by Carmen Reid
‘Heretic!’ he’d said.
‘God . . . I’m always so disappointed by the theatre and postmodern art, or post-postmodern or whatever the hell it is these days, don’t get me started!’
‘Why do people your age always make me feel so young?’ Don had asked. ‘You’re so grown-up and sensible. I bet you have investments.’
‘We didn’t all have the luxury of growing up in an economic boom, you know, when teenagers like you could just grow your hair and head off into the sunset in sandals,’ she’d said.
When he laughed at this, she’d asked: ‘Did anyone you knew at school have their family home repossessed? Didn’t think so.’
There was a pause and Bella had changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on how much older he was. ‘How long have you owned this place?’
‘I’ve been here two years. I rent it, actually, from a mate.’ That had surprised her.
‘It’s a bit of a hole,’ he’d added. ‘Damp, the odd mouse, not very warm in the winter. I think I’ll move in with you.’ This was meant as a joke but they’d looked at each other and just knew it was going to happen.
When she’d reached up to kiss him, he’d responded so passionately that within moments they’d been fumbling with each other’s clothes desperate to make love again. And the sex was so good, it was almost a disappointment when it was over and they were too played-out to do it again. Later, she’d told him they should take two weeks to think about it. He’d said she was being wonderfully sensible and that was what he loved about her. The L-word within 48 hours!
Two weeks later he’d moved in – minus most of his stuff. That had been her other condition.
As Bella lay in bed, remembering their first weekend together and the wedding, she knew Don loved her, would love her no matter what. She wondered why she had been so nervous of telling him about the baby. It was time for him to know. She’d tell him tomorrow, on their wedding anniversary.
The next evening, 10 October, they went out for dinner at the restaurant they’d been to on their first proper night out.
Bella decided to wait until she was a couple of glasses of wine down before breaking the news. But then the starters came and she thought she’d hang on a bit longer. Once the waiter had cleared their plates, she took a few more hefty swigs from her glass and brought her cigarettes out of her handbag to steady her nerves.
‘You’re not going to smoke now, are you?’ Don asked with a frown. ‘We’re in the middle of our meal.’
‘Don, we’re between courses. Please don’t nag. I’ve had a very long day and I’m just trying to unwind.’
‘It’s just so anti-social.’
‘Oh shut up, will you. I never vowed to give up smoking when I married you, so stop nagging.’
Silence. Oh bloody great, thought Bella, why don’t I just start a row? That’ll really create the right atmosphere for a pregnancy announcement.
‘I’m sorry, Don. Let’s talk about something else.’ She took a last long drag and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘What do you think about buying a house together?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ he said then reached over and took her hand. ‘I know I’ve always said I was happy renting and I didn’t want all the baggage of owning a place, but now I think it would be really nice. I’d like us to have a home.’
‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ she said.
‘I know. Sickly,’ he smiled.
She could feel her eyes start to swim. She took a breath and was on the verge . . . but the waiter interrupted the moment by arriving with their food.
There was silence between them as they ate the first mouthfuls.
‘Delicious,’ said Bella.
‘Brilliant,’ Don agreed with his mouth full.
After another long pause, Don looked up at her and asked: ‘Is there a problem at work? You seem really tense tonight.’
‘Umm . . . no,’ she answered. ‘It’s something else.’
She looked up at him and tried to sound calm: ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’m sorry I haven’t told you before, but I’ve been really worried about how you would take it.’
‘OK . . .’ he was smiling at her, wondering why she looked so deadly serious.
‘You’ve reached the limit on your credit card,’ he said, still smiling, then when she didn’t laugh, added: ‘It can’t be that bad. This is me you’re talking to, I’m sure we can handle it.’
‘Well . . .’ This was it. She took a deep breath then blurted out: ‘I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant. No, make that, I am pregnant.’
Nothing but absolute, expressionless silence from Don. Whole minutes seemed to go by, then he said in a quiet voice: ‘Christ Almighty. Do you want to keep it?’
Of all the replies she’d anticipated, this had not been one of them.
They sat there motionless, staring at each other, and Bella realized she was close to tears. She asked in a raised voice: ‘How could you ask that? Of course I do.’
In confusion, she stood up to leave but Don grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down into her seat again. He was shouting at her too, but in a sort of whisper: ‘Jesus, how do you expect me to react? I can’t believe it. How did it happen? I thought you were on the pill.’
She didn’t say anything, so he want on: ‘I just asked that because you looked so unhappy. I thought you were going to tell me you wanted to . . . terminate. You’ve always said you didn’t want children. You’re mad about your job and everything. I mean, have you really thought about what a baby will mean?’
She couldn’t bear to hear this any more. She wrenched her wrist free and stood up, hissing at him, ‘Yes I have, Don. Yes, it’s a surprise but I was beginning to think it was a good one. I’m sorry you don’t feel the same way. Fuck . . .’
She picked up her bag and headed for the coat check, trying not to stumble in the blur of tears.
A little later, the waiter went over to the table. He picked up Don’s empty plate and Bella’s cold, almost untouched one. ‘She didn’t like it?’ he asked with a sympathetic smile.
‘No, she didn’t like it one little bit,’ Don answered. ‘I think I’ll have a large whisky, please.’
‘Of course, sir.’
As he sat in the restaurant drinking, still in a state of considerable shock, Bella was in the back of a taxi. She didn’t really want to go home, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else she wanted to go either.
Just as the cab approached the flat, she got the driver to pull up outside the wine shop on the corner. She jumped out and went to buy a very expensive bottle of white and 20 Marlboro Lights. She paid with the one credit card in her purse she’d never used before – card number two on Don’s account which he made her carry just in case she needed money when all her own cards were maxed – and that made her feel slightly better.
She planned to down a few glasses, have a couple of cigarettes, cry a bit more, then sleep on it. She felt sure Don wouldn’t dare approach her again until the morning.
Once she finally fell asleep, she slept for a long time and didn’t wake up till late. The bedroom was exactly as she had left it, Don hadn’t been in at all. But she could hear the shower running, so he was home.
She lay in bed wondering what they were going to say to each other. She didn’t feel angry any more, in fact she felt calm. They were going to work this out: they had to. She tied on her dressing gown and opened the bedroom door. The hall was full of roses, about six enormous bunches of them – red, white, yellow, pink. The sitting room door was open and she could see even more flowers in there.
Roses were crammed into vases, cups, mugs, teapots, even the kettle. Pink and red carnations had been threaded onto string and pinned to the wall, which looked ridiculous, but she appreciated the sentiment.
Well, kind of. It was a bit cheesy and it did cross her mind to get out the scissors and snip all the heads off to show Don she wasn’t going to be mollified by a bunch of flowers, no mat
ter how big. The shower was off now and she decided she might as well go and hear what he had to say first, then decide if the flowers should be decapitated.
Don was standing in the bathroom, dripping wet with a towel round his waist.
As soon as he saw her, he said: ‘Sorry, Bella. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said.
‘Oh yes. I had to buy them to get a lift home.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I spent hours walking around town and I got completely lost. I finally met this guy setting up his flower stall and I said I’d buy the lot if he took me and the flowers home. We need more vases, you know.’
She gave a little laugh at this.
Then he added: ‘I was walking all night thinking about you and us and . . . a baby.’ He moved to put his wet arms around her. ‘And I still can’t get my head round it.’
That didn’t sound good. She waited, wondering if he was going to say anything else.
‘I still think of myself as young with so much to do before I settle down. The reality is, I’m going to be 42 next year, I’m married and I’m going to be a father. That’s quite a shock.’
‘You haven’t got the monopoly on being worried, you know,’ Bella said.
‘I need to think about this.’ He put his hand on her hair. ‘I mean, I think it’s going to be OK. I think it will be fine . . . if you’re sure it’s what you want.’
‘Yeah,’ she whispered, ‘I think so.’
‘Well OK, let’s try and get used to the idea.’
‘OK, that’s fine Don . . . that’s fine.’ She hugged him tightly.
Chapter Six
SHE DROPPED HER knees down and stared at a crack in the ceiling, trying to relax as she felt the cold steel go in. How did this whole cervical smear thing start? she wondered. Did women campaign for this? Or did doctors invent them?
God, even root canal work would be better than lying here on an examination couch being terribly polite and civilized as some nurse she’d never met before cranked open her vagina with a speculum and scraped at her with a wooden spatula.
She had finally made it to the doctor’s and sitting down on the little chair opposite Dr Wilson’s vast desk, she had told him her period was 26 days late and, well, it looked like she was pregnant.
He had looked at her slowly over his glasses obviously trying to decide if she was being funny or merely stupid and said in his usual monotone, ‘Hmmm, here’s a specimen bottle, shall we check?’
And surprise, surprise, she was definitely still pregnant. About seven weeks, he told her.
Then he weighed and measured her, took her blood pressure and sat her down for a little ‘lifestyle’ chat.
She didn’t hear anything she didn’t already know – fresh fruit and vegetables, moderate exercise, lots of water, folic acid tablets – good. Alcohol, cigarettes, too much stress – bad.
‘How much are you smoking a day?’ he asked.
‘About ten,’ she lied.
‘Well, you’ll have to stop. If you absolutely can’t stop, you’ll have to cut it to below five. It’s very dangerous for the baby, never mind what it’s doing to you.’
‘Well what about cocaine then?’ She felt the mood needed lightening.
He didn’t miss a beat, just said, ‘We don’t recommend it.’
He then asked her which hospital she wanted to go to.
‘Hospital?’ She was confused.
‘For the birth.’
‘Oh God. But it’s not till next June. Do I have to decide now?’
His reply was a long ‘Hmmmmmm.’ Followed by: ‘No. But it makes it easier for me.’
‘Well, you’re not the one having the baby, so I’ll get back to you on that,’ she said, delighted that for once she was going to come out of the doctor’s surgery with the upper hand.
But then he had flicked through her notes and said, ‘Ah, I see we are due for a smear test. If you let reception know, the nurse will see you in a few minutes.’
The next morning she got up very early to fit in her morning run before going all the way over to Hammersmith for day one at Merris Group.
Merris was her first solo project. She had won the work and Susan had assured her she was ready to handle this contract by herself. Of course she was nervous, make that very nervous, as she pounded along the pavement trying to pump the anxieties out of her system. It was a personal finance company, she reminded herself, her speciality . . . yes, but ‘so old . . . so establishment,’ came the little anxious voice. She ran faster to try and blot it out.
It was her job not to be scared, to be confident and absolutely sure of herself otherwise the whole business of advising companies on how to make far-reaching changes just didn’t work. Her clients were like wolf packs, they could smell fear a mile off and hunted it down.
After her shower, she donned the armour for battle – serious make-up, a scraped-back bun and her smartest work outfit, white shirt, most expensive black suit, black stockings and high black shoes.
She’d been warned to leave her car behind, because there wasn’t much parking space, so she picked up her papers from the stack at the front door and set off down the road to join the throng of cross-town commuters on the tube.
God, she’d forgotten how crowded and warm the trains were even this early in the morning. She took off her coat and managed to squeeze herself into one of the last seats left. Ten minutes later, she was feeling sweaty and nauseous. She put her papers down and closed her eyes, willing the journey to go quickly.
By 8 a.m. she was in Hammersmith feeling unusually dizzy and drained. She could not face the ten-minute walk to the office so hailed a cab. She arrived at the stately-looking building and braced herself for the day ahead.
Come on, Bella, she told herself. Get it together.
Gathering up laptop, briefcase, handbag and coat, she somehow, with a third hand, paid the driver, then clacked up the marble steps and through the revolving door. At reception she announced herself and was told to join the executives upstairs for their breakfast conference.
In the lift she checked herself over in the mirrored wall. She felt queasy and extremely nervous, but thanks to the generous application of cosmetic aid, she looked groomed, professional and moderately beautiful. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then the lift pinged open and she headed for the conference room.
Opening the heavy door, she took in a large mahogany-panelled room, an enormous table with twenty or so heads swivelled in her direction and a side buffet heaped with plates of bacon, eggs, kedgeree, fried toast, croissants and steaming pots of coffee.
Nausea rose up in her throat like a hard ball and she broke out in a cold sweat. She could feel beads forming on her top lip and suddenly she knew what this was. Morning sickness. All eyes were fixed upon her and she was rooted to the spot, unable to open her mouth, convinced she was about to throw up on the highly polished parquet floor.
Somehow she managed to swallow the ball down and say: ‘Hello everyone. I’m Bella Browning. Where would you like me to sit?’
She wobbled over to her seat while Mr Merris made the introductions. She accepted a cup of tea and as she sipped it she began to feel a tiny bit better. She glanced at the men around the table – all men, all older than her, all definitely thinking, What is this girl going to be able to do for us?
‘We’ll just run through our usual business first, shall we?’ Merris said. ‘Give Ms Browning time to get her feet under the table.’
Bella listened carefully, knowing more could be learned about a company in one meeting than in weeks of figure analysis. She easily spotted the people who were good at their job and those who were fudging. Immediately she could tell this was a company dominated by formality and attention to procedure, so she guessed that new ideas, new objectives and goals were needed but were not exactly going to be welcomed with open arms. God, she still felt awful.
When th
e conference was finally over she was shown to her own small office, where she unpacked her computer and files and made a few calls.
Later on, she managed to get her doctor on the phone but as she’d suspected, he told her it was normal, there was nothing she could take and it would probably wear off in about six weeks or so.
Six weeks!! Six weeks of feeling like this was frightening. And why the hell was it called morning sickness when it seemed to last all day?
She didn’t manage to get out of the office until 8 p.m., and day two at Merris got off to an even worse start. She walked into the breakfast conference room and as her gaze fell on the platter of congealing fried eggs, she could barely contain a retch. There was nothing she could do apart from sit down in her chair feeling overwhelmingly sick and weak. When she reached for her teacup, she noticed that her hand was trembling. Even worse, she knew other people had noticed it too.
After conference there was a second long meeting to get through before she could finally hole up in her office. She had barely sat down and lit up a cigarette in the hope of a quick energy buzz when there was a knock at the door and the human resources director, an American called Mitch, appeared and asked if he could come in.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said and waved him in, fanning smoke around the room. They shook hands and introduced themselves properly then he shut the door behind him, but didn’t take up her offer of a seat.
‘To be honest,’ he said with a serious look, ‘I’m here because we’re all a bit concerned about you. Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t seem very well.’
She suspected she hadn’t been hiding it brilliantly. He carried on: ‘We do need a consultant, but we need someone who is going to be here for us 110 per cent.’
Bella felt a twinge of irritation now, but carried on listening.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if you are the right person for us,’ Mitch continued. ‘Well, what I mean is, er . . . you seem to have a problem.
‘Mitch,’ she said, fixing her eyes on him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, you’ve turned up here every morning pale, weak, hands shaking. You only seem to come round after you’ve been in your office on your own. You know, some of the guys are even hinting at a drink problem.’ He gave a brief laugh to distance himself from the suggestion, although it didn’t seem so far-fetched.
