by Alison James
21
Marian
‘Is this all right?’ Marian is looking at herself in the full length mirror. She has squeezed herself into a flowing muslin dress, one that’s a little too summery for the showery, early May evening, but which at least she can still fasten. Most of her formal dresses and cocktail wear were purchased years ago, and are now a couple of sizes too small. She pinches the roll of flesh just above her hip fretfully, and twists through ninety degrees to survey her back fat.
‘You look fine,’ Tom assures her, threading blue enamelled links through his shirt cuffs. Then, clearly realising he has just damned with faint praise, he adds: ‘I’ve always liked you in that dress.’
Marian manages a smile, twisting her dull and unruly hair into a sparkly clip and applying blusher and lipstick. She has had a long day in court at a child custody hearing, and the make-up only serves to make her look more tired.
She and Tom are having dinner with his university friend Gareth Coker, and Gareth’s Iranian wife, Farzeen. All Marian really wants to do is to slip into a pair of trousers with an elasticated waist and curl up on the sofa with a large glass of Chardonnay to watch Have I Got News For You. But Tom frequently complains that they never go out in the evening, and she knows that he really enjoys Gareth’s company, so she feigns an enthusiasm that she’s not really feeling.
‘Are you ready?’ she asks, shrugging a pashmina over her shoulders and trying to forget how bulky she looks. She dreads the imminent side-by-side comparison with Farzeen, who is whippet-thin and would look stylish in a bin bag.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ says Tom, straightening his cuffs and picking up his jacket. ‘We can grab a bottle of wine en route.’
Gareth and Farzeen live in Highgate, in a converted flat on a road of large, prosperous-looking red-brick villas. The interior is all pale-coloured minimalism, and as elegant as Farzeen herself. Tom and Marian walk into a cloud of scented ambergris candles and a spiced Persian lamb dish, to be embraced by Farzeen, slender and cat-like in black leggings and a striped grey and white man’s shirt. Marian feels like an over-stuffed sofa in the fussy floral dress.
‘What’s your poison, M?’ asks Gareth, as Farzeen goes back to the kitchen island to prepare a pomegranate salad. He’s as stocky as Farzeen is slight, slicks his hair back with gel and wears a heavy gold signet ring. Marian has never felt comfortable around her husband’s friend. After twenty years of friendship, the two men have a long history of shared secrets and misdemeanours, and he barely bothers to hide that he thinks Tom could have done better.
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,’ Marian says with as much grace as she can muster, adding desperately, ‘Farzeen, do let me know if I can help.’
‘All under control, darling,’ Farzeen says easily, tossing her long hair off her face while she makes a salad dressing. Sensing that Marian would rather hover near her than be a third wheel in the men’s conversation, she adds, ‘Maybe just put some knives and forks out for us.’
Half an hour later, the four of them sit on two benches at the scrubbed oak table, and Farzeen passes round bowls of fragrant couscous and lamb stew. Gareth asks Tom about the latest projects at his practice and then they discuss Gareth’s work as an analyst for a right-wing think tank. Almost as an after-thought, Gareth asks Marian, ‘Still doing the government’s dirty work down at social services?’
‘Yes.’ Marian nods, but doesn’t elaborate.
Farzeen shudders slightly, and Gareth says, ‘I don’t know how you stand it. To be honest I thought you’d have moved onto something a bit more salubrious by now.’
So did I, thinks Marian, merely giving a rueful smile.
Tom uncorks the bottle of Shiraz they brought with them, and waves it over their glasses. Instantly Farzeen places a hand over the top of hers, and Marian notices that she only has water in it. Farzeen sees her noticing, and colours prettily.
‘You might as well know…’ she says, with a coy smile. ‘We have some news.’
Marian’s heart sinks.
‘You’re not…?’ Tom’s eyes widen, and he gestures towards Gareth. ‘You’re finally going to make this old reprobate a dad?’
Farzeen nods. ‘I’m due in November.’
‘Congratulations! Seriously, that’s fantastic!’ Tom claps his friend on the back.
Marian puts her fork down, glancing at her husband. ‘We’ve got some news too, haven’t we?’
‘You’re pregnant too?’ Farzeen looks confused, taking in Marian’s empty gin and tonic glass and the wine in front of her.
‘No, not yet.’ Marian feels herself blushing. ‘But I hope to be soon. That’s the news. We’re about to start IVF treatment.’
‘Why did you tell them that?’ Tom demands irritably, as they sit in the back of a taxi two hours later.
‘I thought it seemed like a good moment. Anyway, I assumed you’d already spoken to Gareth about… our issues.’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ Tom scoffs. ‘We’re blokes. We don’t talk about stuff like that.’
‘But…’ Marian suppresses a vague sense of unease. ‘Why shouldn’t we tell people? We’ve got our tests at the clinic tomorrow. And if it works, they’ll know soon enough.’
Tom turns his head to look out of the window of the taxi.
‘Don’t you want a baby?’ Marian demands.
‘Of course – it’s not that. It’s just that some stuff… the fertility problems… it’s our personal business, that’s all.’
Once they’re home, Marian retreats to the bedroom in hurt silence. She hears Tom come in while she’s showering, and when she emerges she finds an olive branch in the form of a cup of peppermint tea on her night stand.
‘Sorry,’ Tom mumbles. ‘It’s just not an easy thing to talk about. Not when Gareth has managed to get Farzeen up the duff just like that.’
‘You don’t know it was just like that,’ Marian points out, stiffly. ‘They might have been trying for ages. The point is, unless people talk openly about this stuff, you never know.’
Tom leans his head on her shoulder. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, and she knows from his tone he’s trying to make amends for his earlier gruffness. ‘Why don’t we get ahead of the game and pick out a few baby names?’
Marian softens slightly, taking a sip of her tea. ‘You go first.’
‘Well…’ Tom smiles. ‘I’ve always really liked solid, traditional names. William, Alexander, Henry. And for girls, things like Victoria or Charlotte.’
Marian raises an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ She’s amazed that she’s only just finding out this fact about her husband. Her own tastes are far more bohemian; more along the lines of Otto and Willow. But she doesn’t say so now, because she wants to keep Tom engaged in the process. ‘Charlotte’s pretty,’ she says, cautiously. ‘And I’ve always quite liked Alexander.’
‘Percy?’ suggests Tom.
‘Oh, no,’ Marian says with a shudder. ‘Not Percy!’
They continue this game after they’ve switched off the light, saying names out loud into the darkness until eventually there’s silence, followed by the sound of Tom’s snores.
The following morning, when they drive to the fertility clinic, Tom has gone silent again. His moods have been erratic over the past few months, swinging from monosyllabic to affectionate and back again.
‘Are you okay?’ Marian asks quietly, looking at the road ahead.
‘Fine. Bit hungover, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure? Only—’
‘Look, I’m making time to come to the bloody clinic and wank into a paper cup, aren’t I? Can’t you just be glad about that? Jesus, Marian. You’d try the patience of a bloody saint!’
Once they’re in the clinic reception area, Tom helps himself to free coffee and biscuits and his mood stabilises sufficiently for him to give her a wan smile as she’s led off first for her scan and blood tests. After he’s donated his sample and they’ve filled in reams of paperwork, Marian prepares to set off on f
oot to her office, leaving Tom to go and retrieve the car.
She gives him a dry kiss on the cheek. ‘See you for supper?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘We’re being wined and dined by a big new corporate client.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Vanessa.’
Ah yes, Vanessa Rowley. That name again.
‘Fine,’ says Marian, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’
22
Paula
As soon as Paula gets back from school, she hurls her school bag into the corner of her room and reaches for the shoebox under her bed.
Tossing the lid to one side, she removes the contents and spreads them out on the duvet: a glittering swirl of coins, interspersed with a couple of crumpled notes. Painstakingly she starts to count. From saving her pocket money and most of the cash from her Saturday job in the Walthamstow branch of Clintons Cards, she has saved £63.45. She folds the notes into her leather purse, but the coins are too heavy and bulky to fit, and she has to tip them into a plastic sandwich bag and shove them to the bottom of her handbag. Then she changes out of her uniform and into denim cut-offs and a baggy T-shirt, slings her bag across the front of her chest and sets off to the bus stop.
It takes a frustrating fifty minutes for the bus to get to Brent Cross. Paula has very little time to shop and get home before her mother returns, and the ticking clock flusters her, turning her mind to an inefficient blank.
She darts into Boots, which seems an obvious place to start, and stands staring at the confusing array of products in the Baby & Child aisle. ‘Breast pads’? She has no idea what they are, or what ‘cradle cap shampoo’ could be for. She decides to concentrate on the most basic items, picking up a pack of newborn nappies and nappy sacks, some baby wipes, cotton wool and lotion. The till assistant gives her a knowing smile and glances at Paula’s midriff as she packs the items into a large carrier bag.
Emboldened by her success, and with £51 still to spend, Paula goes to Mothercare and picks out a multipack of onesies, a few babygros, a changing mat and a couple of cotton blankets. Then she hauls her purchases up to the top deck of the bus and sits there impatiently as it toils its way through rush hour traffic. It’s after six o’clock by the time she gets to Hornsey. She’ll just have to hope her mother is late.
‘Need a hand with those?’
She looks up as she stumbles off the bus, bumping her carrier bags against the other commuters, to see Johnny Shepherd standing on the pavement, cigarette in hand.
‘No, it’s… I’m fine.’ Paula blushes furiously. She can see him glance at the pack of nappies and the Mothercare logo. It’s one thing for the cashier in Boots to assume she’s pregnant, but she doesn’t want Johnny Shepherd thinking that. In fact, that’s the last thing she wants.
‘Just been doing some shopping for a friend,’ she says. It sounds untrue, and the heat in her cheeks intensifies.
‘I can help you get those home if you like,’ Johnny offers. ‘I’m meeting Karen off her bus, but I can always meet her halfway; she lives near yours.’
Paula shakes her head. ‘No, don’t worry,’ she says, quickly. ‘This stuff’s not too heavy.’
Johnny shrugs. ‘All right then, kiddo.’ He pats her shoulder. ‘You take care now, okay?’
Her eyes downcast, and her face still pink, Paula toils up Green Lanes and back to the flat. She knows before she has even turned her key in the lock that her mother is home. She can hear the radio and smell the faint whiff of frying onions. She thinks about turning tail and hiding her purchases in the building’s ground floor laundry room, but her mother has heard her footsteps and flung the front door open. Too late.
‘There you are! I was wondering where you’d got to.’
Her eyes flick down to the shopping. ‘Mothercare?’ she demands. ‘What the hell have you been doing at Mothercare?’ She rips the bag roughly from Paula’s hand and rifles through the newborn-size garments. ‘Bloody hell, Paul, please don’t tell me you’re pregnant!’
Paula shakes her head, but she knows her expression is one of pure guilt.
‘What’s all this stuff for then?’
Wendy Armitage pulls herself up to her full height, which is not much taller than her daughter. She’s of slighter build, wiry rather than stocky, and her hair, which is the same colour and texture as her daughter’s, is dyed a vivid auburn to cover the grey. ‘You’d better not be lying to me, young lady!’
‘They’re for someone at school,’ Paula mutters. ‘A girl in Year 12. She gave me some money and asked me to go shopping for her.’
‘What girl?’ demands Wendy, ‘And why’s on earth’s she asking you?’
‘Umm, Lauren Billings,’ Paula says, hastily. She’s sure she heard a rumour somewhere that Lauren was pregnant, so this probably doesn’t count as a lie.
‘Hmmm,’ says Wendy, unconvinced. ‘Well, go and put it in your room and give me a hand with supper.’ She narrows her eyes, and glances down at the waistband of her daughter’s shorts. Paula wants to protest that she can’t possibly be pregnant if she’s never had sex, and disconcertingly finds her mind flashing back to her encounter with Johnny Shepherd. She breathes in hard, to make her stomach look flatter.
The next day is Wednesday, which means Wendy is working a half-day.
Knowing her mother will be at home when she gets back from school makes Paula drag her feet, literally and metaphorically, as she trudges up Green Lanes.
Wendy is wearing a velour tracksuit and a very self-satisfied expression. ‘Kettle’s on, sweetheart.’
They usually have a sweet treat on Wednesday afternoons, and today is no exception. There’s a plate of Penguin biscuits on the table, but when Paula reaches for one, she sees that there’s a white paper packet set out deliberately in her place.
‘What’s this?’
‘Go on,’ says Wendy, pouring boiling water into the teapot. ‘You may as well open it.’
Inside the paper bag there’s a pregnancy testing kit.
‘Mum!’ Paula hurls herself down into her chair. ‘I told you! I’m not pregnant!’
‘In that case you won’t mind doing a test then, will you? Let’s just settle it, once and for all, and then we don’t need to talk about it again.’ Her mother holds out a paper cup for her to use.
‘Fine!’ shouts Paula, snatching up the rectangular box and stomping into the bathroom.
‘There are instructions in the packet,’ Wendy shouts through the door. But Paula already knows how the kit works. She was there when Debbie Ashcroft had a scare after she’d slept with Jason Shepherd and did a test in the girls’ toilets during lunch break.
She’s dying to pee, which makes collecting a sample a bit messy, but she manages to catch some in the paper cup and stick the tip of the test stick in it. Squinting at the instructions, she checks the amount of time she needs to wait. Three minutes.
Stomping back to the kitchen, she hands over the test stick and sits down to eat a chocolate biscuit, ignoring her mother. She knows exactly what the stick will say, so there’s no point giving this charade any more of her attention.
‘Well,’ says Wendy eventually, throwing the test into the bin. ‘That’s that, then.’
Paula grunts and takes a second biscuit.
‘I still think it’s a bit strange you doing that girl’s shopping for her. Who is this girl, anyway? You’ve never mentioned her before.’
‘Lauren Billings. I just felt sorry for her, okay?’
‘Seems a strange reason to me,’ sniffs Wendy.
‘You said taking the test would settle it,’ Paula snarls through a mouthful of chocolatey crumbs. ‘So just shut up about it, okay?’
She has decided she’ll take the baby stuff to Lizzie the following evening. The supermarket where Wendy works is open late on Thursdays, and she’s often not home until 9 p.m.
Lizzie opens the door to her, but she’s swaying back on her heels, and stumbles down the hall, giving off fumes of White L
ightning. Over her shoulder, Paula can see the hunched shape of Macca rolling a joint, lager can in hand, his long greasy hair grazing the collar of his denim jacket.
Paula drops the shopping bags in the hallway, and pushes past her sister, snatching the beer from Macca’s hand and tipping it down the sink.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, you moron?’
Macca stares up at her blankly with bloodshot eyes, probably unable to remember who she is.
‘Lizzie’s pregnant!’ Paula hisses. ‘She’s having your baby. She shouldn’t be drinking or smoking weed.’
Lizzie appears behind her shoulder. ‘Hey, Paul, chill out, we were just taking the edge off a bit. Nothing heavy. It’s fine.’
Paula ignores her, scruffing Macca by the back of his jacket and hauling him to his feet. He’s a good twelve inches taller than her, but his body is wasted by alcohol abuse, while Paula is sturdy and strong. She hauls him into the hallway and pushes him out of the front door of the flat, slamming it in his face and putting the chain on. Then she whirls back into the living room, scoops up the half-rolled joint and throws it into the bin. Lizzie’s scrawny cat winds its way around her ankles, mewling plaintively, so she rummages through the fridge and finds a half-eaten can of tuna, which she puts in the cat’s empty bowl.
Lizzie stands in the doorway, immobilised by her drunkenness. ‘You can’t chuck that stuff out,’ she whines. ‘That was good grass.’ She’s as thin as ever, but her pregnant belly has expanded rapidly, even in the few weeks since Paula last saw her. She looks almost ready to give birth. Paula takes her by the shoulders and guides her to the sofa, lowering her onto it. With her hands still on her sister’s thin frame, she looks her in the eye.
‘Lizzie. You’re expecting a baby. You’re putting it at risk if you smoke weed.’
