Separate Lives (33 page)

“I would have expected to see Alex's wife and his son here too, today.”

“As did we all. Not quiet on the domestic front, I believe. I haven't had a proper chat with Alex about it, but apparently they all parted company in a service station near Tunbridge Wells.”

“Blue Boys.”

“Sorry?”

“No, I'm sorry. It's the name of the service station. I know the A21 quite well and it was probably there. Forgive my pregnancy-brain.”

“Forgiven! It's a shame. The only blot on an otherwise beautiful landscape—but Alex seems to be bearing up. And doesn't Lisa look stunning?”

“Never more beautiful.”

And so we moved on.

It was early evening when we finally spoke, long after lunch and the speeches (very funny from Alex—I felt a sort of unfocused, irrelevant pride) and just as the dancing was getting underway. I was standing at the edge of the dance floor, feeling like a reluctant Weeble while resisting Richard's attempts to get me to do some sort of elephantine shuffle, when Alex arrived in front of us, all smiles.

“Belated congratulations, Pippa.” He leaned in and, awkwardly navigating the bump, kissed me on both cheeks. Then he turned to Richard. “And to you too, Richard. Eighty-six caps for England may just fade into insignificance next to this.”

Stupidly, I hadn't really thought about the fact that Alex would know who Richard was, though a lot of men seemed to. And Guy was a sports agent. Pregnancy seemed to be making me exceptionally dim; obviously Alex and Richard could have met countless times. They certainly seemed very easy with each other.

“Thanks, Alex. Yeah, I'll have my work cut out, but whatever they say it can't be as tough as scoring a try against the All Blacks.”

“Of course it's a new one for you, isn't it? Danny and Siobhan are Sarah's, aren't they? They must have been very young when you met?”

“Yeah, three and eighteen months. Too young to remember their dad, sadly, though in some respects it probably made my job easier. Anyway, I'm looking forward to having a crack at the nappy-stuff this time around.”

“You're a braver man than me. I tried to avoid it . . .” At which entirely unexpected point Alex patted my stomach, very gently. Beside me, I sensed Richard tense. “So you and Sarah never fancied having kids of your own?”

I may have been wrong, but it felt as though Richard left it just a heartbeat too long before he answered, though when he did he rose brilliantly to the challenge.

“No. We had our hands pretty full back then, so I had the snip.” Another pause. Alex and Richard were looking right into each other's eyes and there passed between them a frisson of something I didn't recognize but that was very distinctly male, and from which I was therefore entirely excluded. “And by the time we changed our minds and I had the vasectomy reversed, it turned out that moment had passed.”

As, thank God, did this one.

“Well anyway, this is brilliant, mate. Best of luck—and to you too, Pippa. You look . . . you look
wonderful
.”

“And wonderfully big. But thank you, Alex.”

“Big and beautiful. Like a galleon in full sail. So glad you could come. Have a lovely evening.” And then he was gone.

I glanced at Richard. His expression was hard to read.

“Come outside for a minute? Fresh air?” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it.

“Suits me. I'm not really in either the mood or the shape for dancing.”

Outside and in silence, Richard led me quite far away from the building, toward a bench overlooking the park.

“Here OK?”

“Fine by me.”

We sat. I waited for Richard to speak.

“Look, Pip, I'm only going to ask this once and then we can either talk about it or not, depending on whether you want to. Is Alex the baby's father?”

I really didn't want to have this conversation now. Didn't want to have it ever, to be honest. But here it was—and at just the same time as the baby shuffled around, adjusting himself beneath my ribcage.

“Was it that obvious? Yes, Alex is the father. But only . . . technically. It's over.”

“I can see that. But it's still quite close to home, isn't it? Guy is one of my closest friends.” This conversation could have scared me, I suppose, but because Richard's tone wasn't angry—though possibly confused—it didn't. It was a lot for him to process, I guess.

“I know. I don't think I'd thought it through. I didn't know you knew each other, though of course it now seems obvious that you would. I'm sorry. But I can't reiterate strongly enough how very over it all is. We've had no contact since . . . since then. Because that's when it ended.”

“I believe you. I just needed to know because when he touched you it was . . . there was a palpable sense of ownership. And then I thought he knew.”

“He may have, but I don't think so. He thinks you and I have been seeing each other for longer than we have. Even if he suspected the baby could be his, I guess he believes it's statistically improbable. Or even if he doesn't, maybe he just doesn't care. To be honest, I don't need to know and I don't want to know.”

Richard sighed. “Either way, it doesn't matter. That you've been honest with me is what really matters. Subject closed. Dance or ice cream?”

I squeezed his hand and he squeezed mine back.

“Definitely ice cream. And then maybe we could go home?”

“Yeah, that's a plan. Let's do that.”

As we walked back up to the house in the dusk we heard the sound of a man a few meters away, pacing the gravel and talking into his phone. Alex. I quickened my pace and gently tugged Richard's hand. But even though we were moving away from Alex, we could still hear a snippet of his conversation.

“. . . despite everything. And we'll be back sometime tomorrow, but I don't know exactly when because we're in no hurry . . .”

His tone was both aggressive and defensive, underscored by a drink or two. It was obviously Susie on the receiving end and I felt an unexpected surge of empathy. But, at the same time, this really didn't feel like my problem anymore. It all felt a long, long way away, and moving even further.

After saying our goodbyes and as we walked to the car with a strangely reluctant Hal in tow, I spotted another lone male figure, this one enjoying a cigar on the terrace. It was Nigel Fox.

“Good-bye, Mr. Fox. It was such a beautiful wedding.”

“Wasn't it just? Now if I could get Isobel married off, I'd die happy. You take care of that bump, young lady . . .”

We all laughed. It was just a throwaway remark. However a fortnight later, when I learned what had happened to Nigel Fox, I cried. It must've been the hormones because I'd never even met him before. Bizarrely, it was only later that I realized this deceased virtual stranger had also been my baby's grandfather. And, as Richard's parents were both dead, the baby would now never have a grandfather, biological or otherwise. Maybe it was thinking about this—and the fragility of families—that forced me to make a few decisions I may otherwise have delayed. Or maybe it was just the hormones. Either way, over the next few weeks, it became clear to me that nesting in pregnancy needn't just involve climbing precipitous stepladders with feather dusters to root out hitherto unseen dust and cobwebs, but that I needed to clean away the metaphorical dust and cobwebs too.

And that process started immediately after a call from Alex the day after the wedding. Part of me had assumed that the sight of me pregnant on the arm of another man would underscore how over it was between us. But another part of me was unsurprised when my mobile rang while I was in the kitchen, obsessively compulsively wiping the dishwasher smears off wine glasses.

“Alex.”

“Pippa. Look, don't panic. I'm not going to make trouble. I just wanted to say that you looked properly radiant yesterday and I am genuinely pleased for you. And Richard.”

“Thank you. That's very kind and decent of you.”

“Yeah, well, they are not attributes I tend to be credited with very often but I can occasionally step up to the plate.”

“And you did. And I'm grateful. And I know—well, I think I know—that you're having a difficult time, so I'm even more grateful.”

“Don't be grateful for anything.”

“Well I am. I'm grateful for more than you know.”

Why did I say that? There was a pause—a very pregnant pause. Then: “OK, Pippa. And I'm grateful to you too. And what will be will be. You've taught me a lot.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. More than you know.”

I exhaled silently. “OK, well that's good, I guess. We seem to be all square then?”

“Yes, we are. Best of luck, Pippa—with everything. Looks like you got ‘a different kind of life' after all.”

“I did. And in many respects that's down to you.”

“Well it's good to know I may have been some kind of help.”

“You were. You are.”

“OK, look, I'm going now.”

“OK. And thanks. And take care, Alex. I mean it.”

“Yeah. You too. Bye.”

And that was it, Mum. I instinctively knew that wherever it was me and Alex were heading, it was in entirely different directions. Maybe I should have felt guilty about that? I don't know. I still don't know. And perhaps it was some sort of residual guilt that made me head straight upstairs to the dressing room and retrieve the box containing Alex's phone from the wardrobe. I still didn't know what to do with it, but I knew it had to go.

Happily the decision was made for me, and far quicker than I'd imagined. Having effectively denied Stop 'n' Sniff their sales percentage when I'd bought Nana's house, I'd decided they should get the rental gig. I'd only been down to see the house twice since Richard, Hal and I had visited. I'd given a set of keys to Paul, a painter and decorator recommended by Ruth, and then accompanied him to the local trading estate while he picked up several liters of matt and eggshell to spruce up the woodwork before I let it out. The next time I'd gone back, a fortnight later, in early June, it was to retrieve the keys, pay Paul and meet up with Ruth's friend Karen, from Stop 'n' Sniff.

“It looks lovely,” said Karen. “And it's a good time to let, too.”

“Sure, but I'm in no big hurry. Leave it a few weeks, if you don't mind. I might pop down and spend some time in the house myself. And is it OK to let it unfurnished, do you think? Any excuse not to go to IKEA suits me.”

“It's absolutely fine as it is, yes.”

If I'd decided to let the house immediately, things would obviously have turned out differently. But when I finally got the call from Karen in early July, the day after I'd given her the go-ahead to let, and though I gave an involuntary shiver as I listened to her, I also knew that this was absolutely right. Call it Truth and . . . well, if not Reconciliation, then Reparation.

“Hi, Pippa,” said Karen. “Look, I've just shown a lady round the house—we're still here actually; she's in the kitchen and I'm in the bedroom—and she loves it. Newly single mum of two youngsters and definitely not DSS. Lovely woman. But you know what? She works mostly from
home—I think she's a writer—and there's a real problem with the mobile signal here. I was wondering, given that Susie's so perfect, whether you'd allow me to move down on the rent a little?”

Susie. A writer and newly single mum of two. Well of course. Who else would it be? I took a deep breath.

“Absolutely. Go right ahead. Whatever figure you decide. Susie sounds like the perfect prospect.”

“She is. You'd really like her. That's great, Pippa. I'll suggest £975, if that's OK?”

“Totally fine by me. It's tough being a newly single parent.”

“Isn't it? Been there myself. Anyway thanks again. I'll be in touch about the contract.”

“And thank you, Karen. One thing though: if you wouldn't mind, I'd prefer it if you didn't mention my name to, er, Susie. Not unless you have to. I'd really appreciate it.”

“No problem. You're the boss.”

As Susie was clearly about to vacate the big house she and Alex had bought, I figured she deserved to move into another house she clearly loved. And that afternoon, I wrote Susie a note, which took nearly two hours and several drafts, but I got there in the end. And then when I'd finished that project, I went straight into the study, fired up the laptop and started writing
this
 . . .

It started off as a letter to you, Mum, and it took nearly three months, right up to the birth. And over time it evolved from being “just” a letter—or at least an exorcism disguised as a letter—into something more than that: another tentative step toward my “different kind of life,” albeit not the kind of life I'd imagined. But as you very
well know, wherever you are, life rarely pans out the way you expect it to.

PS:

The labor was fast and furious, the maternity unit was busy, an anesthetist was unavailable, working on a C-section elsewhere . . . None of which would have been a problem if it hadn't suddenly all gone wrong.

It took me nearly three months to get around to Googling the words “shoulder dystocia,” which I finally did last week. The first result I read explained that this was “a very scary, potentially life-threatening complication that can occur during labor and birth.” Which is all anybody who isn't a medical student needs to know. However, in layperson's terms it means the baby has got stuck on the way out.

“Now listen to me. Listen, Pippa . . .” said Sophie, the midwife, “you really need to concentrate now.”

It was a dull, overcast autumnal day and the flat, thin English light could barely force its way through the grimy window on which I was choosing to fixate. Richard had just been asked if he wanted to leave the room. “Go, darling,” I said. “Please go. It's not pretty.” So he had.