The Family Trap (2 page)

That woman has a nerve. First she insults my hips, then she laughs at my grandson’s name. Outrageous.

‘Phoenix! How wonderful!’ I exclaim, plastering a smile on my face and making my voice joyous. As I’m very, very tired I probably only manage happy, but that’s enough for Lipsy.

‘You like it? Oh, I’m so relieved. I thought you’d hate it. You know how you’ve always said symbolic names are really naff. But we thought it was cool because he was conceived on the night of the fire – and the whole phoenix rising from the ashes thing?’ She smiles up at Robert, and then at me. ‘Thanks, Mum. And thanks for being here for this. You were a star.’

Murmuring that it was nothing, really, I look down at baby Phoenix. Oh, the poor child. Yes, I have often said that symbolic names are naff. Because – they are! Rising from the ashes? Is the girl insane? A house fire caused by a faulty washing machine – a disaster compounded by zero house insurance – is hardly an event you’d want to mark by naming your child after it. Or maybe that’s just me.

Phoenix turns his head slightly and appears to look directly into my eyes. I say appears to because it’s a well-known fact that babies can’t focus on anything so soon. Or maybe the scientists have got it wrong. Because as baby Phoenix looks up at me, I’m absolutely certain I see him roll his eyes just a little. Oh great, he seems to say. And this pair are my parents? That’s just wonderful.

*

It’s nearly time for us to leave the maternity suite and head up to the ward. Visiting hours are relaxed for new fathers but not for new grandmothers, and I want to see Lipsy settled before I go home. But first, there is something important I must do. It’s a task I’ve been putting off for weeks, but it can’t wait any longer.

I stroll nonchalantly over to the toilet cubicle, now mercifully spotless thanks to the hospital’s crack cleaning detail, and carefully lock the door. Then I take the slim box out of my pocket, pull out the white pen-shaped stick, and do the necessary. I don’t need to read the instructions, I’ve already committed them to memory. Blue line means no baby, blue cross means shit hitting fan at one hundred miles an hour. And so I wait, perched on the loo like a teenager waiting to have her future mapped out. The way my own teenager must have waited all those months ago.

If it comes to it, I just hope she’s as understanding of my news as I was of hers.

As I watch, every cell in my body wishing for a blue line, the little window very clearly – and you could say proudly – starts to show a clearly defined, bright blue cross.

There is a loud cry from outside the cubicle – baby Phoenix trying out his new and perfectly formed lungs. And inside there is a helpless whimper. That’s me. Today – the day I’ve become a grandmother for the first time and an expectant mum for the second time – is possibly the best and the worst day of my life.

Chapter 2

I really can’t take it in. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, I guess. Haven’t I been noticing the signs for weeks now? Sore boobs, that extraordinary tiredness like someone’s sucked all the strength out of your bones, and of course the missed period. Or maybe two missed periods – they haven’t been regular for a while now so it’s hard to tell. Which was, I had tried to convince myself, the first sign of the menopause. Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. Surely accidentally getting pregnant at thirty-eight is worse than being menopausal?

I tuck the little white stick into my pocket, bury the empty box deep in the waste bin, and finally emerge from the cubicle, unnoticed by Lipsy and Robert who are deep in thrall to baby Phoenix. As I turn to close the door behind me, I wonder if ever a toilet has seen so much drama in one day.

‘You’ve got a few sleepless nights ahead of you,’ the midwife says, parking a wheelchair inches from my feet. For a moment I’m confused. Is the wheelchair for me? I might be pregnant but I’m not ill. And how can she tell about the baby just by looking at me? Is this some kind of secret midwife skill?

But then I realise she’s talking about Lipsy, about Lipsy and Robert and the baby and me all living together under one roof, and that the wheelchair is for my daughter, not me. Well, duh! I’m not thinking straight, is all. It’s my hormones.

‘I think Paul’s here,’ Lipsy says, noticing me hovering in the corner. ‘Aren’t you going to go out and say hello?’

Oh, hell on a stick. Paul. Less than an hour ago I phoned and asked him to come to the hospital. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t been so hasty.

Since Paul and I got together last year – after almost two decades of pretending we didn’t have feelings for each other – things have been just peachy. He’s a wonderful boyfriend, soon to be a wonderful husband. Caring, thoughtful, funny – and damned sexy too. But the one thing we have never discussed is having children. I guess we just assumed at our age there wasn’t much point.

How on earth will he react when I tell him I’m pregnant?

Seems like I won’t be long finding out – the hordes are about to descend upon us. I can already hear voices outside, and now Maggie is helping Lipsy into the wheelchair and Robert is placing Phoenix into her arms, and any second now we’re going to burst out of that door and face the world. Would it be completely crazy for me to look around for somewhere to hide? I’m not ready. I can’t see them yet. What if they can tell? My mum – surely she’ll know just by looking at me, even if the midwife doesn’t? Granted I’m not showing yet, but don’t mothers have a sixth sense for this kind of thing?

Then I think back to how gobsmacked I was when Lipsy dropped her own baby-bombshell last year and I realise this is nonsense. No one will know unless I tell them. And right now is definitely not the time. Not with Lipsy all glowing and proud, and the family overjoyed and rallying together properly for the first time in ages. This is not the time for me to drive a tank through the middle of them and say, ‘Hey, forget about all that – now it’s all about me again.’

And there’s the wedding to think about …

‘Mum? Hello? Earth calling.’

Lipsy and Robert are waiting by the door, Lipsy’s free hand outstretched. I walk over and grip it tightly. She smiles up at me, my little girl, the purpose of my life for the past sixteen years.

Never mind Paul, how is Lipsy going to react when I tell her?

There will be no easy solution to this problem. The fire last year, and the rebuilding of my house and my fractured family – not to mention the problems Paul and I had getting together – all this will fade into insignificance compared to the fallout from the news that I’m going to be a mum all over again. Lipsy might never forgive me. My life will never be the same again, and neither will Paul’s. My parents will think I’m crazy, not to mention irresponsible.

But as I catch a glimpse of baby Phoenix’s dark blue eyes, wide and amazed at this big new world, a strange calmness washes over me. Maybe I can make this work. Maybe the fallout won’t be so bad. A new baby is not a calamity, after all. It’s a cause for celebration.

Placing a protective hand on my flattish tummy, I fix a smile on my face and follow Lipsy out to meet the rest of the family. No matter what happens, I’m going to love this baby. This is my second chance. My chance to do it right.

*

When we emerge from the maternity suite, it’s like I’ve spent days in there, not hours. I grip hold of Lipsy’s hand, blinking against the bright sunlight that slants in through the high windows. The midwife trills her fingers goodbye and pads away along the corridor in her red Crocs, her behind wide and swaying. (And she had the nerve to talk about my child-bearing hips!) Hard to believe I’ve just spent ten hours in her company, and off she trots without a word.

Mind you, I’ll probably be seeing her again in about seven months’ time.

My mum is the first to rush forward, with Dad not far behind. No sign of Lipsy’s dad, but that’s no surprise. John Dean popped back into her life briefly last year, after leaving me high and dry when she was just a tiny baby herself. He stuck around only long enough to cause trouble for Paul and me, and to build up Lipsy’s hopes that she might finally have a father in her life. But when his plan to get back together with me fell on deaf ears, John Dean crawled back into the loser-shaped hole he came out of and we haven’t heard from him since. Good riddance.

And then I see Paul. He hangs back until Lipsy is surrounded, then walks slowly forward and takes my hand. Holds it to his cheek. Kisses it, and then kisses me on the lips, very gently.

Paul is effortlessly good-looking: the kind of guy who doesn’t know the effect he has on women. Wavy blonde hair that curls around his ears when he forgets to get a haircut, a well-built frame just on the hunky side of sporty, and a mobile, kissable mouth.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, so softly it feels as though I’m hearing the words inside my head. I nod, but suddenly find I can’t speak. He pulls me close and holds me. I’m enclosed safely in his arms, my face pressed to his chest, inhaling his scent which is spicy and clean, and there is nowhere on earth right now I’d rather be.

Until I remember.

I leave my head where it is for a moment and rehearse what I’m going to say. What I’ll do is whisper it to him now, then ask him to keep it to himself for a few days. Maybe even until after the wedding. At the very least until I’m ready to tell the rest of the family. By this I mean Lipsy.

Paul, I’m pregnant. No, that’s too direct.

Paul, darling, in about seven months we are going to have a wonderful surprise – a beautiful, darling little baby. No, no, no! That’s too
Sound of Music
.

Maybe I should go for a jokey tone: Hey, Paul, I’ve got a present for you. It’s in my tummy. No, I haven’t eaten it! It’s a baby!

This isn’t going to work, is it? I need more time, need to think this through. How best to tell the love of your life that a wonderful thing has happened, but as you’ve never even discussed babies – and you’re just about to get married and move in together without having discussed babies – you have no idea how they are going to react?

‘Stella?’

I move back and look into his eyes. In the light from the high windows they are impossibly blue. The sunlight picks out the faint lines around his eyes, and highlights dust motes hovering in the air. When I was a child I used to call it fairy dust. It had magical properties, and there was a lot of it in my childhood home; my mother derived great pleasure from beating cushions.

I could do with a sprinkling of magic right now.

But hang on – this is Paul. The man I’ve loved since I was in high school, my best friend, the nicest, kindest, most sensible man I’ve ever met. Surely he’ll be overjoyed at the news, if a little surprised at first.

I take a deep breath. ‘Paul,’ I begin, ‘there’s something I need to tell–’

‘Mum? Are you coming?’

Lipsy, finally freed from the ferocious hugging, is waving for me to follow them up to the ward. I shrug helplessly at Paul and hotfoot it down the corridor behind my daughter.

I never said I wasn’t a coward.

‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ I call over my shoulder, but to my surprise Paul is right there behind me.

‘I’ll walk up with you,’ he says. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’

We’re practically jogging now, side by side, behind Robert and Lipsy and Mum and Dad. I try to tell my dad to slow down – why he’s almost running up the corridor I do not know – but I’m too out of breath to make myself heard. Paul’s wittering on about Hannah and her birthday next week, and I’m envious as usual of how fit he is. He can jog and talk at the same time. For me, that’s multitasking taken too far.

Our convoy turns a corner at ten miles an hour, and I hold up my hand to Paul and lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

‘She’ll follow you up,’ Paul calls after them and I nod gratefully.

‘You really should get more exercise, Stella.’

He means well, but I do want to give him a slap all the same. He knows how I feel about the E word, and besides, I’m completely exhausted after being up all night. I can’t remember when I last ate anything, and I am, in fact, pregnant ...

I say nothing. He starts talking again, and this time I manage to listen.

‘So Hannah said she’d really like to go away for her birthday. Serves me right for asking, I suppose, but I’ve managed to book a caravan in Wales – remember that outdoor pursuits place I told you about? Of course, she’s even more excited about the trip now there’s the possibility of us all going. I know it’s a whole week, longer than we’d planned, but I do think it will be easier with two adults keeping her occupied. What do I know about nine-year-old girls, after all? Anyway, what do you think?’

I think it sounds like Paul’s daughter is wrapping him around her little finger as usual, but this I keep to myself.

I put on a fake frown of disappointment. ‘Paul, you know it’s not great timing for me. Lipsy needs me at home – she’s only got me for another fortnight as it is, and I really want to get her and the baby settled before the wedding. I can’t just go away and leave her to it, can I?’

And I’m thinking that a week in a caravan with Paul and his nearly nine-year-old daughter is not exactly my idea of February fun, whatever the situation.

Then I see his face and wonder what I’ve said wrong.

‘Stella ... you haven’t been listening, have you? It’s my fault, I shouldn’t be telling you all this today, you’re bound to be preoccupied.’ He bashes his head with the palm of his hand and smiles contritely. ‘I’m really sorry. The thing is, I wasn’t talking about
you
coming with us. What I was trying to tell you was, Sharon’s health farm thing has been cancelled at the last minute and Hannah sort of asked if her mum could come along with us, and I didn’t know what to say. But I knew you’d be cool with it because you know it’s no big deal, right?’

It’s a good few seconds before I can speak. Hannah was supposed to be staying with Paul for a few days over half-term while her mum was away. Now they’re going to Wales for a week, and ...

‘You’re taking Sharon on holiday with you? In a caravan?’