‘There’ll be other summers,’ said Adam. I looked at him. He wanted to be a dad; I could feel it almost resonating from his kind eyes and warm smile.
‘What do you want to do Coco?’ he asked, gently, taking my hand. I thought about the woman with the kids and the Chardonnay.
‘I want one final glass of mummy petrol,’ I said. Adam, to his credit, didn’t look disgusted by my lack of maternal instinct. We skirted round the toddler chaos and came out into the cold street. I was about to take a left into a Wetherspoon’s when Adam grabbed my arm.
‘If this is going to be your last drink, at least let me take you somewhere decent.’ He hailed a taxi and we drove round for a bit until he spied a posh looking pub – the rustic type that has its own website and Facebook page, and does sharing platters. It had only just opened, and we were the only customers. There was a polished wood floor and comfy chairs.
‘This is lovely,’ I said.
‘I wanted to bring you here when your book gets published in April. Now we’ve got something else to celebrate.’
I scratched my head awkwardly. We went to the bar and Adam asked for two glasses of red.
‘Red?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I read it has fewer toxins.’
We took two seats by a picture window looking out onto the busy street and sat in silence. The only sound was the click clack of the cleaner winding up the power cord on her hoover. Several bar staff were standing around, trying to work us out. Why else do people neck wine at ten-thirty in the morning, unless they’ve just had terrible news?
‘What do we do?’ I whispered.
‘Let’s just sleep on it,’ Adam whispered back.
All too soon our glasses were empty and we left. I had a warm feeling in my stomach; was it the wine, or the baby?
Sunday 8th January
I’ve been picking fights with Adam all week. I don’t want to say anything to anyone about the baby, so we’ve avoided all contact with people and stayed in. Marika is back in London, but I haven’t returned her calls. We still haven’t unpacked and are navigating the maze of boxes. Every morning I’ve spent three hours in the bathroom, throwing up my guts. Adam wants to hold my hair back. In defiance of this, I have taken to wearing it in a ponytail, something I haven’t done since I was eleven. This morning I couldn’t find my hairband, and when Adam offered to help, I told him to piss off. He said it was okay to swear at this difficult time, and reached out to hold my hair. I grabbed my nail scissors and went to hack it off so he couldn’t hold it back. Luckily I was stopped by another wave of nausea.
I despair that I’m going crazy. I have terrible cravings for cigarettes, and I succumbed this afternoon. I lit a rogue Marlboro Light in the bathroom and hung out of the window to smoke it, but Adam shouldered the door and burst in breaking the lock. He was furious, and then I started crying because he’d scared me… He was mortified.
Ugh, so much emotion. It’s most unlike us. We should be talking sensibly, but I’m not sure what we can discuss. Adam wants this baby, and I don’t.
Saturday 14th January
I’ve been stationed on the sofa all week; close enough to use the downstairs bathroom for my ongoing morning, afternoon and evening sickness. This morning Adam called a truce.
‘Cokes. I don’t want to talk about anything to do with, well, you know. Let’s go for a walk. Me, you and the… Me and you, together. Fresh air and sunshine will make things better.’
‘So we’re trying not to mention the elephant in the room?’ I snapped.
‘You’re still looking very slim,’ said Adam. Then he realised his mistake and busied himself dressing Rocco in his coat. The word ‘walkies’ gets Rocco incredibly happy and excited. I just wish it could do the same for me.
Regent’s Park was bright and sunny but very cold. The ice was starting to melt on the lake, and there were a lot of Londoners all enjoying themselves whilst trying to avoid eye contact with strangers. We walked past the coffee house, still boarded up for the winter, and through the trees to the sports fields. I had Rocco on the lead and he looked very handsome as he trotted beside us in the new tartan coat we bought him for Christmas.
‘How are you doing Cokes?’ said Adam. I realised that I felt more maternal towards my dog than my baby.
‘The air is so cold,’ I said.
‘But it’s fresh! It’ll clear your lungs out, now you’ve given up smoking.’
I found a bench at the edge of the big field and sat down. The sun was glinting off the curved windows of the Sports Hub centre and a few people were dotted about.
‘Come on Cokes, you can’t stop!’ he said. ‘You need to walk briskly, get your blood flowing… What’s wrong?’
‘Didn’t I ask you not to talk to me about smoking? Now I’ve got cravings on top of the nausea.’
‘Isn’t some maternal instinct meant to kick in, so you don’t crave them?’ Adam said jogging on the spot and stretching as Rocco ran around in circles barking.
‘So I’m not normal?’
‘I didn’t say that. I just thought biologically you’d be concerned for the baby’s welfare…’
I went to protest but noticed a pair of runners moving rapidly along the path parallel to where we were sitting. It was Marika with her new boyfriend Milan. She had on leggings and a pink sporty jacket, her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. Milan was wearing a shiny red tracksuit. He looked handsome and athletic, but also endearingly gangly. Marika saw us and they came over. Adam and Milan shook hands. Marika leant over and pecked me on the cheek with an inquisitive look.
‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘I’ve called you five times…’
‘I dropped my phone down the toilet…’
She looked at me sceptically. ‘Since when do you run?’ I added.
‘I always run,’ she said. ‘I’m even thinking of doing the London Marathon!’
We were so obviously lying to each other.
‘Cool,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve always wanted to do the marathon.’
‘You should join us,’ said Milan. ‘All the guys who work for me are running.’ Milan has very dark, handsome features and a cute little gap between his front teeth. He smiled and leant across to Marika. She thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he put two fingers on her neck and timed her pulse with his watch. She recovered quickly before he noticed.
‘You’re definitely in the fat burning zone,’ he said. ‘You want to keep going?’
I looked at him and Adam, all jumpy and ready to run.
‘Maybe Marika could keep me company for a bit. Why don’t you two have a race?’ I suggested, like a mum who wants her kids to go on the swings.
‘You up for that?’ said Milan.
‘Yeah!’ said Adam. They synchronised their watches and went zooming off followed by Rocco. Marika sat down beside me.
‘So you dropped your mobile down the toilet?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘And your landline too?’
‘Well, no. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you…’
‘What have you been doing so much of that you haven’t had the chance?’ she asked pointedly. I was dying to tell Marika everything. But for the first time ever I felt I couldn’t. I’ve known her for twenty years; she’s been a confidante for nineteen of them. Back when I was married to Daniel, things were always a bit ropey between us, so very little was sacred. With Adam, this was different. It wasn’t only my secret to tell.
‘Just, stuff,’ I said feeling super guilty. Marika regarded me for a minute then, noticing that the guys and Rocco were far across the field, pulled a lighter, a pack of slim cigarettes and a yellow washing-up glove from the pocket of her jacket. She pulled on the glove, lit two cigarettes, and put one in my mouth.
‘That’s better,’ she said exhaling. ‘I hate running.’
‘Why did you tell Milan you love it?’
‘Are you going to smoke that?’ she snapped. I put the cigarette to my lips a
nd inhaled. The foul smoke surged into me, and I pictured the baby inside also inhaling. I exhaled feeling ten shades of guilt and bit my lip to stop myself from crying. Milan and Adam were now charging round the park competitively.
‘Why the hell do they bother?’ asked Marika. ‘Look at them… tearing around like prats. They want to beat each other. They want to win.’
‘That’s blokes for you.’
‘But it’s ridiculous,’ said Marika. ‘We don’t want to race each other.’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘We can deal with our emotions on a sensible level. We can be honest about our feelings.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Is it going well with Milan?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Amazing. Although he thinks I love running, and watching ‘Top Gear’ and ‘Match of the Day’, and I told him I’ve only slept with a couple of guys… He doesn’t know I smoke.’
‘Hence the rubber glove,’ I said. ‘Do you have to pretend you like washing up too?’
‘He happens to have a dishwasher in his big house, which he owns.’
‘He’s a man of means.’
‘Yes. And more importantly he’s a lovely, funny, sexy guy. He’s given me a whole drawer, half the wardrobe, and a shelf in the bathroom cabinet. Oh Cokes, I’m going to blow it.’
‘Maybe it doesn’t matter. Just tell him.’
‘Come on Coco. Wouldn’t it be lovely if it were that simple? No, I’ve lied and I’m going to have to live with it.’
‘So you’re going to keep running and wearing one oversized rubber glove?’
Marika flicked the ash off her cigarette gloomily.
‘Why do they offer so many degrees in women’s studies at university?’ she said. ‘Women I get. I know the rules. It’s men’s studies they should offer.’
‘I’d pay those tuition fees,’ I said.
‘Coco are you sure you’re okay?’ I went to say something but the guys suddenly turned and came thundering towards us. Marika dropped her cigarette, whipped off her glove and wrestled an extra strong mint out of a tube in her pocket.
‘Do I smell of fags?’ she said sucking madly on the mint. I shook my head.
Milan and Adam slowed and came to a stop in front of us, out of breath and covered in sweat. Rocco ran up too and barked happily
‘Adam narrowly beat me,’ grinned Milan. ‘How’s your disystolic heart rate mate?’
‘I dunno,’ said Adam.
‘I can tell you. I’ve got a blood pressure monitor here,’ said Milan pulling a little box out of his jacket. He and Adam spent the next ten minutes bonding over their blood pressure, then the blood pressure monitor. Milan invited us for dinner at his place next week and Adam instantly said yes.
‘Cool, we’ll look forward to it,’ said Milan. ‘Shall we go Marika, we’ve still got seven miles to go.’
‘Call me, Cokes,’ said Marika, still not convinced I was okay. I promised I would and they ran off towards the Sports Hub.
‘Milan is a vast improvement on the last few,’ I said when we were walking back with Rocco.
‘He is really cool,’ said Adam. ‘He runs his own boat-building business and everything…’
I was quiet.
‘Did you tell Marika?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I’ll know if you did.’
‘So what if I did? But I didn’t, I’m living with this misery alone, as you wanted.’
Adam looked at me and all the happiness drained from his face. We walked the rest of the way home in silence.
Monday 16th January
The rest of the weekend was spent rowing with Adam. Terrible arguments about keeping the baby and not keeping the baby.
‘You’re just selfish. A selfish woman!’ he shouted.
‘Are you pregnant Adam? No. You have no idea.’
‘Bullshit. Just because you’ve done the middle-class thing, signed a few pro-choice petitions on the street, and been given a little sticker doesn’t mean you’re an expert,’ he shouted back.
‘Pro-choice works both ways!’
‘Yes. It means including the father too! You opened your legs and let me in, now you have to share the consequences. But sharing isn’t your thing. You’re selfish.’
‘Why would I want a child with you? You’re a loser just like my other husband.’
‘I’d rather be a loser than a murdering bitch…’
We stared at each other. I was shocked at what Adam had just said, and I think he was too. He turned, left the room, then the front door slammed.
A couple of hours later, I was sobbing and throwing up in the bathroom when I heard the front door close. I curled up by the bath, dreading that Adam was back. I got a shock when Ethel poked her head round the bathroom door.
‘Gawd, you alright love?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I’ve just got a cold,’ I said.
‘You don’t sound bunged up…’ She tottered over to the sink and filled a glass.
‘’Ere,’ she said handing it to me. I took a tiny sip. Ethel regarded me quizzically. I took another sip.
‘Ugh. Even water tastes disgusting,’ I said screwing up my face.
‘What do you think of me new perfume?’ she said holding up her wrist. ‘Iss Ma Griffe.’
The smell was overwhelmingly awful. I gave a dry heave and shrank away.
‘’Ow far gone are ya?’ she asked.
‘What? No. Don’t be silly. No… I’m nowhere.’
‘’Ow far?’ Ethel perched gingerly on the bidet. I snorted a bit and blew my nose and eventually admitted I was about eleven weeks.
‘Does Adam know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it, ’is?’
‘Of course it’s his!’
‘An’ you don’t want to keep it?’
I looked at her. ‘You don’t know me,’ I finally said.
‘I don’t know yer. Ha! Pull the other one. I’ve known yer since you was eighteen Coco. I remember the malarkey when you fell with Rosencrantz.’
‘It’s different now, things are more complicated,’ I said.
‘No, I think it was more complicated the first time round love.’
I bit my lip as fresh tears began to flow. ‘I’m scared.’ I finally said.
‘Course you are love, but a thing ain’t worth doing unless it makes you crap yerself a little bit.’
‘Is this your pep talk?’ I snapped.
‘I’ll tell you something Coco, an’ I tell it with love. Yer spoilt. You’ve got a lovely ’usband, a super career, a big ’ouse what you own. Don’t you think a baby would be the icing on the cake?’
‘But... I want to go on nice holidays…’ As soon as I said it I realised how selfish it was.
‘’Olidays eh? Well I’ll come back in ten years’ time, when you and Adam ’ave bin on every ’oliday going, full of randy old middle-aged people drinking Cinzano and ’avin orgies… orgies in prescription glasses, mind. Iss a risk to have things coming at you and not knowing what they are until the last minute…’
I was intrigued but she didn’t elaborate.
‘Coco, just think about it fer a minute… Now my Danny. I love ’im, but ’e was a fool to ’ave it off with that slag in your bed… Then ’e divorced you in yer twilight years, when yer looks were goin’… Left you on the scrap ’eap… Then Adam came along. Young, gorgeous, divorced. ’E could ’ave ’ad ’is pick of any woman, but ’e chose you.’
‘Where are you going with this? You’re telling me to have this baby?’
‘I’m not telling yer nothin’ love… But I think the good Lord likes you Coco. ’E’s blessed you. Just imagine what life would ’ave been like if you ’adn’t ’ad Rosencrantz.’
She patted me on the head and tottered off downstairs.
‘’Ere, I ’ope you don’t mind,’ she shouted up. ‘I’ve nicked a packet of Jammy Dodgers for me book club. We’re reading The ’unger Games, an’ they’ll be nice with a cuppa if it makes
us peckish.’
A moment later the front door closed and there was silence.
Sunday 22nd January
Forgetting your pregnancy symptoms must be genetically programmed into us so we have more than one child. When I think back to Rosencrantz all I can remember is craving fish fingers, and wearing a big floaty dress.
I’m sweating constantly. My stomach and abdomen are woefully tender and seem to be filled to capacity with no chance of an evacuation to ease the pain. Nausea is my constant companion. Being sick is bearable; it’s the thought that I’m going to be sick at any moment, which incapacitates. The only thing I can keep down for any length of time are ginger biscuits. Although they have to be loose on a plate. If I see the packet with ‘ginger nuts’ written on it, I think of things anatomical and it makes me heave even more. Every hair follicle hurts, so when I push my hair back from my face, or rest the back of my head against the cool wall of the bathroom, it’s as if tiny hands are yanking at the roots.
We haven’t mentioned the row we had. Neither of us has apologised, but neither of us is being more than civil.
And Mother Nature is such a cow. My breasts look incredible. Even in the state I’m in, I can acknowledge how fabulous they look. I almost have the full breasts of a twenty year old. The kind that can literally open doors for me and make men my captive slaves; but they are on fire. The shift of fabric brushing against them is agony. Soon they’ll balloon to terrifying proportions with veins like an aerial map of the M25. Then a hungry little mouth will clamp down on them until they’re sore and cracked, and when it has drained me dry, they’ll shrink and shrivel and I’ll be able to toss them over my shoulder like an old African woman.
I had forgotten we agreed to go to dinner with Marika at Milan’s house. Adam kept saying we could cancel, but to spite him, I said we were going. He offered to call a cab, but I opted for the tube. I could cope with throwing up on the tube more than I could in a taxi. In the event I didn’t throw up, but I managed some rather theatrical dry heaving which caused panic amongst the tube-goers. The tube was a smorgasbord of vile aromas, all the food consumed and perfume ever sprayed assaulted my senses, along with the stench of pee in the clanking lifts on the way up from the depths of the platform at Kennington.
Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex Page 3
