My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Big foreheads don’t run in the family, by the way. He’s just developing a big brain.’ According to the maternity manuals I’ve collected, in this image, he’s currently working on defining all kinds of body parts. Ears, lips, nose, arms, and legs. Bones and heart valves.

  A heart when he already has mine.

  ‘Fuck me.’ Griff leans closer as though not quite believing his own eyes.

  ‘No, thanks. My swimmers are, apparently, potent. And impervious to latex. I wouldn’t like to get you pregnant, too.’

  ‘I’d screw you over child support,’ Griff mutters. I make to move the image, to secret it away, when my heart pinches.

  Fuck. How did I forget the text printed there?

  Notes. Measurements. Plus, three pertinent details I hadn’t sought to share.

  Miranda Henry.

  Aug 29

  8w3d

  If Griff notices, he doesn’t say, not that her name would mean anything to him. Beckett, on the other hand, sees it fucking all. Thankfully, he says nothing. At least not right now.

  ‘Your shout.’ Griff rubs his hands together gleefully, his shoulders almost around his ears.

  ‘And you’ve decided that how?’

  ‘To wet the baby’s massively big forehead.’

  I’m not going to repeat myself. There really wouldn’t be any point.

  ‘Try not to be so ridiculous,’ Beckett intones, speaking for the first time since my big reveal. ‘The tradition relates to the birth of the child, not the conception.’

  ‘I don’t know. Harry here looks pretty happy. I think we should at least drink to that.’

  And as the waiter passes just at that moment, Griff orders a bottle of vintage champagne. For my tab, of course.

  29

  Miranda

  ‘Hey, you missed the hot courier earlier.’

  Olivia’s teasing tone greets me as I stand on the threshold, shaking out my wet coat. I’ve been to check out the florist this morning after he’d called and said he was having trouble sourcing the shade of cabbage rose I’d ordered for Olivia’s bouquet. I shiver a little because it’s almost as though autumn has arrived overnight, bringing the rain with it as my mind reels with cold weather contingency plans. Who on earth thought getting married outdoors in England during the last week of September was a good idea? September certainly can be very pretty, all sunshine and golden leaves, but it can equally be awful; soggy, grey, and cloudy. It’s a good job they’re getting married in their own garden because if it’s too windy for the marquee I’ve ordered, at least they have a mansion to use.

  I’m going to need to get a new winter coat. Something roomy with space to grow, I consider, hanging it up.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? The hot courier was asking after you—the one with the tattoos.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I smooth the wet strands from my face, shooting her a disinterested smile as I make my way to my desk.

  ‘Nice? The man is hot! And he’s hot for you.’

  ‘Eh.’ My expression scrunches as I slide into my seat. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Help me out here, Heather. He asks questions about Mir every time he visits, doesn’t he?’ Both our gazes glide Heather’s way, Olivia’s seeking an ally, mine delivering a warning.

  ‘Some of us are too busy and too wise to get involved,’ she mutters before looking up. ‘Although, if he’s looking for romance, he’s come to the right place.’ My stomach tightens then relaxes as she adds, ‘We should sell him a subscription.’

  Olivia smiles as though this is the best of ideas. ‘Yeah, you might pull him up as a match.’

  Or she might get one of the boffins upstairs to force it from the backend. That’s not as dirty as it sounds, by the way. Still, I need to put a stop to this. I know we’re in the business of romance, but matchmaking in the office is a step too far.

  ‘I’m sort of seeing someone,’ I murmur nonchalantly as I wiggle my computer mouse, my screen flickering to life.

  ‘You are a dark horse, miss lady. Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

  I shrug shortly. ‘It’s new.’

  Olivia nods as though she gets what I’m saying, even if what I’ve just implied isn’t true. Are James and I new? Yes and no. Ten weeks and counting, according to my pregnancy tracker. But you might say our relationship is on an accelerated track in some ways. Or you might say we’re not in a relationship at all.

  A sexual relationship, yes.

  A relationship of respect and trust.

  But a romantic relationship? Nope.

  I like James. I like him way more than I should. I might even love him if I could allow myself. Take away the issue of money and the differences in our ages, and we might almost have been made for each other. We get on well. Really well. We both like classic British film, my favourite being the black comedies like The Ladykillers, while his tastes lean more toward thrillers and The 39 Steps. We both believe in the restorative properties of a bacon sandwich smothered in Heinz tomato sauce as the perfect hangover cure, not that I’ll be having one of those for a while, and we both agree that dogs are far superior pets to cats.

  He’s gorgeous, has impeccable taste in clothing, and what he’s packing in the Coke can stakes is quite enormous. Add in his magical tongue and the fact that he’s also been an exquisite reminder of just how one human should treat another, and he’s almost perfect. I could go on because he’s smart and he’s charming, kind and funny, and when I’m feeling fearful, he tells me I’m amazing and that I’ll be the yummiest of mummies. He loves his father, and he loves ice cream, and he loves the idea of being a father himself—but despite all these things, I just can’t let my heart take that final leap.

  Even if I want to.

  Sorry, Haribo. But I’m doing this for us both.

  ‘That is a very pensive look. Penny for them?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Coming back from my tangled thoughts, I meet Oliva’s gaze with a bright and probably vacant smile.

  ‘I said a penny for your thoughts.’

  I contemplate how radiant Olivia looks in her navy blue woollen dress. Her hair is sleek, and her knee-length brown leather boots are super shiny. I think fashion is what I like best about autumn. Or maybe crunching through leaves. Actually, I think I like the crisp mornings best. As well a new coat, I’m going to need some new clothes. Baggy jumpers. Warm leggings. Maybe a pair of chunky, funky boots.

  Pregnancy doesn’t mean I have to be mumsy.

  ‘There she goes again.’ I turn back just in time to see Olivia’s exasperated reaction.

  ‘My thoughts are worth way more than a penny, especially when I’m thinking about your wedding. It’s not easy, you know,’ I add, my tone slightly aggrieved. ‘Most people take years to plan a wedding.’

  ‘Why do I feel like I’m being managed? I get enough of this at home, you know.’

  ‘Ha. As if anyone could manage you.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop Beckett from trying, let me tell you.’

  ‘Something tells me you enjoy trying each other. Hang on, I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘Oh no, I get it,’ she agrees. ‘I also get that you’re trying to distract me from your news. You want me to dig? No need. You know Heather can’t keep a secret.’

  Both of our attentions turn to Heather again, who appears not to have heard. Or maybe she only appears that way to Olivia because, hunched over her laptop, I still register her flinch.

  But no. She wouldn’t squeal. The girl is a vault.

  ‘You don’t believe me? Heather let it slip last week that you have a beau.’

  ‘I didn’t realise we’d slipped back in time. I have a beau, do I, Heth?’

  But beau sounds better than baby daddy or pregnancy fuck buddy, my mind supplies. I push away the thought as I turn my head again, this time like a turret on a tank. I think my smile must be just as frightening.

  ‘Nooo.’ Heather draws out her response over a dozen syllables. ‘I did not. But good try, Ols.
’ She sends her a wink. ‘I know better than to get involved in this discussion.’ She sits straighter, and adds, ‘Just think of me as the embodiment of the three wise monkeys. I see, hear, and speak not at all.’

  Good.

  ‘If you must know what I was thinking about,’ I say, my words directed towards Olivia. ‘I was thinking that we could add some metallic accents to the teal. A little copper and gold, nothing too tinny.’

  This time, Olivia’s expression changes, clouding with what I’m calling the wedding wow. I’ve never seen her as happy as she’s been lately. It’s as though she’s suddenly fully embraced being married. And while she’s happy, more like ecstatic, to hear about my plans for the day—the colours, the catering, the contingency plans for an autumnal wedding in rainy old England—she’s also happy to leave the planning to me. Which I’m loving. And loving getting paid for.

  I might have a flat before much longer.

  ‘Copper would be gorgeous with teal,’ Heather agrees, happy to help in moving Olivia along from the topic of my love life. ‘You can add some subtle touches to the tables, maybe gold shoes, if you haven’t bought them yet.’ The pair begin to talk shoes as my phone buzzes with a text.

  I believe I left something at your house last night.

  My house? My thumbs fly over the screen of my phone as a warm glow heats my chest. You mean Muffy and Buffy, the house rabbits?

  Rabbits? I thought they were strange looking fluffy dogs.

  Nope, giant Angora rabbits. The size of small dogs, but still.

  That would explain a lot. Anyway, getting back to the thing I left there.

  I hope you haven’t left anything there, I type back. My week is up. The owners are back this evening; bunny services no longer required.

  Because I’m not supposed to have overnight guests, before we left, I’d fed and locked away the bunnies in their room, popped the sheets from the guest bed into the washing machine, thrown last night’s pizza box and wine bottle into the recycling, before doing one last sweep of the house for evidence—I mean, belongings. Then James had thrown my little suitcase in the back of my car just as his driver, turned up ready to whisk him off to wherever.

  And that’s it. The keys were popped through the letterbox, never for me to return.

  Or until next time the couple goes on holiday.

  How does he not remember this?

  Play along, darling girl.

  I try and fail to curtail my smile as I type out my answer. Oh, dear. What did you leave, oh, gorgeous one?

  I appear to have left a blow job on your sofa. I was wondering if it’d be all right to come over this evening to collect it?

  Chancer, I respond, actually biting my lip to restrain my smile now.

  That’s actually my middle name.

  Really? Do you mean Chance? It seems unlikely.

  Near enough. It’s Charles. About this blow job . . .

  Ah, about that. I lack a sofa for you to receive your blow job on.

  There’s a pause when I just know he’s thinking about asking me to come over to his. Then the little blue bubbles appear.

  How about I buy a goldfish and pay you to come and look after it?

  Pay me to look after it? Or look after you? I type out, wondering if he’s really joking. Or just really dense when it comes to this sort of thing.

  You look after it. I’ll look after you.

  That still sounds a little too service orientated for my tastes.

  Really? When you’re the one getting serviced? And by serviced, I mean fucked. Really rather well.

  And you’re going to PAY me for my inconvenience?

  Ah. I see. Would you do it for free?

  I’m not moving in with you. I will, however, come over and help you look for your blow job later. First, I have to go into the pet-sitting offices.

  ‘Teal is also a beautiful jewel colour,’ I hear Olivia say. ‘And it goes with most skin tones.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Heather’s response is less than enthusiastic as she approaches wedding information critical mass.

  Any idea what for?

  Nope. I just got a text.

  GTG, I respond. Shall I grab something for dinner on the way over?

  No need. Sandy has made food. Chicken pasta something or other. Is that okay for you?

  Perfect. Perfectly weird that the woman who looks after his house has left him dinner. Almost like he’s planned to get me over there. See you around seven.

  I can’t wait to get my hands on you, even though I don’t know what GTO means. Go to Oban? Is that the same as get tae fuck? That’s Scots for go forth and multiply.

  I can’t answer you, I respond. I’ve already gone.

  I almost end the conversation with love you, but that would be absurd.

  ‘And she would have us believe she doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

  I lock the screen on my phone and place it down, giving myself a moment to school my expression.

  ‘It was my mum.’

  ‘Ha. You’re such a bad liar,’ Olivia replies, tapping her phone against her thigh. ‘The worst liar ever. You know what I think? You should bring him to the wedding.’

  ‘What?’ Jinx. Heather and I say the same thing at the same time. But while my answer sounds deep and sort of masculine—and loud—Heather’s is gurgling with laughter.

  ‘Okay . . .’ Olivia draws the word out over a dozen syllables. ‘That was weird.’

  ‘Ha!’ I cough and pat my hand against my chest. ‘I’ve got a frog in my throat.’

  ‘Frog? It sounds like you’ve swallowed a man.’

  ‘She probably has,’ Heather mutters under her breath, causing me to shoot her a look. A look that approximately says I will end you if you utter another word. Yet she still has another word to utter. ‘And I’d say recently.’

  ‘Oh, a mystery man. Say you’ll bring him to the wedding.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He’ll be there. I’ll be there. But we won’t be there together. ‘Oh, before I forget,’ I add, cutting off her next enquiry, ‘did I show you the metallic additions on the mood board?’

  Olivia’s like a magpie for shiny wedding things. I was going to rescue Heather from more wedding talk, but now I think I’ll make her suffer.

  Because payback, like a cousin, can be a bitch.

  30

  James

  ‘I’ve been sacked.’ Miranda drops heavily onto the Gio Ponti sofa, discarding her purse to the floor.

  ‘You’ve been what?’

  ‘Sacked. Fired. Given the big E. Dismissed!’

  ‘Whatever for?’ I’d never win an Oscar but I’m certain my reaction is convincing enough for my current audience. Particularly as she isn’t looking at me.

  ‘The flat with the rabbits? They had a nanny cam.’ Elbows on her knees, she drops her head to her hands. ‘Who the hell uses a nanny cam to spy on the pet sitter!’ she cries, raising her head again. ‘Who?’

  ‘Overly cautious people?’ I suggest mildly.

  ‘Or bloody idiots,’ she retorts.

  ‘Or people who enjoy watching their pets play while they’re on holiday?’ At least, that’s what they’d told me when I called around to their flat yesterday.

  ‘Don’t stick up for them. They got me fired!’

  ‘I’m sorry. This is clearly my fault for being there.’ Even if it was at her behest. Her behest and my pleasure. But that’s not the issue here.

  ‘You’re not the one who “signed a legally binding agreement” to say they wouldn’t have “friends over” to the places I was “paid to stay,” apparently.’ Who knew finger quotes could be so vicious? ‘And the agency is “doing me a favour” paying me for this month because I broke the “sacred contract.” ’

  You bet they’re paying her, the trouble I went to and the amount I paid to have this happen—for the bunny owners to lodge a complaint. I’d have gone direct to the agency if I thought it would’ve helped. But a pair of teachers were easier to deal with than a company, no m
atter how small. Easier to manipulate, you might say.

  ‘They were so condescending, James. And this from a couple who work out of their garage. I mean, their office is in their garage! Urgh!’

  ‘It’s over now.’ Thankfully, for both of us.

  ‘Do you know, she said I’m only getting paid for the month because the rabbit’s owners said they could see I was very sweet to their pets and obviously an animal lover.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Nothing to do with the fact that I offered them money to say so—because it’s true—while they lodged their complaint. Of course, I also explained my predicament. Somewhat. I’d said hat my girlfriend was pregnant and that I was afraid she was overtaxing herself working two jobs. That I couldn’t get her to listen to sense because she because she didn’t want to let the agency down as their most experienced pet sitter . . . Always putting people first, my lovely girl.

  So I may have laid it on a little thick. But I could hardly tell them Miranda wasn’t actually my girlfriend but the woman carrying my child who I was trying to get to commit to me in one way or another. Anyway, I get the impression the pair would’ve provided her with an alibi for murder for the amount of money I’d offered them.

  So, onto stage two of my not-so nefarious plan.

  More despicable-lite.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say taking a seat next to her on the high-backed sofa, which was bought more as an investment than for comfort. I take her hands in mine and rub my thumbs over her knuckles. ‘Your hands are so cold.’

  She sniffs as though reminded of the temperature outside. She’s not . . . crying, is she? I duck my head. Her lashes are lowered demurely. And wet.

  ‘Oh, Miranda.’ Her name almost bleeds from my chest as a knot of something unfamiliar tightens in the pit of my gut. I didn’t think for one minute she’d be this kind of upset—disappointed and dejected. I’d expected her to be incensed, raging mad!