The Yorkshire Pudding Club (7 page)

Had she picked a blue carpet, things might have turned out not quite the way they did.
Funny how the turn of life can hang on something as simple as that
, she would later come to realize.

It was the end of a lovely day for Helen. Today she was eight weeks and one day pregnant, and Simon had grudgingly given her permission to formally announce the fact at work–because the denials were becoming embarrassing. She had been warmly fussed over and Teddy Sanderson, her boss, had gone out and bought her a huge box of chocolates. It was the first night for a while that her nausea hadn’t totally wiped her out and she lay on their long white leather sofa, listening to a play on the radio with her Adonis at her side. He was reading the financial pages of the newspaper and sipping periodically from a glass of whisky, whilst she contented herself with lemonade. Her hand lay flat on her tummy and she wondered if the baby could sense the warmth in it. She felt calm and serene and totally blissed out. Then it all went wrong again.

She reached over to open the chocolates but as she opened the lid, Simon manoeuvred them out of her way.

‘Ah, ah, ah. Don’t want you getting fat now, do we?’

‘Simon, it’s only a chocolate!’ she said, laughing and
trying to bring down his arm because she thought he was joking.

‘This is the time you have to watch out for,’ he said. ‘Despite the old adage, you shouldn’t really be eating for two, you know.’

‘There are probably more calories in this lemonade than there are in five of those chocolates,’ said Helen.

‘You should be drinking water then,’ he said, and he actually took her glass away, tipped it out and brought her some mineral water from the fridge. She laughed because it was so ridiculous and because she could not think what else to do. Surely, he wasn’t being serious?

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said as she stared at him.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I’m trying to help you, isn’t that obvious?’ He tossed the remainder of the whisky down his throat, his good mood gone.

‘It was one chocolate and a glass of lemonade!’ she said, her mouth still formed into a round of disbelief.

‘What’s that they say? “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips”?’

‘I think so,’ Helen said, trying not to sound as indignant as she felt because the last thing she wanted was all this to end up in another one of those stupid rows that blew up from nowhere like a sandstorm to choke their whole evening.

He yawned, folded up his newspaper and said, ‘I’m going to bed, goodnight,’ and Helen jumped up eagerly, because she so needed him to make love to her and show her he was happy with her and thrilled about
the baby, because she suspected he wasn’t. He had procrastinated about starting a family since they married, and at four years younger than Helen, he could afford to delay a little. When she argued that she was in her very late thirties, he argued back that women today were having babies easily in their mid-forties and so they had plenty of time still. Helen knew the chances were that she didn’t; her mother had gone through a terribly early menopause and apparently, that was hereditary. Of course, her father would have known the facts about that, had he been here to ask.

Whoever said that all top executives were animals in bed were very misled, in Helen’s experience. More often than not, Simon was always too tired to make love after a hard day at the office. Each time her date chart and temperature aligned on the optimum time to get pregnant, Simon was either away at a conference or exhausted and unwilling, and her window of opportunity closed for yet another month. She had been pretending to take the pill for three years now, hoping for a happy ‘accident’, but on the rare occasions they did make love, her punctual-as-ever period came and snuffed out the small flames of hope that dared to dance in her heart. So when her chart told her that New Year’s Day was
the
day, she pulled out every stop in the book to seduce him and it worked. Champagne cocktails, over-laced with brandy, oysters, lobster, scented candlelight, smooth music on the CD, giving him an erotic massage in her tiny red Agent Provocateur undies…Then whilst he slept, Helen sat with her legs up in the air like a
porn star willing the little tadpoles to go find her egg, taking care not to spill one precious drop of them.

She
knew
she was pregnant; doing the test was just a formality for her. She held the pregnancy wand in her hand and watched the blue line appear like magic then she screamed with joy and sank to her knees, thanked God and cried and laughed. She couldn’t wait for Simon to get home that night and, as usual, he was late. But when she excitedly announced that he was going to be a father, his congratulatory hug was slack and robotic. She had initially put his shell-shocked demeanour down to the magnitude of the news. Then she realized it wasn’t that at all when the questions started:
How could this happen? Did she forget to take her pill? Didn’t he tell her they should wait?
Helen blamed a recent tummy bug for upsetting her pill’s efficiency. It was a well-known fact that that could happen, and she got away with the lie.

They showered, separately, and then she climbed into bed and snuggled up to him, stroking his chest. He took her hand, kissed it and put it away to the side of her.

‘Can we make love?’ she asked.

‘Not tonight, darling, I’m so tired.’

‘But we haven’t made love since New Year!’ she said, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt.

‘It’s bad for the baby anyway, until twelve weeks at least.’

Helen lay in the dark for a while, holding him close, though he felt a million miles away. She tried to take
heart that he had actually mentioned the baby. She rather thought it was the first time he had.

‘Simon,’ she asked eventually, ‘aren’t you happy about being a daddy?’

‘Oh, Helen, don’t be silly and just go to sleep,’ he said, shuffling away from her as if her body against his was an irritation.

Janey and George went through their usual after-curry routine (hers a half portion of a tomato-based one obviously). They went to bed; he made sure she was satisfied then he slipped on a condom and climbed aboard for the missionary position. Then they cuddled up and Janey talked about that interview, again, and twittered on for a bit and he listened patiently and stroked her back until he dropped off and she studied the ceiling for a while listening to his gentle contented snoring.

It might not have been Virgin and the Gypsy stuff, but it was warm and affectionate, easy and familiar, and he knew exactly where to touch her to make the bells ring on the rare occasions these days that they decided on a bit of ‘how’s yer campanology’. They had never been swinging-off-the-chandelier types and now, even though they were in a sexual rut, it was a comfortable one. Neither of them felt the need to spice things up with sex toys or dress up as Vikings or apply gels that made private parts tingle with desire. George seemed happy enough with his lot and wild dangerous sex wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, as Janey had discovered.

She had presumed that when she had lost all her weight, she would feel sexier, more confident, and totally liberated, but she did not–she just felt thinner and hungrier. George never said anything, but she knew he missed her curves, especially her boobs that the diets robbed her of first. He’d always enjoyed having something to grab hold of and warm and soft to snuggle into. He was a bit like her granddad in that way, was George.

‘Eeh, you’re looking bonny, love,’ her granda’ would say, and by that she knew she had put on weight. Not that he was one of those blokes who would feed his missus pork pies until she couldn’t move, but he had liked to see a good, well-built woman. Her nana had massive boobs and hips that could have launched the
QE2
and they had still been bonking in their eighties.

George loved Janey–big boobs or small–and she knew that all she would have to do is say it and it would be hers, whatever it was. She wished she could offer him the same, but she would never dare ask, because she knew that all he wanted from her was a baby. He never pressed her because he appreciated how important her career was to her, but it never left her conscience that she had not been fair to him. At first she had suggested they wait until they had finished decorating the house before they tried for a baby, then she wanted to wait until she had landed that big promotion or until they had more money to spare. She had made sure there was always something to wait for. Then it just got too late.

She cuddled up to him and kissed him in his sleep.
She did not deserve him, she really didn’t. Not after she had almost destroyed him.

Dean was making so much noise at the front door that Elizabeth felt obliged to let him in before he disturbed the neighbours. He was obviously lying when he said he hadn’t received any text message telling him not to call up because he had already replied to it with an
OK
. He was full of Friday-night ale and burping bhuna smells, and he tried to dance with her, edging her towards the stairs to persuade her up to bed. Grudgingly she told him he could stay, but in the spare single bed at the front of the house as her room was not finished yet. He made all sorts of promises on the way up the stairs of what he was going to do to her but luckily, by the time she had come out of the bathroom he was snoring on top of the duvet, like a pig with a chronic adenoid problem. She dragged a pillow roughly out from under his head and headed downstairs for the sofa, berating herself for opening the outside door in the first place. She was just a girl who couldn’t say no. Unless that someone she was saying ‘no’ to happened to be someone decent who deserved a ‘yes’.

Elizabeth did not think she had ever enjoyed sex. Even if she was lucky enough to be satisfied, by luck rather than design, she just wanted them to shove off straight afterwards and leave her alone. She had never snuggled up to anyone in that post-coital afterglow, not even to Dean in that ‘blink-and-you’d-miss-it’ honeymoon period, and once the ‘act’ was over with,
she got as far away from him as possible in bed. It wasn’t normal, she knew that, but it was normal for her; she’d had no different experience to prove otherwise. She never consciously wanted to think what going to bed with John Silkstone would have been like, but occasionally something slid under the thought barrier and she would find herself imagining how gently he would have kissed her, how warm his great big body would feel against hers and how he would pull her right into his side after it was done and cuddle her to sleep. She would shake the fantasy away in a panic. It scared her witless.

She really would have to get firm with Dean; he had started to make her skin crawl long before Christmas arrived, but it wouldn’t have been fair on him to finish it then, so she had decided to do it after New Year. Then New Year came and she had found herself clinging to him instead. It was all her fault that he was still around; she owed him for being there when she had needed someone familiar with her in the night, anyone who stopped her from being alone and scared in the dark.

Sex, for Elizabeth, was currency and power. Sex was anything but love.

It suddenly flagged up in Janey’s subconscious diary that she should have had her period by then, and when she checked her actual diary, she found she had not only missed it but her next one was due soon. She was not unduly worried because George always used protection and they had never had an accident yet, plus maybe some job stress had held things up a bit. Still, she would feel better when it landed. A woman might hate her periods coming, but she hated them not coming a damn sight more.

Mr and Mrs Hobson had a low-key but sweet romantic evening that Valentine’s night and George cooked, because he liked to and he was miles better at it than Janey. He bought her flowers, they settled down in front of the fire with DVDs–an Alan Rickman for Janey then a Jackie Chan for George, and they shared a nice bottle of sparkly vino, which they drank from long champagne flûtes. Then they went to bed, kissed and cuddled for a bit, and he eagerly fondled her breasts which was great until he said, ‘I’m sure these are getting bigger, chuck.’ And she froze.

In a brave moment, Elizabeth picked up her mobile, tapped in Dean’s number but then clicked it shut again. I can’t finish with him on Valentine’s night, can I? she thought, although five minutes later she was fast revising her opinion as the late-night unexpected visitor banged on her door. She could have used the excuse that he had not bought her a card to lever him out of her life, not that she wanted one from him for this tired liaison had no truck with romance. She let the staggeringly drunk Dean in out of the cold, furious as much with herself for not ending it yet again, as with him for thinking he could buy a bonk with two cod and a giant carton of peas. She knew also that she was partly misplacing her childish anger at not getting a stupid card from
him
, even though commonsense told her this was a ludicrous line of thinking. ‘Grow up, Elizabeth,’ she told herself, and put up with the sight of Dean trying to co-ordinate the meal onto two plates, a task he was finding pathetically difficult in his present state. The smell of fish was making her retch; all she could think about was the fish being raw and slimy inside the batter. She got herself a glass of water to combat the nausea and then her brain started to run with thoughts of fish swimming in that very water and doing their business in it. She threw up all over the kitchen floor, right into Dean’s smelly trainers. They had a convenient row about that in which he threw them in the bin and stormed out to find a taxi in very evil socks.

Elizabeth would have raised her head and thanked God, had she not had the distinct impression that this
was part of a much bigger joke that He was playing on her.

Helen spent Valentine’s night alone with her huge bouquet of red roses, a two-litre bottle of diet lemonade and a Jane Austen DVD because Simon was at a charity dinner event.

‘On Valentine’s night? Saturday as well?’ she had cried when he told her where he was going.

‘Yes, well, they planned it mainly for couples,’ Simon had explained. ‘Trouble is, there will be lots of alcohol and standing around, and I think it will be too much for you.’

‘But I’m fine,’ Helen said, trying to stop looking green. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?’

‘I told you about it weeks ago–you must have forgotten.’

‘Won’t you feel a bit odd if everyone’s in couples?’

‘Of course not. It’s a business meeting more than a social event, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather be here with me?’ she said, more tearfully than she intended.

‘It’s important I’m seen there, Helen, for God’s sake–please understand that. It’s just another day unless you’re a love-struck teenager or happen to own a card shop!’ he said wearily, as if she were being totally unreasonable. He kissed her forehead, though she had raised her lips to him, then he went off in his tuxedo and told her not to wait up.

Helen watched him go from the window; she waved but he was already on his mobile and didn’t look back.
Of course he was right. Why did they need cards and romantic meals on Valentine’s Day when her tummy was full of the proof of their love? She concluded that she really must try to be a better, less pathetic and more attentive wife.