by Alam, Donna
Oh, God. That’s not the half of it. My stomach swirls with anxiety. If only I could get to the point where I can tell her the rest.
‘Because I had sex with a stranger in a stranger’s house, and when I woke up in the morning, he wasn’t there. After the year I’ve had—Tamara, Cameron, the ring, and my parents—I didn’t want to admit to any more fuckups.’
I’ve just one more to add to the pile. Spit it out! Any minute now.
‘Mir.’ She draws out the sound over a hundred syllables. ‘None of that stuff reflects on you. You didn’t cheat. You didn’t sell someone a dream and deliver poo. And your parents have screwed things up themselves. Their marriage isn’t a reflection on you.’
‘It sounds so simple when you say it like that, but it’s not simple, is it? Because then there’s him. And even if he wasn’t there for good reason, I’ve had sex with him again. And then I let him finger me in our boss’s office today!’
So I might’ve suffered from a little verbal diarrhoea earlier in the conversation while trying to find the words to explain the mess I’m in.
‘Want to say that a bit louder?’ She tries and fails not to giggle. ‘There’s a guy on the other side of the bar that didn’t quite hear.’
‘Go ahead. Yuck it up.’ It’s the least I can allow her now that I’ve appointed her my confessor. Forgive me, Heth, for I have sinned. A lot.
‘At least he didn’t keep your knickers this time.’
‘Not helpful.’
‘Might’ve been worse. It might’ve been the Batman ones he kept.’
‘Urgh!’ I drop my head into my hands, only emerging again once I’ve scrubbed them over my face. ‘It’s not the sex, or the office, or anything like that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘He’s older,’ I say, beginning to tap the points off against my finger a little manically. ‘He’s mega rich, we’re socially on different stratospheres, he’s our boss’s husband’s mate, he knows the sex noises I make, and he wants to hear me make them again, and I’m fucking pregnant.’
‘Sophisticated and rich. I can’t see a problem,’ she says, reaching for her cup again. Then it clatters against the saucer as she puts it down again. In a hurry. In a state of shock. Though I can’t be sure because my eyes seem to be perspiring.
‘Pregnant.’
My lips purse against a deluge of great gulping tears.
‘Definitely?’
‘According to the test.’ I nod emphatically, the words wet and bubbling. God, I hate giving in to tears.
‘Taken when?’
‘This afternoon in the staff toilets.’
‘And you’ve worked all afternoon, listening to me waffle on about Facebook and Twitter and their algorithms? Moan about Jorge’s sense of dress? And not once did you think to take me to one side?’
‘It kept my mind occupied.’
‘Fuck,’ she whispers, blowing out a long breath. ‘Harry, right?’ I nod. ‘Does he know?’
This time I shake my head. ‘I’ve only told you. I just thought I’d let you digest your veggie lasagne first.’
‘What are you going to do? Do you know? Have you thought?’
I shrug. I know it makes no sense to say I want to keep it. I’m twenty-two, and my plate’s already overfloweth with life shit. But yes—yet I can’t see how I’ll be able to face doing anything else. I consider myself a modern woman. A feminist. I’m all for a woman’s right to choose. My body and my choice. A choice that wasn’t so much made as instinctually understood as the words formed on the little window of that stick.
PREGNANT.
‘I need to go to the doctor first for confirmation first, I think. Then I suppose I’ll need to grow a massive pair of lady balls before I tell him.’
‘I’m here for you,’ she says, reaching for my hand. ‘And I’ll be by your side in whatever way you need. But don’t discount him. You don’t know what this might mean to him. To you both.’
‘Or he might tell me to bugger off.’
‘And then you’d know. You’d be no worse off than you are now, would you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Unless . . .’
Unless I’m not going to keep it, she means.
‘Heth,’ I begin, not sure where to go on from here. Before I even speak, I hear how ridiculous it will sound. I’m not yet twenty-three, and I can barely make ends meet financially as it is. My career is still at the fledgling stage, I don’t have a place to live, I have a car that’s nine months overdue a service, and a credit card that’s close to being maxed out. Adding a baby to this mix is not a sensible move. And yet I can’t, in all honesty, see me doing anything else but.
‘I know.’ Her hand tightens on mine. ‘You’re going to keep it.’ There’s no judgement in her words. ‘Then you need to tell him.’
‘What if he hates me? What if he thinks I’ve done this on purpose?’ The fears I’ve been swallowing all afternoon rise to the surface, gushing from my mouth. ‘What if I lose my job?’
‘What if he realises this is as much his responsibility as it is his? And you’re not going to lose your job, idiot. You work for Olivia, not an ogre. But you need to tell him and quickly. Then you won’t be demonising his reactions because you’ll witness the real thing.’
She’s right. I don’t need to be thinking. Hoping. Wondering. Worrying. I need to be dealing—dealing with reality; however that might look.
‘So the sooner you tell him, the better, right?’
‘Right.’ But not right now. Not until I’ve come to terms with it myself. Which will hopefully be sometime in the not too distant future. I’ll give myself a few months. ‘God.’ I sigh, sitting back in my chair. ‘This is like my annus horribilis.’
She screws up her nose as she answers. ‘Ew. That totally sounds like a bum disease. Hey, if you’d gone the bum direction, you might not be pregnant.’
‘Trust you to lower the tone. I’ll have you know that’s Latin. And I borrowed it from the Queen. It means horrible year.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t say it too loudly, or people might think you’re contagious.’
We smile, maybe a little sadly, and I can see how worried she is for me. So I lean over and squeeze her cheeks together using one hand.
‘Ah, Heather-feather, who would’ve thought growing up would be so complicated? Eww!’
As she sticks out her tongue, licking a wet stripe on my hand, I pull back.
‘Better than the alternative, though, right?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say on a sigh. ‘Growing down doesn’t sound like a great plan, either.’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
‘I know.’ The opposite of growing up is never getting the chance. Being one age, frozen forever. Death, I suppose.
How on earth did things turn so sombre?
‘What a mess.’ I lean back in my chair, lifting my hands to straighten my ponytail. ‘Is it too much to ask the universe for a little help? All I ever wanted was to find someone kind and faithful. Someone who like me enough to let me order pizza with the toppings I like. Someone who’ll bring me a cup of tea when I’ve got a cold and a hot water bottle when I’ve got cramps, yet still fancy me enough to handcuff me to the bedpost and give me a really good seeing to every now and again?’
‘You deviant,’ Heather exclaims through her giggles.
Though it was meant as a joke, a moment to lift the cloud of worry from our little table, a moment of levity for my cousin’s ears, somehow my statement causes a twentysomething man to stumble as he passes our table. He straightens and looks down at the floor as though looking for the cause of his stumble. When he straightens, he sends a megawatt smile my way. Cute in that city finance boy way, he would ordinarily be my type. Sharp suit and a cocky grin and smooth enough to talk you into most things.
It’s just a pity he’s a couple of months late.
‘You’re in luck, darlin’.’
‘And you’re at the wro
ng table,’ I reply mildly, barely looking up.
‘Now, hear me out.’ He pulls his hand from his pants pocket, making a placating gesture with his free hand, the other still wrapped around his pint of lager.
‘You’re wasting your time.’ My tone goes from politely disinterested to bored.
‘But I could be the answer to all your problems.’
‘Or you could, like, not take a hint,’ Heather mutters under her breath.
‘Babe, just imagine if we were to have sex—’
‘You imagine it.’ I lift my head, giving him my full attention now, my delivery so cold, I’m surprised it doesn’t create icicles. ‘Because that’s the closest you’re ever going to get.’ I turn to Heather again.
‘I’ve got handcuffs,’ he sort of singsongs.
‘And I’ve got a cock.’ This time, I shoot him a smile that isn’t truly a smile. It’s more like a flash of teeth and gums. ‘And I like to be on top.’
‘You’re . . . you’ve . . .’ Uncertain how to continue, city boy takes a mouthful of his drink.
‘Even chicks with dicks need loving,’ Heather pipes up with a straight face.
Thankfully, we can barely see him for the dust created by his exit, causing us both to break out in a cackling kind of laughter.
‘You know something?’ Heather begins, once our mirth starts to peter out. ‘Once upon a time, you would’ve been fluttering your lashes at him. He was just your type.’
‘Ha, as if,’ I reply, running my fingers under my eyelids to even out any eyeliner smudges. ‘Well, maybe,’ I add upon reflection. ‘But I’ve got enough going on in my life right now.’
‘I don’t think that’s it.’ She tilts her head as though considering her words, or maybe me. ‘I think it’s because your tastes have changed.’
‘Maybe,’ I concede.
‘I think you’re interested in a new type. In fact, one model in particular.’
‘I can see where you’re going with this,’ I answer with a wry smile, ‘and it’s not helping.’ Because he’s way out of my league, relationship wise.
‘You’re just not seeing things as they really are. Your life isn’t in bits. You’re just on the precipice of a change. Humans are fundamentally resistant to change, you know.’
‘Well, this human has to pee. Do you want to go soon, or order another cup of tea?’
‘Hmm. I think another cuppa for you and a real drink for me because I’ve earned it. I’ll keep yours on ice for the next few months.’
‘Urgh. So unfair.’
‘I’ll let you sniff it, if you like.’
‘Wonderful,’ I deadpan. ‘Order me a green tea in the meantime.’
I pee, and as I wash my hands, I contemplate Heather’s words. I need to pull myself together. Stop dwelling on the things that have happened. The things I can’t change. An attitude adjustment, I think it’s called. I pause at the full-length mirror before I leave, contemplating my waistline as I run my hands over my hips. My attitude isn’t the only thing that’s about to change. I know it’s silly, but as I press my hand over my stomach, I feel an odd sense of contentment. A kind of warmth. But then the bathroom door opens, voices and music flooding in, and the moment is gone again, worries flooding back in.
I’ll be fine. It’ll all work out as it’s meant to. Hopefully.
When I return to the table, true to her word, cups and a teapot sit on the table. I smile as I take my seat, realising that for the next few months, this could be a regular thing.
Bye-bye Prosecco.
‘So,’ she begins as I settle.
‘Hmm?’
‘I was just wondering what you’re going to do with the ring now?’
I feel myself frown. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s a bit of a non-topic now.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. You need to do something epically awful with it.’
‘I don’t care about it anymore,’ I protest. ‘Before, when it was worth something, I was torn between doing the right thing and doing right by me.’
‘That I get. That is classic Miranda.’ She shakes her head. ‘After all he did to you—seriously, I’d have dumped in the Thames.’
‘I know. We’ve had this conversation.’ Many, many times.
‘Yes, but we haven’t talked about this. So Friday night you found out, and it knocked the wind out of your sails.’
I wrap my fingers around my cup and blow out a breath.
‘I’m not even sure it was about what the ring was worth in monetary terms. I felt like I’d been kicked in the guts. How little did he really think of me?’
‘In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. He’s as worthless as the promise he made you when he gave you that ring. None of it was a reflection on you.’
Yeah. That’s about it in a nutshell.
Feckless man. Meaningless promises. Worthless ring.
‘And you know what else? Your feelings didn’t change because it was of no use to you. Your mindset shifted because you’re moving on.’
‘I moved on months ago, Heth.’
‘Nope, you were stuck. And now you’ve been released. And you’re moving onto bigger and better things.’
‘I love your optimism,’ I reply, unconvinced.
‘I’m serious. Coke can-size better things.’ She cups her hands together as though to indicate the size.
‘I wondered how long it would take before we got back on the topic of him.’
‘Hold that thought,’ she says, swiping her phone from the table and her backpack-sized purse from the floor. ‘I’ve got to go visit the little girl’s room.’
‘I can be trusted with your phone, you know.’
‘I might need it to keep me occupied,’ she replies, pausing next to my chair. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be in there.’
‘I don’t need to hear this.’ My expression twists. ‘We’re not still eight, you know.’
‘Then you should think carefully before you ask questions,’ she retorts. ‘Because you might not like the answers. See you!’
As she almost skips across the pub, I return my attention to my cuppa and take the opportunity to scroll through my social media apps. True to her word, Heather takes her sweet time with whatever she’s doing in the bathroom, so I flick over to my E-Volve app. I don’t pay for the service, but get it as part of my package. In truth, I haven’t done anything but look at it. My profile is basic, and I’ve included no photographs.
My cup is almost empty, and I’m thinking of sending out a search party when the chair opposite me scrapes across the wooden floor as it’s pulled out from under the table.
‘You took your sweet—’
As I look up, my words drain away. For the second time today, James Harrison takes my breath away.
20
James
‘You took your sweet . . . ness when you walked out on me this afternoon?’
I resist the temptation to lean across the table and press my finger to her chin, closing that enticement of a mouth, mainly because there’s every chance she might bite me.
‘Where has she gone? Heather, I mean?’ Miranda’s head whips around as she looks for her cousin, Cupid’s unlikely envoy. Although she looks delightful in a tutu, and not unlike an overgrown toddle, I’m certain she’s not in the god of love’s employ.
‘Don’t get angry. I was invited.’
‘By Heather?’
‘She called and said that we should talk. That’s you and I, not Heather and—’
‘Oh, God.’
She drops her head to her hands, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like it’s too soon to have this conversation.
‘If it helps, she also gave me a message. She said, and I quote, “sooner is always better because you’d just put it off until the last minute possible” and “if you stay and talk this through, this will be the last time I’ll use Grandad as a ploy.” A little abstract, but she assured me you’d know what this means.’
‘And she led you to believe, what? That I wanted to talk to you?’
‘I believe the phrase she used was that you need to talk to me.’ I must admit, I was intrigued. ‘Naturally, I came as soon as I could and was instructed come by cab.’
But where has she gone?’
‘Home, presumably, in a cab.’
‘Heather is a student, and she’s the middle child of a large family. She hasn’t got money to fritter on cabs,’ she answers disparagingly. Her expression twists and, if I’m not mistaken, she’s chewing the inside of her lip.
‘I paid for it. That was also in the instructions.’ Her expression softens immediately, her a gurgling chuckle warming my skin. She really is quite exquisite, her eyes almost brown in the low light as her hair glows like old gold. ‘Heather got in the cab I got out of. She said she felt a little like James Bond.’
‘Sneaky cow,’ she mutters. ‘Maybe she should be studying something other than social media when she goes off to uni next month.’
‘Like what?’
‘Management.’ Her mouth becomes a flat line.
‘So, here we are.’ The fact that she’s still sitting in her seat is encouraging. It could’ve gone so many ways after I’d left her draped over the desk this afternoon. She might’ve stormed out or climbed onto my lap and wrapped her hands around my throat. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I had a point to make, and that is that while her mouth says one thing, it’s as though the rest of her is on another page.
‘I can leave if you’d prefer. Or I can get us another drink, and we could talk.’
‘That would be . . . ’ I think for a moment she might say nice. ‘A novel experience.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a quip about novelty and the inventive experiences she and I could have together when some sixth sense tells me it wouldn’t be appropriate right now. Could I be something more than a novelty to her It’s true we don’t know one another very well, but there’s something about her that I’ve been unable to ignore. It’s a strange kind of experience to think of someone, to feel things for them, but not be able to put those feelings into words. I feel like I’m stumbling around, still discovering her. Though it sounds ridiculous. I find I can’t put it any other way than that.
