by Alam, Donna
‘And the other stuff . . . nothing from him?’ Rory. I already know the answer to this, seeing as I’m one of the people—friends—who are deceiving Fin. Hiding his visits and his demands to speak with her. Refusing to pass on his pleas that she got it all wrong.
‘Nothing, unsurprisingly.’ She looks up from straightening the hem of her scarf. ‘You haven’t—you haven’t seen him in the village?’
I almost respond. Almost. But decide to shake my head minutely instead. Does a small shake equal less guilt or more?
‘I expect it’s for the best. My will is so weak around him, nothing good could come of it.’
‘You’d see him again?’
‘Does that shock you?’ Fin stops walking, turning to face me, eyes resolute. ‘When some other woman’s expecting his child?’
‘No. Not at all. You’re human, and you love the prick.’
‘I do,’ she answers sadly. ‘Even when I’m trying not to.’
‘Love’s a donkey kont.’ Eyes now on the walkway beneath our feet, she nods. ‘Do you hear that,’ I say louder now. ‘Love’s a donkey kont!’ I don’t realise I’m actually shouting until a man nearby covers his child’s ears. I pull a face and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ as Fin’s shoulders begin to heave.
‘Come on,’ I say, sighing. ‘Let’s go find that gin joint.’
‘You wanna get shit-faced drunk?’ She eyes me sceptically—first, swearing and now inebriated—and I’m not surprised.
‘How about comfortably numb?’
I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not. I’d know if I was, wouldn’t I?
Fin isn’t running the following morning. Seven cocktails and little to eat means she and Sunday morning aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Which gives me the opportunity to duck out to the pharmacy on the corner. Thank God for Sunday opening hours.
I buy one of everything, just in case. And two of the thing I actually came in for—a sort of belt and braces effect. Another just in case.
I’m not pregnant. I can’t be. For starters, he hates me.
Pregnancy tests—two.
A jumbo box of tampons. Is that practical or wishful thinking?
Condoms—a pack of twelve. Laughable, almost.
A packet of travel tissues.
Mint flavoured chewing gum. Because this awful taste makes me want to detach my tongue.
I stare at the basket—talk about mixed signals—and stick the cost of the whole thing on my credit card.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Fin’s curled up on the sofa still in her flannel pyjamas and fluffy socks. Pretty sure she hasn’t realised I’ve been out this morning. I must give her hair a trim before I head back to Scotland tonight. The cut is beginning to grow out.
‘The loo,’ I answer, sliding into the armchair opposite, clasping the white plastic bag to my lap.
‘I meant earlier. You were out when I woke up.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Tender. Yours?’
Considering I didn’t drink—not because I thought I might be pregnant because I didn’t—don’t; can’t be—my head isn’t all that great. I’m just under the weather, that’s all. A particular kind of under the weather. One where a person can’t stand the whiff of gin, apparently.
‘Well,’ she questions again, ‘how’s your head?’
‘Well and truly fucked.’
Pulling open the bag, I begin fishing things out, ignoring her gobsmacked expression.
‘You can have these.’ I throw the maxi box of tampons on the low table between us. ‘And you can give these to Bea for her dirty Spanish weekend.’ Thump goes the box as it hits the glass. ‘These I’ll be needing for my mouth.’ I pull out the chewing gum then the tissues. ‘And the other I expect I’ll be needing a steady supply of for the next seven months or so.’
‘Are you having some kind of mental breakdown?’
‘Might’ve been easier. Might’ve been preferable.’ I throw the bag in her direction, not wanting to touch what’s inside; figuratively or literally.
Opening it, Fin pulls out one box then two, staring at them as though the branded packaging is written in Chinese.
‘Have you—’
‘Yeah, you might not want to open those. I peed on them, so they’re definitely mine. That’s how it goes, isn’t it?’ I scrunch my nose, not quite able to comprehend what the hell I’m saying, never mind what I’m going to do. ‘I’m right royally pissed. I’m up the pisser without a paddle? Just . . . you know what?’ I say, throwing up my hands. ‘I’m fucking fucked!’
Chapter 21
Ivy
‘Fucked, are you? I think you mean you have been.’
‘She called you.’ It’s a statement—and not a particularly cheery one—as I drop my weekend bag at the bottom of the set of stairs leading up to my flat.
‘What did you expect?’ Nat replies from her position at the top. She begins to descend.
‘I expected her to keep a confidence until I get my head around it myself.’
I’m not pregnant and I can’t be . . . turns out I can be and am.
‘Din’nae fash,’ Nat chides. But how can I not worry? I’ve done little else on the train these past few hours. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I haven’t even told June yet.’
I turn from locking the front door and shoot her a glare. ‘You’d better bloody not.’
‘Come on.’ She rolls her eyes theatrically. ‘June’s like a white witch or something. She always knows when stuff is up.’
‘No, she always seems to know when something’s been up you,’ I return, regretting the nastiness in my tone immediately. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep your trap shut.’
‘And it’ll be thanks I’ll be getting. I won’t need to tell her ‘cause it won’t be long before she guesses herself. You know, Fin only rang ahead because she’s worried about you. She doesn’t want you feeling as though you’re alone. Given what she’s just gone through herself, you know she’s right. Whatever you decide, we—your friends— are here for you in whatever shape or form you need. Even if y’don’t think y’need us at all.’
This is a variation of exactly what Fin had said right after I’d told her this . . . situation I’m in was the result of a one-night stand while in LA. I’d felt wretched as she’d said that nothing good could come from trying to deal with this alone; that secrets weren’t healthy. That they damage.
Like I don’t already know that.
Like I’m not the queen of keeping secrets myself.
Not that I’ll be able to keep this bad boy—girl?—a secret indefinitely.
‘I’m keeping it.’ I don’t know what makes me say this. I’ve thought of anything but my current predicament on the train journey back home. But this, this is instinctual, and as the words dissipate in the air between us, I realise they’re true.
‘Okay.’ Nat’s reply is without a flicker of surprise or mistrust. ‘We all just want what’s best for you, and unless you’ve braved the buffet cart on the way up, best thing for you now is to get something solid inside you. And I don’t mean the D because, clearly, you’ve already had that. And kept the news to yourself.’ She pouts comically; one eyebrow curled like a question mark.
‘I’m not hungry.’ I’m not anything but metallic-y mouthed and empty. ‘And no comment.’
‘Piss off!’ She barks out a laugh. ‘You did the dirty over in the States and didn’t share? You know that’s not how this works.’
I purse my lips and blow out a burst of air.
‘Too early?’
I nod. ‘Just a bit.’
‘Give you a day or two to get over it? Aye,’ she adds when I don’t answer. ‘That’s what I’ll do but food first. Fin says you’ve barely eaten all weekend.’
‘I can’t eat when I’m not hungry,’ I reply, tightening my grip on my bag as Nat grabs the handle. I frown, giving it a slight pull. ‘And I’m not an invalid.’
‘You will be if you din’nae let go.’
‘Oh, for fuck—’ I stop. When
did I start to swear as a matter of course? Yesterday? Last week? When I came back from L.A. for the second time, alone?
Nat tsks. ‘It’s become as easy as God bless you,’ she admonishes, teasingly referring to my language as she gives the handle a final yank. Placing it on the step behind her and out of my reach, she produces a small brown envelope from the pocket of her sprayed-on jeans. It’s the kind of envelope my mum used to put my school dinner money in.
‘That’ll be a pound,’ she says, holding out her palm. ‘It’s retaliation, and I was gonna call it Ivy’s Fuck-Up Fund, but that was before I found out you’d actually . . . ’
‘Been fucked? Fucked up?’
‘Ha! And another two!’ she adds, delightedly. ‘I was tryin’ to think of something a little less sweary, like up the duff.’ I don’t answer, though I think I huff. ‘Seeing as how I’m all lovely and stuff, I’ll let you off for now. I reckon I’ll have enough to get my lips done before the end of summer, either way. I might even have enough to buy a car once you’re in the delivery room.’ With that, she turns, picks up my bag, and climbs the stairs.
‘Trout pout,’ I respond, not allowing the words delivery and room any space in my head. ‘Big lips to match your big mouth.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she says as she reaches the top. ‘Kettle’s on.’
Pulling out my phone, I text Fin as I begin to trudge up the stairs in her wake.
Remind me never to tell you anything ever again, I type. EVER!!!
Not sorry, comes Fin’s immediate response.
The day passes, and thankfully, Nat doesn’t once mention the revelations of Sunday evening. No hints, no baby jokes—in fact, she makes no comment or reference at all. And she doesn’t so much as blink when I announce in the salon that I’ve an appointment to keep Wednesday afternoon. I’m certain she thinks I’m going to the doctor’s by the way she reassures me she’ll hold down the fort. But she’d be mistaken because I’m going to see my lawyer. Besides, I had my pregnancy confirmed by the doctor in a late afternoon appointment earlier in the week. I’ve been given an ETA, or due date, I think it’s called, and a list as long as my arm of things I should and should not be doing—bye-bye wine and brie—along with the promise of a referral to the midwifery team.
The offices of McKenzie, McCadwell, & Bell aren’t the only legal representation in the village, but they are the oldest. Their offices are situated in a red brick Victorian terrace on a quiet street behind the salon, the final fact being one of my reasons for choosing them. Being out of the way means fewer lang-nebbits are about, as June might say, and therefore, no one prying into my business. Christ knows you can’t sneeze in this village without someone reporting you’re coming down with a cold.
And I’ve still got plenty of sneezes to hide.
My second reason for choosing these offices is a little more sensible. Mr. McKenzie has handled many legal transactions for my family, so I turned to him when I needed advice. For both the setting up business and the divorce kind.
Despite the trio of names emblazoned on the old-fashioned brass plate on the front of the building, there isn’t a McCadwell or a Bell. At least, not inside these offices, though you’d probably find them in the local cemetery. Because when I say McKenzie isn’t the only legal representative in the village, but the oldest, I wasn’t just referring to their offices. I was referring to the man himself.
‘I’ve got a four o’clock appointment with Mr. McKenzie?’ My nerves turn the statement into a question as Margie, his grey-haired administrator-cum-receptionist-cum-elderly-auntie-type, gestures for me to take a seat.
‘He’ll be along shortly, hen.’ Hen is a Scots endearment, sort of. A one-word-fits-all.
I sit in one of the high-backed chairs and pick up a travel magazine from the smoky glass table in front of me and begin flicking absently through pages extolling the many virtues of a holiday in the Highlands. This appointment is a follow-up to the one I’d made eight weeks or so ago, just after I’d returned from LA. At that point, I was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d gone to Dylan determined to secure a divorce, convinced that’s what I wanted, yet returned a few days later having had my chest opened up, my heart yanked out, stepped on, and subsequently rammed back into the empty cavity. I’d ended up crying in Mr. Mac’s office as he’d sympathetically patted my shoulder before sending me, tearful and breathless, on my way. He told me to make another appointment when I was feeling up to it. I probably looked like I’d never be okay, but here I sit again.
Am I feeling up to it? To ending my marriage. Probably not, though my current predicament—no, my pregnancy—has provided me with clarity on two points:
Our divorce is inevitable.
It’s time for me to be a grown-up.
‘Ms. Adams?’
I jump from my seat as my name is called, but when I look up, Mr. McKenzie isn’t standing at the door as I’d imagined he would. No, it’s someone much younger. Much taller. Broad shoulders and a tailored grey suit. Good looking, too.
‘Come on through,’ the sandy-haired suit says, turning without waiting for me to follow. ‘Ms. Adams,’ he repeats, once inside . . . while I stand in the reception like a dumb not-blonde, my brain somehow stuck on pause.
‘You’re not Mr. McKenzie,’ I state needlessly, belatedly following him into his office as Margie nods from behind her reception perch encouragingly. He can’t be unless the auld bugger has discovered a fountain of youth somewhere. And grown a wee bit taller. And a full head of hair. Still, he does look a little like the old man.
‘No, you’re right, of course,’ he answers, gesturing to the chair on the door side of the room as he lowers himself to another on the opposite side of the dark monstrosity of a desk. ‘I’m not the McKenzie, though I am a McKenzie. Alex McKenzie. I also happen to be a solicitor and the person taking over my uncle’s practice.’ I can tell from the tone this isn’t the first time he’s had to repeat this statement, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested in its effect as he begins to shuffle papers from a file.
‘Oh.’ Oh.
‘I’ve had a chance to look at—’
‘Mr. McKenzie—no offence, but I’d rather come back another day and speak with your uncle. There’s no sense in me spending time repeating all I need to say. Not when we’re both busy people.’ Get me; all professional. ‘I’ve a business to run.’
I begin to stand, keen to just get away. I’d already handed over the papers to the senior McKenzie without telling him exactly who my husband was. This guy? I don’t know. He could be a movie buff. Might he have heard of Dylan? I know there’s not much chance of him divulging our marriage to anyone—client confidentiality and all that—but fuck it, I don’t want to be judged.
‘Ms. Adams, I’m sorry to say that my uncle won’t be returning. He’s retired,’ he adds rather gruffly. ‘Quite suddenly.’
I lower myself into my chair again, surprise tears teetering against my lids. Why the hell am I crying now? I mean, it’s sad and all, but it’s not like I really know the old man—not beyond our business dealings. I don’t realise I’m really crying until I find a box of tissues being edged from the corner of the desk.
Maybe I need more than time.
‘It seems very sudden.’
‘Yes, it is a . . . sudden decision. A sudden retirement.’ His eyes dart away, his posture agitated. Stressed.
‘Is he okay? Your uncle, I mean.’
Young Mr. McKenzie seems taken aback, his expression freezing before softening suddenly. ‘I’d like to think he will be. It’s not as though he isn’t already a few years past retirement age.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ I try a smile on for size, finding I’m not quite ready.
‘However, this—’ He taps the blue folder with his index finger.
What happens if Dylan fights me for custody? Out of spite?
‘Yes, that.’ I swallow as I cut him off, my tongue suddenly twice as thick. ‘I’m ready to go ahead—go ahead
with the divorce, I mean.’ I’d opted for a simplified divorce as they call it in Scotland; a sort of DIY deal, though Mr. Mac was helping me out with the details. ‘I became . . . a little upset during our last appointment and left the paperwork with him.’ I was going to discuss the pregnancy and what it might mean, implication-wise, but I’m not now. Not with him.
The younger McKenzie smiles, less warm and more satisfied as he flips the cover of the folder open. Not quite as avuncular as, well, his uncle, he outlines the paperwork ready to file.
‘I have the notes. As you’re no doubt aware, your domicile in Scotland gives the Scottish law courts jurisdiction . . . ’ My attention trails off, and what I hear is blah, blah, blah coloured by a load of legalese. Mr. Mac explained it to me before; one of us needs to have lived in Scotland for six months prior to an application for a quickie divorce, and even given the international nature of our marriage, because adultery was listed as cause of our union’s irretrievable breakdown, I was good to go—good to file the paperwork—there would be no cause to wait the usual twelve-month period before doing so. He’d also said, as I was uninterested in financial support or property splits, it would be a straightforward case. Of course, he also said the matter was simplified as we had no children. I suppose, technically, we still haven’t, and the ink will be well and truly dried on our decree by the time we have.
Or rather, I will have. I can’t see into the future, but just because I want this baby doesn’t mean Dylan will. Maybe it’s fortunate I haven’t spilled the beans. Maybe I really will be going it all alone. Maybe he’ll hate me . . .
I’m not really listening to McKenzie the younger as my mind now works overtime, stressing over the distant possibility of Dylan wanting custody out of spite, when my brain seems to snag on something he says; something in his phrasing, really.
‘Mr. McKenzie,’ I cut in. ‘When you said the defender had agreed to the terms of our divorce—’
‘This is what I’m trying to explain. Mr. Duffy has made an admission to adultery.’ He taps the papers in front of him. ‘But under Scottish law, more evidence is needed beyond an acknowledgment. For instance, the co-respondent should be named.’
