Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  I’m ten weeks gone already. It’s nearly the end of September and I feel like I’m running out of time to make this horrible decision. My mum’s face floats in and out of my nightmares saying things like, ‘Get up, Rachel, you’re going to miss the bus,’ and ‘What do you think of yellow?’

  The intense nausea that I have been experiencing has metamorphosized into its own polar opposite so that instead of not wanting to eat because of it, I now only get queasy when I am hungry, which is most of the time. And that is the most intense, violent hunger pain I’ve ever had. It feels like someone’s scooped out the base of my throat and neck and now there’s nothing there except a great yawning vacuum that won’t be denied. I have noticed Val looking at me when I eat. She’s not used to seeing that because I never really used to eat at work. Not every day, anyway. She’s probably surprised to learn that I chew and digest food just like her. But now look at me, scoffing Bourbons in between calls. During calls, even. Well, it’s either that or retching.

  M and M don’t bring me coffee at two o’clock any more. That’s a bit of a blow. Not that I would want coffee at the moment – the thought of it turns my stomach over – but me not wanting it isn’t the point. They could bring me a hot chocolate or soup instead, or something from the snack machine. But they stopped doing it when I spent that week going down there myself, when I was hoping to run into Nick.

  Hector’s phone is with me in my bag wherever I go. Don’t read anything into that – my own mobile goes with me everywhere too. It’s just that this feels like a kind of umbilical connection to Hector, as if he himself is there with me, in a small way. I have rung him a couple of times since our chat over the hot chocolate, just to tell him how sick I was being. Well, I was feeling utterly miserable and couldn’t talk to anyone else. I needed some sympathy.

  ‘Is there actual vomit?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘On target?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. All that mess to clear up. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Well, you could come and—’

  ‘Apart from clearing up for you, of course. That goes without saying. We may be strangers but I draw the line there.’

  He’s funny. He knew that I didn’t really feel comfortable giving him my home address anyway, but made it sound like he was opting out.

  And then, of course, there’s Nick.

  He’s ten weeks pregnant too, of course, although acting as if nothing has changed. I haven’t seen him here on the third floor again, not since our first meeting by the drinks machine back in July. It occurs to me now – finally – to wonder why he came all the way down from Personnel, which is on the sixth floor, to Telesales, on the third floor, just to get a drink. We know there’s an identical drinks machine up there, don’t we, but I don’t like the feeling I get when I think about him ignoring it and getting in the lift to come down three floors instead. Did he do that to meet me? It seems likely and I’m not comfortable about it. I can tell that you’re surprised about that, and you’re right. Normally I would find that kind of detour, for that reason, immensely pleasing. But this time it’s different.

  The problem is, I didn’t know what he was up to. I wasn’t in on it. I mean, he orchestrated the whole thing, from finding out a bit about me, to disposing of M and M at two o’clock precisely, so I had to get my own drink. He predicted me. I feel manipulated and I’m not used to that.

  If you feel the need to focus your eyes on that gorgeous bod again, he can be seen most lunchtimes hanging around the fifth-floor corridors, no doubt hoping to run into one of those tarty girls from the art department. Here he is now, in the lift with Veronica Stapleton from Product Design.

  ‘How’s everything with you today, Vee?’ he says, hands in pockets, leaning back on the wall.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Nick,’ she answers, pressing the ‘G’ button.

  He nods slowly. ‘You said it.’ He smiles and blatantly looks her up and down through half lidded eyes. ‘I’ll bet those Marketing boys thank their lucky stars every day that you walk in.’

  Look at her, the cow. She’s actually blushing. Christ, she must be old enough to be his godmother.

  But why should that bother me? Am I annoyed that my Nick is chatting up other women? Because it’s been well over a month since we were together, so what did I expect? That after a week-long fling with Rachel Covington from Telesales, he would decide there was absolutely no point spending his time pursuing women any more and would swear off them for ever because after he’d had the best everyone else would just depress him with their mediocrity and never quite measure up?

  Well . . .

  No, of course not. That’s just silly.

  So he gets to carry on with his life as if nothing’s happened. Which for him, it hasn’t. Apart from a brief but intense relationship with the girl of his dreams who would have been worth leaving his wife for, if only he’d given it a chance.

  But of course there was more to that fling than he knows. He left something behind one night – just a small thing. Well, a few hundred million small things. But one of them decided to stay, like an unwelcome tenant with squatter’s rights. I feel like it’s being really naughty in there, refusing to get its shoes on and leave with the others.

  But the question still remains. And does Nick need to be involved in the decision-making process? Part of me, a big part, wants very much to tell him, at work, on the sixth floor, in his office in front of all his colleagues, in a loud voice, and smash the pretty little glass bauble he’s been living in. Now that’s definitely a desire for revenge you can see on my face – I am starting to recognize it.

  But if I do go and tell him like that, so that everyone up there hears, then everyone up there will hear. Which is not particularly what I want, even though I would get a few seconds’ savage pleasure from the look on his face. But the decision is still to be made, and if in the end I don’t go through with it, why should I bother to involve him in the process at all? If I end it, no one will ever know. Ever.

  Except Hector, of course.

  My plan now is to go to see Sarah and talk to her about Jake and the birth and being a mum generally. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. She loves to talk about it and has done almost without taking a breath for six years, but I’ve never really listened before. I remember that Jake was born by caesarean because Glenn always makes that joke about him having to get out of the car through the sunroof, but the rest is a blur.

  It’s Saturday and I’m in the car driving round to Sarah’s. I’m wearing a smidgen of Lovely Lilac lip gloss today, just to give myself a lift, but apart from that I’ve not bothered with make-up again. My hair, strangely enough, is still relaxing. It’s so much easier than blow-drying and waxing it every day.

  I’ve chosen to go on Saturday so that Jake will be there. Yes, I know, this is a complete turn-around for me, absolute avoidance being my usual tactic with him, but I need as much information as I can get and Jake might actually have some.

  Glenn’s car is not on the drive – did you notice that? No doubt he’s out choosing a beautiful and thoughtful gift for his devoted wife, as a token of his appreciation for their wonderful years together, to show her how much he loves and respects her and to let her know that his life would be a meaningless wasteland without her. Or he could be banging his bit on the side.

  ‘Hi, Rachel,’ Sarah says suddenly, bringing me back.

  ‘Oh, Sarah. Hi.’ In a fleeting moment, I take in the greasy hair, baggy grey T-shirt, elasticated-waist trousers and, perhaps most disturbing, the small red mark on her cheek. I can’t see the elastic on the waistband, but I know it’s there.

  ‘Well, who did you expect? Madonna?’

  I want to say, ‘In a three-bedroomed semi on a second-rate housing estate with a bike on every front lawn and more velour trousers than you would use making curtains for the entire Albert Hall?’ I don’t. Instead I say, ‘Well, I’ve looked ever
ywhere else. Is she here or not?’

  A flicker of a smile is visible on her face for a flash, then it’s gone again. ‘Come in,’ she says listlessly, and then slouches back up the hall to the living room.

  Her place is a bit messy as always but, like I said, my standards in that area have been on the slide for the past couple of months too. Maybe this is one of the adjustments I will have to make, if I go through with it – a messy, disorganized home. I look at Sarah’s retreating back as I follow her into the room. And of course I can look forward to thinking tracksuits and trainers are an OK way to dress outside of the gym.

  ‘Where’s Glenn?’

  She sinks into the armchair nearest the telly, which is on with the sound down. ‘Working overtime.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’ It’s out before I have a chance to stop myself. I mean, the man works at the benefits agency – they’re not even open at the weekend, are they? I watch Sarah’s face but apparently she’s bought it.

  ‘Yeah. It’s not open to the public and the phones aren’t on because there’s no receptionist in, but they’re updating some files or something.’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t really understand what they’re doing, to be honest, but the money comes in handy.’

  Oh. So there is actually extra money appearing then? I wonder vaguely where Glenn is getting that from as it’s so plain to me, even if I hadn’t seen him in the car park that time, that he’s not doing overtime today. He’s obviously as good as told her that she can’t turn up unexpectedly at the office, or try and call him there, because if she does, the office would look and sound exactly as if it was closed for the weekend. Which, of course, it is.

  Chrissie told me that Val only found out about her husband and the accountant when she phoned the Inland Revenue to complain about the huge tax bill that arrived. Mr Val had told her that the accountant was coming every week because they were calculating weekly tax payments to avoid getting a huge bill at the end of the year.

  ‘This is a mistake,’ Val had said to the tax person. ‘This bill has already been paid in instalments. My husband and the accountant have been doing it every week.’

  There was a cold silence from the other end at that point, which gave Val a chance to hear her words echoing back along the line, and she had one of those blinding-flash things, like the one I had in the car. After saying, ‘Oh, could you hold the line a moment please?’ she left him.

  No doubt it was obvious to everyone who knew Val what was going on, so how come Val didn’t notice? Particularly when, according to Chrissie, Mr Val and the accountant were at it in the house when Val was downstairs watching Bargain Hunt. He was banging her for over six months, apparently. Does being married to someone prevent you from seeing them properly? I mean, look at Sarah, slumped on her sofa on a sunny Saturday afternoon, apparently oblivious to her husband’s philandering in Sainsbury’s car park, in spite of all the clues he’s been leaving.

  Anyway, I don’t feel it’s my place to tell her about what he’s up to. Who knows, he might end it with the other woman any day now and Sarah will never need to know.

  ‘So where’s Jakey, then?’ I ask, sinking down on to the sofa, then jumping up again to remove a large plastic stegosaurus from under my bottom.

  ‘In his room in disgrace. Little sod. God, he makes me so bloody angry sometimes, I could throttle him.’

  This isn’t a good start. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Called me a stupid cow because I couldn’t make Old Trafford out of Lego. I was trying my hardest, but apparently it’s had some extra seats built in at the corners recently, which I didn’t know about. So the little git lobbed it at me and called me a stupid cow.’ She touches the sore spot on her cheek. ‘I was bloody well trying to do what he wanted, you know? And of course he’s not the least bit grateful. Anyway, I had to drag him upstairs to his room, with him screaming the whole time about how much he hated me and wanted me to die so that it was just him and Daddy because then he’d be happy. He’s so rude and unpleasant – sometimes I feel like I really hate him.’

  ‘Little shit. I can’t believe he can be such a horrid little bastard, Sarah. For God’s sake, what does he want? Blood?’

  Oops. I’ve made a huge mistake here. Did you spot it? I forgot that really complicated set of rules you have to remember whenever you’re talking to parents about their children. 1). Don’t ever, ever say anything bad. 2). This means that you can’t even join in, or agree, when the parents are telling you how appalling their kid is. Don’t even nod. Little Susie could be hammering you over the head with a house brick, but you still have to laugh playfully as the ambulance crew wheel you out, and slur something like, ‘She’s a strong little thing, isn’t she?’ And when darling Johnny looks up from the drain he’s just emptied your handbag into and grins at you, you have to rub his head and say, ‘What an inventive child.’ Then borrow a phone to call the bank. And a locksmith. And a taxi.

  Sarah’s gaping at me. ‘Don’t talk about him like that, Rachel. He’s a six-year-old boy, that’s all. He’s not much more than a baby, really. For God’s sake.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarah. You know I don’t mean it. I think Jake’s a lovely child . . .’ Oops. I forgot rule number three; when they’re telling you how appalling their offspring is, you can’t even disagree, and tell them that he’s actually wonderful and charming, because then it looks like you are belittling, or don’t understand, or both, the enormous amount of stress the parents are under.

  ‘Well, you would, you don’t have to live with him. Honestly, Rachel, you’ve really got no idea what it’s like, being a parent. You haven’t a flaming clue.’

  ‘No, well, I didn’t mean . . . What I was trying to say was . . .’ I should just give up speaking at this point – it’s by far the most sensible, and safest, course of action – but I’ve come here today for a reason. ‘He’s not always bad, is he?’ This seems harmless enough, and I want to hear about the good side of being a mum.

  ‘No, course not. Sometimes he’s a little angel. When he’s asleep! Ha ha ha!’

  ‘You don’t mean it.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I love him to bits. I’d do anything for him, you know? I’d die for him. I’d kill for him. But he makes me more angry than anyone else has ever had the ability to do. Including Glenn. I don’t think I was ever a particularly hot-tempered person at school, do you? I used to get angry now and then, but not the screaming-myself-hoarse, pounding-my-fists-on-the-wall, smashing-stuff angry that Jake makes me feel. I don’t know. I think kids just make you experience all your emotions more intensely somehow.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, it starts with this love. The second I clapped eyes on my little Jake, it was like a thunder bolt or lightning strike that hit me. I could almost feel this huge thud into me, like an electric shock. I was lying there, exhausted, hurting, bleeding, and then they put this little bundle on me and I saw his face for the first time. I didn’t feel it, and then I did. Suddenly I knew that I couldn’t live without him. In that instant. Then you get this protectiveness. You get all aggressive and unreasonable if anyone says or does something against your child. Even when you know he’s in the wrong. Like at the playground, when he’s thumped some scrawny little two-year-old, and the mum comes over and says, “Your son this and that, blah blah,” and you feel this heat surging up inside and you start snarling and actually want to thump her.’ She smiles a bit. ‘You even find yourself feeling proud of him for lumping the two-year-old, and start thinking, Good one, Jakey. That’s my boy.

  ‘And then of course comes the anger. Anger like I’ve never known. I didn’t even know I had this inside me. I love my son to distraction, Rachel, but sometimes I fantasize about thrashing the little bugger.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. There’s nothing wrong with fantasizing, is there? As long as I don’t actually do it, which I don’t. The fantasies help me cope, that’s all.’

  I’m not shocked that she thinks about po
unding Jake. I think about that a lot myself. What I’m shocked about is the fact that she could be made to feel so violent, apparently by the person she loves most in the world.

  ‘So you’re glad you had him?’

  Sarah stares at me. ‘Well, of course I’m bloody glad I had him. What the hell do you think?’

  I think she’s secretly wishing she’s on the other side, where there are no kids. But she’ll never admit it.

  ‘No, well, of course I thought . . . well, I know you adore him, Sarah. You and Glenn. I know you wouldn’t be without him.’

  She squints at me. ‘Where’s all this going?’

  ‘Nowhere. No, nothing. It’s just interesting. You know, your amazing love, yet how angry he makes you. The two extremes of emotion, caused by the same person.’

  She stares at me a bit then apparently decides to leave it. ‘So, you’re looking better now. You all recovered from that bug, whatever it was last month?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, pretty much. Still a bit queasy now and then but nothing much really.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Oh, um, nothing major, just a kind of parasite.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Ughh. Jakey had those once. The kids pass them round and round at school. Did you know that something like half of all children under seven have them without realizing it? Jake’s bum was itching like crazy, I don’t know how these other kids aren’t aware of it. I got down there with a torch in the end and pulled his cheeks apart—’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Sarah.’

  ‘They’re really difficult to see, but then suddenly I could—’ She stops talking suddenly and cocks her head.

  ‘What?’

  She raises her hand to silence me, then shouts, ‘Why should I?’

  There’s a short silence, during which I glance around, desperate to understand what’s going on. Then she tilts her head back again and shouts, ‘How many times have I heard that before?’ There’s another pause, longer this time. Then, ‘This is absolutely your last chance, OK?’