The Two Week Wait (33 page)

Lou swings her feet from the sofa so Karen can sit down.

‘No, no, you’re all right, I’m fine here.’ Karen flops into an armchair. At once Toby, the tabby, comes to sit on her knee.

‘He’s grown so much,’ observes Lou. When she first met Karen he was still a kitten.

‘I know,’ says Karen. ‘He’s a bit of a thug to look at, but the children adore him.’ She tickles him under the chin. ‘So, anyway, will you be staying in
Brighton?’

Lou stretches out her legs again – after all the standing she’s done this evening it’s a relief to have her feet up. The others headed off home straight after the fireworks,
but it was still early and Lou, conscious Karen might like company, offered to come back to her place.

‘I think I’d best go to my mother’s,’ Lou says.

Karen’s face registers surprise. ‘Really? That’s brave. Christmas with your mum will be a bit of a nightmare, from what you say. I thought you liked to avoid it. Are you sure
you don’t want to spend it with us?’

‘I’d love to. In fact—’ She pictures Molly and Luke beneath the tree that’s before her now, excitedly ripping open their presents, and contrasts it with her
mother’s formal handing round of gifts one by one, and careful note-taking of who’s given what. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more. But I can’t.’

‘Why not? Have you promised you’d be there?’

‘It’s just . . . well, look at me.’ Lou lifts up her top to reveal the distended dome of her belly. Even though she’s lying on her back, there’s no mistaking she is
pregnant.

‘Ooh, you look lovely. I remember that feeling so well . . . ’ Karen sounds wistful. ‘When I was expecting Molly . . . I felt fantastic at twenty weeks, actually. Every day I
could sense my body changing, it was as if I could hear the blood going round . . . ’ She smiles. ‘And I could feel her kicking by then.’

‘I can feel the baby moving too,’ says Lou, resting a hand on her lower abdomen and sensing the warmth of her own skin. ‘It’s quite amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Almost . . . what’s the word? Primordial. I remember getting this sense of a connection going right back . . . this is me, like my mother, like my grandmother . . . ’

Exactly
,
thinks Lou. Karen has hit on something more significant than she realizes. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back to my mum’s.’

‘Eh?’

‘To tell her.’

‘Goodness.’ Karen’s expression is horrified. ‘She doesn’t
know
yet?’

Lou looks away, sheepish.

‘No,’ she admits. ‘And nor does my sister.’

Rich reverses the hatchback into a space outside Judy and Peter’s bungalow. There are far more cars in the street than usual, but it’s Christmas Day; presumably
everyone with family in the Dales has chosen to come out here. Little surprise; the village is pretty to the point of twee. Surrounded by high fells and nestling on the banks of the Wharfe, it has
an arched bridge to provide a focal point, a pub that serves cream teas as well as draught beer, a church that still boasts a decent-sized congregation and a main street where every house looks
like something from a greetings card. Judy and Peter’s is the only modern residence in the vicinity, and even that is appropriately weather-worn and lichen-covered.

I’m glad we decided to come, thinks Rich. This is exactly the sort of place where one should spend Christmas, and being at home with only a hormonal Cath might have been a strain.

‘You know, it’s funny, but I seem to have stopped feeling sick over the last few days,’ she says as they wait for someone to answer the doorbell.

‘Really?’

‘Yup. A week ago I felt like throwing up all the time. Now, I feel fine. That horrible taste in my mouth has gone too.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Mm.’

At that moment the door opens – it’s Alfie, or Dom – he’s never been good at telling the twins apart, and the lad seems to have grown a couple of inches since he last saw
him. Rich is hit by a smell of cooking – brussels, roast turkey, chestnut stuffing – and his tummy rumbles in anticipation.

‘Happy Christmas, Dom!’ says Cath, stepping inside with two enormous Toys R Us carrier bags. ‘Are we doing pressies before we eat?’

*  *  *

‘Lou, hello!’ says Georgia, when Lou finally manages to get all the bolts undone and open the front door. Lord knows why her mother insists on creating such a
fortress – compared to some of the vast properties around St Albans, it’s hardly as if there’s
that
much to steal.

Lou’s sister is standing in the porch with her husband, Howard, and their children, Elliot, five, and Annabel, two. Georgia is laden with nappy sacks and presents, Howard is brandishing
two bottles of wine, and the children have clearly already been opening gifts this morning: Elliot is dressed head to toe as a pirate and Annabel has a baby doll almost as big as she is clutched to
her chest. No gender stereotyping there, then, thinks Lou wryly.

‘Come in,’ she says.

‘When did you get here?’ asks Georgia.

‘Late last night.’ Lou takes their coats and hangs them in the hall closet – she knows how her mother hates anything lying about and getting in the way. ‘I came by
train.’

She leads the way into the kitchen so Howard can hand over his bottles. Irene, dressed in a pinny over a pale-turquoise skirt suit, is busy preparing lunch.

‘Darling, hello!’ She greets her daughter with a peck on the cheek. ‘You look lovely!’ Georgia is wearing what Lou has to concede is a becoming green silk dress and has
curled her strawberry blonde hair. As her mother bends down to greet her grandchildren, Lou thinks,
she hardly ever kisses me
. Then Irene smiles stiffly at Howard: that’s more like
it.

‘Can we open our presents?’ asks Annabel.

‘No, not yet,’ says Irene. ‘After lunch, if you don’t mind.’

And then we’ll do it in age order, thinks Lou.

‘I’ll put these under the tree, then, shall I?’ says Georgia.

‘Yes, there’s a love, that’s a good idea.’ Irene addresses Howard. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Please.’

‘Sherry OK?’

‘That would be lovely,’ says Howard.

I bet he’d prefer a beer, thinks Lou. She has half a yen for some alcohol herself. She has a flutter of nerves as she considers breaking the news to her family. She’s dreading it.
Not today,
she decides. She wants to tell her mother in private first, and anyway she’d hate to spoil the children’s Christmas. It’s less than two years since she told
Irene she was gay; she’s ruined a family get-together once already.

*  *  *

‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ says Mike, coming down the hall and enveloping Cath in a bear hug.

Cath is taken aback that he knows.

‘Sorry.’ Judy winces on seeing her expression. ‘I let it slip. I assumed you’d have told him already.’

Now there will be no avoiding telling Sukey too, thinks Cath, heart sinking.

They head into the living room. Her father gets up slowly from his favourite armchair to greet them. Alfie and Dom duck under Cath’s arm and plonk themselves beneath the tree, impatient to
start unwrapping.

‘Where’s Sukey?’ she says.

‘Mummy’s in bed,’ says Alfie.

‘She’s got flu,’ says Mike. ‘It’s doing the rounds at the boys’ school, apparently.’

So the woman who is never ill has succumbed to a virus, Cath thinks, and says sweetly, ‘Oh dear. Poor thing. I presume she’ll be down for lunch, though?’

‘Doubt it,’ says Mike. ‘She’s sick as a dog.’

Behind him Cath sees Rich wink at her.

*  *  *

‘Wine?’ Howard gloops burgundy into her glass before Lou can stop him.

‘Ah – that’s fine,’ she says, holding up a hand. Probably best not to refuse completely anyway, lest she arouse suspicion.

Her brother-in-law returns to the head of the table and picks up the carving knife and fork. Her mother is at his elbow, ready to dish out the veg.

‘So, who’s for breast and who’s for brown?’ he asks.

Lou eyes her nut roast. Typical: it looks burnt at the edges; she should never have trusted Irene to cook it. ‘I’ll do mine,’ she says, and gets to her feet to reach across the
table for the dish.

As she does so she can feel cool air on her midriff. Even though she’s wearing her loosest trousers, nothing tucks in easily these days and her top has ridden up.

‘Gosh,’ says Irene. ‘You’re getting a bit chubby.’

Lou sits back down with the platter of nut roast, winded by the remark. She can feel herself going red, and wishes she could prevent it. She looks up: Georgia is looking at her through narrowed
eyes, which only makes her blush more. She focuses on serving herself, unsure how to handle the situation. Then she has a little sip of wine – if she behaves naturally, with luck it’ll
throw Georgia off the scent. That her mother should comment critically on her appearance is nothing new, after all. She glances up again. Georgia is still staring at her, if anything more
intently.

Lou shifts in her seat, pulls down her top and says, ‘I know, Mum, you’re right. I haven’t been doing as much exercise recently.’ She’s always been a hopeless liar,
but perhaps she can continue to bluff her way out of it.

‘That doesn’t look like just fat,’ says Georgia.

Lou wishes she could reach under the table to kick her, but she is diagonally across and too far away. I really don’t want to have this conversation now
,
she thinks. Can’t
Georgia grasp that?

‘Your stomach looks
hard
,’ says Georgia.

Meanwhile Howard is doling out turkey, oblivious. Lou watches as the plates are passed by her down the table, it seems in slow motion, to the children. They are holding their cutlery at right
angles, expectant. Elliot is still in his pirate outfit: skull-and-crossbones hat, eyepatch and all. The whole experience would be surreal were it not so excruciating.

She pushes back her chair. ‘Sorry, I just need the loo.’

As she rushes from the room she hears Irene say, ‘Not in the middle of eating, darling, can’t you wait?’

In the bathroom, she stands in front of the mirror, as if to act as her own advisor. Her face appears startled, terrified even. She tries to compose herself. Perhaps a quick rinse with cold
water will help. She runs her hands under the tap, splashes her cheeks, then dries herself quickly on the hand towel. She’d better go back; any delay will only make things worse.

She opens the door to the dining room, slides back into her seat, hoping against hope no one will comment, and reaches for the bread sauce.

‘So, is Georgia right, then?’ asks Howard.

‘Eh?’ Lou colours again; there’s just no way she can prevent herself.

‘I said you couldn’t possibly be,’ says Irene.

‘And I said of course you could,’ says Georgia. Lou could swear she sounds smug, even gleeful.

For the first time in a while, Lou has a real surge of longing for Sofia. If only she had a girlfriend here with her, to help her through this. They could explain the set-up together.

‘I don’t understand how.’ Irene shakes her head.

‘Oh, anything’s possible these days, Mum, don’t you know?’

All this in front of the kids, honestly. Despite years of experiencing their insensitivity, Lou can hardly believe it.

‘But I thought you didn’t like men . . . ?’ says Irene, lowering her voice at least.

‘I don’t!’ Lou snaps, no longer able to restrain her temper. ‘Not that way, anyway.’ Her mother seems completely unable to understand that, actually, she likes male
company just fine.

‘Did you use a turkey baster?’ whispers Georgia, as if she is on stage.

Howard splutters on his wine, then laughs.

‘No, I did not!’

‘Ah, so you
are
pregnant.’ Georgia sits back in her chair.

‘So what if I fucking am?’ No sooner has she sworn than she feels the consternation of two small presences close to her. ‘Sorry,’ she says to the children. ‘But
yes, you’re right. I’m nearly five months gone.’ She glances at her mother, then glares pointedly at Georgia. ‘Happy now?’

Maybe I’ve got Sukey’s bug, thinks Cath, as she feels herself go hot and cold and clammy. It would serve me right for being so pleased she was ill earlier. I have
eaten an awful lot, perhaps that wasn’t wise.

She puts down her spoonful of Christmas pudding. Suddenly the room starts to spin, pain sears through her. She almost doubles over.

‘Er . . . I think we’d better leave now,’ she says to Rich. At least they’re nearly at the end of the meal.

‘What, now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you said we’d stay till five?’ He frowns, confused. She glances at the clock on the mantelpiece – she can only just read what it says, the hands are blurry.
Three thirty.

‘Oh dear, nothing I cooked, I hope?’ says Judy.

‘No, no,’ says Cath as she cramps again. ‘I’ve probably just overdone it.’ She has to get out of there. ‘It must be the same bug as Sukey – I’m so
sorry—’

Rich is slow to make a move. Come
on
, she thinks, I have to go home.

‘You don’t look too great,’ says Peter.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be better putting your feet up here?’ asks Judy. ‘You can always use our room.’

With Sukey next door? thinks Cath. No way.

‘I’d rather get home, thanks.’

‘Can’t I just finish this?’ asks Rich, dolefully looking down at his pudding.

‘Um, I’d rather you didn’t.’ She flashes him a look to communicate she is not to be argued with, then grips the edge of the table to steady herself.

He takes another mouthful. At last he wipes his mouth on his napkin and stands up.

‘Well, thanks for everything,’ he smiles. ‘That was a truly delicious meal.’

Come
ON
! Cath has an urge to scream, but she doesn’t want to cause a panic.

The entire family rises from the table to bid them farewell, in spite of Cath’s protestations that they needn’t bother. After what seems like an age, she and Rich have their coats on
and are in the hall. She practically pulls her husband through the front door and runs ahead of him to the car. As she rushes down the garden path, it feels as if her whole body is convulsing.