by Gary Fry
Jane’s thoughts were interrupted by the return of the sonographer. A young man followed, and Jane was relieved to notice that he wasn’t dressed in a medical uniform. His dark garments looked more like those of a technician, a specialist in machines and not the human body. And that was when the older woman spoke again.
“We’re terrible sorry, Mrs. Marlow…”
“Miss.”
“Ah yes. Miss.” The sonographer looked uppity, arguably more so than a problem with her medical equipment warranted. But that was all she revealed. “I’m afraid the scanning device has developed a fault. Sometimes the ultrasound images get distorted by bad connections in the wiring. We’re going to have to get it looked at. And we’ll need to rearrange your appointment. I can only apologize about this.”
Jane’s first thought wasn’t concern about having wasted time traveling miles across the London suburbs. It was an uncomfortable mixture of relief, confusion and suspicion. What had the woman seen on the monitor, and how did she know there was a problem with the machine? And if this, as her words implied, was a common fault, why did she appear so flustered, as if she’d witnessed something deeply unpleasant? But surmounting all these concerns was a simple feeling of euphoria: there was nothing wrong with her child, after all, and now Jane felt involved in its development in a way she hadn’t more recently.
“That’s okay,” she replied to the sonographer as the technician stooped to work on the machine. Jane crossed the room to grab her jacket and quickly shrugged it on. Then, dropping a definite article in a way that was rare for someone with her London upbringing, she added, “I’ll look forward to ’day I return.”
7
Jane loved to eat meat, had always done so, but the meal she prepared that evening left her unfulfilled. She scraped the chicken into her kitchen bin and then nibbled on a few raw vegetables she’d stored in the fridge after cooking at the weekend. Was this what was known as pica, or was that just a desire to consume non-food materials while pregnant, like paper, dirt and chalk? She didn’t know, but thought she could find out for certain by searching the omniscient Internet. She was apprehensive about going online for a simple reason, however: Luke Catcher might not have replied to her email.
Or worse, he might have.
Jane felt disoriented after her day of misadventure. But she’d decided to push aside any lingering disquiet from the hospital in favor of moving forwards, reconciling herself to the prospect of bringing up her child alone. Nothing should interfere with the needs of her body, she thought, holding her slightly swollen midriff and examining herself in a lengthy mirror… Nevertheless, the more she attempted to resist switching on her PC, the more the device summoned her, like some mystical agent of unease, seeking to violate her privacy.
Maybe what she secretly feared was looking again at that doctored book cover: the coastal home, those blue-eyed children, and the unnatural imposition of her own image. But she was being silly. It was just a mass-market commercial product, as harmless as all other disposable forms of entertainment. Luke Catcher’s memoir would surely be fascinating to hardcore fans and few others. It would vanish without a trace in high-street stores, maybe linger a while online, and then be consigned to the author’s back room, gathering dust like old photos. She’d be surprised if the book made him much more than the £500 she’d been paid for the commission, which meant it was a labor of love…but love for what or whom? Just what had the man’s “unusual past” involved?
It was no use; she simply had to activate her PC.
“Nowt can be dun by dawdlin’, tha nos,” she said, the cod Yorkshire accent coming to her as effortlessly as it had in the maternity room, when she’d spoken to the sonographer in an untypical way. “Aye, sit thissen dahn, lass, an’ see what trouble’s afoot.”
Jane giggled, feeling unusually high-spirited despite the nausea she’d suffered after trying to eat meat. Then she opened up her inbox to see what had arrived since she’d last checked that morning. Here was spam from Nigeria, a clutch of cost-savings vouchers from her favorite supermarket (she’d certainly need these soon), and…a reply from Luke Catcher.
Holding her cross on its chain around her neck, she used her free hand to unfurl his email.
Jane half expected this to be an automated reply explaining how the author regretted to inform fans that he was embroiled in writing his latest tome and that if he took time out to respond personally to all communications, there’d be fewer books to enjoy… But it didn’t say that at all. In fact, the message had clearly been written by Luke Catcher and was signed off by him, too. Which meant he was either less popular than she’d assumed or he’d made a deliberate effort to get in touch with her. He surely remembered what she looked like from that winter wear advert that had prompted him to select her for his book cover, even though she lived 400 miles from the photo-shoot location and had to be conveyed there at profit-limiting expense (her petrol expenses had come in at £150). In truth, she’d been relying on her appearance to grab his attention a second time; she wasn’t above using her power over men to achieve certain goals.
She silenced her bluebottle mind and switched her attention back to the message.
Dear Jane,
Good to hear from you! I was delighted when you agreed to model for my book cover. I hope I don’t sound like some seedy old stalker (Christ, I must be old enough to be your grandfather!) when I say that I spent quite a bit of time trawling the media before chancing upon the perfect person.
And I don’t mind you asking about the children at all. The simple truth is that the kids in the photo are my five brothers and me (I’m the oldest in the snap, the gangly five- or six-year-old). I can’t remember the year the picture was taken—1954 or ’55, I’d guess—but it was just after my mother had had her final child, the youngest-looking there. It’s my mother who’s missing from the picture, the person you’re standing in for. It’s a long story, believe me.
Hey, look, I understand that you live in London. Well, I’m down there next month promoting my new thriller and could arrange to get an evening free from the paparazzi (joke). I’d be delighted to take you out for dinner. Let me know.
Regards,
Luke (definitely not a weirdo or wacko ;<)
P.S. Hell, I almost forgot: CONGRATULATIONS on your pregnancy!
The guy sounded genuine and very nice; she scolded herself for ever suspecting otherwise. Feeling smitten by his playful tone and open manner, she quickly pushed aside earlier thoughts about his association with the arch photographer. There was certainly no reason to fear meeting up with him, though she found herself wondering whether by “dinner” he’d meant lunch or an evening meal. Maybe her involuntary lapses into Yorkshire-isms lately had rendered her perception skewed and her thoughts confused…or maybe she was just tired. At any rate, curiosity about the spooky episode she’d experienced up north prompted her to type a hurried reply.
Dear Luke,
Thanks for your prompt response. And yes, if you’re in the city anyway, why don’t we get together. I greatly look forward to hearing about your brothers and of course your mother.
Drop me an email closer to the time.
Best—
Jane
Minutes after she’d sent this latest communication, she reread his email and realized that he hadn’t actually said he was willing to tell her about his childhood. Maybe she’d been presumptuous; maybe he’d simply fancied a pleasant social occasion with a professional peer, with no discussion at all about his past. Indeed, his forthcoming book would explore that issue in detail, wouldn’t it? He might even be contractually obliged to keep quiet about it until the tome’s publication.
Wondering whether she’d gone too far, Jane started fretting. She retreated to her bedroom and began praying. But then she remembered something else she’d wanted to ask the man: had that property near Whitby even been his childhood family home? And of course that invited further inquiries. Where had his father figured in the family gathering?
Why hadn’t his publisher simply used the original shot of his mother standing in front of her brood of boys? And what the hell had Jane witnessed while working in that building—some kind of supernatural vision? Visual residue of the past, replaying only in her skull?
But a final question was even more pertinent: why had she experienced such a weird episode?
Why?
8
Jane was offered a second hospital appointment the following week. On this occasion, the scan was performed by a different sonographer and occurred without complication. When Jane asked the woman—younger, slimmer, and with no envy in her behavior—where her colleague was that day, she was told, “Jackie Meadows, you mean? Oh, she only works part-time, like me. She does Tuesday to Thursday; I do Monday and Friday. That helps us care for our own families.”
Jackie Meadows. Jane made a mental note of the name, but didn’t know why she felt compelled to do so. Then she returned the pleasantries offered by the professional, who told her she had nothing to worry about concerning her pregnancy. After reading up on the Internet about the purpose of scans (hell, the NHS must really hate the ubiquity of that resource), Jane knew nothing could be certain until her second scan in a few months, but decided not to be difficult. Whatever she suspected about Jackie Meadows’ disconcerting response to the first attempt to identify the baby’s delivery date could surely be laid to rest.
Now Jane had a date on which her child was due: it would be an autumn infant, the season of spooks and ghouls… But again she was being foolish. Although her dreams lately had been filled by a broad range of weird imagery and nebulous threats, there was no reason to suspect her full term would be more problematic than any other healthy young woman’s, nor result in anything less than a normal girl or boy.
Nevertheless, as Jane crossed the borough in public transport, breathing in exhaust fumes and Lord knew what other toxic residues, she couldn’t help feeling protective of what grew inexorably inside her. When the bus reached her stop, she clung to the silver crucifix around her neck. This item of jewelery had been her mother’s, and in the absence of such a rock-solid source of comfort, it had become increasingly reassuring, like some magical amulet.
Later that night, after freshening up in her flat, she decided to go out for something to eat. She’d been shutting herself away for weeks, deciding what to do in her situation. But now that she’d reconfigured the problem as an opportunity (and a valuable one at that; possibly the most valuable of all for a woman), she thought she might celebrate by finding somewhere snazzy to dine in the West End. Still, the closer she got to her destination in the cab she’d booked in a bugger-the-expense mood, the less she felt like eating anything with meat in it. The mere thought of beef, chicken, lamb or any other cut nauseated her. She was aware of a number of trendy veggie restaurants, however—places in which she and other models often met to moan about their industry—and would select one of those.
The West End was full of early evening pedestrians, folk on their way home from work or already out for a long night. It was getting dark, with scant streetlamps doing what they could to combat a haze of drizzle. Jane eventually settled on a vegan place, attracted by a mixed bean salad advertised in its window. This was quite unlike her—she ordinarily devoured steak, running with blood—but her body wasn’t her own at the moment, and she knew why. After being seated in one corner, she ordered the food and thought twice about adding a glass of wine. Then, holding the small swelling at her belly, she requested a mineral water and settled back to enjoy her treat.
Later, once she’d finished eating, a few other young women entered, one of whom—the brashest, blondest and slimmest—came directly across to Jane, her arms outstretched.
“Darling,” she said, her shrill voice matching every inch of her overdressed form, “it’s been an age since I saw you last.”
Jane glanced up and immediately recognized a model she knew from many a city party, another regular face in the media devoted to minor celebrities. The woman sat opposite without being invited, but Jane, more relaxed than she’d felt in days, flashed a bogus smile.
“Hiya…Stella,” she replied, the name coming to her only at the last moment. “How are you?”
“Not too bad, thanks. Oh, it’s great to see you. You look well.” Then she paused, but only for a moment. “Well, certainly a lot better than Neil must at the moment.”
Neil Lindsey, that would be: the father of Jane’s child.
Stella, now an unwelcome intruder, surely knew that Jane and Neil had slept together, because Stella and Neil were close pals…well, as close as two publicity-hungry wannabes were capable of becoming. But none of this cattish reflection was helping Jane understand what the woman had meant.
She asked directly, “Sorry, what do you mean? Is Neil…ill?”
“Haven’t you heard, darling?”
“No. I’ve heard nowt.” She sensed her mood take a plunge, her flesh beginning to twitch. “Why don’t you tell me, Stella?”
The woman looked eager to do so, but also determined to drag out the unpleasant suspense. Jane felt her unease heighten, her hands starting to shake. She wondered what damage such negative moods could do to her unborn baby—to Neil Lindsey’s child, even though the man didn’t know it yet.
But that was when Stella spoke again. “He was filming up in Southend. It was a special one-off episode of his soap opera, in which all the cast went out for a daytrip, away from the miserable hole where it’s usually shot. But he must have…fallen or something, because he came back with a dodgy back. He’s been bedbound for days. They’ve had to write him out of the scripts until he’s back on his feet. But I hear it’s not looking good. Apparently, his family is helping out with daily chores: shopping, cooking, cleaning. You know he has that flat in Brixton?”
Yes, Jane knew where he lived. She’d spent the last few months—every day of her pregnancy—choosing not to visit him there and reveal what he had every right to know. And now he’d suffered another misfortune, like a savage compounding of her cruel decision. Was that fair? Could she continue to keep her secret while he lay ill nearby?
“What’s wrong, darling?” Stella asked, breaking into Jane’s reverie like a wrecking ball demolishing a house. “Why are you…winking at me like that?”
Jane glanced up, her vision disputed by confusion. “Eh? Ah don’t understand,” she said, sensing her words slipping away. “Winking, tha say?”
“You just did it again,” Stella replied, looking into Jane’s eyes without blinking. She appeared amused, but also unsettled, as if unable to figure out what was going on here. Did she suspect her friend’s secret, or was Jane simply being paranoid again, the way she’d felt at the hospital, when Jackie Meadows had exposed her belly and might not have demonstrated envy at all?
“Ah did what again? Tha’s not making sense, lass.”
“You…winked,” Stella replied, leaning back from the table, as if Jane’s words had also troubled her.
It was time to put an end to this nonsense. The woman might even be on drugs. That would certainly account for her giddy, accusatory behavior. Pushing from her mind a mental image of that cursed house up north, Jane stood and, with a brief apology that sent the other model away to her companion this evening, she crossed the restaurant for the bathroom, which was mercifully empty as she entered.
And now here was a mirror.
It was true. Jane was winking. She appeared to have developed an anxious twitch in her right eye. The movement was so swift that she’d been unable to detect it from inside.
But that wasn’t the worst thing she noticed in the glass. As she sensed something move deep inside her, just where her infant slowly gestated, she spotted a long strand of grey in her jet-black hair.
It ran from forehead to neck, on the left side on her head.
9
The following month passed without too much event. Jane took on only modeling projects that involved being fully dressed, because the telltale bulge at h
er waistline was now an obvious giveaway. She imagined most would assume she was pregnant, but there were always the naïve few—insensitive guys, mainly—who’d make semi-sadistic comments about her “piling on the lard,” and that was a reputation in this business she might never live down.
When she was six months gone, she announced to her agent and the most gossipy of her peers (the ever-informative Stella was certainly among them) that she was taking a brief career break and would be back in the New Year. She said she’d been working solidly since she was sixteen, with no period of respite, and needed to “recharge the old cells” before returning soon to “conquer the world.” Such bullshit language went down well in her circle of chancers, who’d responded with comments like “we hear you, sister” and “like, big respect, girl.”
In truth, Jane simply went underground, hiding in her flat and venturing out only when she needed to. She hadn’t even visited her former lover Neil, who, as far as she knew, must have made a recovery from his injury. Jane owned a television, but didn’t subscribe to any satellite package and was unable to check whether he was back at work. She hadn’t bothered with newspapers more recently either, but doubted the fickle columnists would give too many inches to someone who’d just returned after an enforced removal from the partying scene. Neil wasn’t that big a star.
She had no particular concern for the father of her child, anyway; she was more focused on the baby itself. And as her midriff grew rounder and rounder, she tried to avoid anything likely to cause stress. She couldn’t say why for certain, but such frantic episodes had led to a belief that her behavior was no longer her own. This must be just her hormones running wild, but even so, her lapse into uncharacteristic mindsets and alien attitudes had frightened her on several occasions. She’d found herself feeling paranoiac, but not just at the hospital during her first scan and again at the vegan restaurant when her friend had babbled on about trivia. Jane had also caught herself experiencing mild sensations of persecution while working, as if other people—the cameramen, the production crew, other models—had whispered behind her back. Jane had also continued to avoid meat in her diet, a radical transformation she was unable to ascribe to anything other than biological unrest induced by her developing child.
