OMG Baby! (23 page)

I
t’s
Monday morning and I’m a basket case. In the split second I wake up, I forget Max has gone. When I remember, I prop myself up on an elbow and stare at his pillow, with a dull ache in my heart. I imagine him waking up where he is, in the studio, making a coffee, looking out of the window, murmuring my name, sighing, scratching and shaking his head sadly. I look towards my silent phone. Should I ring him? I think of another long day without him and pick up the phone. What shall I say, though? I could insist that Rainey leaves, but he already said it’s too late for that, or it’s not about that anymore, or whatever he said. I can’t follow him to the studio: he told me not to. I did lie to him, but I’ve apologised, and at least I didn’t leave him. I stare at the phone. I bring up his number and then the thing rings in my hand, the display flashing his name.

‘If I hadn’t rung, would you ring me?’ he asks.

‘Nope.’

‘You’re hard as nails.’

‘Why would I ring you? You left me. Come back to me and we’ll have a chat.’

‘Ah, so you’re still doing that whole “he left me” thing? OK, well, I’ll pop over when you’re ready to take some responsibility for your actions.’

‘I take responsibility. I said I’m sorry!’

‘Well, then I’m sorry too.’

‘What for?’

‘Good question! What am I supposed to be sorry for? Being a gullible fool?’

‘Look, Max, I can’t deal with this shit anymore, OK? I’m having a baby and I need a grown-up to help me, not a spoiled brat who walks out on me. So you just ring me when
you
are ready to take responsibility for
your
actions, dickhead!’

‘Oh, name-calling, is it? Very adult!’

‘Go away!’ I hang up on him.

He calls back immediately.

I answer in a weary voice. ‘Are you ready to talk nicely?’ I ask.

‘Don’t be a baby, Vivienne. I rang to talk to you.’

‘Baby, am I? Goodbye,’ I say airily.

‘Don’t you ha—’

I hang up and throw the phone. It skitters across the laminate.
I’m
acting like a baby? I stare into space. I rock on the edge of the sofa bed, chewing on the side of my thumbnail. I stick out my bottom lip. I go and get ready for work.

I arrive at the office before anyone else and despondently rip down the Christmas streamers, leaving short, flaccid strands Blu-tacked in each corner of the room, where they’ll remain until next Christmas . . . but who cares? I won’t even be here by then, the way things are going.

I turn on my laptop, and as if to confirm this gloomy prediction, I find an email from Sebastian at Belle Peau saying our crackers are not doing well for him and cancelling our previous deal to have them on his site. He said he’d probably had one glass of sherry too many when he agreed but that we should meet up and discuss ways forward in the new year. I look at the office calendar. It’s bloody 4 February already. January has been a total wash-out. I’ve hardly been at work since Max left. I rattle out a reply, pointedly wishing him a happy new year and asking for a meeting. It’s better to act dense in these situations, I’ve always found.

New year! Stupid whistley bastard.

At nine forty-two Christie arrives, wearing a black leather trouser suit and heels covered with spikes.

‘You come straight from the fetish club, then?’ I ask, nodding at the shoes. She turns an ankle towards me, showing them off.

‘Look and learn, Viv,’ she sighs.

She hums to herself as she carefully removes the jacket and hangs it on her chair, switches on her laptop, cleans the screen with a special wipe and arranges a Danish pastry next to her keyboard. Her lips are shiny red, and her hair is pulled to the side in a backcombed ponytail like a fox’s brush. She looks up.

‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ she asks.

‘Go on, then,’ I say. There’s no point in reminding her that we start at nine. We’re almost bust, so her work habits are soon to be someone else’s concern, I guess. I search despondently through our website, looking at the samples for the Barnes and Worth meeting. I think we’ll just take the whole range for them to pick through and dress Michael up in a gimp suit. Christie returns with the tea.

‘God, you’re massive now, aren’t you, Viv?’ she says, setting down a milky mug. ‘How far along are you?’

‘Thirty-three weeks.’

This means nothing to her. ‘That’s a really big bump, really wide! You’re huge, Viv!’ she says.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ I snap. ‘I’m supposed to be big – there’s a whole other person in here.’

‘OK, then,’ she says, raising her eyebrows at her screen.

‘And my back is killing me,’ I add, hoping for sympathy.

She doesn’t answer. I watch her, but she doesn’t look up. Am I unreasonable? Snappy? Am I a baby and a liar? A bad person? I would have said not, but actually, what do I know?

‘Hey, Christie, I haven’t really seen much of you since we’ve been back. You never told me about your break. What did you get up to?’ I ask mildly.

‘I never went away.’

‘The Christmas break? Tell us what you did.’

‘Oh, it seems ages ago! I went to this wicked New Year’s Eve do, Viv. You should have come. It was mental! It was on a farm!’

‘Mental.’

‘At midnight we all went out into a field and balanced on these round hay bales and you had to try and run on top of them while someone pushed.’

‘Mental,’ I repeat.

‘What did you do at New Year?’ she asks, smile fading.

‘Oh, you know, not much. Take That came over and we had a bake-off.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, Gary Barlow really messed up his Victoria sponge, but his lemon meringue was the best you ever tasted.’

‘OK, Viv, whatever.’ She sips her tea.

‘Actually, I went to Dublin to meet Max’s family.’

‘Oh, Dublin. Did you sing “Tell Me Ma”?’

‘Yes! Do you know it?’

‘I always end up singing that in Dublin.’

I look at her and nod encouragingly, waiting for a Dublin story, but none is forthcoming.

‘So, anyway, Belle Peau have dropped us.’

‘What?’

‘Sebastian just emailed,’ I say, whistling the ‘s’.

‘His loss,’ she says, whistling hers.

‘Actually, it’s very much our loss. Things are looking a bit tricky. If we don’t get that Barnes and Worth thing . . .’

‘We’re up shit creek without a boat,’ she says.

‘Without a paddle,’ I correct.

‘But we still have a boat?’

‘Yes, but we’re heading for the rapids without a paddle, so we’ll soon be matchwood.’

‘Unless we get washed into the shallows,’ she says hopefully.

‘Even if we do, there’s a waterfall ahead and we’ll never make it. Barnes and Worth are our only hope. They’re the sticking-out branch that we must grab hold of.’

‘Oh well, I’ve applied for a job as a beautician anyway,’ she says, examining a nail.

‘You’ve already applied for a job?’

She nods her head with a serious expression. ‘I need a secure job, Viv – I’ve booked Ibiza.’

‘What about us? Me and you, the Dream Team?’

She wrinkles her nose and giggles as if it’s all been a silly joke. ‘Dream Team,’ she says.

‘And we still have the Barnes and Worth meeting. When they place a massive order, we’ll need you. You’re the only one who can speak Cantonese!’

‘I’ll probably be gone by then, but they speak OK English in the factory. Don’t worry – I only do the Cantonese to keep them on their toes.’ She smiles and pops a piece of Danish into her mouth.

I feel all the energy suck out of me. I’m instantly depleted. I slump forward, laying my hands across the desk. I take a long, shuddering breath, then drop my head and cry loudly into the crook of my arm.

‘Oh, what’s the fricking point, anyway?’ I whimper into my jumper sleeve.

‘I know. I sometimes think that,’ she says.

I glance up, wiping my eyes. There she is, gazing at her screen, munching away without a care in the world, while I am about to lose everything. I’m facing a very uncertain future charting a course as a single mother, probably having to
live
in that zingy-green Bugaboo, while Christie, that faithless deserter, is saving her own skin like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Also, I can’t seem to get away from these sailing analogies. I sit up and bang the desk, suddenly full of rage.

‘Let me tell you something – you would be a terrible beautician, Christie!’ I say, wagging a finger at her. She looks up, shocked. That’s got her attention. Good. ‘Beauticians have to be empathetic to people. They have to do things like wax old ladies’ beards and spray nude fatties with fake tan, you know! They have to be tactful!’

‘I am tactful, Vivienne,’ she says, wide-eyed.

‘You wouldn’t know tact if it kicked you up the bum!’

‘
You
wouldn’t!’

‘What? I’m the
epitome
of it!’

‘As well you might be, but you’re not very tactful,’ she says, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder.

‘Do you know I’ve been paying you out of my savings?’

‘So?’

‘So where’s your loyalty?’

She shrugs. We stare at each other. A red flush is rising up to her ears. What am I doing? I know I can’t make her stay here if she wants to go. I look at her wide eyes and suddenly feel sorry for her. I’m taking out all my frustrations on her and it’s not her fault. It’s Max who’s left me. He’s the faithless deserter. I take a deep breath.

‘Oh, look, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry, Christie.’

She lifts her nose, looking sideways at me.

‘It’s just I’m under a lot of pressure at the moment, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. I hope you’ll stay and see us through the meeting, and then whatever you decide to do is, of course, fine. You’ll be a great beautician. You’ll be great at whatever you decide to do.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ I smile.

‘Aw, thanks, Viv.’ She giggles, as forgiving as a Labrador. ‘I couldn’t do what you’re doing, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, having a baby. I’m too selfish to ruin my figure, and I couldn’t stand never being able to earn the same once you’ve got a baby, because even if you go back to work, you’ve got to spend half your wages on childcare, and then you always have to rush off to pick up the baby, and then you’re constantly knackered because the baby won’t go to sleep!’

‘No. Well, that’s right,’ I say, feeling tears welling again. ‘I’m just popping out for a bit.’

I go and stand outside on the fire escape. The freezing wind soon dries my eyes; it snaps at my nose, lifts my hair and throws it in all directions. I gasp for breath as I try to pull myself together.

It’s all right, I think. Everything is going to be fine. We will get a huge order from Barnes and Worth. Max will let me off for my barefaced lying. Rainey will begin to act a bit like a parent.

‘
Who are you trying to kid?
’ asks Angel.

‘And if not, I will deal with it!’ I shout. The words fly off into the rushing air. I turn and stand against the railing with my arms held out to the side like Kate Winslet in
Titanic
. ‘I will deal with it!’ I shout, shaking off a page of airborne newsprint that catches on my arm. I lift my chin to meet the wind and out of the corner of my eye I see someone moving. I glance to the left, at the building opposite, where a small gathering has assembled at the window of an office. A few jump and clap when I look over. Then they push a thin man in glasses to the front of the window. He holds up a sign that reads, ‘Will you go out with me?’

I don’t know why, but I look around to make sure he means me. I point to myself and he nods. I pull a face and shake my head and they all fall about laughing. I feel sorry for the skinny man; he must be the butt of all the office jokes or something, poor guy. I turn to go, but I see he’s scribbling something else, so I wait while he holds up the new message.

He holds it up, smiling. It reads, ‘Go fuck yourself, fatty.’

I
arrive home
that evening and Rainey meets me at the door holding a bottle of Merlot and a glass. A ragged dark red line of wine has formed on her dry lips.

‘Vivienne, welcome home. Want wine?’ she asks, as I struggle out of my coat. What I want is to lie down in a dark room.

‘No, thanks. I’m pregnant, remember,’ I say, irritated.

‘I’ve made us a casserole. Would you like mashed potatoes with it or rice?’

I head for the sofa. There is a delicious garlicky smell coming from the kitchen and I realise I’m starving. The living room is spotless: Rainey has cleaned up again. She’s packed away the depressing Christmas tree that I started on, then left half undecorated, with its white top sticking out from a wrapping of baubles like a half-peeled banana. She’s replaced the tree with a vase of slender daffodils and some candles. The lamps are lit and it’s warm and cosy in here. I drop my bag and lie flat on my back with a sigh of relief. Rainey comes over and arranges a cushion under my head.

‘There. Is that better?’ she asks, smoothing my hair. ‘It feels nice to look after you,’ she says, leaving ‘Such a novelty’ unsaid but hanging in the air. This is starting to feel weird. I feel like a pet.

‘What a relief to lie down,’ I groan. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘I told you, you should be resting, not working and trudging around London. Am I right?’

‘You are so right. What about all those toiling-in-the-fields women? Did you say the same to them?’

The side of her mouth twitches. ‘That’s different – they’re used to it. Mash, did you say?’ She sings as she goes into the kitchen.

I find my phone and hold it on my chest. No missed calls from Max. This thing with us is getting serious. This is too long for a tiff. It’s officially more than a tiff. What’s he been doing today? Has he thought about me at all? Doesn’t he miss me? Doesn’t he care about Angel? I stroke my belly. It feels as if something is jammed under my ribs.

‘We miss him, don’t we?’ I sniff, and wipe my eyes just as Rainey returns with a drink for me.

‘You’re not crying, are you?’ she asks, placing the glass on a cork coaster.

I shake my head.

‘You
are
crying,’ she says. ‘I hope those tears are not for that big Irish blockhead.’

I shake my head again and root around in my bag for a tissue to blow my nose.

‘He’s not worth the salt of your tears, Vivienne.’ She presses her lips together.

I try to smile.

‘I know you think you loved him. You thought you were some rock chick and he was your bohemian artist and the world was just going to open its arms to you because you were so adorable together.’

What is she talking about? I never thought that at all.

‘But love isn’t like that. You will always be let down. I could have told you,’ she continues. ‘I should have warned you he’d be gone at the first sign of trouble. And now he has! He’s gone and left you with a baby on the way. It’s the same the world over, Vivienne. That’s what men do, and Irish men? Well . . .’

‘It isn’t like that,’ I begin. ‘Max wouldn’t—’

‘Don’t be so naïve! It hasn’t dawned on you yet, has it? I might as well tell you . . . He’s already on to the next victim. Lula, is it?’

I sniff and wipe my tears. Eh? Lula? What has she got to do with this?

‘Next victim? No, Lula’s just one of his models, and I am not naïve, thank you very much. I’ve lived a good successful life without you so far, you know. I’m thirty-two,’ I tell her, all the while feeling very uneasy about Lula. I feel that name like a blade between the ribs. Lula with the bewitching lips and slim thighs? Lula with the glossy hair and the sexy laugh?

‘Well, she rang here looking for him. I told her he’d gone for good and she’s welcome to him. I said she could have him to herself from now on.’

‘You what?’ I sit up now. ‘Lula rang here? You said what?’

‘Yes, she rang today. She was upset, asking for Max.’

I feel sick. I rest my head in my hands. It’s our student days all over again, the girls in tears ringing to speak to Max. Has he just reverted? Am I now one of those girls?

‘You had absolutely no right to tell her he’s gone for good. He has not gone for good! She can’t have him,’ I shout, feeling tears spring to my eyes at the thought. ‘What did she say?’

‘She was crying. She asked for him and hung up when I told her he’d gone.’

Can I believe this? I can’t believe what Rainey says: she hates Max, would do anything to put him down. This is Max, my love, the man who loves me, my friend. I think back to the night of the gallery, Lula with her hand on his arm, how he stood next to her all night, but then I think of him proposing to me, telling me he loves me.
Then
I think of his face when I gave back the ring. I lied to him. What if I’ve pushed him into Lula’s arms?

I take the phone and press his name. Rainey watches.

‘Hello?’ says a velvety female voice.

‘Who’s this?’ I snap.

‘Vivienne? It’s Lula,’ she croons with a laugh in her voice. I hang up.

Rainey raises her thin eyebrows.

‘She just answered his phone,’ I whisper.

‘I told you,’ she says, triumphant. ‘Am I right?’

‘But . . .’ I stare into space. I don’t believe it. Max wouldn’t go off with Lula. He loves me, but then I wouldn’t have believed he’d leave me, and he has.

‘They’re all the same,’ says Rainey. ‘Why do you think he never liked me? It’s because he knew I was on to him. Men like that, they don’t want a strong, independent woman like me around. I’ve seen his type before, all sexy smiles and wild hair and blarney! Then boom – they’re gone like rats up a drainpipe!’

She’s getting quite excited now, quite loud, but I’m only half listening. Despite everything that’s happened, I know Max wouldn’t do anything like this; he’s my friend. He’d tell me it was over before he’d cheat on me. There must be a simple explanation, surely.

‘He has a real aggressive streak too,’ continues Rainey, pacing. ‘Can’t stand to be criticised, won’t be told anything – everything has to be his way or the highway! His foolish pride will stop him from ever being successful, you know. He was jealous of me and my artistic expertise!’

‘Rainey, shut up! You don’t know the first thing about him, and I’ll tell you something – you’re the cause of this mess!’ I say as my phone rings, flashing up his name. I hesitate.

‘Don’t answer it,’ Rainey spits like a wild thing.

‘Hi,’ I say, ignoring her.

‘Viv, it’s me. How’re you doing? You just rang. Are you OK?’

‘Why is Lula answering your phone?’

‘We’re working. I was making tea, so she got it for me.’

I think of him happily painting and chatting and making tea while I’m here heavily pregnant and pining for him. It makes me wild with rage.

‘Tea, was it?’

‘Yeah . . . tea,’ he says uncertainly.

‘I see, I see. So why was she ringing here today in tears, then? Why did she ask Rainey for you?’ I look up at Rainey, who’s hovering nearby, and wave her away angrily.

‘Ha! I bet Lorraine just couldn’t wait to tell you that! What, d’you think I’m fucking Lula now?’

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

‘Fuck’s sake! This is what I mean. There’s no trust!’

‘Why was she crying down the phone for you?’

‘She’s pregnant. She doesn’t want to be.’

‘Who’s the father? Tell her to ring him! Or are you . . . ?’

‘No! I am not the father. What do you take me for, Viv? What’s happened to you? She’s a friend of mine, right? She needed to talk to me because we were meant to be working.’

Oh my God, what have I become? Accusing Max of all sorts. A tiny part of me wants to just say how sorry I am and beg him to come home, but now I’m wild with jealousy.

‘Well, I’m supposed to be a friend of yours and I
am
having your baby, so you should be here,’ I wail, and then I start to cry. I can’t help it. I’ve had enough of this shit-with-shit-on-top situation, and everything I do just makes it worse, and I don’t even know how it happened really.

‘Ah, don’t cry.’

‘I don’t know how this has happened. I don’t understand why it’s like this. I love you. How are you not here with me?’

‘You know why.’

‘Because I lied to you? I’m sorry! I made a fucking mistake, so you need to decide – are you going to forgive me or what?’

‘Huh! Your usual “just let me off” approach isn’t going to work, Viv. I can’t live with her. I don’t know how you can either when she puts you down all the time. I can’t stand it,’ he says.

There’s a long pause. I listen to him sigh, his breath crashing into my ear.

‘I thought you said you’d walk through fire for me. What happened to that? I thought putting up with your mother-in-law would be nothing to you. Thanks a lot.’

‘If you’d ever
asked
me to, I would have put up with her. Instead you lied to me, you sided with her, you made some sort of pact with her, and you always choose to be loyal to someone else instead of me!’

‘Are we talking about what happened with Rob?’

‘Yeah, if you like. You went back with him when you’d started something with me. Now you’re choosing her over me. You’re doing it again, Vivienne.’

‘I had good intentions . . . I was just trying to do the right thing.’

‘So what?’

‘That doesn’t even make sense!’

‘It does to me.’

‘What about you and me?’

‘Yeah, Viv, what about you and me?’

‘I asked you first.’

‘I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t scheme behind your back. I didn’t break off our engagement. You did. I don’t hang up every time we talk. So what about you and me? Do you want it or not?’

‘No!’ I shout, and then I hang up.

I wait. He doesn’t ring back.