by Alam, Donna
‘It would be much easier to do this by email,’ says Mac from the corner of his mouth. ‘I told you that’s what you should’ve gone for.’
‘What?’ my mother interjects, sharply. ‘What’s going on? Is there something you don’t want to say?’ Neither Mac nor I answer. ‘Ivy?’
That’s right; go for the weak one.
‘I . . it’s nothing,’ I reply, all wide-eyed innocence directed at the screen. ‘Ow!’ My head swings to Mac. ‘What did y’do that for?’ I ask, rubbing my leg in the place he’s just pinched.
A line draws between his brows as he glares down at me then, as quick as a flash, he presses a button on my laptop—the one that enables, or in this case, disables the Wi-Fi connection.
‘Listen,’ he says seriously. ‘You’re a grown-up already. It’s time to start acting like one.’
‘What do you mean,’ I bluster. ‘You’re the one cutting them off.’ I gesture back at the screen as Mac makes a very Scottish noise from the back of his throat.
‘Stop worrying about what people will think for once in your life. You don’t need anyone’s approval. They’re your parents, for God’s sake.’ He uses both hands to point at the screen of my laptop. ‘If you can’t tell them the truth, you’re fucked. There’s no shame in being imperfect. They’ll still love you.’
I blink back the sudden sting of tears, and for the first time where Mac is concerned, I don’t have an answer. Not a comeback, rebuttal, or a snipe because his knife was honed and well-aimed. And the truth just fucking hurts.
‘Deep breath,’ he says, taking my hand in his. ‘You’re about to join their ranks—becoming a parent, I mean. Think of all the payback you’re due.’ Mac presses the button to reconnect the Wi-Fi, and the ridiculous connecting tone for Skype immediately begins to play.
‘George, sit down. There’s nothing wrong with the power cord; it’s just the wifey connection.’
‘It’s Wi-Fi, Stella,’ my dad corrects.
Mac sniggers, and I suddenly see myself in my mother. Christ. It’s started already.
‘I told you you should’ve paid a bit more for one of them dongle things. Oh, look—there they are!’ My mother’s dark hair and round face fill the screen.
‘Ma, sit back,’ complains Mac. ‘You’re so close; your face looks like a road map.’
‘Macormac,’ my father admonishes in a subtle warning tone. He sits next to my mum, the brilliant Australian morning sunshine lighting the room behind them.
Mac squeezes my hand again. ‘Parent-ites,’ he announces, ‘Ivy has something she needs to say.’
‘Oh, me first!’ says Mum, excitedly.
Mac frowns, but I jump on that bad boy of a reprieve for however long the ride will last. ‘What’s your news, Mum?’ Because mine is going nowhere. Not for a few months yet.
‘We went to Uluru—such a fab place, wasn’t it, George?’
‘I’m sure I got that email,’ Mac replies, poker-faced.
‘The people looking after the sacred site—the Abordiginald tribe—were so welcoming.’
‘Aboriginals, Stel,’ my dad corrects again.
‘Was that no’ what I say?’ she says, turning to him with one eyebrow raised. As usual, Dad opts for discretion over valour. Or in other words, he has more sense than to argue. ‘And I’m sure I heard Gordon.’ Her face gets larger on the laptop screen, suddenly looming nearer, like she’s about to impart a secret. ‘That wasn’t his tribal name, by the way. Anyway, Gordon said his tribe preferred the title ingenious.’
‘Indigenous,’ Dad says quietly, as both he and Mac struggle not to laugh.
‘Listen, Ma, put it in an email again, would you? I’ve got a flight later tonight, so my time’s limited for being moral support.’
With my free hand, I pull the fine hairs on his arm.
‘Jaysus! What was that for.’
‘Traitor,’ I hiss. ‘You haven’t got a flight.’
‘No, but I also haven’t got all night.’
‘What is going on wi’ the pair of you?’ asks Mum. Meanwhile, Dad has assumed his foreboding father position, arms now crossed.
‘Ivy,’ Dad says. ‘You’ve got something you want to tell us?’
More statement than a question, I nod once. No more hiding. I take a deep breath, and as I breathe it out, I make a strange, nervous sound.
‘My news. My news is . . . a wee bit more shocking, I’m afraid.’ So afraid. Afraid of disappointing them, at the very least.
‘Oh, my God, George.’ Mum clutches Dad’s arm. ‘She’s ill!’
‘No, no, I’m not, Mum. Calm down. Although I do feel sort of wretched, but I’m told it’s temporary. A sort of nine month thing.’ I titter nervously. Even from this distance, with this connection, I watch the blood drain from my mother’s face. Watch her hands fall away from my father’s arm.
‘You . . . you’re?’ See, even she can’t bring herself to say it. ‘But you don’t even have a boyfriend.’
‘You don’t need one o’ them to get pregnant,’ scoffs Mac.
My mother deflates physically before me. And me? I’m probably doing the same from the other side of the screen. I feel so small. So insignificant. Such a fuck-up.
Seeming to come back to herself for a moment, Mum asks, ‘Is it anyone we know?’
‘No.’ One word to convey a thousand. One word that has the potential to paint me as a bit of a slut.
‘How did it happen?’
Okay, so maybe that one word didn’t quite manage to convey quite a thousand.
‘I know it’s probably been a while,’ interrupts Mac. ‘I din’nae ken—but maybe you don’t remember? But when a girl and a boy like each other enough to—’
‘Enough,’ says my father, speaking for the first time, though I’m thankful to Mac for diverting her line of questioning. ‘The man—the father—I take it he doesn’t want to know.’
Or maybe not so much . . .
‘Something like that.’ I duck my head in shame.
‘And you’re well, Ivy? You’ve seen a doctor, and there’s nothing wrong?’
‘Other than the bit where I’m pregnant, she gave me a clean bill of health.’ God bless my dad, even if his words make me want to cry.
Dad nods, satisfied. ‘You’ll be okay on your own for a few weeks more?’
‘Hey, you’re not cutting short your trip. This was your big dream.’
‘And being a grandfather is my other one,’ he says, all matter-of-factly.
My dad. A man of few words. A man who knows how to make them count.
And God, I start bawling.
Chapter 24
Ivy
It takes some persuading to ensure my parents continue with their holiday. Not really my dad—he’s inclined to treat me more like an adult. But Mum—well, she cries a little while pretending not to for the camera. Then she began to fuss, saying she’d need to be there to support me, to hold my hands at the appointments. What appointments, I’m not sure, but if she thinks she’s coming into the delivery room with me, she’s mistaken. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I can have this baby with my absence in there, too. What stopped her complaints and fretting, or rather who, is when Mac announced, as clear as you like, that he’d take care of me until they returned. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mum stunned into silence. You see, Mac and I aren’t particularly close. I mean we love each other and all, but it’s just that when we are close—in proximity, at least—sparks fly. And not the good kind. We tend to argue and snipe and generally get on everyone’s nerves. Always have.
Some might call it sibling rivalry, and I might agree. He’d always been a wee bit jealous of me.
‘They’ll be fine, Stella,’ my dad placates while, over the Skype connection, Mum leans closer to the camera, as though attempting to discern the reason for Mac’s words.
‘What do you mean you’ll take care of her?’ she repeats, almost suspiciously.
Mac laughs. ‘Tempting, Ma, but I think if I was gonna murder her, I
’d have done it before now.’ Folding his arms, he leans back in the chair. ‘She’s my little sister. My annoying little sister, aye—’
I begin to splutter. ‘Annoy? You’re the annoying one. You’re a complete pain in my arse!’
‘Erse?’ Dad repeats. Arse, Scottish style. ‘Did that girl just say erse?’ he asks Mum, incredulously.
‘Yes.’ I don’t wait for her answer or provide an excuse for my language as my eyes flick from Mac to the screen and back again. If anyone was annoying, it’s the great lump sitting next to me with his delusions of perfection.
‘Well, you’re like a thorn in my arse, and you’re lucky you’re still alive.’ He answers a touch too sardonically for my liking. ‘The number of times I’ve wanted to throttle ye!’ he said, making some motion of sliding his hands around my neck.
‘Yeah?’ I spit back. ‘Well, well . . . I once had a dream that you’d died and woke in the middle of the night, crying and feeling so sad that I had to check on you. I pinched your nose to see if you were breathing, and you know what? When you began to snore and flail, I left the room disappointed. Yes, disappointed that you weren’t really dead, so there!’
The room falls quiet as what I’ve admitted suddenly dawns. I’m not going to win any sister of the year awards with that admission. And my poor parents look horrified, but then Mac bursts out laughing—a great bellowing guffaw.
‘Talk about keepin’ it real. See, I knew there was a reason I’ve called you Poison Ivy since we were wee.’
My cheeks flamed red, but I know what he’s getting at. It doesn’t matter how perfect you try to be—pretend to be—someone will always see through the façade. Nobody’s wholly perfect, and who better to know than the one you’re always compared against.
Macormac, sit down. Macormac, come away from that. Why can’t you behave like your sister?
How my goody-two-shoes persona must’ve driven him mad at school.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Mum complains. ‘You two and your bickering drive me ‘round the bend.’
‘It’s what kids do, Ma,’ replies Mac with a shrug. ‘But it never stops us from lookin’ out for each other.’ He looks at me then, reaching out for my hand.
‘You’re not going back to London?’ My brother lives and operates his chain of twenty-four-hour gyms from there.
‘Well, I’ll have to do a bit of travel, but I’ll base myself out of Auchkeld until they’re back from their gallivanting.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I ask, stunned. When I said I’d needed his support, I really meant for making this call. I know he loves me, and that he’d help—be there for me—if I really needed him, but I didn’t imagine it’d extend beyond a few phone calls to check in. ‘You’d put your life on hold for me?’
‘Aye, aye,’ he replies, waving off the emotion in my words. ‘I can if you can manage not to bawl all the time.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I protest, wiping the corners of my eyes with my fingertips before turning to the laptop and my parents again. ‘Guess I’ll see you in November, then.’
With my family now in the pregnancy loop, I move down the list to those who also need to know. Now that Mum and Dad are aware of my . . . my impending arrival, I have someone else—actually, a few someone elses—I need to inform.
And first on the list is Dylan, my husband. At least, he is my husband for a little while longer.
After Mac had left last night, I’d fallen into bed exhausted. More an emotional sort of tiredness rather than anything pregnancy related; I was just worn out. And possibly beyond the optimal window for sleep because I’d spent the most of the night watching the shadows creep across my bedroom walls. I’d spent the night thinking, and while I’m sure Fin would say no good could come of this, I’d have to disagree. And as I walk down the stairs into the salon this Tuesday morning, I feel lighter because I’m reconciled. Resolved. I’ve decided I’m going to tell Dylan today. Tell him about the baby. Tell him that I’m sorry. Explain to him how my own insecurities ruined our marriage. Tell him how I feel. That I still love him. Say what I know to be true; how I know it’s much too late for any kind of reconciliation, but that I need to start being more honest. Including with myself. I need him to know that I don’t really hate him. That I never did. That I’d just buried my love under a blanket of anger and blame, attempting to lay the failure of our marriage at his feet even though I knew my actions were the real cause.
Maybe I was afraid he wouldn’t love me now that he was famous. Or maybe I’m just not a nice person after all.
Whatever the reason, as I enter the salon, I know I’m telling him today. Sure, I feel nervous, but it’s the excited kind. But how? Do I try to call him? Would he answer? Does he still even have the same number, or might he have blocked me from his call list? Maybe I should reactivate my social media accounts—send him a message, asking him to call me? An email?
‘Morning.’ Natasha’s already on the salon floor, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, as she leans against the counter. Light from the vintage brass table lamp set on the reception counter glints from her new Monroe piercing.
‘Morning, boss lady,’ she says, barely glancing up. ‘You’re in fine fettle this morning.’
‘Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying, Ivy, you no longer look like death warmed because you’ve brushed your hair and put a bit of lippy on?’
‘I’m sure your hair hadn’t seen the spiky end of a brush all week.’ A smile grows on her face along with her retort. ‘You look . . . better.’
‘I feel pretty good. Apart from the appetite and vomiting bit.’
She looks again, her gaze examining me. ‘What’s changed?’
‘I told the olds.’
Expression softening, she places her cup down, and her attention shifts more solidly from her phone. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Surprisingly well. Mac . . . helped.’ She doesn’t appear worried at all by that, and I begin to wonder—not for the first time—just how well she knows him but stop myself from asking. Instead, I tell her, ‘I’m feeling . . . better.’ And as the words leave my mouth, I realise this is true. ‘You’ve been busy.’ I turn away from her inspection, feeling suddenly and inexplicably emotional. Christ, am I gonna be crying at the drop of a hat these next few months? It’s like my tear ducts have been unplugged. Behind me, the linen shelves are already full of freshly folded towels, and on the other side of the counter, the low table houses this month’s selection of glossy magazines.
‘I picked up the mags and some milk on the way in,’ Nat says, her gaze returning to her phone. I don’t offer her thanks—she wouldn’t appreciate the attention—though I silently resolve to show it some other way.
‘So.’ I flip on the recessed lighting and make my way to unlock the front door. ‘What’s going on in celeb city today?’
‘I haven’t looked yet. I’m looking at one of the supplier websites.’
‘Yeah? What are you looking at?’ Nat looks after the beauty side of my business as the treatments manager. She’s basically a manager without staff, though I have high hopes; the salon is doing fantastic for a new venture.
‘Vajazzling supplies. There’s this Hello Kitty design I’ve got my eye on.’
‘So your kitty can be all . . . Hello Kitty? Is that like an ironic welcome or address?’
‘If it was a welcome I was after, I’d grow back my pubes, tint them brown, and make them a welcome mat.’ She takes a sip of her coffee before completely changing the topic of conversation. ‘June sent you some tablet in.’
My mouth immediately waters so bad I can almost taste it. Scottish tablet is the business. It’s basically what Fin calls fudge, though so much more. It’s sweet and gooey, though sometimes crumbly, and tastes like my childhood. It’s so much more than fudge because it has the bonus of—
‘It has whisky in it.’
Yes, that.
As she looks at me, I realise the point she’s making. Without words.
‘No more than a dram. Surely, that won’t hurt?’
‘If you’d told June about the baby, she’d probably have made it without.’
‘But then it wouldn’t be the same.’ My shoulders deflate. June’s tablet is almost legendary.
‘Or maybe she’d tell you it’d do no harm.’ Nat raises one taunting brow. ‘Suppose it’s up to you if that’s a risk you want to take. Besides,’ she adds, returning to her phone, ‘you can’nae eat sweeties for breakfast.’
‘You reckon,’ I retort.
‘It’s a bit early to use the excuse eating for two.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Little pickers wear big knickers, hen.’
‘There are times in a girl’s life when only big knickers will do.’ Nat sets off laughing again as I turn my back, heading for the kitchen. ‘Besides, they can’t be bigger than maternity ones, surely?’
Please, oh benevolent God, don’t make me so large I have to wear knickers small children can camp outdoors in.
Once inside, I flip the kettle on and draw out some loose-leaf chamomile tea, popping it into the strainer. The nausea has settled for the most part this morning, meaning I’ve already worshipped the porcelain bowl, but I know it’ll be back in a few hours. I make the most of my brief reprieve by cutting one of the yummy tablet squares in half. The piece I’ve cut would fit on a teaspoon; I can’t imagine there’s much more than a millilitre of whisky inside. Besides, the alcohol content surely burns off during the cooking process.
Am I gonna spend the next seven months obsessing over stuff like this and having silent conversations with myself?
‘Ah, bugger it!’ I shove the lump into my mouth and pour the heated water over my tea.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ I tell Nat as I carry the fragrant cup back into the salon. ‘Please tell June it was delicious and that I’m up for tablet, with or without booze, anytime.’ Nat doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look up. ‘You and that bloody phone,’ I grumble. ‘I bet you don’t even put it down while you pee.’
‘Shush. Imma checking in on my people. Stalking my sites. There’s important shit going on this morning.’
