OMG Baby! (24 page)

I
scribble
this in a valentine’s card, one with a photo of a kitten hanging in a sock with ‘Stuck on you’ across the top and then throw it in the bin and he doesn’t ring back. Then he doesn’t ring back some more. A week passes by and he doesn’t ring. I want to talk to him and say something like, ‘Look, this is stupid . . .’ but I don’t.

Then a card arrives from him on Valentine’s Day. A handmade card, a beautiful pencil sketch of pregnant me, asleep, and inside is written:

V
ivienne
,

Come to Uno’s tonight at 7.

M x

I
put
on the table and keep glancing at it and picking it up again for a long time, flooded with relief and excitement. He loves me. He wants to see me. I look at his handwriting and black thoughts begin to circle, overpowering my forgiving heart. It doesn’t say he loves me, does it? Or that he’s sorry. He probably wants to meet to tell me why I’m wrong all over again, and I don’t care what he says about trust and lies and whatever else he thinks; I’m pregnant and that is a ‘get out of jail free’ card if ever there was one. He should forgive me. He should be beating down the door, showering me with flowers and chocolates or something, not summoning me mysteriously. He shouldn’t have left me in the first place, and he knows where I am if he wants to see me.

I wander into the kitchen and find myself staring at a fridge-magnet gift from Rainey. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going,’ it says above a picture of a grinning chimp. She’s taking the ‘be tough and get going’ approach with her lump. A mammogram showed up a shadow, she says, and further tests are needed. Worrying about her and being driven mad by her has helped to distract me from the empty ache of missing Max.

Still, my heart reasons, I feel dull inside, muffled, as if I’m looking at the world through a thick layer of ash. Not being able to talk to Max makes everything worthless as shit. I miss him so much I’ve developed a twitch in my eye. He makes my day. I always check my ideas with him because the way he looks at the world makes total sense. He finds a way to laugh at things. I miss his big, loud laugh.

I stick Max’s card on the fridge, slamming the grinning chimp over the lovely sketch. I’ll go to Uno’s tonight and I can’t wait to see him.

The day at work is a drag mostly involving me staring at my PowerPoint presentation for Barnes and Worth with a sense of doom. I make up a slide entitled ‘Likelihood of Getting Back With Max’ and put in a pie chart with ‘likely’ being ninety per cent, ‘unlikely’ five per cent and ‘anything could happen’ being the rest, and then I do another with ‘unlikely’ being ninety per cent.

There’s a brief interlude after lunch when some really gorgeous sample crackers arrive. We lay them out by Christie’s desk and get excited by the bright colours and the finish of the card. Michael sets about taking pictures of the ‘New Baby’ range and PhotoShopping them onto pictures of happy new parents holding tiny cute offspring. When he shows me, I tear up with the longing for Max and my baby and our little family. Michael gives me a tissue and a lecture about hormones in the third trimester running wild and making you do crazy stuff.

I leave early, saying I’m not feeling well, and nip into H&M’s maternity section on the way home, where I pick up a low-cut maternity dress in midnight blue to wear tonight. Just as I’m walking out of the shop, Rainey calls. I press ‘ignore’. I need to concentrate on tonight and not be distracted by her latest drama. I make my way home to take a long bath and I’m relieved to find she’s out.

Rainey is still not back later when I head out to meet Max. I leave her a note. I’m pleased with the dress. It accentuates my mahoosive boobs, and the silver locket draws the eye right to them. My black eyeliner and messy ponytail say, ‘Not-trying-too-hard sexy,’ a look I work hard at and only occasionally pull off.

Uno’s is chock-full of couples at tables for two with candles twinkling in jars. I look around for Max, and then when I lay eyes on him, I have to compose myself. He looks completely gorgeous to me in his old denim shirt. He stands as I approach and kisses me on the cheek so that I get a whiff of him and my traitor heart flips with longing.

‘Hey, Viv.’ He smiles.

‘Hi.’

I sit and a few moments pass. What is he doing, just sitting there smiling? I fiddle with the napkin, spreading it over my lap. I avoid looking at his eyes: they make me think of sex and then I’ll lose all composure.

‘You look fantastic,’ he says.

‘Thank you, I try. You look good.’

‘Thanks.’ He nods.

‘Welcome.’

The waitress brings two glasses of Prosecco and a rose, dumping them down on the table like she has fifty times already this evening: they’re complimentary with the booking, a Valentine’s gimmick.

‘Cheers.’ He raises his glass to mine and we chink.

‘Why did you summon me? To apologise?’

‘I invited you so we could talk without you hanging up on me. Pretty relieved you came. It’s fucking great to see you, baby.’

‘Oh,’ I say airily, looking around at the table arrangements, trying to stop the corners of my mouth turning up into a massive smile.

He rubs the back of his hair, messing it up, as if wondering how to handle this.

‘Also I have a proposal for you,’ he says.

‘Another one?’

‘Come and live with me.’

I’m saved from answering immediately by the waitress bringing bread and olives and tap water in a fancy bottle. I look at Max as she slides the menu in front of him and he looks at me. Our eyes and hearts connect like old friends.

‘It makes sense,’ he continues.

‘Does it? How?’

‘We have a bed at mine, for a start. We can be together. I miss you. You know you miss me’

‘I thought I was a big liar who puts other people before you?’

‘You still are, and I’m the guy who fucks off at the drop of a hat. Nobody said we’re perfect.’

Here I want to look up at the ceiling and laugh and say ‘Oh thank god!’ But I’m gripped by a terrible stubbornness and its forcing me to stick to the principle and not give in to my heart. I’m pregnant and he chose to abandon me rather than support me. I can’t just forget about that.

‘Well, it’s a lovely idea, but I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ He frowns.

‘Because my mother is staying with me, and the reason she’s doing that is so we could get to know each other after all these years. As I explained, I have a need to get to know my mother before I become a mother myself, and I had hoped you would understand that and support me, instead of accusing me of choosing her over you, instead of making me choose.’

‘I did, I do. Ah the woman’s a witch.’

I shake my head. ‘I expected you’d support me by staying with me no matter what she’s like.’

‘What can I do? I can’t live with her. You swore she was going. Meanwhile telling her she can stay for fucking ever.’

‘Not for ever. Look, she got ill.’

‘Of course she got ill!’ He throws himself back in the chair, shaking his head. ‘Are you really that gullible?’

‘Maybe.’

‘She manipulates you. She puts you down, Viv.’

‘Well, anyway, in other news the baby is fine, although my pelvis is shagged.’

‘Viv, I didn’t leave you. Can’t you see why I had to leave? You lied to me for her.’

I sigh. I’m confused and exasperated, and he’s making all these strong arguments as to why I’m a gullible fool and totally wrong, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a mother like mine, does he? He doesn’t know anything.

‘I think you were right when you said I need time to work out my relationship with Rainey,’ I say, adding, ‘without you,’ to hurt him. Why not? I’m hurting all over.

‘Well, then you made your choice,’ he says sadly.

‘There shouldn’t be a choice,’ I swallow, and look away.

The rest of the meal is horrible – prickly but polite conversation – and I insist on going halves on the bill to piss him off. We walk out of the artificial Valentine’s bubble into the icy wind of a February night.

‘Well, goodbye,’ I say, stoic as a wartime heroine.

‘Vivienne . . .’

I touch his hand, kiss his cheek and turn away, walking into the wind, letting it smart my eyes to hide the tears.

B
loody
Forty Weeks
and Counting Down
is right about everything. You might get a powerful craving to eat soap. Look it up and there it’ll be: ‘In week thirty, some women have a powerful craving for soap.’ It’s so accurate I want to catch it out. I thought, surely no one else in their thirty-seventh week likes to bite cotton wool for that dry, squeaky feeling? I look it up and there it is! I throw the book down. Spend time with your partner, it says. I’d love to. I stare into space, brooding, overcome with a dark pessimism. Since Valentine’s Day things have become alarmingly civilised and unemotional. He calls, we talk politely. It’s worse than not speaking. I try to insult him just to get a rise out of him, get him to show some emotion, but he doesn’t react. Is this the death knell for us and our hot passionate love? I need to talk this through with a close friend.

‘Lucy Bond speaking.’

‘It’s the death knell for me and Max. We’ve become polite.’

I hear a weary sigh. ‘You know what I think.’

‘You think he’s right.’

‘Yes he is right and he loves you, so just go round there and give him a blow job. Death knell!’

‘Even though he left me and I’m pregnant?’

‘Viv, just go round there and sort it.’

‘Not while there’s breath in my body. Anyhow I can’t can I? Perineum failure.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ she laughs.

‘You try walking without one.’

‘I would but I’m at work, Viv. I have to go.’

‘OK, you hang up first.’

The line goes dead instantly. I look at the time. Six forty-five and she’s already at her desk. Wow. I think about calling Max, but don’t. I get up and make tea.

Rainey is still asleep and I don’t want to wake her. She’s been for more tests on her lump and has been slightly frosty with me for avoiding her calls while she’s battling with possible cancer. She tells me they still can’t say if it’s cancer, although a quick Google search tells me she should know by now. I asked her what tests she’d had, but she was vague, muttering something about ‘the one with the needle’. I think if she’s had that test, we should know the results very soon.

I hope she is OK because I need her to move out and I won’t feel guilty about it. As Lucy explained to me, lots of people love their mother, but hardly any of them want to live in a tiny flat for months with them while pregnant. It’s my guilt that’s keeping her here, says Lucy, which is crazy, because Rainey left
me
all those years ago. Why should
I
feel guilty? Lucy says it’s because inside I feel it’s my fault she went away and now I’m trying to be the perfect daughter to prove that I can make her stay. Lucy and her tin-pot psychology. It got too confusing to fathom in the end. I make the tea feeling down, thinking thoughts like ‘Everybody leaves me’ and ‘I don’t even like my own pyjamas.’

I’ll have to pull myself together, though. This isn’t a great frame of mind to be in today, because today I’m facing Barnes and Worth. I shuffle off to get ready for work.

D
amon has offered
to take us over to the Barnes and Worth Baker Street head office in his van, so that we don’t have to struggle with all the samples on the Tube. I sit in the back seat wearing my wizard-sleeve maternity dress, marvelling at the circumference of Damon’s hairy neck as we crawl through the London traffic. Michael is up front, wearing his pale grey suit and a new navy tie. He’s slicked his black hair back and even added an extra bead to the end of his straggly beard. He’s looking sharp for a weirdo. Beside me is Christie, my wing-woman, wearing a shocking-pink satin playsuit more conducive to a night out clubbing than a career-defining business meeting, but as I said in my earlier pep talk, we have to be the best version of who we are and that’s all we can do, because that’s who we are. I think I made a point, anyhow. Sliding around in the back of the van are boxes of sample crackers. They look good. We went with five key colours with contrasting ribbon. So we’re good to go, we’re all set, and we’re all looking forward. The only thing that’s missing is some action-film-type music.

‘My old mum used to know Bette Barnes of Barnes and Worth when they were market traders together,’ Damon tells us as we pull up to unload by the revolving doors.

‘How old
is
your old mum? Barnes and Worth were market traders in the 1800s, Damon,’ I say.

‘Oh yeah, of indeterminable age, she is,’ he says.

I turn and look up at the tall building with a shudder, counting up to the thirteenth floor, where we used to work. The last time we were in this building, I quit and Christie was sacked by the very person we’re meeting with today. I square up my shoulders and blow out a breath. I’m facing down the fear.

‘Right, come on, Dream Team!’ I shout, turning back to the van to grab a box.

Michael climbs down, smooths his suit and does a little boxer’s dance on the pavement, sparring with the air.

‘That’s it – stay loose. Looking good,’ I tell him.

Christie totters round the back of the van holding up a bright pink cracker tied with a pea-green ribbon.

‘Look, Viv, see what I did?’ She motions to her pink playsuit with pea-green sash. ‘I
am
a transition cracker!’ she says, smiling delightedly.

‘Oh yeah!’ I say, and gulp. How the hell are we going to pull this off? And what will happen if we don’t? I waddle round the back of the van to get a box, but Damon stops me.

‘I’ll park up and help you in with these boxes, Viv,’ he says.

I don’t know what to say. I hesitate. I definitely do not want him to come in the building.

He clocks my reaction. ‘Or are you scared I’ll scatter the crowd with my breath-taking beauty?’ he asks, one stray eye searching the sky.

‘No, that’s great – help with the boxes.’ I nod, ashamed, and we go through to the marbled foyer to wait our turn.

There are other companies waiting for sales meetings: one neat husband-and-wife team, edgy as hens, with a crate of rusty wire hearts, and various suited groups with briefcases. Here we are in the thick of it. Michael is sweating slightly despite the air conditioning and I pass him a tissue to wipe his forehead.

‘She’s not going to eat you, Michael,’ I tell him.

‘You don’t know her, Viv. She once went for me with a dentist’s drill during foreplay,’ he says into his lap, and Christie turns to me, wide-eyed, mouthing, ‘Oh my God.’

At that moment Damon exits from the revolving doors holding two boxes. I give a discreet wave to his good eye and he lumbers over.

‘Just pop them down there, thanks, Damon,’ I say.

‘So this is it. This is where it all happens!’ he declares, hands on hips.

‘Yes. We’ll be OK from here, thanks,’ I say, eager to usher him out before Mole appears to collect us, but it’s too late. Here she is, sliding herself sideways through the security gates. A coil of nerves tightens round my chest like barbed wire. Nerves or it could be heartburn: I’ve been getting that. I moisten my lips and check Michael. He’s transfixed like a mouse facing a python.

Mole is swathed in maroon linen. It appears as if lengths of fabric with ridged seams have been sewn and knotted together at random and she’s found a hole to pop her head through. Her mouth is dark maroon against her pale shiny skin. Even the sprinkle of moles across her cheek look maroon. Her pale blue gaze covers the foyer before coming to rest on Michael. She looks at him hungrily. Her eyes pin him down like two laser beams. I glance to my left, where he stands spellbound and stupefied by her. His statement facial hair quivers.

‘Be cool,’ I whisper, and pinch him on the thigh.

I step forward a little and extend my hand. She drags her gaze away from Michael and enfolds my fingers in a clammy handshake. She looks to Damon and then to Christie and back to me.

‘Wow. Dream Team. You really are,’ she says, raising her eyebrows.

Eh? What does she mean by that?

‘Hi, Marion,’ I say warmly. ‘May I introduce our driver, Damon. He’s just leaving, and Christie you know, and of course Michael . . .’ I trail off.

There’s a moment of awkwardness while Mole and Michael just look at each other. This is some weird energy between them.

‘I’ll wait in the van, then, Viv!’ Damon interrupts, and I nod impatiently.

‘Well, now,’ croons Mole. ‘Shall we go up?’ She gestures with a chubby hand and we follow her to the lifts.

‘You look very nice today, by the way,’ I say. ‘Have you lost weight?’ I’m shameless: clearly she hasn’t lost any weight; if anything, she’s heavier than before.

‘No,’ she chuckles. ‘I’ve put on a few pounds, actually,’ she says, looking at Michael, who has a thing for big women. He fingers his beard and smiles at her, and she colours slightly.

We ride a couple of floors in silence.

‘Congratulations to you, though, Vivienne,’ says Mole suddenly. ‘You look very big.’ She motions towards my belly. ‘May I touch?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I smile and try not to cringe as she strokes a hand over my newly popped-out belly button.

‘How many months pregnant are you?’ she asks. Her breath smells like poo.

‘Thirty-seven weeks. They count in weeks,’ I tell her, surprising myself. Birth seems scarily imminent.

‘Working right up to the bitter end?’ she asks.

‘Oh yes! I could pop any minute, as they say!’

‘Hopefully not in our meeting, though,’ she says, hastily removing her hand.

‘No, no, bunged myself up!’
Shut up, shut up. Just stop now!

Thankfully the lift arrives at our floor.

She shows us to a meeting room and Christie and I begin arranging the crackers in order. We’re starting with some of the more usual transitions – ‘New Baby’, ‘Sexy Bride’, ‘New House’ – having decided to keep ‘Out of the Closet’, ‘Fetish’ and ‘Hen Night’ back for later.

‘How have you been?’ I hear Mole murmur in Michael’s ear as he sets up our presentation.

‘I’m well, Marion,’ he says, looking sideways at her.

The SmartBoard buzzes to life, lighting up the gloomy room, and we wait as Michael prepares the presentation and then I’m away. I feel a flutter of nerves as I begin the pitch. I go through the background research – the numbers of people getting married, the birth rate and divorce rate – and our rationale, and then I hand Mole a cracker to pull. I choose the ‘Fetish’ one, deliberately, knowing she’ll ask Michael to pull it with her.

‘Michael, would you like to pull a cracker?’ she asks coquettishly. It’s really quite sad to see. He obliges and a pair of our trademark edible pants, a blindfold and some foldaway handcuffs slide out onto the table. Mole picks up the pants.

‘I remember these,’ she says, opening the packet. ‘Edible pants.’

‘That’s right.’ I smile as she slips the blindfold on Michael. He sits there with his mouth slightly open like a fish. ‘Er, there’s also a little leaflet of knots in there, should you wish to tie up your partner,’ I add chirpily.

Christie and I go through the costs and the retail prices, and Mole questions the profit margins. She handles each cracker, lays them out in a line, and then she blows out a breath like a whale and says no.

We’re all still smiling as she says it, until one by one it dawns on us and our smiles drop and shatter like icicles from a roof.

‘It’s a shame, because I really like this product. Great ideas. The crackers look beautiful, but we’d have to launch it. I feel the investment will be too much for the gifting budget and leave us short for our classics. People expect a pop-up brolly from us. We are the destination store for toiletry bags and lavender talc, but fetish crackers? Not so much.’

I feel as if a big rock has been placed over my lungs. I’m casting about, thinking of something to say.

‘I appreciate what you’re saying, Marion, but I don’t think you need to see it as a huge launch. You could start slowly, with perhaps just “New Baby”, and see how they sell through,’ I say, raising my eyebrows into my hair and smiling crazily.

She picks up the baby-blue baby cracker and sorts through the contents.

‘Could we choose what we put in?’ She frowns at a tiny pair of sock/slippers.

‘As long as we can supply it,’ I say. ‘I know these are in demand. A lot of my friends are pregnant and having babies, and they all say there’s a lack of cool gifts for new mums. Also, the whole American baby-shower idea is trending big time over here.’ I don’t have any friends, and definitely none who are pregnant, and the closest I have ever got to a baby shower was chugging vodka from a baby’s bottle with my old neighbour.

‘Hmm, no, I can’t see it working . . .’ she mutters to herself.

Michael has actually stopped jiggling. He’s pushed the blindfold up onto his head, giving him the look of a kung fu warrior. He licks his lips and turns to look her in the eye.

‘Now listen, Marion, I’m not here for shits and giggles, all right? I want something from you and you have the power to give it and vice versa, quid pro quo and all that.’

She moves her chair round and studies him.

‘What are you offering?’ she asks huskily.

‘You well know what I can offer,’ he says, and her face lights up like a landscape when the sun breaks through, ‘but I’m asking for something here and now and this is a one-time-only deal.’ He gestures to the crackers. ‘I know what you want, Marion,’ he growls, ‘and you know I can give it to you, but what are you going to do for me?’

Christie’s eyes dart from Mole to Michael and back again. I feel as if we’ve stumbled into some live porn theatre. I’d expected Michael to turn up and look keen, but he’s taking this whole idea to a totally different level.

He stands and places a hand on her shoulder. She briefly closes her eyes. ‘You can discuss it with the girls. I’ll be outside waiting for your decision,’ he says, and saunters out, whistling casually.