed. ‘It’s one of mine!’ he says, glaring at the painting.

‘Correct,’ smiles Rainey.

I’m sitting between them holding up the canvas. ‘Er, I love it!’ I say uncertainly.

‘Oh my God. You bought that to humiliate me,’ Max says, nodding knowingly.

‘I intended it to be a thoughtful gesture. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ says Rainey, po-faced.

‘I’m not upset. I’m blazing,’ scowls Max, pulling on his jeans.

‘I know money is tight. This is my way of helping out. I didn’t get a discount either – Guy made me pay full price,’ she tells me.

‘We don’t need your charity,’ says Max.

‘You’re just too proud, aren’t you?’ she turns on Max. ‘You can’t stand that it was me who bought the one and only painting you sold!’

‘Listen, woman, just stay out of my business, all right? I don’t need you buying my work back for me.’

I’m stunned, sitting on the sofa bed looking from one to the other. Rainey turns to appeal to me. ‘Vivienne, I only wanted to help,’ she sniffs.

I shake my head. What exactly was she thinking? She must have known Max would go ape shit over this. The one painting he sold was purchased out of charity. I feel gutted for him.

‘If you wanted to help, why didn’t you just give us the money?’ asks Max, pacing now.

Oh yeah, good point. Also, how come she’s got the kind of wedge to buy a painting?

‘I wanted you to have some hope. I wanted you to believe the public would buy your work, Max!’ she cries, her voice breaking dramatically.

‘Like fuck you did,’ he says, and throws the canvas, sending it clattering down the corridor.

‘Without me, the whole exhibition would have been a complete failure!’

‘Did you not hear me when I told you before? I don’t want your kind of help. Stay out of my business!’ he roars.

‘What business?’ she scoffs. ‘I don’t see anyone clamouring for your work. I mean, where are they?’

‘Shut up, Rainey!’ I cry. I feel Angel kicking madly. We’re upsetting her with all this shouting.

‘So what? Failed exhibition, lack of buyers, gallery – my concern, not yours. Got it?’

‘Hey!’ I shout, and they both turn murderous eyes onto me. ‘It’s Christmas Day – stop it.’ Max scratches the back of his head and looks at the floor. Rainey stares straight ahead, looking as if she’s holding a small ball inside her mouth. ‘Look, you shouldn’t have bought the painting,’ I tell her.

‘I thought I was helping,’ she begins.

‘You’ve humiliated Max.’

‘If he wants to react badly, that’s up to him.’

‘I love the painting, though,’ I appeal to him.

He makes a pissed-off noise.

‘And it is Christmas Day and I don’t want everyone fighting. It might be our only Christmas together,’ I say, thinking of Lucy’s mum and cancer fears and feeling my throat tighten.

I can’t catch what Max then mutters. It sounds like ‘’kin hope so.’

‘Oh, don’t get maudlin,’ snaps Rainey.

‘Can’t you just apologise to each other?’

Rainey turns away.

‘I’ll apologise when all Hell freezes over,’ mutters Max.

‘OK then, well, merry fucking Christmas.’ I stalk to the bathroom where I sit on the toilet pressing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets until they hurt. This is such shit. How am I going to get through the day? A few moments later Max follows holding the malt whisky. He takes a massive couple of swallows and holds the bottle out to me.

‘Medicinal,’ he says. I shake my head, look away. ‘She did that deliberately, to make some big point about what a pile of wank my work is.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say.

He looks at me thoughtfully and takes a deep breath and sighs. ‘No. It doesn’t matter,’ he says.

I shrug.

‘You matter.’

‘I didn’t hope for much today, just that it might go all right, but it’s already turned to a fucking pantomime.’

‘Oh no, it hasn’t,’ he says in a pantomime way, and grins.

‘You’re supposed to be the Prince Charming.’

‘I am the Prince Charming,’ he says, taking another swig of whisky. ‘Shall we dance?’ he growls, wiping off his mouth and offering his hand. I take it and he pulls me close, nuzzling my neck, singing, ‘Merry Christmas, baby, you sure do treat me nice,’ and fumbling with the tie of my pyjama bottoms until I giggle.

‘Prince Charming never tried to feel girls up in the toilets.’

‘Oh yeah, he did it all the time,’ he murmurs.

‘
M
erry Christmas
, Nana!’

‘Same to you!’

‘Where are you?’

‘Phuket
then
India we decided in the end. It’s absolutely boiling. It’s hard to believe it’s Christmas, but the hotel have put a little tinsel tree in the foyer. Is she still there?’

‘Yes. We’re just heating up the turkey crown and I wish you were here.’

‘Can you talk?’

‘No, no, not really.’

‘Is everything going all right?’

‘No, not so much.’

‘Rows?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘You and Lorraine, or Max and Lorraine?’

‘The last one.’

‘Ho! Good on Max! Listen, I have to go – it’s the receptionist’s phone and costing us an arm and a leg. Try to have a good Christmas, darling. See you soon.’