Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  I didn’t want that phone call to end, though. It gave me a good feeling to be doing something for someone else, especially when he’s six foot three with crinkly brown eyes and a delicious voice.

  Oh, by the way, I didn’t really get into all that much trouble afterwards. When I came off the phone from Hector, I sneaked back into Telesales without Jean seeing me – I think she was chain smoking in the car park – and then told Graham that I’d been feeling poorly with ‘women’s problems’, and he left it at that. The classics are still the best.

  Just over a week later, on the Sunday, I’m round at Mum and Dad’s for tea. I’ve been avoiding seeing them for quite a few weeks, assuming that my predicament will be so obvious on my face – if not elsewhere – that Mum will suss it as soon as she looks at me. I still dread telling her and don’t see any reason to go through that trauma if I decide that I’m not going to have a baby after all.

  So here I am now, standing at my parents’ front door. This is the very spot where Sarah did it with Martin Kennedy, on her sixteenth birthday. I am horribly reminded of that incident every single time I come home. It’s like Sarah’s gift to me.

  Mum and Dad are in the kitchen, chatting while they sort out the dinner. Actually, Dad’s doing most of the work while Mum leans against the counter, sipping wine. Dad’s turn to cook today. He’s apparently in the middle of telling her a funny story and suddenly she explodes into laughter.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Rachel love! Hello.’ Mum comes over and hugs me and I pray silently over her shoulder that she won’t notice my belly or boobs. I’m twelve weeks now and believe it or not there is a very slight rise below my belly button. All my clothes still fit, luckily, but I am very conscious of it. No one at work has said anything, though, so I’m pretty sure it doesn’t show yet.

  But this is my mum. If anyone’s going to notice that I’ve gained weight, it’ll be her. And not only is she bound to notice, she’ll not hesitate to tell me, too.

  She’s still hugging me and you can see how I’m trying to prevent my torso from pressing into her too much. If she could see my guilty, anxious expression, she’d guess what was up straight away, boobs or no boobs. Fortunately, she can’t. Dad can but as far as he’s concerned, I’m doing the normal ‘Getting-a-hug-from-Mum’ face – faintly irritated smile, itching to get away. He winks at me and pulls a ‘she-just-loves-you’ face.

  My mum was sixteen when she got pregnant with me. Mum and Dad weren’t married but they were deeply in love, apparently. They managed to get the wedding in before I appeared, which made my mum’s parents much happier. Well, happy is too strong a word for it. I won’t say they hung up their baseball bats, but they did put them down on the floor for the toasts. My dad is ten years older than Mum, so there was a great big scandal in the family about this twenty-six-year-old man getting Mum in trouble. When I was born, all of Mum’s family offered to take me in, they were so sure Dad was going to scarper. All my childhood, whenever I’ve seen my aunt and my granny, they’ve said something like, ‘It’s so lovely in Weston at this time of year. Why don’t you come and see what you think?’

  It’s twenty-five years later now and my granny still gives Dad the old-lady-curse stare when she catches his eye. It’s like she’s saying, ‘Don’t think you got away with it because you’re still on probation, my lad.’

  Anyway, Mum’s always been really young, compared to my friends’ parents. She was only just forty earlier this year. Having a young mum was ghastly when I was a teenager. I kept bumping into her in all the night clubs.

  She’s let go of me and is looking at me strangely. Here it comes, I’m thinking, tensing.

  ‘Have you been doing all your chores properly, Rachel?’ she says, out of the blue. Of all the things I thought she might notice, I didn’t think she’d spot that one. It’s amazing. How does she know I’ve been slacking lately? Is there an absence of bleach aroma around me? The skin on my hands is too soft? My fingernails are looking a bit too polished?

  ‘Course I have. I’ve still got my list, tucked away safely in the kitchen drawer. Have you got any cucumber, Mum?’ I’m saying, heading for the fridge.

  ‘Mm, I think there’s some in there. Have a look.’

  Here comes James, my little brother. ‘Hi, Slacker. You all right?’ And there he goes.

  ‘Yes thank you, James,’ I say, although he’s already gone. ‘I am very well, thank you for asking. It’s so nice to see you. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ Dad says. ‘He’s preoccupied with a project he’s working on in the garage. It involves cardboard and Sellotape.’

  ‘Say no more.’

  The dinner goes a lot better than I was expecting. Dad’s telling me about some new power tool he’s just bought, like a kid with a new toy – apparently it can saw wood at a forty-five-degree angle, although what use that is I don’t know – and Mum tells me she and Dad have started going to salsa classes on Tuesday evenings. I look at Dad but his face is blank. James fills in any gaps in conversation with boring claptrap about some computer game or other, but you can get away with not really listening to him. I smile at him fondly and thank God I don’t have to live with him any more.

  So it seems my secret is still secret. I’m relieved the visit is out of the way as I drive home later. If I’d left it many more weeks, I wouldn’t have been able to hide anything. Now I can leave it for another six weeks or so before I go again, and by then . . . it’ll all be over, one way or another.

  The next day is Monday again and I leap out of bed, delighted at the prospect of the start of another week at work. Look at me, I’m bounding around there like a non-pregnant, unworried person. But today I feel fantastic. After my shower, I do my hair and it goes right first time. And it looks better than it has for ages. My skin is glowing and healthy, I have got bags of energy and I feel . . . I don’t know. Unstressed. I can’t say carefree because I know that I am still pregnant and I am still thinking about it, but now it feels like it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t show, I don’t look fat or ill, why should it trouble me?

  No more Shreddies for me for breakfast. I am well into fruit now and just eat half a melon. It tastes like it has been crafted by God using all the tools in Heaven to make it perfect. I smack my lips, throw down my spoon and trip lightly off to the bathroom, where I vomit the whole lot up again.

  In the car, I start singing along to a track on the radio – ‘I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down’ – and I am still singing it now as I’m entering the telesales room. I’m even dancing a bit. Oh yes, it feels good to be back to my old self.

  I boogie over to my turret and find Val there, pale and quiet as usual.

  ‘All right there, Val? How are you on this fantastic morning?’ I call out.

  ‘My mum died,’ she says, effectively ruining my mood for the rest of the day.

  ‘Oh, oh no, how awful, I’m so sorry,’ I say, crouching down by her chair. For fuck’s sake, what’s going on? Two mums, in the same week? What are the odds? I’m forcing my exuberance down like an excited animal that won’t sit still. Val’s poor mum has been in a hospice for weeks, suffering hideous pain daily, so it’s actually a bit of a relief that she’s gone, so Val says, but she doesn’t look relieved. I rub her back, then stand up and go out of the door to get her a cup of hot chocolate.

  Poor Val. As I head up the corridor towards the vending machine, I’m remembering that time when she had tried to get me to bring her back a drink and I pretended not to notice. I’m truly ashamed of that now. I’m so preoccupied with these shameful thoughts that I don’t notice until the last moment that there’s a familiar back standing at the vending machine. My heart does a little lurch, but I’m actually surprisingly calm. I slow down, though, hoping that he will get his drink and leave before he sees me.

  Or have I slowed down because it’s so difficult to look sexy when walking fast? Are you getting a sense of déjà vu? Because I
am.

  Did you notice the irony of Nick not being at the vending machine every time I went there to try and see him, and there he is today when I no longer care? He must have asked around and found out that my new habit is an early morning hot chocolate which is very pleasing. Not that I’m remotely bothered any more of course. No you’re right, I am bothered. You know me pretty well, don’t you? My heart is beating faster and I lick my lips as a kind of impromptu lip-gloss. Of course, the word is getting around now that Nick’s married. I wonder if he knows it was me that spread it? He turns suddenly and sees me approaching. His face contorts in fury.

  ‘You evil little bitch,’ he says in a low voice. I’m guessing that he knows it was me.

  ‘Hi, Nick,’ I say. ‘It’s lovely to see you too.’

  ‘You’ve been spreading rumours about me.’

  ‘Have I?’ I walk nonchalantly over to the machine – ‘Excuse me, please’ – and feed the coins into the slot.

  ‘Yes you bloody well have, you vicious little slag,’ he says, stepping politely out of my way. ‘Telling everyone that I’m married. What are you playing at?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, really casually. ‘Why on earth do you think I would spend even thirty seconds of my life on you?’

  The hot chocolate is ready, so I take it, flash him a smile, and walk away. I am so cool but inside I’m burning up. It’s those baby-blue eyes again, and those lashes. And that body. And the hair, let’s face it. He just makes me melt. I so hope he is watching me as I leave. I have a pair of really narrow, low cut trousers on.

  After I’ve gone, let’s linger a moment and watch Nick’s reaction to seeing me. He’s not buying a drink, so that means he must have been waiting there just to speak to me. And although his face is frowning and distorted with anger, his eyes follow my low-cut trousers all the way back up the corridor. He doesn’t move until I’ve disappeared behind the door.

  Back in Telesales, Jean is making an announcement. We are getting a new person. Sabrina Walker, who used to sit at turret eight, has finally moved to Portugal with her boyfriend. She has been saying she’s going to do that for the past year and everyone had stopped believing it was ever going to happen. But turret eight is empty, so either she’s in Portugal or she’s left to make it look like she’s in Portugal. Either way, we’re one down and that sounds like more sales for me.

  Actually, this afternoon is my first ante-natal appointment, so I need to work really hard this morning to make up the loss. My appointment is at three and Jean’s let me take the afternoon off. I’ve told her it’s a hospital appointment for a woman’s problem. She put her hand up at that point and didn’t want to know any more. I wasn’t going to tell her any more anyway.

  ‘Make sure you make up the sales,’ she growls at me. Like I need telling.

  About quarter past two, I flick to busy, wave to Jean and head off to the Ladies with my handbag. There’s one thing I need to do before I leave, and for old times’ sake I’m going to do it in the Ladies. I lock myself in a cubicle, put my handbag on my lap and rummage around inside for the little black phone. I get to the menu and click on ‘Work’, but just as it starts ringing, I hear the door open and two girls come in, chatting animatedly. Quickly I switch it off.

  ‘Oh my God, Lise, did you see that? He’s fucking gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Did you see those eyes? What do you reckon? Do you think I could pull that?’

  ‘You do know he’s married?’

  ‘So what? I don’t wanna have babies with him!’ I can tell from her voice that she’s putting on mascara.

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  There’s a pause. I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling that they’re talking about Nick. But all I know about the person is that he’s gorgeous and married, so it could be anyone. Perhaps I’m obsessing about him. While I wait for them to leave, I’ve decided to have a wee. By the time I remember I’m supposed to collect some to take with me, it’s far too late. Bugger.

  ‘I feel sorry for the wife really.’

  ‘Really? What, having to go to bed with that every night? Yeah, poor cow, it must be hard on her.’

  ‘No, seriously. Being the wife is boring. He’s used to her, know what I mean? That’s why he was looking at us like that. Plus, she must know that he can get any woman he wants. Did you see him looking down my top? God, just thinking about that has got me all horny.’

  ‘All right, calm down. You’ve got drool on your face.’

  They snigger and the door opens and closes again. Quickly I find the ‘Work’ number and press ‘Dial’. While it rings I’m snarling over Nick apparently flirting with yet more people in the office when he’s got a wife and a kid on the way. Although technically he doesn’t actually know about the kid. And it might not have been Nick they were talking about. But he did fit the description – ‘fucking gorgeous’ – perfectly.

  ‘McCarthy Systems.’

  Have you ever dialled a number and then while it was ringing had a really deep, long think about what the gorgeous but married bastard from your personnel department has been up to, and then when the person finally answers the phone you’ve completely forgotten who it is that you’ve rung? Nor me. Until now, that is. For a moment I’m sitting there on the loo hearing this woman’s voice announce that I’ve just rung something called McCarthy Systems, and I have no idea why I’ve rung them. I’m in X-Files territory again. Obviously I’ve just been returned to earth by the aliens who abducted me, and I’m in the middle of a phone call I know nothing about.

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the woman says. I’m frowning, trying to remember what I was doing. Then I remember. McCarthy Systems. Of course.

  ‘Yes. Can I speak to Hector please?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr McCarthy is currently unavailable. Can I take a message?’

  Bugger. I hadn’t bargained on this. When I ring people, in a social context, they are always available. I’ve got my first ever ante-natal appointment in half an hour and I really want to talk to someone about it. And that person, of course, has to be Hector. Oh God, this means I am going to have to go down to the surgery without a pep talk.

  ‘Do you want to leave a message?’ the woman reminds me.

  Do I? I only rang up to speak to a friendly voice before my appointment, so what’s the point of leaving a message? In the end, I just ask her to tell him that I called and leave it at that.

  So here I am, emerging from the loos, and look at the expression on my face. How would you describe that? Anxiety? Disappointment? Revenge again? I don’t know – I’m useless at this stuff. But I know how I was feeling – bloody fed up that I haven’t been able to speak to Hector before the appointment. I am starting to love the intimacy of him being the only one who knows about the baby, but at the same time it’s a bit frustrating because if he’s not available to talk to, I’ve got no fallback, nobody on standby.

  The appointment is upstairs in my doctor’s surgery. I’ve been at this surgery for four years but I’ve never been up here before. The stairs are very steep and the corridors are very narrow with low ceilings, so naturally this is where they decided to set up the ante- and post-natal examination rooms. Right. Anaemic women with intimate and tightly sewn stitches, leaking from every orifice, with possibly a bawling infant clinging to their backs, have to climb Everest stairs, and when – if – they reach the top, the corridors are all clogged with really fat women and prams. I’m betting it was a man who put it up here.

  ‘Rachel Covington?’

  This is it. I’m trying to look like I fit in with all the other expectant mums there, but of course I don’t. Most of these women are wearing flip-flops. I follow the nurse into the examination room and she closes the door behind us.

  ‘Rachel, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, then Rachel, my love, have a seat.’ She’s blonde and plump with an ill-fitting dark blue nurse’s dress on that’s st
raining at the buttons. Here’s the plain evidence that the NHS really is short of cash. That dress was probably new in 1980.

  I sit on the chair and she perches on the edge of the desk. She’s holding a pink cardboard folder and she opens it and reads what’s inside. ‘OK, so you’re, what, thirteen, fourteen?’

  ‘I’m twenty-four.’

  She smiles at me. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I meant weeks, my love. This is going to be your first baby, isn’t it?’

  I’m staring at the folder. Someone’s written ‘Rachel Covington’ on the front, in the place where it says ‘Name of mother’. I have been labelled as a mother. It’s very disconcerting. I don’t feel like a mother but it seems these people have decided I could do it. That I should do it. This pink folder is a map to motherhood. If I set out from here, I will eventually arrive at a point where there’s a baby. My breath is stuck in my throat.

  The nurse has obviously noticed the absence in the room of brimming maternal joy and is bending in the middle to try and make eye contact with me. ‘Is this going to be your first baby, Rachel?’ she asks kindly. I look up at her helplessly but don’t say anything.

  She slides off the desk and walks to the back of the room. ‘Have you seen my letters?’ she asks me. She knows I haven’t as I have never set foot up here before, but I shake my head anyway. ‘Come and have a look, then.’

  I stand up and go over to the wall where she’s standing. Pinned, sellotaped and Blu-tacked to cork boards, picture rails and even the bare paintwork, there are letters. Pink letters, blue letters, yellow letters, plain white letters, some of them hand written, some of them typed. Some of them have been printed on a computer and have got all the traditional baby-related graphics down the sides, in pastel peach, soothing lilac and cornflower blue: dummies, bootees, cribs, sleeping infant faces. No one ever includes white, panicky adult faces, or red, blood-shot eyes, do they?

  ‘These all came from my babies. Or rather, from the mums and dads of the babies I have delivered. Some of them are just from mums.’

  I lean forward to read one of the letters. ‘Dear Katy,’ it says, ‘We just wanted to write and tell you how much . . .’ It goes on to say how their lives have changed with the arrival of their little angel, how they couldn’t have done it without Katy’s support, how much joy the little angel has brought them. They say that they can’t find the words to express how they feel, but they have a pretty good go, rambling on to the end of the page. Right at the bottom is a tiny photo, stapled on to the paper. I have to lean forward to see it properly. It’s a teeny little face fast asleep, a curled fist the size of a marshmallow, full butterfly lips and feather black hair.