OMG Baby! (6 page)

‘No. Did you?’

‘No,’ I admit.

Shit. Lucy will kill me.

‘We didn’t check the size either. I never thought to – Technology Paul used to do all that at Barnes and Worth,’ Christie says quietly.

‘We can’t get a new order in time?’

She shakes her head and we sit on the floor among packaging and big smelly grey crackers for a bit, thinking. Lucy’s wedding was our showcase. We were supposed to take photos to use as adverts in bridal magazines. We ordered extra hoping to sell to party shops. We’re about to confirm a meeting with Tease, the massive high-street chain of sex shops, this month. These were the samples . . . We’re just depressingly rubbish.

‘Shall we pull one?’ she asks.

I hold out my hand with mounting dread. God knows what’s inside. This business is doomed. We can’t even brief suppliers properly. We pull and the cracker snaps open with a bang and a curl of smoke. The contents slide out onto the floor. I notice with a tiny bit of relief they’re all as expected, except the chocolate boobs have a bit of a white bloom to them.

‘Right, well, the favours are fine. That’s good. What we’ll do is save this situation. Somehow,’ I say, as Christie twirls the penis-shaped bubbles between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I mean, the size we can’t do anything about – we just have to hope they fit on the tables – but the colour . . . Maybe a bit of extravagant-looking ribbon?’

Christie holds a cracker at eye level and slowly turns it. ‘I don’t know, Viv. Would you want these on your wedding table?’

‘Of course I would, especially if they doubled up as place settings and had nice ribbon on,’ I say, slowly rolling my hand for her to go with me on this.

‘Place settings!’ Christie starts to laugh.

‘Why not? Write the guests’ names on them.’

‘But you’d better not, had you, Viv? No one can read your writing. Imagine the mix-up that would cause – no one would have a clue where to sit.’

‘That’s true . . . Christie, are you able to write without making the dots of the eyes into hearts?’ I say, pointing both forefingers at her.

‘I’ll give it a go.’

I scoff the chocolate boobs and the fortune cookie to stave off sickness while Christie practises grown-up writing. The chocolate has a soapy consistency, but the sugar is welcome – I’m starving. Now, where will we get really lovely ribbon? I start to search online.

‘And no eyes in the “o”s, or flowers,’ I say with my mouth full, unfurling the strip of paper from the cookie. ‘“You will be travelling and coming into a fortune,”’ I read. ‘Hmm, that’s uncanny, because we
will
be travelling shortly . . . to a haberdasher’s!’

A short while later we leave Dibbons for Ribbons £80 poorer, not counting the bus fare, and go our separate ways, she with a calligraphy pen and a list of guest names to practise and me lugging bags of sex-themed wedding crackers to work on at home.

A
t home
, I’ve set up a cracker-titivation table with all the bits and pieces I need and locked Dave in the kitchen after he shredded £10 worth of ribbon. The thing about decorating stuff, I find, is to not overthink it. I’m getting better at these fat bows with each cracker, and this bright pink satin ribbon makes the Monday-morning grey look deliberate. I’ll take the best one this evening to show Lucy. I’m going with her to the practice wedding make-up session. If she sees the crackers now, it will be less of a shock when she sees them on the actual table. They are meant to be funny, after all . . . Positive energy, that’s it. Then the phone rings and by the time I’ve found it in my coat pocket, I answer out of breath.

‘I’d like to speak with Vivienne Summers.’ A woman’s calm, sonorous voice. Her. I feel a million urgent thoughts rushing. How to be? My heart bungee-dives.

‘Speaking.’

‘Ah, it’s you.’ There’s a long silence.

‘Who’s speaking, please?’ I say slowly. How will she answer?

‘Vivienne, it’s . . . it’s Rainey. Vivienne?’ she almost whispers.

‘Hi.’

‘Don’t you know me?’

I don’t know how to answer.

‘It’s me, Lorraine, your mother.’

I notice the end of the ribbon in my hand is vibrating.

‘I’m having a baby,’ I say.

‘Ah.’ There’s a pause. I hear her moisten her lips and I try to picture how she looks, gathering scraps of memory from three years ago. She’s pretty, I think. ‘Can we meet?’

‘OK.’

‘Now?’

I walk to the sofa and perch on the edge. I’m panic-trapped. Now? Is this a test? That’s a pretty small window of time and quite short notice, considering.

‘Vivienne? I’m sorry for not being in touch. I understand it’s a bit sudden. I’ve been plucking up the courage to phone for a few days now, but anyway . . . I’m fully prepared for you to reject me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘I’ll meet you.’

‘Thank you,’ she breathes.

We plan to meet for coffee at a place she knows on Portland Street. I jot down the details, feeling like I’ve swallowed a jack-in-the-box.

I wander to the window curling the ribbon through my fingers. I gaze out at the shops’ backsides and across to the pillars of flats. My mother’s here. She’s in this city right now. If I focus, I would probably feel her presence drawing ever closer to claim me like some parent bird. Or not. Hold on, how did she get my number?

I
’m lacing
my trainers when the phone rings again.

‘Vivienne?’ It’s Nana, sounding crackly, like an old gramophone.

‘Hi, Nana! Where are you calling from? Are you having a nice time?’

‘We’re calling from Cairo . . . What?’ she says at the same time.

‘I said, are you—’

‘Yes, been to the Pyramids today!’

‘Was it amazing?’ I ask.

‘Are we what, love?’ Everything I say overlaps with her and I hear my own voice ricocheting. ‘Are you there, Viv?’

‘I’m listening!’ I shout.

‘Amazing, oh yes, but a bit scruffy around and about.’

‘There was a stinking dead horse!’ shouts Reg in the background.

‘I’m pregnant, Nana, me and Max are.’

‘Nile cruise tomorrow,’ she says, ‘so we won’t ring for a week or so, love . . . But listen – your mother is in London. She wants to see you.’ I hear a loud crackle. ‘You’re pregnant? She’s pregnant, Reg.’

‘Yes. Yes. Ten weeks. Due in April.’ I’m laughing, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.

I think the line been cut off, but then her voice comes back clear as a bell. ‘That’s wonderful news, darling,’ and then, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Happy!’

Another hissing of dead air space and finally the words ‘I can’t hear you very well . . . Congratulations to you both, and listen – be careful if you meet your mother. Don’t let—’ before she’s gone.

I
walk past the café
, Eden, peering in, trying to see if she’s arrived first. Somehow I don’t want to be the one waiting for her. But all I see is my own reflection looking nervously into the huge window. I take a deep breath, turn and stride towards the doorway. The café is pleasant, green, narrow, the ceiling hung with vines and the natural plaster walls with Indonesian gate mirrors. I hesitate by the front desk and then I spot her up at the back. She sits at a low table reading a book in her lap. I feel an almost painful thud of recognition. She seems draped in colour, a watercolour left in the rain. Two or three scarves and a long skirt dyed like a stained-glass window, her legs crossed, sandalled foot bouncing, ankle bracelets glinting. I swallow panic, fear, tears. She doesn’t look up until I’m beside her table, where I wait for a second with my ears burning. She turns and smiles from her cloud of dark hair. Her small, knowing eyes fix on me; I’m fascinated by the marble flecks of blue and green against the brown.

‘Vivienne,’ she says gently, and reaches for my hand, bracelets tinkling. The touch feels healing, cool and gentle. She gestures for me to sit opposite her on an uncomfortable Moroccan pouffe thing. Without asking, she pours tea for me from a tall silver pot, and then she sits, head tilted, smiling, like a therapist.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she says, and then stops. She presses her lips together, rests her hands on the table and considers them. She looks up almost shyly.

‘I don’t know what to call you,’ I tell her.

‘My name? Rainey.’

That smarts and we’re hardly past ‘hello’. I’d wanted to refuse to call her mum, but she’s not giving me the chance. I remember how she is: pulling you in and then cutting you off. I’ll stay cool, distant, in control.

‘How come you’re in London?’ I ask, trying for a nonchalant tone.

She smiles, showing little pearl-like teeth; I notice a scarlet streak at the side of her hair. She looks really great, I think with weird pride.

‘Would you believe it’s because of you? I dreamt of you.’ I feel myself blush and she notices. ‘Does it surprise you to know I have visions about you?’

‘I don’t know. Not really.’ What is she on about? ‘So you’re in London because you had a dream about me?’

She nods and her eyes sparkle. I take a sip of tea and almost gag – it tastes of sweaty socks.

She smirks. ‘Nettle and pandan leaf to nurture your child.’

‘And how long are you planning to stay?’

She turns a silver ring round on her thumb. ‘You’re right not to trust me. All I’ve ever done is let you down.’ She lasers me with sad eyes.

Well, I can’t argue with her there, but she’s doing the tilted-head smiling again, so I feel I should fill the gaps.

‘I wasn’t saying . . . I just wondered how long.’

‘Well, I’m here for you so as long as you want,’ she says, reaching for my hand across the table, her eyes bright with tears.

Oh hell, is she suddenly reclaiming me? I know I want her to stay, but I want it on my terms. This was not meant to be her idea.

She notices my discomfort and pulls back. ‘Oh, of course. I’m too . . . It’s too much for you, I see that.’

‘It’s just a teeny bit of a surprise you “being here for me” after everything that’s happened.’ I smile.

She looks towards the door. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I should go.’ She speaks into the air, to herself, and I feel a stab of panic.

‘Don’t!’ I blurt, and her gaze darts to my face. I see something in her eyes. Triumph? Pleasure? ‘Why don’t we just talk for a bit? Tell me about the dream,’ I say.

She takes a long drink, leaving me looking at the bottom of her cup, then places it carefully onto the saucer and straightens the spoon. She bows her head and clasps her hands together as if she’s praying. Suddenly she throws back her hair.

‘For a long time I’ve known I have the ability to feel the future.’

‘Right!’

‘In Ecuador, I met a man who loved me, but I knew he’d come to the end of his time here.’

‘What? Was he a traveller, then?’

‘Of sorts. It was the end of his time on Earth. I often felt this as we embraced. Later, after I’d moved on to visit the Patagonian Lakes, I heard he’d passed.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Also, freaky as hell. I get a heavy feeling in my gut. Unbelievable how so full of shit she is.

‘Then I
felt
you contact me, gently at first but more urgently recently. It didn’t surprise me to learn that you are with child. It may even be my granddaughter calling out to me.’

‘Hold on – you think it’s a girl?’

‘I know she is.’

‘And what, she’s contacting you?’

She shrugs. ‘I felt strongly that we three must be together and so I came.’

I take a good long look at Rainey, sigh through my nose and decide I’ll go along with whatever web of half-truths she’s spinning.

‘Wow, that’s an incredible gift. What’s the baby saying now?’

‘Vivienne, don’t be sarcastic, please. I don’t speak with her directly, but I get a sense she’d like you to rest more. Am I right?’ And this, I remember this now: how she makes these obvious statements, asking if she’s right at the end. It takes me back to some memory, a time when I knew her, and I’m flooded with nostalgia, thrilled to be sitting with her at a table. I want to believe she somehow felt me thinking of her, even if this must be quite a recent gift of hers, because I have needed her a few times before. I believe she felt something, that I felt something too. I’m willing to accept there’s a psychic link between mothers and daughters, and now I am both a mother and a daughter, I probably have an extra-strong signal. Maybe she picked up my signal like a mother whale. Who’s to say otherwise? We can have a relationship. We will for the sake of my daughter. I look into her eyes, feeling my own fill.

‘You are right.’ I smile.

She looks into her lap. ‘I’m leaving now. You must rest. Would you meet with me tomorrow?’ She stands, smiling down at me like a deity.

‘Yes,’ I say, keen as a convert. ‘What time?’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ she says, and as she leaves, I remember how small she is. She seems to float from the café, leaving me star-struck. I’m brought up short when the waiter brings the bill. I look at the total and call him back.

‘Excuse me, I think you’ve brought the wrong bill.’ I hand it back. ‘We only had a pot of tea.’

‘No, the lady who was here with you had the quinoa and lentil salad, the brown rice balls and a large glass of Sancerre,’ the waiter points out the items helpfully, and I pay.

Oh, I guess she must have forgotten she’d eaten.

R
ight
, I’m going to tell Lucy that I’m pregnant. I’ll find the right moment and tell her, and also tell her that I’ve met with my mother . . . and that’s why I’m dreading seeing her.

Lucy perches on a high stool in the middle of Selfridges looking up at the ceiling while a doll-faced girl brushes brown eyeshadow along her lower lashes. After each application, she hands Lucy a huge mirror and describes the process. Right now Lucy is nodding into the mirror and widening her eyes. I suppress a yawn and wonder about sitting on the floor next to the escalator, but a huge security guy strolls by and eyes me suspiciously. I try a bit of navy eye pencil on the back of my hand while Lucy gets her lips painted virginal pink.

I hope she’s going to be finished soon because I want to tell her about Rainey. I want to be able to say, ‘I’m seeing my mother tomorrow.’ Lucy will go mad, but I’ll explain I have a good feeling about Rainey this time. She will stay, fall in love with me because I’m all pregnant and have a strong mother-daughter vibe. She’ll see that I’m a very cool person indeed and will want to be in my life. Angel needs a granny, a young, interesting and . . . new-age granny. So it won’t be like all the times before, because this time I’m in a different headspace. I’m in control. I’m not under her spell anymore, but soon she’ll be under mine. Heh, heh, heh.

Lucy is sliding off the chair and buying make-up. I hope she’s getting a free trowel thrown in.

We nip round the corner to a tapas restaurant on James Street, where I immediately get stuck into the bread basket. We order a few dishes, and Lucy gets a bottle of wine. How will I get away with not drinking wine? I wonder about nearby topiary.

‘What do you think, then? Is this my wedding look?’ Lucy asks, fanning her face with her hands.

I examine the mask. ‘It’s extremely weddingy.’

‘Traditional, you mean?’

‘Quite a lot of foundation.’

‘And waterproof mascara, don’t forget.’

‘Probably look good in the photos.’

‘It’ll go with the dress, won’t it?’

‘What do you mean by “go with”?’

‘I mean I’m
properly
made up, aren’t I?’

‘Oh yeah, she used everything on you. What is eyeshadow primer, and why do you need it again?’

‘Listen, that is essential. Do you realise your eyeshadow could crease at any moment without that.’ Lucy pours two big glasses of rosé and takes a gulp from hers. ‘Honestly, how shit do I look?’

I hunch my shoulders and squint at her face. She’s a crayon-lipped, mauve-lidded, spider-lashed caricature.

‘It’s not really you,’ I offer helpfully.

She pouts stickily. ‘But am I kissable?’

‘Not so much.’

‘Well, you could have said something before I spent a hundred and fifty quid! Now what am I going to do?’

‘Take it back.’

‘But then I lose the discount on the make-up artist.’

‘I’ll do your make-up.’

She looks doubtful.

‘I’ve got Chapsticks – in two flavours.’

She laughs and the foundation creases horribly around her eyes.

‘Why not? Let’s practise tonight,’ I say.

‘I’m getting my hair done tonight,’ she says. ‘I’m having a perm.’

‘No, Lucy!’

‘Just to give it some body.’ She fluffs up her fringe.

‘Don’t you know anything? Lucy, I forbid you from having a perm.’

She laughs again. ‘It’ll look lovely – bit of a curl.’

‘Listen to me. Look in my eyes. Do not mess with your hair. You’ll regret it.’ I take the last piece of bread. ‘What if it goes wrong?’

‘A soft root perm, not a bubble perm.’

‘You say that as if you know what you’re talking about. Then you’ll come out like Brian May.’

‘Bit peckish?’ she asks.

‘I’ve had this tummy bug recently. It makes you feel sick and then suddenly starving.’ That’s not even a lie, is it?

‘Kill it with wine.’ She slides the glass over to me.

‘Thanks.’ I take a sip. ‘You seem happier,’ I say, changing the subject.

‘Yeah, I decided all this trying-to-be-pregnant rubbish was ruining my sex life. I’ve told Reuben it’ll happen or it won’t, and now I have to get him to just stop going on about fertility. I’m not even that bothered.’

Tell her you’re pregnant now, tell her now, tell her now, tell her . . . I turn my wine glass by the stem.

‘That’s a lie. I’m so bothered. I’m dying to be pregnant,’ she says sadly, ‘and so is he, so I feel like I’m failing him and am less of a woman. Anyway . . .’

‘It will happen.’

‘I know. I
know
. Patience is not my middle name.’ She looks at my face with a small segment of a smile. ‘Elizabeth is,’ she adds.

‘Lucy Elizabeth Bond, you will have a honeymoon baby, a boy named Honey or even Moony. He’ll have your knack for straight-talking and Reuben’s love of karaoke.’

‘Oh, hell, no . . .’

‘I had tea with my mother today,’ I blurt before we get into the possible features of Lucy’s baby or go through the timings of the wedding, which I know by heart.

‘No.’ She flops back into her seat, disgusted.

‘But I have zero expectations.’

‘Don’t you remember she’s the one who criticises you? Says your hair is bushy? We’ll spend hours analysing “What did she mean by that? Why doesn’t she act like a real mother?”’ She does quite a good impression of me whinging.

‘Anyway, I’ve grown my hair now.’ I tug at a bit of hair at the back of my neck.

Lucy sighs. ‘What does she want ?’ She shakes her head, irritated.

‘She came to see me. She says I called to her and she felt it. She’s going by the name of Rainey.’ I smile.

‘Oh. My. God. Rainey? Rainey Summers! What, is she some sort of spiritual guru now?’

I nod, pulling a face.

‘Tell me you’re not going to see her again?’

‘I am.’ I shrug.

Lucy looks down her eyelashes at me like a pissed-off drag queen, but she doesn’t say anything and is easily distracted by a phone app that melds two faces into that of their possible baby. Mine and Brian May’s child has the face of a melted chipmunk.