‘I haven’t got any mince pies,’ I said putting my hand over hers as she went to open another cupboard.
‘Ate ’em all ’ave ya?’
‘Yes.’ I said pulling my t-shirt down further.
‘Well ’ave you got any nice coffee?’
I rummaged around and found her a packet. Ethel squinted at the label.
‘Bump n’ grind blend?’
‘Chris sent me a Christmas hamper from West Hollywood,’ I said.
‘Ooh no love. I can’t give my lady book clubbers gay coffee…’
‘It’s not gay coffee.’
‘Well it don’t sound straight! ’Ere, that Italian chap what rented yer house last year ’ad lovely cappuccino’
‘How do you know he had lovely cappuccino?’
Ethel paused.
‘Well ’e was Italian, they don’t drink Mellow Birds over there, do they?’
‘Ethel? Did you break in when he lived here?’
‘Iss not breaking in when you’ve got a key,’ she said.
‘Come on you. Out!’ I said prodding her towards the kitchen door.
‘I think ’e was a bit of a playboy. There was always a different bra on the carpet, and often not the bedroom carpet!’ she said.
‘Out!’
‘You’re looking very peaky,’ she said as I shooed her to the front door.
‘I’ve been sick the last couple of mornings,’ I said. ‘I thought it was my time of the month, but… anyway.’
‘I’d get yerself down the doctor’s love,’ she said as I opened the door. ‘Sounds like you’re on the verge of the change.’
‘I am not having the change!’ I said with horror.
‘When did you last ’ave one of yer monthlies?’ she asked stepping out onto the front step.
‘None of your business.’
Then I realised that my last period had been back in… well, November?
‘Menopause love,’ she nodded sagely. ‘’Appens to us all in the end.’
‘Can I have the key please Ethel?’ She reluctantly placed it in my outstretched palm and stomped off to the front gate. ‘And I’m not menopausal,’ I called after her.
‘Well congratulations love,’ she said rolling her eyes. ‘You must be pregnant!’ she slammed the gate and stalked off down the street.
I came back inside and tried to unpack some boxes, but I kept hearing Ethel’s voice:
Well congratulations love, you must be pregnant.
Seized with fear, I grabbed my coat, walked round to the Boots at Marylebone Station, and bought a pregnancy testing kit. I felt a fool, really. What business have I got buying a pregnancy testing kit? I’m forty-four years old with a son in his twenties.
It must be the menopause, I thought as I queued up at the till, but that little chink of pride in me was hoping I was still fertile, fertile enough at least to have a near-miss.
I studied the girl behind the till as she put the Blue Pulse Pregnancy Test through and swiped my credit card. What was she thinking? Is she buying it for herself or her teenage daughter? I realised that either way I was a middle-aged mother, or a grandmother.
‘I work with troubled teens,’ I said trying to throw her off the scent, but she merely looked bored and bagged up the pregnancy test.
When I got home I hurriedly tore the box open and, balancing awkwardly, peed on the stick. Technology has moved on so much that I nearly fell off the toilet when it wasn’t a blue line that swam into view, but the words: PREGNANT 9 WEEKS
A chill swept through me. Shaking my head, I tore the rest of the cardboard off the second test in the packet and went to pee on it, but I had nothing left to pee. I looked for the toothpaste glass but it still wasn’t unpacked. Cursing, I pulled up my jeans, ran downstairs and filled up a pint glass downing it quickly, water dribbling down the corners of my mouth and onto my t-shirt.
The front door slammed and Rocco came bounding in, followed by Adam.
‘Hey sexy,’ he said. He pulled the newspapers out of a carrier bag and put them on the kitchen island. Rocco had a drink from his bowl then ran out of the kitchen.
‘Has it been a fertile morning?’ said Adam.
‘What?’
‘You said you might unpack a bit?’ he added, looking round at the cardboard boxes.
‘Oh, yes, yes…’ I nodded. I straightened my hair and tried to look normal.
‘Hey hey!’ he grinned holding up the page three girl in the Sun. She was pouting, her pert nipples straining from a see-through wet t-shirt. I looked down and saw my own t-shirt had gone transparent.
‘That’s disgusting!’ I snapped crossing my arms over my breasts.
‘You are so much hotter than she is,’ grinned Adam. ‘How do you fancy being bent over the kitchen island?’
‘Maybe later…’
Adam opened the fridge and put a new carton of milk in the door. He felt the inside.
‘You know, you being sick could be this fridge. It feels a bit warm… maybe it’s not keeping the food fresh. I don’t eat hummus. You do. Maybe you’ve been eating off hummus?’
‘Maybe…’ I said. On that cue, Rocco appeared in the doorway wagging his tail with the pregnancy test between his teeth. He gave a cheeky little wuff of excitement, thinking a game of chase was about to be played, then darted off. I dashed after him into the living room, and he jumped up and stood on the back of the sofa.
‘Rocco, come here, NOW!’ I hissed.
‘Or do you want to be bent over the sofa?’ asked Adam coming into the living room unbuttoning his shirt. ‘What’s Rocco got in his mouth?’ he added. Rocco spat out the pregnancy test on the sofa cushion.
‘Ooh there’s my iPod,’ I said grabbing it.
‘Isn’t your iPod green?’
I put the test behind my back. I bit my lip.
‘Coco, what is it?’ he asked. I took a deep breath and showed him. I saw the penny slowly drop. He looked between the pregnancy test and me. Rocco barked again.
‘No…No…’ he shook his head. ‘We’ve been using… Condoms.’
He sat on the sofa. I sat beside him.
‘There was that one time we didn’t, remember? Before The X Factor Live show,’ I said. Adam picked up the test and stared at it.
‘Bloody hell. We’re going to be parents!’ he grinned. It shocked me, the ease with which he said it.
‘Hang on, hang on, hang on… We are?’ I said.
‘Aren’t we?’ said Adam, his face clouding over. ‘When did you find out?’
‘When you were out.’
‘Do I have a say in the decision?’
‘I haven’t made a decision. All I’ve had time to do is pee on a piece of plastic and freak out!’
‘You don’t want it?’
‘I don’t know… I’m forty-four, I’ve had a son, you’ve got a daughter already.’
‘Coco. Having a child is such an amazing experience!’
‘Oh, you’re an expert are you?’ I asked. ‘You’ve done your bit, ten minutes in front of the X Factor and that’s you finished.’
‘Hang on!’
‘No. Adam. Are you mad? Me, have a baby?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? I’ll get fat, and have piles and stretch marks on top of the ones I’ve already got. And when I’ve been through the agony of childbirth, it’s not over – there’s years of clearing up poo and being responsible for a life. Then we’ll finally wave it off to college – if it hasn’t become a drug addict or a porn star – and I’ll be…’
‘You’d be sixty-two,’ he said helpfully.
‘SIXTY-TWO! Being a man you’re going to get more and more sexy, and they’ll think I’m your mother when we walk down the street… I’ve got a career I’m just starting to make work, and I want to go on some nice holidays.’
I gave a heaving sob and burst into tears. Adam pulled me into him for a hug.
‘Okay, it’s okay,’ he said stroking my hair. Rocco barked and put his paws on my
leg.
‘Let’s do another test,’ said Adam. ‘They aren’t 100% accurate…’
‘Ok,’ I said hopefully.
We dashed upstairs, and I peed on the second test. PREGNANT 9 WEEKS showed up again.
‘How accurate are these things?’ I asked.
‘Pregnancy tests are ninety-seven to ninety-nine percent accurate,’ said Adam reading the leaflet. Clinging onto that two percent chance, I sent Adam back round to the station to buy more.
Several pints of water later, we were both in the bathroom perched on the edge of the bath and staring at a row of eight pregnancy tests lined up on the radiator under the window.
They all read: PREGNANT 9 WEEKS.
‘You should make an appointment with the doctor,’ said Adam, who was now quiet as things were sinking in.
‘Do you think there’s a problem?’
‘Course not, but you’ll need to have a check up and a scan, won’t you? Was ultrasound invented when you had Rosencrantz?’
I turned to him.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Of course it was invented, it was 1989!’
I’m going to see the doctor tomorrow. Surely it’s not natural that I have to wear reading glasses to find the surgery number and book a pregnancy consultation?
Wednesday 4th January
I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor. And I certainly haven’t been to a pregnancy clinic since Madonna was young, fertile and singing Papa Don’t Preach. Although, this time round I have no father to judge me, just the whole world. These days no one bats an eyelid at an unplanned pregnancy (which is a good thing), but being an older woman having a baby seems, I don’t know, needy? Greedy? I had a whole speech prepared if anyone asked me why I was at the surgery.
‘Bunions.’ I was going to chuckle. ‘Years of wearing designer shoes and partying!’ and I’d stroke Adam’s arm which would indicate that I only want the bunion sorted so I could carry on partying. Although quite why I’d attend a pregnancy clinic with a bunion, I don’t know.
At quarter to eight in the morning, the surgery waiting room was like a zoo. I don’t remember toddlers being so wild. At least I don’t remember them having so much stimulation. Mothers never used to bring along the whole playroom, plus a miniature DVD player. Several were serving chopped fruit from Tupperware to their disinterested darlings, and the kids – they were so damn fashionable!
‘His trainers are really cool,’ said Adam pointing at a five year old who was being fed papaya whilst selecting an episode of ‘Postman Pat’ on his iPad.
‘Don’t do the high street. Those trainers are cheaper online. Although they might not be your size,’ smiled a frazzled looking mother two seats away. She was clad in a huge coat, leggings and trainers. Parked beside her were two buggies, and a wreckage of soft toys were playing tunes and beeping. Two toddlers sat at her feet watching ‘Finding Nemo’ on a phone or a tablet – something with a big screen. Dotted around them were six or seven bags of shopping. The woman looked exhausted, but I could just see the person she used to be, the busy witty professional peeping out from behind her tired eyes.
‘I’m here for bunions,’ I said. ‘They really hurt.’
‘Do you want some mummy petrol?’ asked the little boy turning from ‘Finding Nemo’. ‘It numbs the pain…’
‘Just watch out for Nemo, like a good boy,’ snapped the woman and turned to face us with a pained smile. The little boy ignored her, leaned forward, and pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of one of the shopping bags.
‘Mummy says her mummy petrol takes away the pain,’ said the little boy. He strained to lift the bottle towards me with both hands.
‘Be quiet and watch the bloody film!’ she roared, snatching the bottle out of his little hands. The little boy started to cry; it was a low whining sound, like a plane coming in to crash land.
‘No, please. Mummy didn’t mean it…’ pleaded the woman.
Thankfully my name was called out.
We went into the consulting room and the doctor, an elderly chap, barely looked up when I told him I was pregnant. He didn’t check. In fact Adam could have said he was pregnant and this guy wouldn’t have noticed. He clicked a few things on his computer and said,
‘I’ve put you on the list to see the midwife, please go back outside and wait.’
We trudged back out into the waiting room. The mummy petrol lady was called in next. She scuttled off, as quickly as a woman with two children and a playroom of toys can.
A little while later I was called in to see the midwife.
‘You stay here,’ I said to Adam. ‘We haven’t been married long and I don’t want the illusion shattered by me being put in stirrups.’
‘They don’t do that on your first appointment, do they?’
‘I’ll probably have to wee in something though…’
‘Okay hun,’ he said kissing me. ‘I’ll be here, and it’s going to be fine.’
A perky young midwife, who can’t be much older than Rosencrantz, saw me.
What is it with this new generation of professionals? They use this singsong way of speaking. Very bright, yet condescending, and they emphasise certain words for no reason. I feel like I’m on a radio phone-in when I talk to them. Midwife Day insisted I call her Justine, and then made a big deal of it not being a big deal I was old, assuring me she would use the phrase ‘older mummy’ rather than ‘geriatric mother.’
I was still reeling from the phrase ‘geriatric mother’ when she held up a cup saying,
‘Could you do a little wee-wee in this for me?’
I went behind a curtain and managed to fill the cup almost to the brim.
‘Well done!’ said midwife Day when I handed it back. She undid the lid and tested it with a little stick.
‘The good news is you are pregnant,’ she said dropping the testing stick into the bin and washing her hands.
‘Right could you answer a few questions for me?’ she asked, drying her hands and sitting down at her desk. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a little green book.
‘You need to carry this around with you always,’ she said. ‘It’ll be the record of all things about your pregnancy, and I’ll write in it right up until you go into hospital and have your little baby.’
‘Hang on, I don’t know if…’ my voice trailed off.
‘You don’t know if?’ Justine had a large manic grin, a bit like one of those Plasticine characters from the Wallace and Gromit films.
‘I don’t know if I’m going to have the baby,’ I said in a small voice. Because midwife Day was young and new she didn’t hide her look of disappointment.
‘Oh. Right,’ she said, her pen in mid-air. ‘Well, I always say that…’
‘What do you mean, you always say? What are you, twenty-two?’
‘I’m almost twenty-three,’ she said.
‘My son is twenty-two! I can’t have another baby. I don’t want to have another baby!’
Midwife Day looked shocked and moist-eyed at being shouted at.
‘I’ll remind you we have a no tolerance violence policy,’ she said in a reedy voice, pointing to a poster on the wall behind with her pen. Her pen had a tiny purple-haired troll on the end.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said. ‘You’ll know what it’s like in a few years. You have kids, you care for them and then you get your life back and you start to have a career. Well you’ve got your career; you’re a midwife. I’m a writer, which is a little less straightforward to navigate… Have you got a boyfriend?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Always use contraception. Don’t get carried away and think, Oh just this once won’t hurt. Even if The X Factor is about to start and it’s the first of the live shows. Even if he’s just so damned attractive that you have to have him there and then… amongst the packing boxes…’ Midwife Day regarded me nervously and bit her lip.
‘Maybe one of my colleagues is better equipped to deal with this,’ she said picking
up her phone. I wondered if she had a big red button she could press if she was stuck with a particular lunatic.
‘Hang on. I’m sorry. It’s just a big shock to be pregnant.’
She gave me a sympathetic nod, replaced her phone and flipped open the green booklet.
‘Do you smoke?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you stopped?’
I realised that I hadn’t. Then I recalled just how much I had drunk and smoked over Christmas.
‘As long as you stop now, it should be fine,’ she said.
‘Could you be a bit more scientific?’
She said she couldn’t. She asked more questions about my health, and Adam’s health and then booked me for a scan.
‘Can I have a scan earlier?’ I said. ‘I’m worried I’ve made my baby deformed.’
‘In two weeks’ time you can have your first scan and we can see if everything is okay.’
‘You just said everything would be okay.’
‘We can’t be sure until the scan.’
‘I don’t want this!’ I announced. ‘I don’t want this thing inside me!’
‘Mrs Pinchard. Do you wish to pursue a termination?’
‘I don’t know… I just want things to be normal, like they were before,’ I said in a small voice.
When I came out to the waiting room it was even more crowded with rioting toddlers. Adam was sat pressed against the wall shielding himself with an old copy of Men’s Health.
‘So? How was it?’ said Adam.
‘She’s got a pen with a troll on the end.’ I said sitting down heavily in the seat beside him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing… Well, she says I am pregnant.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve got a scan.’
‘And?’
‘And what? I’m pregnant Adam. We were on the brink of a new chapter. Me and you, childless and loving life. I wanted to go and hire a house in Italy and do nothing but drink wine, smoke cigarettes, eat unpasteurized cheese, and write my next book, but we can’t.’
Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex Page 2
