by Fiore, Rosie
‘Can I still buy the crib?’
‘You can still buy the crib.’
‘And lots of cute outfits?’
‘Go crazy. The cutest you can find.’
‘And can I be at the birth?’
‘Are you mad?’
‘Not at the business end. Good Lord. I’ve made a lifestyle choice never to view women from that angle. I’m not about to start now. But I could stand at your head and say encouraging things and mop your brow.’
‘It’s not a film, Si . . . it’s messy. There’ll be blood and screaming.’
‘There’ll be no screaming! You’re made of tougher stuff than that. You can maybe purse your lips a little bit.’
‘Well, let’s both learn a bit more about the whole thing, and then we’ll decide. To be honest, I don’t know the first thing about babies, or giving birth or pregnancy for that matter.’
‘Really?’ said Simon, ‘I thought at your age . . .’
‘Thanks a lot. You thought I’d have lots of friends having babies?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘I’m sure women my age are popping them out all the time, but not my friends. Actually, most of my friends are men anyway, and the ones who do have children don’t really talk about them a lot. I’m a working woman, Si, not a member of some yummy-mummy Surrey set.’
‘Oh Lord,’ Simon said suddenly.
‘Oh Lord what?’
‘Speaking of Surrey yummy mummies, or not mummies as the case may be . . .’
‘Rachel,’ Louise said soberly.
Rachel was the youngest of the Holmes siblings. She’d studied Media at university and worked for a short time in marketing for an investment bank, before marrying the richest, handsomest banker on the trading floor. She’d then immediately given up work and stayed at home in Richard’s Surrey pile, waiting to fall pregnant with the first of the three perfect blond children that she would spend her life raising. She filled her days with charity work and volunteered as a classroom assistant at the local nursery . . . all things she could drop at a moment’s notice as soon as she conceived. Unfortunately, ten years later, there was no sign of the blond children. Rachel had undergone every test under the sun. Richard had been shunted off to have his sperm count checked. There was nothing physically wrong, yet Rachel could not get pregnant.
Both Simon and Louise didn’t have much to say to a sibling who had never really worked. She had no idea of the day-to-day realities of earning a living, having to save for something you wanted, or being too busy at work to listen to a twenty-minute-long description of something a cute child in the nursery she worked at did today. Rachel was quite clever enough to know they found her boring. She also knew Simon and Louise were very close and she was horribly jealous of their easy and intimate relationship. She wooed Simon constantly, playing on the fact that he lived so close to her, and she patronised Louise whenever they spoke, not so subtly implying that Louise was well on her way to becoming a dried-up spinster, or a hairy-legged, feminist ball-breaker.
And now, this had happened. Louise had achieved the one thing Rachel couldn’t do without even trying. Not only that, but Simon was closely involved. There was no doubt about it. Rachel was going to be devastated.
‘Yes, Rachel,’ Simon said. ‘I didn’t tell you this before, because, frankly, we’ve had one or two other things to discuss. But she heard you were coming down to see me, so we’re expected for lunch on Sunday.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Exactly. Do we tell her?’
‘And have her go on at me for the whole meal? No thank you.’
‘Or she could find out later, and work out that we knew when we were there for lunch and didn’t tell her?’
‘Would she care?’
‘Would she? She’s got nothing else to think about.
Babies, fashion, gossip and family drama. Even if there wasn’t drama in this situation, she’d make some.’
‘So what’s your suggestion?’
‘Tell her. Tell her everything with the minimum of fuss and give her lots of details. It’ll keep her busy for a while. If you like, you can pretend I don’t know and you’re confiding in her first.’
‘She’d never buy that.’
‘No, you’re right. You two have never been joined at the hip.’
‘I’m sure I can make it sound like I need her help too, though.’
‘Good call.’
Louise laughed suddenly and clutched Simon’s arm. ‘Good God. I don’t believe I have to go to lunch with Rachel and Richard and endure a major family trauma, and I can’t even drink!’
That Sunday, Louise and Simon took the train down to Oxshott. Richard roared up to the station in his 4x4 Porsche and whisked them along the winding roads back to the house. Rachel, as always, had created a perfect social setting. They walked into the house to be met with the scent of lilies and roses. She’d arranged a huge bowl of flowers in the entrance hall. Moving into the living room, the smell of roast lamb wafted to meet them, and soon that was blended with a waft of Rachel’s expensive perfume as she swept out to kiss them. She was very slim, Louise noticed. Her hair was an expensive shade of blonde and her skin was polished and much more bronzed than you’d expect for a chilly January.
‘You look lovely,’ Louise said. It was true. She liked to dress smartly and stay in shape, but even with all the time and money in the world, she’d never have Rachel’s expensive elegance.
‘Thanks, Lou. You look . . . fine,’ Rachel replied. She turned to kiss Simon. ‘Hello, gorgeous brother.’
‘Drinks?’ Richard boomed, rubbing his hands together. He and Rachel liked to play very traditional couple roles. He’d never dream of setting foot in the kitchen, and she wouldn’t have poured a G & T if her life depended on it.
‘A gin for me, please, Richard,’ Simon said quickly.
‘And I’ll just have a fruit juice,’ said Louise. Richard looked at her as if she’d just made fun of his golf game. ‘I’m on antibiotics. Teeth,’ she explained. He relaxed a little, although he was still clearly horrified that someone would miss out on a pre-lunch tipple.
‘And a sherry for me, darling,’ Rachel chipped in. ‘Simon, you must see the blinds I had made. The most perfect shade of duck-egg blue.’
Richard got the drinks, and Simon walked around the living room with Rachel, making the right noises about the additions to her decor. Louise stood slightly awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to get in the way. Their plan was that they’d wait till lunch was underway before dropping their bombshell. They’d decided that if Richard had a few drinks in him and Rachel had been softened by an endless stream of compliments about her home and food, the fallout might not be too ghastly. Still Louise found herself wishing it was all over already. She had a sick feeling low in her stomach, as if she was waiting to see the headmaster.
Simon and Rachel had finished their grand tour and Richard had placed drinks in everyone’s hands. ‘Cheers, dears!’ Rachel said brightly and raised her glass. ‘Lovely to have you both here, for once!’
Just as Louise opened her mouth to reply, the doorbell pealed.
‘They’re here!’ Rachel trilled. ‘Let them in, Richard!’
‘Who’s here?’ Simon asked as Richard went to open the door. He exchanged a quick glance with Louise. This was an eventuality that hadn’t even occurred to them . . . other guests.
‘Our dear, dear friends, David and Samantha Hamilton,’ Rachel explained. ‘David is Richard’s boss, and they play golf together all the time. So Sam and I are golf widows and console each other . . . although we’re on quite a few of the same committees!’
So this was an aspirational lunch . . . Rachel and Richard were showing off for the boss and his wife, and Simon and Louise had been invited to provide some family colour.
David and Samantha came in, with Richard rubbing his hands behind them like a toadying Dickens character. David was tall, with a mane of silver hair that he wore a fraction to
o long, and a handsome, if slightly hard face. Samantha was blonde and Louise suddenly saw where her sister’s polished new look came from: she was trying to be a Samantha clone. There was air-kissing, introductions and drink-pouring, and everyone sat down in the living room. Simon squeezed Louise’s hand surreptitiously. Their announcement would obviously have to wait. Rachel rushed off to bring in trays of appetisers, and Richard and David started teasing each other boringly about golf.
‘So! David!’ Rachel said brightly, as she handed him a blini with caviar. ‘This is my sister I’ve told you so much about. She’s quite the career girl! She works at a printing shop.’
‘Actually, I run a branch of a printing company,’ Louise said, hating herself for rising to the bait. The way Rachel had said it, it made her sound like she tottered about photocopying things for people. ‘We’re one of the largest high-volume printers in England. Barrett and Humphries?’
David nodded dismissively, and carried on telling a story to Richard about someone called Binky and some futures. Louise wished heartily she could slurp up an enormous glass of wine to make the afternoon go quicker. But there was no wine for her, and the meal seemed to go on forever. Rachel kept bringing out course after perfectly made course, and making slightly barbed comments at Louise while fawning over her guests. Louise toughed it out, teeth gritted, determined to stick out the meal and get a chance to chat to her sister on her own. But she soon had to admit defeat. There was no way they’d be able to outstay the Hamiltons – David and Richard had gone on to cigars and brandy, as if they were members of the Victorian gentry. So an hour or so later, Louise and Simon managed to excuse themselves, making excuses about her early start.
They were both quiet on the train on the way home. Simon broke the silence when they got back to the flat and were curled up on the sofa with cups of tea.
‘Honestly, what ghastly people. If that’s what Rachel is aspiring to, then I . . .’ He ran out of words.
‘I know. And all that sucking up she and Richard were doing. Eurgh.’
‘Still, I wish we’d had a chance to tell her,’ Simon said sadly.
‘I know. I have to go back home tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to leave it till I come back. She has to hear it from me.’
‘I know, love. I wish I could do your dirty work for you, but if I tell her, it’ll just give her something else to be upset about.’
‘I’ll ring her tomorrow. No. I’ll email her.’
‘Email her?’
‘I’m a coward. She can’t cry at me over email.’
‘But she can then ambush you with a phone call.’
‘Well, I’ll have to deal with that if it happens. Made my bed, lie in it, et cetera, et cetera. I’m going to take flack from a lot of people for this choice; I might as well start now.’
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Simon said, hugging her. ‘I know I talked you into this. I hope you don’t feel . . .’
‘Come on. You don’t really believe you could talk me into something I didn’t want to do?’
‘Are you saying you might be a little bit stubborn, sweet sister?’
‘Like you’re a little bit gay?’
‘Fair enough. As long as you’re sure.’
Louise grinned at him. ‘Do you know what? I know it’s mad, but I’ve never been surer about anything in my life.’
The next morning, she caught a 6 a.m. train back to Leeds, and was at her desk by 9 a.m. She had a raft of work emails to deal with, but she decided to get the Rachel one out of the way first, before she lost her nerve.
‘Dear Rachel and Richard,’ she wrote (she had to; they shared a home email address).
Thank you so much for a lovely lunch yesterday. It was good to meet your friends and the food was wonderful as always.
(That was all very formal and correct, just what Rachel would like. Now how to carry on? How do you take a deep breath in email terms, she wondered? Best just to press on.)
I have some news which I had hoped to share with you yesterday, but as it’s a family matter, it didn’t seem the right time as you had other guests. I’m pregnant. I was in a relationship that has ended, so I will be raising this baby as a single mother.
(No need to share the details of Brian’s marriage, the extreme brevity of their ‘relationship’ or the fact that he currently had no idea about his impending fatherhood, she decided).
Simon has been very supportive, and I plan to come down to live in London before the baby is born.
(And before the pregnancy begins to show and all of Yorkshire is gossiping.)
I know this must come as a surprise. I haven’t told anyone else yet as it’s early days, so please don’t spread the word.
She sat staring at the screen for a very long time and tried to think of a way to end the email. ‘Be happy for me’? How could Rachel be happy for her? ‘I hope you’ll enjoy being an aunt?’ That just rubbed it in that she wasn’t a mum. In the end, she just wrote ‘Love, Lou’ and hit Send before she could change her mind.
She was madly busy for the next three hours or so, working through all her emails, catching up with her staff and checking paper orders for the magazine print run coming in that afternoon. She spent an hour or two on the shop floor, making sure everything was running as it should, then, as she was starting to feel a bit dizzy, made herself go to the caff opposite and eat a bacon roll.
When she got back to her desk, she saw there was an email from Rachel. She read it, then read it again. She was going to get back on a train, go round to her sister’s house and disable the exclamation mark on her keyboard.
Dearest Lou!
OMG!!!!!!!!!!! I cant believe you got a BFP!!!!!!! I didnt
even know you were TTC!!!!!! I’m soooooo thrilled for you and the daddy. Phone me soon!!!!! I want to hear all about it.
(((((((((((((((((hugs))))))))))))))))
Rach
Disable the exclamation mark and possibly the brackets as well. (What is that? A hug? Via email?)
She read the email again. To be honest, she didn’t understand a word of it. BFP? TTC? What were these? Political organisations? And what was the bit about ‘you and the daddy’? Clearly she’d chosen to ignore the information that Louise was no longer with the father. Rachel knew not to ring her during the working day – Louise wouldn’t pick up, as she was usually too busy. But she had no doubt that she’d come home to two or three messages on her mobile and a blinking light on the answering machine.
She would have to deal with Rachel later. The email after it was from Edward, the general manager. Her new and urgent priority was the Macintosh report. She had to have it checked, proofread and off her desk by 2 p.m., or there would be hell to pay. It was just . . . well, that tiny little baby, no bigger than a sultana, made her feel so damned sick every afternoon. Well, never mind. She’d just have to ignore the nausea. Work to do. The Macintosh report waits for no sultana. If only her stomach would stop roiling and filling her mouth with bile, like she was on a rowing boat on the sea. She could not, would not, be sick at work. No way. Too humiliating. Too much of a giveaway. Too late.
She managed to walk rather than run to the Ladies, her lips tightly pursed, and dashed into a cubicle. To her relief, there was no one else there. Her bacon roll came up quickly, followed by a few agonising minutes of dry heaving, through which she prayed that the bathroom would remain empty. Finally, it stopped. She flushed and came out to face her own horrifying reflection: damp hair, smudged mascara, swollen lips . . . and the equally unwelcome vision of Deidre from HR, who peered at her curiously.
‘Oooh . . . not well, are we?’ Deidre said, in a cutesy, wheedling tone.
‘I’m fine,’ Louise said briskly, going to the basin and turning on a tap to repair the damage. ‘Dodgy bacon roll.’
‘From the caff?’ Deidre looked horrified. Deidre was not a small girl. The caff was her spiritual home.
‘Yes,’ Louise said firmly, and, she hoped, finally. She folded a paper towel and wet it, using
it to mop up the worst of the panda eyes. She combed her fingers through her hair: it was short and straight, and this temporary repair would have to do. She desperately wanted to rinse out her mouth, but she was damned if she was going to do that with Deidre staring at her. Not one to take a hint, she hadn’t moved.
‘Can I get you anything, Louise? A glass of water? An antacid?’
(A gun? Louise thought.) ‘No thanks, Deidre, I’m fine now. Really. I’d just like a minute . . .’
‘Of course,’ she said, still not moving. Then Louise caught Deidre’s eye in the mirror. It was as if she could see the cogs creaking in Deidre’s not-very-bright mind. She could see Deidre adding the vomiting to what she had no doubt heard about Louise’s fling with Brian. She saw Deidre glance at her breasts, then look up guiltily and catch her eye again. Then Deidre turned away and went quickly into a toilet cubicle, locking the door behind her.
Louise went back to her desk and sat very still, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t imagined the gossip would start so soon. But now she could just see Deidre sitting in the staffroom with her packet of smokybacon crisps, whispering to Ethel from Accounts and one or two of the shopfloor boys. It would be a matter of hours before it crossed the branch barrier and someone in Brian’s branch, or, God forbid, Head Office, got wind of it. She needed to get out . . . out of Barrett and Humphries, out of Leeds, as quickly as possible.
She thought about ringing Simon in a panic and explaining what had just happened. He’d tell her she was being paranoid, that she was seeing spies round every corner. Deidre couldn’t possibly know, and she could speculate all she liked . . . nobody would believe her. She was a notoriously unreliable gossip. And anyway, who was to say Louise wasn’t in a relationship with someone else? They didn’t know. That’s what Simon would say. She took a deep breath. She didn’t need to ring him . . . just thinking about speaking to him had calmed her down. It would all be fine.
That evening, she got home to a long, breathless message from Rachel on her answering machine. She couldn’t face talking to her, so she sent a text saying thanks for the good wishes, but she would be out all evening and couldn’t chat. She knew that the following evening was Rachel’s yoga night, so she had a day or two’s grace.
