Three In a Bed

by Carmen Reid

  So, once the stick was peed on, should she sit watching it for a minute or turn it over and wait? She went with turning it over. She looked at her watch: no second hand, she would have to count.

  Suddenly she felt unable to breathe, let alone count. She stood up, pulled up her knickers, smoothed down her skirt and jacket and hung her coat up on the bathroom hook.

  Hell, it must be time by now.

  As she put her fingers on the stick, she noticed that her hands were trembling. She turned it over and there it was, the second thin blue line that meant yes. She was totally shocked.

  She slumped back onto the loo seat with the result in her hands and stared and stared at it. Her mind went blank.

  She’d thought she’d wanted a baby . . . but did she really? Now? Starting now . . . possibly arriving in nine, God no, eight months’ time? And like this? With Don not knowing? Oh God, this did not feel right at all.

  Too shocked to cry, she stuffed the test into its box and went to the bedroom where she hid it in a drawer. She could hear her mobile ringing and went to find her briefcase.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, trying to sound bright.

  ‘Hi, hon, it’s me,’ came Don’s voice.

  ‘Hello, are you on your way back?’

  ‘Yeah. What shall we do for supper?’

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Is there stuff in the fridge?’

  ‘I’ll have a look. How’s your day been anyway?’ she asked, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Not too bad. You?’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Right . . . chicken breasts, some peppers, onions. I think we have noodles. Would that do?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll see you soon then.’

  ‘Byee.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Bella was so distracted that evening, Don wondered if she was OK.

  ‘Just tired,’ she kept telling him when he asked. But she seemed too fidgety and restless for a tired person. Finally, she said she was taking a bath and going to bed early, but he noticed she took her laptop with her into the bedroom.

  Almost an hour later, he went in to check on her and found her propped up in bed, staring at the screen. ‘What’s up?’ he asked gently. ‘Is it work?’

  ‘No, no,’ she looked up at him with a surprisingly sombre expression, ‘I was just e-mailing Jenna . . . you know, my friend in New York, but I don’t know, it’s not flowing tonight.’ She gave a forced smile.

  ‘How is she?’ asked Don.

  ‘Very well. She’s got a great new job and she’s moving to California and it looks as if her man might be moving with her, but she’s a bit scared I suppose. She e-mailed me the other day asking about you and marriage and how would she know if, you know, he was The One . . .’ Bella trailed off.

  ‘Ah-ha and you’re sitting there stuck for words about us?’ Don smiled at her. ‘Come on, move over, I’m the wordsmith.’

  He sat down beside her. Their conversation had lasted just long enough for Bella to have quietly deleted all the soul-searching about the pregnancy she’d written to Jenna.

  ‘OK.’ He pulled the computer into his lap and tapped in his rapid two-fingered type: ‘How You Know If It’s Love’ as a heading, then underneath: ‘You just know. You’ll feel it somewhere between your breastbone and your stomach. No individual details matter: looks, height, hair colour, job description – that person makes you happy, gives you a warm glow,’ ‘No,’ he hit delete. ‘That sounds like Ready Brek’. ‘Gives you security, comfort,’ he typed, ‘makes you laugh, makes love like it really matters. You’ll go the extra mile for them and you know they’ll do it for you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ Bella said reading over his shoulder.

  ‘Sweet?’ He was smiling at her. ‘I set out my philosophy of love and all you can say is sweet?’

  ‘Errr . . .’

  ‘You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? Do you love me even half as much as I love you?’ He was still smiling but she detected an undertow of seriousness.

  ‘Of course I do, Don, of course.’

  ‘That’s OK then.’

  She put her arms round him and kissed him on the mouth, but she couldn’t sum up the courage to tell him.

  One week later, she still hadn’t told him she was pregnant. She was scared. This was going to be a monumentally big thing for him – his life was about to take an entirely different turn than on the route he had mapped out with her. As she lay in bed beside him, she wondered if she really knew him well enough to guess how he would react.

  Almost exactly one year ago now, they’d rushed into marriage at the Chelsea register office. It had been a cool wedding with not a shred of the white or traditional about it. Well, there hadn’t been time to arrange all that for a start. As soon as she’d said yes, Don had fixed up the first available date at the registrar’s, convinced she might change her mind.

  She’d worn a long, tight, wine-coloured lace dress with her hair up. Don was in slightly rumpled black linen and somehow ended up carrying the flowers.

  There had been just a small crowd – close friends and as few relatives as they could get away with, made easier by the fact her own parents didn’t come. Everyone had taxied to Claridges for a monumental lunch, then Don and Bella had sent the guests on their way so they could start their honeymoon.

  In their wonderful room, they had filled the enormous bathtub to the brim with hot water and foam and moved in there for hours swigging gloriously expensive champagne out of the bottle, singing love songs and having giggly sex, trying to avoid impaling each other on the taps or causing too disastrous a tidal wave.

  It had been so romantic. Lying in the dark now, Bella couldn’t help smiling as she cuddled up close to Don listening to him breathe. Everything about him coming into her life had been romantic, interesting and full of fun.

  It was such a fluke they had even met. She had been in a crowded, noisy bar with workmates. A bar she’d never been in before and would never have gone back to. As she had tried to spark up her zillionth fag of the evening, her lighter had died.

  She’d tugged at the sleeve of the nearest person to ask for a light. It was Don who’d turned around and glanced at her, then held the look with obvious interest.

  She’d lifted her cigarette, raised her eyebrows and said: ‘Light?’

  His reply, with just a hint of melting Scottish burr, was: ‘I knew one day I’d regret not being a smoker.’

  She had smiled wide and warm and they had looked each other over approvingly.

  ‘Too bad,’ she’d said. ‘D’you want to buy me a drink instead?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ he’d answered, ‘Why didn’t I think of that first?’

  She’d been unable to stop herself from adding archly: ‘It’s OK. Most girls don’t like a man who’s always first.’

  They had stood at the bar and talked while the attraction between them built up to bonfire level.

  He was clearly gorgeous, intelligent, very interested, ringless. His hand had been round her waist before they had finished their first drink together. She had immediately liked everything about him. He was tall, in a nice suit but he made it look casual with his unbuttoned shirt collar revealing a beaten-up white T-shirt. She’d noticed his clumpy crêpe-soled boots and black plastic diving watch.

  He seemed so relaxed and refreshingly individual – a journalist, not another financial clone. She could tell he was way old, in his forties, but it made him more interesting. She’d liked his face, comfortably worn in and full of character. His humour was dark and cynical but he seemed to like her upbeat optimism and she’d never met a man who could quote Machiavelli and Woody Allen back at her.

  ‘God, aren’t you a bit young to be a fascist?’ he’d asked her with a grin.

  ‘But I’m so attracted to the style, you know, polished leather boots, white marble, geometrically perfect haircuts,’ she’d shot back.

  They’d looked at each other, laughed and almost kissed right then, but both
their mobile phones had gone off at once.

  ‘Whooo . . . synchronicity,’ Don had said before answering.

  ‘So what do you do?’ she remembered him asking and when she’d answered ‘Management consultant’, he’d looked utterly appalled.

  ‘Oh God,’ he’d said. ‘You are quite the City girl, aren’t you? So you get paid stacks of money by the big boys to go in and sack people?’

  ‘Hey!’ she’d rounded on him. ‘Just a minute. I’ve turned loads of companies around that would have gone under costing everyone their jobs. And anyway, I only work for medium-sized finance companies and I have a lot of principles, thank you. What about you? Mr Supposedly Free-Thinking Rebel, you work for Totally Evil Global News Inc!!’ she teased. ‘And I bet you wear Levi’s and Nikes, and look, you’re drinking Budweiser and probably do Starbucks three times a day so, hey! Don’t talk to me about selling my soul to the big corporations.’

  ‘OK.’ He was startled now and pulled a frightened face at her to make her laugh, but it didn’t work.

  ‘God,’ she’d continued angrily: ‘Why do people get so Luddite about big businesses? They’re just made up of people, people with mortgages and families and ideas. And if you don’t get big companies to change and treat their employees well and not devastate the environment, where do you start?’

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m surprised you’ve given this so much thought,’ he’d said, then wished he hadn’t when she answered: ‘Why? Because I’m a well-paid girlie??’

  ‘Look I’m impressed . . . it’s OK. God, you don’t drink Starbucks?’ He’d tried to lighten the tone.

  ‘No. I make my own coffee!’

  ‘At work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m very impressed. And you don’t wear trainers?’

  ‘No, well, unless they’re made in the EU – don’t laugh! The people who made these shoes,’ she’d held out her foot, showing off high-heeled mock snakeskin, ‘are entitled to sick pay, trade union membership, a year’s maternity leave . . .’

  ‘Ah, but what about the tobacco growers?’ he cut in, pointing at her cigarette.

  ‘Well . . . OK, you have spotted my Achilles’ heel there. I mean I’ve tried the ethical, additive-free ones but, just not the same.’ She’d taken a hefty drag and smiled at him. He was lovely.

  After their final drink, she’d decided to throw to the wind all her advice to herself to stay off men for a while and had asked him: ‘So Starbucks drinker, would you like to try my coffee? Very strong espresso, keeps you up all night.’

  ‘Yes please,’ he’d said and steered her out of the bar.

  They’d kissed for the first time on the pavement outside, then over and over in the back of the cab. She’d been so turned on, she’d found it difficult to unlock the door to her flat. When she finally got it open, they had rushed in and were eating each other up in the hallway, throwing coats, bags and jackets to the floor.

  Then Don had slowed down to kiss her with surprising tenderness. Gently he had unbuttoned her blouse and slid her bra straps over her shoulders so he could kiss her nipples. They had made love for the first time standing up in the hall. It was incredibly passionate and yet went so smoothly.

  For once she’d been wearing a skirt which wasn’t too tight to hitch up, and Don had braces on so his trousers didn’t fall down round his ankles.

  It could still make her pulse rise if she thought about how helpless, how loose-kneed with lust she’d felt when he had moved a finger expertly between her legs to feel for her clitoris for the very first time.

  It was his relaxed assuredness, his complete confidence in himself that she found the most incredible turn-on. He even had a condom on him which he had taken out of his wallet, murmuring ‘You must think I’m such a slut’ into her ear. And every hair from her ear lobe to her shoulder blade had pricked up with pleasure.

  ‘Likewise,’ she’d whispered back, closing her eyes, leaning back, impatient to be kissed fiercely, penetrated, pushed up hard against the wall by such a good-looking, virile man.

  He’d lifted her just slightly onto her tiptoes to take him inside. And as he’d entered her for the first time, she’d let out a sigh of pleasure. For a moment she didn’t know what the sensation was, then she realized that he was a breathtakingly perfect fit.

  He’d whispered, ‘God this feels so right. You’re incredible.’

  Throughout that fantastic first fuck, in which they had come almost together, she had allowed herself to think the forbidden thought – that she had finally found her match.

  Don had stayed with her for the rest of the weekend and had teased her relentlessly about her bare flat.

  ‘There is nothing here, have you just moved in?’ he’d asked, looking round on Saturday morning and taking in the sitting room furnished only with a sofa, TV, side table and stack of pink FTs and business books.

  It was a lovely flat though, two big rooms, large floor to ceiling windows, a galley kitchen, bathroom and a tiny roof terrace.

  ‘Well, five months ago. I’m not here much,’ she’d said defensively, knowing he was guessing at her astronomical rent.

  ‘Nope, you’re not.’ He’d opened her fridge. ‘Is that it?!’ he’d asked, seeing just yoghurt and oranges.

  ‘I suppose I eat out lots or take away. I’m a complete workaholic, you should know that about me,’ she’d answered.

  ‘Should I?’ he’d said wrapping his arms around her and gathering her up in a sexy, protective way. ‘You mean, if we’re going to take this any further.’ He’d smiled at her.

  ‘How much further is there to go?’ she’d teased back.

  He’d answered: ‘Oh a lot. A lot further. I really like you.’ And she’d felt deliriously happy.

  They spent the rest of the weekend talking and talking, in cafés, in bars, in the park, in bed – in between the marathon sex sessions – and both of them felt an amazing connection.

  It wasn’t that sort of cliché-d liking all the same things, but a fascination for how different they were. Grown-up, cynical rebel versus young, go-ahead, corporate girl. He wasn’t at all interested in money, which intrigued her because she aspired to being fantastically rich, which in turn intrigued him. He adored his mother, she . . . well it was complicated. He’d left school at 16, she’d been steeped in over-education since the day she was born.

  They were so interested in each other it had felt as if they couldn’t ever know enough. A lifetime of talking wouldn’t be enough. But when Sunday night finally arrived and Don said he would have to go back to his flat and get ready for the week, she’d had a flicker of doubt. Could this really happen? Would he call? Would they ever see each other again?

  Just as she’d prepared to face the melancholy of a Sunday night alone after two unbelievable days like this, he’d said: ‘Why don’t you come with me? Pack your overnight bag and drive me down.’

  She’d flung her work clothes into a holdall before he could change his mind.

  Of course he’d been über-impressed with her car.

  ‘They don’t cost that much,’ she’d admitted straight away. ‘And I got quite a bit of money on my 21st.’ Aaargh. Too late.

  ‘You still have your 21st birthday present?’ He’d sounded shocked,’ Oh my God, I’m dating a child.’

  Oh yes, dear reader, it was only day two and he distinctly said ‘dating’. Now it was her turn to be shocked.

  ‘Cars are very important,’ she’d told him as they’d pulled out into the road and she’d recovered the power of speech.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re like clothes – the outward expression of our inner desires and aspirations.’

  ‘And I thought they were quite a good way to get around.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And let me guess exactly which type of large, chunky off-roader you drive, my friend.’

  He was really surprised now.

  ‘See! I’m always right. Some people can guess star signs. I can guess cars. I’m seeing large, dark c
olour, mega-horsepower, very thirsty jeep-type. I’ll go for the classic Cherokee.’

  ‘I must have told you that!’

  ‘You did not!’ she was mock indignant now.

  Of course, his flat had been the opposite of hers: a low-ceilinged dark basement, crammed full. Every wall was lined with bookcases stuffed not just with books but with old cameras, mini tape recorders, PC disks, candle ends, ornaments, light bulbs, mugs filled with pens, photos, framed and unframed, socks! Jesus, not even her cleaner could help him now, he needed a feng shui expert or maybe a skip.

  But it wasn’t grubby, thankfully. Doing the guided tour, he’d showed her his room and she’d seen clean white sheets. In the contrastingly spartan bathroom there was evidence that someone had done all the essential cleaning jobs not too long ago.

  She admired his hardware – top of the range stereo, widescreen TV and two very sleek computers, ‘One’s from the office,’ he’d explained.

  He had made her tea in a patterned china teapot with loose leaves and it was really good, even though she only ever drank coffee. Then he got out an ancient-looking bottle of whisky and they cuddled up on his shabby sofa, with a worn tartan rug flung over it, and got mellow-drunk together.

  She’d sat up to light a cigarette and moved to face him, cross-legged, as she smoked it.

  ‘So, what are you like? What do you like to do?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Hey big scary journalist,’ she’d teased. ‘Is this your standard prospective girlfriend interview?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ he’d smiled.

  ‘OK, let me think. . . I mainly work. I love my job. If I’m not working I’m either out eating, drinking or smoking. I go gym-ing or shopping to relax. I used to spend a lot of my spare time having sex with unfamiliar people in unfamiliar places. But I’m trying to cure that habit and apart from the occasional relapse . . .’ they’d both laughed, ‘I now spend a lot more time reading. Newspapers – but not yours – business books, books from the dodgy “Mind, body, spirit” section. Why am I telling you this?’ They’d laughed again.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend I go to the theatre or art shows,’ she added. ‘Who has time to do that in London? Just tourists and the unemployed.’