OMG Baby! (21 page)

‘Miss you . . . Nana, are you still there?’

The line crackles and dies.

‘
C
harades
!’ I say, clapping my hands. I’m still doggedly pushing for a good Christmas Day later that afternoon. Rainey and Max have polished off the Baileys, a bottle of wine and are now halfway down another. I managed my miniature bottle of champagne with our miniature lunch and now settle onto the sofa with a cranberry and lemonade while Max rubs my feet. Rainey bought cheese and crackers, and she lays them out on the coffee table.

‘In Bogotá, we played a game called “Best Of, Worst Of” at the end of the year. Let’s play that,’ she slurs, and while we try to think up excuses, she says, ‘I’ll go first, and the subject is “the worst Christmas ever”.’

The Christmas after you left me, I think, a thought that flashes in so quickly I worry I might have spoken it.

‘It was here in London,’ continues Rainey. ‘I was helping in a soup kitchen and I befriended a young addict. He literally had the face of an angel.’

‘What, glowing?’ Max interrupts.

‘On Christmas Day, he died in my arms.’ She stares into the middle distance, remembering. ‘And do you know, when I left that shelter, there was the brightest star I’ve ever seen shining right above it.’

‘Police helicopter looking for the addict.’ He turns to me, grinning.

‘It really was the most beautiful star, sort of latticed.’

‘Sure the smackhead didn’t spike your tea?’ asks Max. ‘And this shelter, how much like a stable was it?’

Rainey smiles sadly at him. ‘There’s a lot we don’t know in life.’

‘There’s a lot we don’t know in life and other platitudes by Lorraine Summers,’ Max says to himself.

I grab the remote and turn up Jona Lewie on the stereo, nodding along in my paper hat. Turns out his worst Christmas ever happened after he and his father drank a bottle of cheap brandy together, went temporarily blind and had to stay in the pub for the day and miss their dinner. I don’t tell them about mine, a Christmas Day of waiting, looking out of the window for my mother. I look at Rainey, rosy-cheeked with drink now.

‘Vivienne, put your shoulders back when you walk. If you waddle about that like that, your spine will go permanently S-shaped,’ she comments, as I clear away some glasses. I straighten into an L. ‘That’s better. You shouldn’t be working either. Isn’t it time you gave up doing . . . whatever it is you do?’

‘Run a business,’ answers Max protectively.

‘She should be thinking about the baby! Only three months to go, Vivienne, and we get to cradle your little one in our arms!’

How come she’s come over all maternal? Must be the booze.

‘Yeah, we’ll send you a photo,’ says Max.

‘I’ll be taking plenty of photos of my own,’ says Rainey, obviously planning to be around.

‘Er, let’s change the subject,’ I say. ‘Look – there’s a Bond film starting in a minute.’ I glance at Max and he flicks on the television with a frown.

‘How’s it going with the accommodation search?’ he asks Rainey. She looks at him disinterested and says something like, ‘I wouldn’t know,’ but I interrupt, speaking loudly to drown her out.

‘Do you know, I think I got us a box of Quality Street!’ I say. ‘Would you mind getting them, Max? Quick – the film’s starting.’

We watch television for the evening and I manage to divert any further confrontations, feeling the last of my Christmas cheer fading like a scattering of city snow, turning instead to dirty slush, the kind that leaves tide marks on your boots.

M
ax’s family
live in Ballyfermot, a suburb of Dublin. I remember the area from the last time I came here, as a student. His parents own a 1960s house, white render and red paintwork, off the main street.

‘Turn right after Iceland,’ Max tells our taxi driver.

As we walk to the front door, the large bay window gives a view of the entire family assembled in the living room, a welcome party sitting around in a half-circle. There are loads of them, and they are the best-looking family I’ve ever seen. A great cheer goes up as Max walks through, shouts and squeals follow, finally a hush as I step up. There I stand alone – Englishwoman, unmarried and pregnant in a house full of Catholics. I raise a hand to wave, think better of it and fiddle with my hair instead.

‘Everyone, you remember Vivienne.’ Max pulls me by the hand further into the room and I feel my face burn with the eyes on me. I’m not a shy person, but I fear my weird self may surface, speaking in a bad Irish accent and ask them if they can do River Dance. ‘Here’s my da, Declan, my mammy, Bridget. That’s my eldest sister, Claire, and Siobhan, my little sister. There’s Kathy, my baby sister, and I don’t know who all these little chislers belong to.’ He leaves me to chase a gaggle of kids around. I smile lovingly at him, thinking, Get back here, you bastard!

‘Take the weight off, Vivienne.’ Declan shows me a chair between Siobhan and Kathy. ‘Sure, we’re harmless really, apart from these.’ He swings a finger between the two girls. I smile at them in turn. Declan stands over us, flashing the same pirate smile as Max. He looks good, roguish, still fit, fancyable.

‘When’s your babby coming?’ asks Siobhan with a friendly smile at my belly.

‘Oh, erm, April. We’re engaged,’ I tell her, showing the ring, and she congratulates me. ‘Do you have kids?’ I ask, thinking I should know.

‘My three are the boys with Max and the sulky lady there.’ She points to a teenage girl sitting prettily on the arm of the sofa.

‘You look like sisters,’ I say.

‘That’s Yasmin. I fell with her at eighteen, sure didn’t I, Kathy?’

‘She did.’ Kathy is another dark-haired stunner with red lips and eyes like summer skies, cornflowers, faded denim. Max is now chatting to Bridget. She keeps hugging him, kissing him and letting him go.

‘Look at little mammy’s boy with the big beard,’ calls Siobhan, and he breaks free and comes over.

‘Viv, whatever these tell you about me is all lies and insinuation,’ he says, and kisses his sisters. ‘What’s happening?’

Declan pulls Max into an embrace, slapping him on the back. Max looks to be a foot taller than his dad. Declan then goes off to get drinks, wiping at a tear. Kathy tells Max she’s working behind the bar at O’Shea’s and seeing someone called Sean who’s a total ride. Siobhan’s left the cousin of their neighbour (whom she only married last year) and she doesn’t give a shite because he’s a gimp who’s away in the head. They seem to all talk at once, leaving me time to sit back and take it in. I keep looking across to Bridget and every time she seems to feel my gaze and she turns and smiles almost shyly. I watch Claire, who I think is the eldest sister, as she rounds up the children and sends them to wash for lunch. She’s more gamine then the others, with auburn hair in a sleek tight bun; her head looks like a shiny hazelnut. Declan returns with cut glasses of champagne.

‘Oh, no expense spared for the prodigal son,’ says Siobhan, rolling her eyes.

Max takes two glasses and hands one to me. I take a sip, waiting to feel sick, but it slips down nicely.

‘I shouldn’t drink really,’ I say.

‘Sure one or two won’t hurt,’ says Declan, fixing me with the twinkliest eyes. ‘Lunch is nearly ready. Do you want to see your room?’

W
e’re
in Max’s old bedroom, now redecorated: rose-print walls and muted pink carpet. There’s a shelf with some of his old books and a great big double bed with a camberwick bedspread.

‘Oh my God, a real bed.’ I fall flat on my back onto the pillows. I could cry with relief thinking of the cruel collection of springs and foam we’ve been used to sleeping on. I close my eyes, listening to the sounds from downstairs: calling voices, kids shouting, banging pots. Music starts up loud and then is turned down.

Max lies beside me. ‘What are they like?’

‘How come your family are so good-looking? You must be sad you got the only ugly gene.’

‘Funny girl now, are you? Watch it or I’ll leave you to fend for yourself down there.’

I smile without opening my eyes. ‘I fancy you more seeing you with your family. You look more gorgeous and swaggery than ever here, and they love the bones of you, which makes me love you even more.’

He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

‘I’ve got a crush on your dad as well. Could be hormones.’

‘Everyone falls for me ol’ fella.’

‘How do I make Kathy and Siobhan think I’m great? They’re so cool and lovely and pretty.’

‘Pair of witches they are.’

‘Your mum hasn’t spoken to me, though.’

‘She will and you’ll be sorry.’

‘Oh shit. Am I the evil English girl who’s ensnared you?’

‘She’ll be giving you the third degree.’

I roll onto one elbow and look down at him, panicked. ‘What shall I do? How shall I be?’

‘Just be yourself.’ He smiles.

L
unch is
a meaty lasagne with salad and baked potatoes and bread and butter, served at a big old kitchen table. There’s red wine and beer. Claire is smoking at the back door, watching as the food is dished out. She tuts as Declan fills my glass with wine.

‘She’s pregnant, Daddy! Not everyone is as fond of a drink as you.’

‘Sure, she’s giving out to me about the drink already and I’m only half cut,’ Declan confides to me.

Claire puts her cigarette end in the bin and brings me a glass of lemonade. ‘Now,’ she says, setting it down, ‘your big day won’t be long coming, will it?’

‘The first of April.’ I smile at her, but she’s off, sorting out the kids’ plates. I glance around the table and across at Max, sitting opposite, already tucking into a huge pile. Here he is with the weight of his family around him like an assembled power, an army of lookalikes to take for granted. I so want to be part of it.

‘So, Max, your exhibition, was it successful for you?’ Declan asks.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head and finishing a mouthful. He takes a gulp of wine. ‘Unmitigated disaster.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘So what’ll you do now? Get a job?’

‘No Da I’m still painting. I’ll look for another gallery.’

‘I don’t know, I’m only your ol’ fella, but would you not be better off getting paid work?’

I shoot a glance at Max. He’s calmly eating, looking at his plate and nodding.

‘Selling art won’t get you far up the road, son, and soon with a mouth to feed.’

The whole table falls quiet now, as if they know this particular impasse well and are settling in for a fight. Max puts down his fork and leans back in his chair. He smiles while his eyes burn with indignity. I hear a thudding and realise it’s my own heart drumming through my chest.

‘The thing is,’ I begin in a cheerful tone, ‘Max is a great talent who’s had work displayed in the Royal Academy, London.’ I see Declan taking a breath to argue, so continue quickly, raising a finger, ‘Most great artists have suffered unsuccessful exhibits, but you wouldn’t tell them to get a job: Picasso as a car fitter or Monet as a software analyst? He, he, no! Artists have a gift to give us: they raise society to new levels and
must
not be allowed to do anything else, because without art or music, we’re just animals. Someone famous said that, I think. With art, we may be in the gutter, but we’re looking at the stars.’ I blink a couple of times at their stunned faces, take a sip of lemonade and give what I hope is a friendly little smile.

‘Oscar Wilde,’ smiles Max.

‘I take what you’re saying, Viv. It’s all well and good, but how’ll you make ends meet, Max?’ asks Bridget.

Max gives her a hurt look that says, ‘You too?’

‘Well, I run my own business,’ I pipe up again. Why did I go and say that? Now I’ll have to explain all about transition crackers and seem even more bonkers.

What follows is a full-on debate. Every one of them chips in with an argument and counter-argument through the lasagne, two more bottles of red and a Key lime pie, through work, finance, culture and that ‘shower of savages’, the government. Declan is the main antagonist at one point, taking us all on and saying it’s the fault of the capitalist regime that he can’t sell any antiques. By the time we get to coffee, we’ve reached no firm conclusions that I can grasp, except that Max thinks he’s the ‘cat’s pyjamas’, I’m a ‘right one, fair play to me’, and they love nothing better than a bloody big argument.

O
n New Year’s Eve
, we go with Siobhan and Kathy to Downey’s bar, where there’s a good atmosphere and karaoke later. I’m in the wizard-sleeve number, but I forgot to pack any costume jewellery so can’t accessorise and feel a bit like the pint of Guinness Max is throwing down his neck: black with a bulge in the middle.

‘By rights we should have taken you to Temple Bar in town, but it’ll be rammed and we’ll not get a taxi,’ Kathy tells me.

I’m transfixed by her stick-on eyelashes, so long and black over her blue eyes she has the look of a blinking doll.

Siobhan is concentrating on filling out a karaoke card.

‘What’ll we sing?’ she asks, sliding a finger down the list.

‘“Islands in the Stream” is Viv’s favourite,’ says Max.

‘Oh, no, I’m not singing,’ I say.

‘Is she any good?’ asks Siobhan, ignoring my protests.

‘Oh yeah, brilliant,’ says Max in a comically strangled voice.

I take a sip of my lime and soda. I’m so sick of lime and soda.

Max moves closer, sliding a hand up and down my thigh. ‘It’s OK, baby – I won’t let them drag you up.’

The master of ceremonies takes the microphone and announces the first singer, a drunk-to-the-point-of-staggering middle-aged guy singing ‘I Will Always Love You’.

‘Hard choice,’ nods Kathy.

The man hits the first note flat.

‘Jesus, what an eejit,’ laughs Max.

‘He’s a bit like you, I think,’ I say, and his hand on my thigh squeezes and slides some more. Why didn’t I put on a shorter skirt? In Ireland, I thought we’d have some time alone, but no such luck, and being pregnant makes me want him all the time.

‘Will I put the three of us down for Destiny’s Child – you know, the
Charlie’s Angels
one?’

I shake my head and lean in to whisper, ‘Siobhan, I can’t sing a note, but Max will.’ When I lean back again, I find I’m sitting on his hand. I don’t move, though, and taking this as encouragement, he moves his fingers around.

‘If Max sings
Charlie’s Angels
, I’ll wet my pants,’ shouts Siobhan.

‘It’ll be like when we made him to do the nudey run,’ says Kathy.

I look at him, waiting for the story. He smiles his gorgeous smile; the fingers move on me; I am dying for him.

‘They dared me to run and touch the fence in the nip,’ he says in a bored sing-song voice.

‘The nip?’

‘Naked. When I did it, they locked the door and called the razzers.’

‘He made a holy show of himself banging on all the windows with his gooter dangling,’ laughs Kathy.

‘I hope your next shite is a hedgehog, Kathy,’ says Max.

The next up for karaoke is a girl in a pink cowboy hat. The girls don’t like her because she’s an awful skank, so they turn round to scowl through her rendition of ‘Killing Me Softly’.

Max leans in for a kiss while they’re not looking. ‘Sit on my knee,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you have a feel what you’re getting later.’

‘But I want it now.’ I look into his eyes, thinking, Happy New Year to me.

‘Come on.’ He nods towards the door.

Out under the black and stars, our breath comes in white clouds and we walk away from the muffled karaoke beat, huddled together for the short walk home. The pavement is frosted; we leave a zigzag of footprints while he’s telling me what he’s going to do to me. When I giggle, my teeth freeze.

‘Shh, shh,’ he says, opening his parents’ front door, and we tiptoe into the narrow hallway.

‘That you, Max and Viv?’ calls Bridget, and we wait.

‘It’s me, Ma!’ he calls, showing me the huge erection pressing against his jeans, pointing at me, then pulling his coat over it. He opens the door to the sitting room, motioning for me to stay put.

‘Will you not have a drop with us?’ I hear Declan ask. I study the swirly pattern of the brown shag pile, while he tells his parents I’m feeling a bit tired so he’s brought me home for a rest.

‘Goodnight, Vivienne,’ Bridget calls.

‘Goodnight! Sorry – just a bit tired with the baby,’ I answer.

‘Oh, I know how it is!’ she says, and then Max is back in the hall chasing me upstairs by smacking me on the arse.

I fall onto the bed giggling and he falls on top, propping himself up with one arm.

‘Talk Irish to me,’ I say between kisses.

‘I’d eat chips from your knickers,’ he says with a grin. Then he’s slipping out of his coat and fucking me with my dress ruched up and his trousers half down, and I’m laughing and yelling, ‘Yeah, buck me!’ and wanting him to do it for ever.

We lie on the bed afterwards and watch from the window as the New Year fireworks crackle across the sky.

‘Happy New Year, sexy,’ he says.

‘Same to you.’

He suddenly moves to pull off his jeans, shoes and socks. Then, giving me a good view of his arse, he rummages in his coat pocket for something. He rolls back onto the bed, dangling a pretty silver locket.