My Book

by Alam, Donna

  Three days and too many hours, and the need to pull her into my arms great.

  How is it possible that, just a few short weeks ago, my life moved in such familiar rhythms, but since I found her stuck in Rufus’s bloody dog door, I can’t seem to think of anything else?

  I can barely concentrate. And it doesn’t help that she’s been avoiding me. She says she’s been busy at work and too tired to do anything else, but these reasons alone wouldn’t stop her from looking at me right now.

  Maybe she’s having second thoughts—second thoughts of being tied to me for life.

  ‘And you must be Miranda.’ Will’s voice pulls me from my morose thoughts.’

  ‘Wowsa. I mean, yes. Miranda.’ If Will finds Miranda’s greeting a little strange, he’s professional enough not to show it. The bastard still hasn’t lost his touch, I see.

  He didn’t earn the moniker Dr Pussy for nothing. I suppose it’s Lord Pussy these days.

  It’s a little ridiculous, but I find myself reaching for her hand as we take our seats. Unlike any other doctor I know, he perches his irreverent arse on our side of his desk as he feeds his finger into the neck of his shirt, loosening his tie a touch.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to see us so late.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s the least I could do. Besides, I owe you one. Sadie adored the Alyssa Monkton piece so much.’

  A couple of months ago, Will called me in the gallery to ask if I could help him source something for his wife’s birthday. Eventually, he selected a charcoal drawing, something quite sensual, almost erotic in nature. I’m pleased that she appreciated it because I almost kept it for myself.

  ‘That’s good to hear. So.’ I clear my throat. How does one tactfully announce he’s responsible for making another pregnant?

  ‘Miranda, how are you feeling, hen?’ As he turns to her, his piercing gaze is intent. Perhaps his lapse into Scots is part of his bedside manner?

  ‘Honestly? And I know you’re not supposed to self-diagnose with the help of Dr Google, but I’m pretty sure I feel pregnant.’

  His deep burst of laughter fills the room. ‘So symptoms?’ He folds an arm across his chest, his fist curled under his chin like a flesh incarnation of Rodin’s The Thinker.

  ‘Vomiting. Copious amounts of vomiting.’

  ‘Mornings?’

  ‘Mostly.’ She lifts her shoulder in a light shrug. ‘Sometimes more.’

  ‘That’s normal, and it usually settles down by the second trimester.’

  ‘Can you knock me out until then?’

  ‘What? And let you miss out on all the fun?’

  ‘There speaks a man who has never been pregnant.’

  ‘True enough. We get all of the fun and none of the inconvenience, according to my wife.’

  ‘Do you have children?’ she asks, cocking her head to one side.

  ‘I have a daughter and another babe on the way.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be having more than one.’

  ‘At least, not at once, let’s hope.’ My attempt at joining the conversation earns me frowns from both parties.

  ‘Don’t even joke about that,’ she says, turning her attention from me almost immediately. ‘And afterwards, I think I’m having my lady bits sewn up because I never want to feel like this again.’

  ‘I can prescribe you something to ease it if it becomes too much. But first things first; we’ll let the dog see the rabbit.’

  I’m relieved when he leans behind him, grabbing Miranda’s file because I thought for a minute that he was the dog in that aphorism, and the rabbit was something he has no business looking at. Except he does, doesn’t he? I suppose you can’t deliver a child without being at the business end of things.

  ‘So you’re twenty-three next birthday.’ Will doesn’t look up from the file, but I feel his censure anyway.

  ‘That’s right.’ If I’m not mistaken, her chin comes up a touch.

  ‘And the date of your last period?’ He balances the file on his bent knee, reaching for something that looks a little like an old school protractor, the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree kind.

  ‘It was. Well, I don’t really know. I can give you a rough guestimate. Or I can give you the date of conception.’

  Will gaze flicks back and forth between us as he digests her statement.

  ‘Aye, that’ll work,’ he says with an easy grin as he scratches the back of his head.

  ‘It was July first.’

  ‘Don’t be too flattered,’ Will mutters as he makes a note in the file. ‘I’m sure Miranda had other things in her diary that day.’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure that was very professional,’ I reply coolly. ‘Not for the price of the appointment, at any rate.’

  ‘I can always refer you to someone else,’ he says with a devious grin, because the bastard knows he’s the best, and he can say what he likes. The privilege of wealth and being at the top of your game, I suppose.

  ‘Right, so I make April fifth next year as your due date.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right,’ I cut in.

  ‘Oh?’ Will says. ‘Do enlighten us how science and the UKs most sought-after obstetrician can be so wrong.’

  ‘No, not wrong exactly. It’s just I have the Cologne Art Show that week.’

  ‘Are you for real?’ Miranda turns bodily in her chair to face me, her expression almost hostile.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ I reply, mentally recalculating my statement. There are certain events during the year that, for the good of my business, I must attend. This is one of them. It’s very important. But then again, so is—

  ‘It’ll happen whether you’re there or not, man. Unless Miranda decides she’d prefer an elective caesarean. You know, for your convenience.’

  My gaze follows the motion as she crosses one leg over the other, recomposing herself rather elegantly, the motion contradicted by the exhalation of a harsh breath. Pfft!

  ‘Do you want to be there?’

  ‘At the birth of my first child? What kind of question is that?’

  ‘An honest one. I think if I could do this by proxy, I would.’

  ‘Well, I want to be there.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I can just cross my legs if I go into labour and hang on until you come back.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ I grate out, annoyed. Is this our first domestic? From a couple barely domesticated themselves? ‘I just spoke without thinking.’ I could send Theo, the exhibition manager, I suppose. If I have to. Obviously, I’ll have to.

  ‘Spoke out of your backside, more like,’ she mutters under her breath.

  ‘Sorry.’ Again. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Because the more I think about it, the more I see the truth in this. It’s also the truth that this is going to take a little adjusting to—all of this. Up until now, I’ve lived my life for myself, and now I have others to consider.

  ‘This’ll be more fun than an art show, man. Lots of colour and sound. You won’t want to miss out.’

  ‘And I won’t,’ I reply, reaching for her hand again.

  ‘Right, well,’ Will begins, thankfully moving on. ‘If you’d like to pop along to the next room, Miranda, Jenny will weigh you, and then I think we’ll give you a wee scan.’

  ‘An ultrasound?’ she asks, surprised and perhaps a little frightened. It occurs to me immediately that I know nothing about this process beyond how this began and how it will end. I have no understanding of why her brow should suddenly be creased or why she’s chewing the inside of her lip. Literature. I need to get my hands on some kind of pregnancy for dummies books. ‘I thought they were only offered this early if there were concerns? We haven’t confirmed I’m pregnant yet.’

  ‘You buy a test from the pharmacy?’ Will’s tone is unconcerned.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And did it indicate that you’re pregnant?’

  ‘Yeah. It said pregnant. It wasn’t one of the ones with the lines or anything.’

  ‘
Then congratulations. Home tests are so accurate these days, there’s little point in repeating it. And as for the scan, when you go private over your choice of the NHS, you can pretty much get what you want. Especially if he’s paying.’ Will nods his head in my direction.

  ‘Oh. Well, okay.’ Miranda stands as a nurse, presumably Jenny, makes herself known to the room.

  As Will continues to sit on his desk, his eyes boring into my head, I feel compelled to speak.

  ‘Do you have something you feel you need to say?’

  ‘Not a fuckin’ thing.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘She seems like a nice girl.’

  ‘Woman.’ She’s not a girl, and I’m not some pervert. ‘And yes, she’s quite lovely,’ I reply, playing down what I really think about her, which is quite a lot. She’s one of a kind. Brave and capable, despite the hand she’s been dealt.

  ‘Quite lovely and quite young.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘You’re about to become a father.’ I incline my head, my cool response at odds with the tightening in my stomach. ‘Following a one-night stand. Heat of the moment or a condom malfunction?’

  ‘How strange. I thought you were an obstetrician, not an interrogator.’

  ‘I have the best job ever,’ he says after a pause. ‘I get to bring life into the world. And then I hand these little treasures over.’ He holds his hands in such a way that it leaves me in no doubt that he means what he says. ‘I hand them over to parents who have waited nine long months for that day. But that’s just the beginning. Parenthood is the only job you’ll keep until you make your grave.’

  ‘I think you must have a very poor opinion of me, Will.’

  ‘I make it my business never to have opinions about my patients.’

  ‘Good,’ I find myself grating out, annoyed now. He knows nothing about this. Nothing about how I feel about Miranda or our child, even if these feelings are only beginning to be formed into thoughts I can quantify. Didn’t I miss my flight to Berlin because I couldn’t bear to see her be so ill?

  ‘But you’re not my patient. And I know you.’

  ‘You might think you do. Jesus, Will, the way you’re looking at me, anyone would think I’d brought her to a backstreet clinic with a few pennies and a quart of gin. But I haven’t; I’ve brought her to the best private clinic in fucking England.’

  ‘The best in Europe,’ he corrects. ‘In fact, women from all over the world come to me for treatment.’

  ‘And do you cross-examine all the men accompanying these women?’

  ‘Miranda is the first to bring along her one-night stand.’

  ‘I somehow doubt that. And if you’ll recall, I brought her. And she is more to me than just some girl I’ve fucked.’

  ‘So you’re going to raise this child together?’

  ‘We haven’t ironed out the details.’ Sitting straighter in my chair, I pull on the cuffs of my shirt. ‘But I’ll be there in whatever capacity she’ll have me. I intend to be a part of my child’s life. Hers too, if I can.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he replies.

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Though my tone indicates the opposite because I don’t care to examine the expression he’s currently wearing, or what he appears to have garnered from my words. ‘I’ll endure your company because you’re the best.’

  ‘And because you’re a bit of a snob.’

  ‘Fuck you, Will,’ I snarl, desperately trying to keep my temper and volume at a level that won’t carry to the next room. ‘I’ll put up with your crude insinuations for one reason only, and that’s because I want the best for Miranda and our child. Clearly, yes, she’s younger, but I’m not some old fucking letch. I take full responsibility for the situation, and I’ll do whatever it takes to benefit her and our child.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ His reply sounds unaffected, his demeanour nonchalant.

  ‘Of course, I’m fucking sure. Who made you my confessor, anyway?’

  ‘Maybe you just looked like you needed someone to talk to.’

  ‘Do fuck off,’ I drawl.

  He unfolds his large frame from the desk, and with a wide smile, he says, ‘Aye, but let’s go have a wee peek at your child first.’

  Why do I feel like I’ve just sat some fucking test?

  Before I can respond, the nurse pops her head into the room.

  ‘Ready for you now, Dr T.’

  T for twat, I decide as I stand and follow him into the other room.

  I take my position on the left side of the padded bench where Miranda lies, her wriggling causing the tissue paper underneath her to rustle and shake.

  ‘Pull up your shirt a little more. Aye, that’s it.’ Will tucks more of the tissue into the waistband of her skirt, currently pushed dangerously low, before squirting her skin with something that looks like an industrial bottle of lube.

  The lights in the room flick off before Will begins prodding her with a wand. And just like a made for TV movie, the room fills with the sound of whooshing that even I recognise as the heartbeat of our child.

  A lump forms in my throat, and I suddenly feel a strange sense of responsibility settle over me. It’s not an unwelcome sensation. It’s like the weight of the world has been placed on my shoulders but in the best kind of way. The kind of way that warms me from my insides out. It makes me feel like I’m radiating something I can’t place.

  My child. She’s carrying my child.

  This is the first of a thousand moments, and I can see the world opening up before me. First steps and first words. Dance classes and a school play. Pride. That’s what this is. The kind of pride that makes me want to say, “Hear that noise? That’s my baby’s heartbeat. Isn’t it fucking great?”

  ‘One heartbeat, you’ll be no doubt pleased to hear.’

  Christ, I hadn’t thought about that even as my shoulders seem to sag with relief.

  ‘He looks like a gummy bear you find in a packet of Haribos.’ Miranda’s voice is so tender, and as she raises her gaze to me, it’s soft and watery. As I take her hand, she squeezes it, and I squint at the screen.

  ‘Do you need glasses?’ she asks, her words a burbling mixture of tears and amusement.

  ‘No, I’m looking for discerning features.’ I find in order to answer, I have to swallow over the lump of emotion constricting my throat.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Her answer burbles with the kind of laughter I wish I could bottle to listen to it again and again.

  ‘There’s not much to see this early,’ Will says, continuing to prod and slide his non-fun vibrator. ‘The next scans will show more. You can have videos if you like. Scans that are 3D, 4D, and more. But today is just a basic wee peek. Let’s take a few measurements. The heart is fine; one hundred and seventy beats per minute. And looks like you know your stuff, Miranda. The date is about right, which makes you eight weeks.’

  ‘What about sex?’ I find myself asking.

  ‘Thanks, pal, but you’re really not my type.’

  ‘Christ. Is this what we get for your hourly rate?’

  ‘I’m a bargain. Experience, a peerage, and a bit of humour thrown in. Don’t worry,’ he says, pulling the tissue from Miranda’s skirt to wipe her stomach. ‘You only have to put up with me for the next few months.’ And then he winks.

  24

  Miranda

  ‘My God. That was amazing!’ Outside, the summer evening has cooled, and the sun is setting behind clouds that look like dark, inky smudges pressed over a peach coloured sky. ‘Was that not just the most amazing experience ever! To know is one thing but to witness proof? Well, it’s mind blowing!’

  To say James’s response is effusive would be to downplay his reaction as he stares down almost stupefied at the image of my ultrasound in his hand.

  ‘Yeah. It was. And also a bit surreal.’ I immediately want to bite back my response. Swallow it. Hide it. Make it something a little more like his.

  It’s not that I’m unhappy. Before the appointm
ent, I’d known I was pregnant and not just because of the morning sickness. It’s something I’d known intrinsically, almost. And it was something I was slowly coming to terms with, dare I even say something I’d experienced feelings of quiet happiness about? If not exactly singing my excitement from the rooftops, I’d certainly felt very protective of my unconfirmed state, finding myself turning sideways as I passed teenagers on the street and adjusting my seat belt to sit over my non-existent bump, along with other small ridiculous things. Yeah, so I’m not unhappy. Though I find I can also be, at the same time, a little bit sad. And it’s all to do with the thing he’s holding in his hand.

  If we were a couple, a real couple, wouldn’t we now be poring over the image together? My copy wouldn’t be in my purse, and he wouldn’t be sliding his into the inside pocket of his jacket for protection. It just feels like a sign of things to come; I’ll be a weekday parent, and he’ll be a weekend one. Together but separate. Together not at all.

  ‘Come here.’ Immediately, I find myself pulled against James’s broad chest as I inhale a lungful of his heady cologne. ‘You’re not alone.’ My throat constricts as I fight the onset of tears. But I am alone, aren’t I? Even if he’s here right now with me, the lion’s share of this experience will fall to me. ‘This baby will be the most cared for in London,’ he whispers fiercely into my hair. ‘I never for a minute thought this appointment would have such a profound effect. It all feels so real now.’ His hands on my arms, he pushes me away from him to better see my expression as he asks, ‘How do you feel? Now that it’s all confirmed?’

  ‘Pregnant, I suppose. Still.’

  His lips quirk in a not-quite smile. ‘You’re not excited?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. ‘Really, I am. I think I’m just a bit overwhelmed.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re going to be the best mother ever.’ He dips, bringing his gaze level with mine as I press my lips into a line. Because how can he tell? I might be a really terrible mother—the kind that actually does throw the baby out with the bathwater. ‘We’re in this together, you know.’

  I swallow an extra large and spikey ball of emotion as I nod when he pulls me into his arms again. God, he’s so good at this stuff—saying the things I need to hear, physically giving me what I need. His broad arms around me. The other distraction of his body.