The Wedding Diaries (39 page)

Authors: Sam Binnie

BOOK: The Wedding Diaries

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And just for a moment, I thought: ‘we’?
We
? If a little plus sign appeared in this window, it wouldn’t be Thom squandering his recent promotion. It wouldn’t be Thom who was the only one of his friends changing his name to ‘Mummy’. It wouldn’t be Thom pushing a large ham-weight through his tiny little birth canal. We? Me me me me me. Then I thought: oh, fuck it. Just take the test.

So I did.

I was still shaking so managed to wee all over my own hands, but I clicked the cap back on and let it sit. I opened the bathroom door, and Thom rushed in.

Thom: How are you doing?

Me: You’re holding the hand that’s covered in my urine.

Thom: I’m going to take that as a ‘good’.

He hugged me for a long time, not even commenting on how much the bathroom stank of piss, then we went in together to check the result. A giant glowing plus sign greeted us.

Me: Well.

Thom: That’s unambiguous.

Me: Best of three?

Thom: It was a two-pack. I don’t think you’ll need me to go out again.

Me: Oh. Shit?

Thom took me into the living room, where we sat for ages in silence.

Thom: But … when?

Me: Our honeymoon.

Thom: How?

Me: Remember that night? When we agreed to start trying because it could take years? The night before we sobered up and realised our mistake? That one.

Thom: Wow. Honeymoon baby.

Me: [breaking down] It’s so taaa-aa-aa-ack-y-y-y-y.

I cried for half an hour, then calmed down into a state of steady shock. Pregnant. I’m pregnant. As if reading my mind, Thom said in a ridiculous over-the-top voice, ‘I can’t believe we’re pregnant already!’ which managed to get a laugh out of me; it’s always been one of my all-time worst phrases, and my laugh stuck around until I remembered that it was, at least in one sense, true. My catatonic state returned.

Me: How did this happen?

Thom: Oh Keeks. When a man and a woman love one another very much –

Me: Thom, please!
Really
!

Thom: I don’t know Kiki, these things sometimes happen, don’t they? I do love you very much, if that helps.

Me: I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. [whispering] This is ridiculous.

Thom: Shall we go to bed? Sometimes these things feel better in the morning.

Me: [staring at him]

Thom: Sorry, I don’t mean it like that. I know it’s not going to go away, and I know that no matter how much I say I love you and I support you and I feel for you, I know that it’s your body and I can only begin to imagine your panic and your fear. But I do love you, and loving you also involves knowing that sometimes you deal best with things by vanishing in a cocoon of sleep to work out what you have to do. Is that true?

Me: Yes.

Thom: Right. So let’s do one decision at a time. Would you like me to make you a drink before bed?

Me: Whiskey.

Thom: Uh …

Me: OH GOD I CAN’T EVEN DRINK. Oh God! How much have I drunk in the last month? The last two months? OH GOD I DO NOTHING BUT DRINK.

Thom: Kiki. It’s fine. Let’s forget about the drink and just get into bed.

So we did just that. I amazed myself by falling straight to sleep – as Thom said, it’s how I cope with most things, but it meant it was an extra struggle this morning, having a mini version of the click-clunking remembering all over again. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. It still doesn’t make any sense. Yes, we both want kids very much, and yes, we look forward to having them, but now? Right now? I have
just
got my promotion, Thom has just started a mind-bogglingly poorly paid job, and we’re not ready for this. I feel so strange.

At work today, Alice noticed something was wrong, but only asked me once. She kept her distance for the rest of the day in the nicest possible manner, her excellent breeding (or lesbian superpower) knowing exactly when to press me and lavish me with attention, and when to leave me in peace. In Tony’s ridiculous absence, I managed to get my head down and do work for most of the day. At lunchtime I needed to get out of the office, so took my sandwich round the corner to window shop, and found myself in front of the giant Topshop on Oxford Street, facing the maternity wear entrance.

They had some lovely clothes. Gorgeous slim-fitting jeans with fatty pregna-panels in the sides, lovely tops to show off pregnabusts and delicious high-waisted dresses. Not to mention the mini-me baby clothes: t-shirts and sweaters with the wildlife of the season embroidered on the front, so the infant can be just as sharp as the mother. Could I live like this? Is there hope? I started walking back to the office feeling better, feeling hopeful. Maybe we could do this. It’s not the seventies anymore: I wouldn’t have to wear huge frilly tents and give up my job. I could be like Rachida Dati, returning to work at the French government five days after having this baby. Only, not the French government. And not five days. Women do this all over the world, all the time. And this wouldn’t just be my baby. It would be Thom’s as well. And who’s going to make a better baby than me and Thom?

So I went to the beautiful stationery shop below our office and bought this diary. I had a sudden urge to keep a record of everything, all our decisions and mistakes and joys. It felt like the first good step in a long road ahead. But I felt good.

Then I left the shop and almost tripped over a woman screaming at her child.

Woman: Didn’t I tell you, Nicholas? Didn’t I say no?

Boy: [incoherent screaming]

Woman: No, don’t keep crying. Pull yourself together and answer me.

Boy: [screaming, but down a notch or two] I … want …

Woman: Nicholas, if you don’t behave right now, not only will Daddy be hearing about this, but you can fo get about your skiing lesson with Joshua on Saturday.

Boy: [silent for a moment, weighing up the options, screaming recommenced even higher and louder than before]

Woman: [crouching down next to him] Please, Nicholas, please, darling, just calm yourself down. What it is you’d like, Nicky?

Boy: [sensing his advantage, upper the screaming again]

Woman: Calm down, darling. You know Mummy loves you. Calm down. Shall we go back to the shop to get you the little car?

Boy: [pulling back the screams a little] Ye-ea-aah – [hi cupping sob]

Woman: Alright, darling. You were very good last night, weren’t you? You only got out of bed four times! I think you deserve a nice little treat, don’t you, darling?

Wait. I’d forgotten. OH GOD I hate children.

So my mood overall was unchanged this afternoon, and when I came home. Thom saw my face and pulled me into another big hug as I walked through the door, and took me to the sofa where he sat me down and smiled at me.

Thom: Do you know what I thought today, as I tried to co vince a room full of thirteen-year-olds to not show one another photos of women’s breasts while I talked about Jane Eyre?

Me: What.

Thom: Whether it’s now, or whether it’s in a few years: our kid is going to be brilliant.

Me: Ha! I thought the same thing today. Just before I tripped over a woman being emotionally blackmailed by her four-year-old.

Thom: You know we don’t have to be like that, don’t you? You can pick your parenting style: we can be Aloof Edwardian Parents. Or Distant Army Parents. Or Caveman Parents, who feed any spare children to their pet dinosaur.

Me: That’s the Flintstones.

Thom: I hardly think the Flintstones would feed a
child
to a
dinosaur
.

Me: [silence, thinking] We could be alright as parents. Maybe.

Thom: Maybe we could. But maybe … you’re too
chicken
to have a baby.

Me: [laughing] If ever that ploy was going to work on me …

Thom: Kiki, we will do whatever you like. For now, I’ll make us something to eat.

I sat, and I thought. God, if we can deal with Thom’s redundancy and Dad’s heart attack and my previously-very-badly-paid-and-very-high-stress job, all while planning a wedding that took over our lives, we should be able to manage a baby. Thom’s baby. And we might just be OK parents.

Me: [calling to the kitchen] Go on, then. Let’s have a baby.

Thom: [running back in] Wooohoooo!

Me: You can’t make noises like that in a labour ward. And
I’m
not telling my mum.

Thom: Shit. We have to tell people about this, don’t we.

Together:
Shotgun
!

Me: I called it. You can tell them.

So I’m happy. But I still blame you, Paris. I don’t know how this is your fault, but it is.

TO DO:

Grow baby

Have baby

Raise baby

About the Author

Sam Binnie was the 2005 winner of the
Harper’s
/OrangePrize Short Story Competition, and lives in London with her husband and two children. She is still embarrassed that she forced people to camp at her wedding.
The Wedding Diaries
is her first book, and she is currently writing
The Baby Diaries
, to be published in Spring 2013, and suffering flashbacks to the horrors of antenatal classes.

To discover more about Sam and the series, visit
www.sambinnie.com
or follow Sam on twitter
@pantherbinn
.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollins
Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Sam Binnie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9780007477128

Version 1

FIRST EDITION

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