by Neal Doran
Rebecca realised she’d forgotten to pick up the candles she’d wanted, but wouldn’t go back and look for them. She also remembered that their toilet brush at home kept falling apart at the handle and they needed a new one, but she definitely couldn’t get one now. That was the bit that almost tipped her over. Her eyes filled with tears as she loaded the smaller items onto the checkout conveyor, while James aligned the barcodes on the bigger stuff that was staying on the trolley till they got it to the car. If he noticed, he didn’t say or do anything. He just kept staring back into the middle distance of the warehouse aisles, expressionless.
They passed the workstations with the ketchup and mustard for the hot dogs.
‘Do you…?’ Rebecca quietly muttered as they kept moving.
With a sad, martyred shake of the head he said no, and manoeuvred their trolley towards their waiting car.
Chapter 24
On Monday afternoon Rebecca left work early, so she could be home by the time James got there. She’d headed for the Tesco Express to get a cooked chicken and some roasties for dinner. Tonight she hoped that everything would be back to normal. That the tension of the weekend would pass. It was her dad who was mainly bothering her, and she shouldn’t take that out on her husband. And he had a lot on his mind too, trying to get his career back on track and do this stupid temping too.
By lunchtime, James had finally texted her back. They hadn’t actually spoken through the day but she got to hear how the job was, and what he was doing. She was kind of relieved he was in an office instead of on the warehouse floor. Although the idea of him coming home all manly and sweaty and in need of a shower and a rub down had been crossing her mind a lot… Jesus, this pregnancy was making her think about sex more than she had since she was first at uni, or maybe since she and James had got together.
She’d bought flowers for the dining room table, had beer in the fridge, and posh crisps sitting in their bag in a bowl ready to be emptied out when he got in. Maybe this was what maternity leave would be like, she thought, getting the house and Bomp all nice ahead of James’s return and not having to worry about contracts and difficult clients. She could be like a wife from Mad Men. Although don’t they all drink too much and have affairs to help them cope with emotionally abusive and distant husbands? Perhaps not the best role models.
When she heard the key in the door she turned off the sitcom on the telly, and looked out to the hall to see him. She was instantly conscious that when they’d last seen each other, they hadn’t really been talking. The idea that they’d have to carry on like that was exhausting and she desperately hoped they could just drop it. The hesitant, rueful smile on James’s face made it obvious he felt the same way.
‘Hi darling,’ he said.
‘Hi love, how was your day?’
‘I guess I won’t be getting in shape because of all the hard work I’ll be doing.’
‘Thank God – you must be relieved.’
‘Well…I’ll miss the outfits.’
Rebecca put her head onto his chest as she hugged him.
Chapter 25
A couple of home visits in and Suzanne the midwife was no longer as anxious as she had been when she first met Rebecca. However, it transpired that the earlier nerves had made her talk less than was normal for her, rather than more. And the lack of tact and discretion wasn’t a nervous reaction, it was just the way she was.
This relaxed Rebecca enormously.
She began to look forward to the home visits where she might be told something that, if you didn’t know Suzanne better, you might assume was an insult. Like how Rebecca looked like someone whose weight yo-yo’d a bit anyway, so people might not realise she was pregnant that quickly. Or that the extra sheen and body that pregnancy gave to women’s hair obviously didn’t apply to everyone. Worrying about saying the wrong thing, something that plagued Rebecca constantly, just wasn’t an issue when talking to Suzanne. Not only was the midwife well-versed in the experience of saying something that might be considered inappropriate, half the time she probably wouldn’t even notice the faux pas in the first place.
Rebecca also liked how this meant she was able to feel a bit more in control of their meetings. She’d diligently researched best practice and procedure for antenatal care, so she knew what was supposed to be happening on the visits as well as Suzanne did. She could make sure herself that everything was getting done when it was supposed to be. Suzanne always got around to doing all the necessary checks and tests, but it wasn’t always at the right time. After the last appointment Rebecca had just been back at work, shaking hands at the start of a sensitive meeting about a client’s inheritance of her father’s business, when she’d had an urgent phone call put through from the hospital. It was Suzanne asking how her thrush symptoms were manifesting.
‘How’s the sex drive? Are you freezing up or going off the thermometer?’ Suzanne asked now as she checked Rebecca’s blood pressure.
‘It’s…getting warmer…’
‘Oh really?’ said the midwife, pruriently. ‘I’d have had you down as a total shutdown. That’s nice for you with that dishy husband of yours around. The lady I see before I come here? With four kids and a husband who’s “away” a lot? She’s up to ninety all the time and it’s doing her head in. I’d swear she was giving me a look that said I could play my cards right easily enough. The luck I have with men I’d almost think about it.’
‘You haven’t got a boyfriend, then?’
‘You know men. They perk up instantly on hearing I’m a nurse. God knows why, something to do with sponge baths from what I can gather. But as soon as they hear midwife, they shrink away. Must think I could infect them with pregnancy or something. Or they’re holding me accountable for stretching the fannies of the nation out of shape, when all I’m doing is trying to help. Are you doing your Kegel exercises by the way?’
Rebecca clenched, as much at the thought of Suzanne’s job description as at the reminder she was supposed to be putting in some practice.
‘Doing them as we speak,’ she said.
‘You’ll thank me later,’ said the midwife, unstrapping the band of the blood pressure meter from around Rebecca’s upper arm. ‘That’s up a little. We’d normally expect to see blood pressure down at this stage, so that’s a bit surprising. Is there anything adding stress to your life?’
Pick a card, any card, Rebecca thought to herself.
‘James is finding it a bit harder than we expected to find a new permanent job after his redundancy. I suppose that is a worry,’ she said.
‘I bet. Don’t listen to what anyone tells you about things getting better. It’s a nightmare out there on the job market.’
She does make things seem better, Rebecca thought, in her own way. Maybe having a husband who had been, in his own words, ‘the nation’s oldest work experience boy’ for the past month wasn’t surprising in this day and age.
‘Although with his qualifications I would have thought it would be a breeze. So that is a bit worrying.’
Or not.
‘Anything else?’ the midwife continued.
Is she angling? wondered Rebecca. Does she know about Dad and just wants me to bring the subject up? She wasn’t sure if Suzanne would be capable of so smoothly guiding the conversation around to the topic. The worry about the trial, and her appearance, was certainly affecting her and she worried that by not saying something, she could be missing out on important information that could harm her baby’s health. But then Rebecca had always found advice for dealing with stress had never amounted to anything more than ‘try to avoid stressful situations’. That wasn’t really an option here.
Rebecca also didn’t want to be the subject of discussion at Suzanne’s next appointment: ‘You think you’re stressed? I’ve just seen someone with a husband who’d rather be on benefits than get a proper job, and has a sex offender dad. And she’s permanently got the horn, which isn’t helping.’
No, Rebecca decided, she wasn’t going
to say anything. It wouldn’t do any good.
‘No. No, everything seems to be fine. Started the antenatal classes at the health centre, and they’ve been helpful.’
Helpful in giving her nightmares. In a way, the classes had been like being back at university in a lecture hall at first. Information about hospital procedures and policies was explained, and details of alternative birthing options listed, and Rebecca had looked around her at all the other mums-to-be taking notes rigorously. She’d bought a notepad but looking back at it, it was mainly doodles, something about needing more baby vests than you might think, and the word EPIDURAL in capitals and underlined. She’d drifted off a bit in the discussion on home births or other more community–based alternatives because she wanted all the drugs and medical help she could get on tap. She was taking no chances. Well, taking no chances beyond all those hospital bugs you sometimes hear about, but better that than risk death in childbirth, or ruining her own carpet.
She’d bet all the other mothers had impeccable notes, while she’d have to get on the internet to work out why she’d written down a word she couldn’t now read that she thought might be something important to do with early breast milk. But that hadn’t been the worst bit of the course so far. That had been when they’d broken out into small groups, and had to ‘share’ and do ice-breaking exercises. She’d barely said a word after having to introduce herself – worse, after she’d had to introduce James, and say the thing she most admired about him. That had taken all the energy she had, mainly through blushing. Who admires their partner? Or can verbalise it in front of a bunch of strangers at any rate? All she could think about once she realised what she was going to have to do was all the things she shouldn’t say, which were largely jokes about his penis. That was all she could think: penis, penis, penis.
Meanwhile, James had been in his element of course, and managed to come up with something really sweet about how she was always thinking of other people, and how that was going to make her such a good mum. He got a few muted ahs for that, and irritated looks from the other men. It made her joke about his good foot-rubs look a bit more hopeless, mind. Maybe she’d have been better saying he was well-equipped, and really pissed everyone else off.
So that was bad, but she could only thank God that economising had meant they hadn’t gone for the intensive couples’ antenatal weekend away that had been offered. The opportunity for sharing and roleplay that offered didn’t bear thinking about. But it was no good getting lost in thought on that now, the main thing was getting this appointment wrapped up so she’d have some time to watch This Morning before she’d be expected back at work.
Then the doorbell rang.
Checking she was decent as she went – everything that should be pulled up, up, and everything pulled down, down – she could make out the figure of a man through the door. She couldn’t tell who it was, but she could see it wasn’t someone in a uniform, so her worries about getting bad news of an accident died down. It was the kind of anxious habit she cursed her mother for as she pulled open the door.
‘Hi, my name’s Vincent Clarke. I’m a reporter, writing a piece for the Evening Standard about Howard Collins. You’re Rebecca, his daughter aren’t you? We’re trying to get an understanding of how his family feels, supporting him against these trumped-up charges.’
Chapter 26
‘No comment,’ she said as she slammed the door.
Fuck, she thought.
Fuck.
And when did I become one of those lawyers who makes self-important little statements like ‘no comment’?
‘Everything OK?’ asked Suzanne from the living room.
‘Yes fine. It’s just a man,’ she replied. ‘He’s here about changing energy suppliers.’
‘God, like tinkers they are, going door to door.’
As Rebecca came back in, Suzanne was peering out of the front window at the man who was still standing on the doorstep.
‘He’s a bit more scruffy than they normally are,’ the midwife continued, observing the young man outside in jeans and a baggy-pocketed brown cord jacket. ‘And he doesn’t have a laminated card by the looks of it either so he might not even be legit. I could go and give him a piece of my mind, tell him he’s harassing a vulnerable pregnant woman?’
‘No no, it’s fine! He’s actually coming for an appointment. I’d arranged the time and completely forgot about it. He’s…helping me with my direct debit.’
This is why I don’t lie, thought Rebecca.
Suzanne peered back out the window, checking out the supposed salesman.
‘I see,’ she said, as if everything had become clear. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. You can tell me about all the savings next time. And don’t forget to try and keep calm, we need to watch that blood pressure.’
‘Of course!’ said Rebecca, hurrying Suzanne along. She seemed to take an age to get everything packed away in her pilot case.
‘And I forgot to tell you the latest thing Maureen was saying. Some new guidelines from above, apparently. You won’t believe what we’re supposed to be telling new peop—’
‘Maybe next time,’ Rebecca cut in. It was taking all her will to keep her hands by her sides, and not grab Suzanne by the elbows and lift her to the door. Finally she had packed up, stopped to drain her glass of water, offered to rinse it out, was slightly abruptly told to just leave it, and finally moved out to the hallway.
‘Thanks for popping in. See you soon!’ said Rebecca, in a tone of voice that sounded weird and unnatural in her head as she guided her visitor from indoors to outdoors.
The journalist nodded to the midwife as she passed, and Suzanne gave him a big ‘hellooo!’ back. As she walked, markedly slowly, down the path towards the gate he watched her and was visibly thinking.
‘Not affecting your health is it?’ he asked.
‘Unrelated matter,’ she replied, sternly.
Just out of earshot, but definitely not out of sight, Suzanne was loitering across the street, checking her phone.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she continued. ‘I’d like you to go now.’
She cursed herself in her head, for then adding a please.
‘It’s just a bit of background,’ he said. ‘We want to be sympathetic to the family standing behind him.’
Suzanne wasn’t going anywhere either. Perhaps because of the way Rebecca’s eyes kept shifting to the left to where the midwife was standing on the street, the journalist turned and saw her too. He looked like he was weighing something up again.
If she shut the door on him now, he’d be straight after her and God knows the details he’d get out of her for his piece. She could imagine the report. Rebecca, 30, is supporting an unemployable husband and managing a difficult pregnancy as well as dealing with her father’s high-profile court case. Not only that, she’s a martyr to vaginal thrush.
The only way to get rid of her, so she could get rid of him, Rebecca decided, would be to get him inside.
‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door widely so he could step through. As she closed it, she couldn’t help sticking her head out to scan the neighbourhood to see if anyone had seen him go in. She felt like she was having an affair with her window cleaner. Suzanne, pocketing her phone, gave her a little wave.
Back in the living room, she looked around her, now seeing everything through a journalist’s eyes, and feeling vulnerable and exposed. She felt a twinge at the sight of their wedding photo on the mantelpiece, which should be none of his business. She saw the family photos of her and her parents on the beach when she was little more than a toddler. In her head she captioned it, newspaper-style, as The Collins family, in happier times. It felt like such an invasion of privacy.
She was grateful, at least, that she’d tidied a bit ahead of Suzanne’s arrival.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at your home,’ he said, sitting down on the sofa by the front window.
‘How did you…’ Rebecca stopped herself from asking how h
e found it. She didn’t want to engage him at all. The fact that he’d swanned in and got himself comfy without even asking was annoying enough. How was she to get rid of him now?
That was the point, she supposed.
She gave him what she hoped was a hard stare. He seemed oblivious. She noticed his skin was the same coffee colour that the people in Baileys adverts have at Christmas, to match the colour of the drink. She’d always felt that was somehow a bit racist. She forced her mind, which was trying to escape the reality of what was going on, back to the present. What the hell was she doing with a tabloid journalist in her house?
‘I’m sorry but you can’t stay,’ she decided. ‘I have to get to work, and I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Of course. I won’t keep you long,’ he said, making no attempt to move.
‘I’d like you to leave now please.’
‘But you just invited me in,’ he said with an exasperated shake of the head and a private smile, as if she was being the unreasonable one.
That he still made no effort to get up made Rebecca feel even more powerless. And the reality that she was alone in her home with a man she knew nothing about and who didn’t seem to care that she wanted him to leave, made her forehead prickle with sweat.
She saw he was looking at the scan of Bompalomp, tucked in the corner of another picture frame.
‘It must be difficult for you. Is this your first?’ he asked, indicating the photo.
Her fists clenched and anger started to displace her fear.
‘How do you know that’s even mine? It could belong to someone else in the family, or a friend. If you’re just going to make assumptions I don’t even know why you bothered coming here.’
‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘It’s someone else’s photo?’
‘No. But the point is… I want you to leave my house now.’
‘I can see you’re very upset about your dad’s situation,’ he said, finally beginning to rise to his feet.
