Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  “I blame Disney. You always loved that crap. Anyway, I think you’re pretty normal.”

  “Harry told me I was a fuckup.”

  She sniggers. “What does that make me then?”

  “A more mature fuckup!”

  She holds up her glass. “To mature fuckups everywhere,” she says. “Merry Christmas!”

  PART THREE

  1

  Good-bye, last year. I’m glad to see the back of you. Hello, New Year! It’s just another day, but somehow a new number feels like the chance of a fresh start. That was my annus horribilis. This is going to be my annus of hope. Come to think of it, I always say that. But up until last year I had no idea how horribilis an annus could be. You can’t really say that out loud, can you? Not even the Queen should say that out loud.

  I saw the old year out on my own. Not for lack of invitations. From Isabelle (Christmas was amazing but I didn’t want to outstay my welcome and I wanted to be at home), Olivia and Dan who were having friends over to dinner and invited me (she’s already so married and she’s not even married), and Anna Maria who suggested I should come with her to Glastonbury (you can guess my response).

  So I stayed in.

  Alone.

  And I felt fine.

  Optimistic.

  Because that’s what the new year is about, isn’t it? Optimism. So no matter what happened to disprove it in the year just gone by, I’m always prepared to believe that this year will be better. And I’m still pregnant. So far, so good.

  New Year, New Me! Harry is so last year.

  It’s the weekend before all the schools start, before the return to work becomes the return to normality. Bye-bye, festivities. Bye-bye, quiet London. The roads will be jammed again, the tube packed. Life goes on.

  Today, I’m meeting Pattie for a long overdue catch-up and to talk about my return to work. I’m hoping they’re going to be fair. I reckon sixteen years of service should stand me in good stead. Although I shouldn’t assume anything. I’m not really clued up on how you deal with someone who left because they were dying, then wants to come back because it was a mistake, and then declares they’re pregnant. I don’t suppose any law accommodates that. But I need to get out into the world again and work. I need to stop focusing on my pregnancy. The sickness may have stopped, but I go to the loo far more often than I need. This did not go unnoticed at Christmas.

  “She’s going again?” Sophia would whisper loudly behind her hand and the girls would giggle furtively as though the observation was their little secret.

  I couldn’t help it. I would convince myself I felt something like a trickle so I had to check it wasn’t blood. Had to! Otherwise I’d have just sat there panicking quietly inside. I’m trying meditation. Anna Maria has given me a CD and some lessons in chanting. It’s working but not quite as intended. I find it hard not to laugh when holding an om.

  Pattie and I have agreed to meet in a café in Primrose Hill. I squeeze past tables full of families, couples with their faces glued to their smartphones, their children’s faces fixed on their iPads. Not one table is engaged in conversation. I sit down at a table for two in the corner, vowing to myself this will never happen in my family. My family! It gives me such a rush when I allow myself to believe it. But then again, I shouldn’t judge. Who knows what kind of mother I’ll be? I mustn’t get ahead of myself.

  Pattie walks in, looking around unsure. I wave and she spots me, rushing toward me, her arms open wide. I stand up and she grabs me to her.

  “You look bloody marvelous,” she says. She steps back and examines my face. “Yeah, you look really, really well. And what about the bump?”

  I push my stomach forward. “There’s nothing there yet. Just a very thick waist.”

  “You’ll get that back in no time,” she says.

  I’m in no rush, I think.

  We order her coffee and my tea. I’ve gone off coffee. I realize there is a fine line between the symptoms of menopause, pregnancy, and maybe even dying. Your nose, your taste buds, your senses do weird things. No wonder it all merged. I could have been any of those things, but I think I drew the best straw.

  “God, I’ve missed you!” she says. “The office hasn’t been the same without you. Although the biscuit supply seems to last longer.”

  “Ha! Thanks,” I say.

  “Look at you, though. You look great, bearing in mind what’s happened to you. I always eat my way through trauma,” she says. “I’d be three stone heavier by now if I’d gone through what you’ve been through. You couldn’t make it up, could you?”

  “Well, some people thought I did.”

  “Why would anyone make that up? It was shocking. But I guess there’s always some conspiracy theorist somewhere.”

  “Like my so-called boyfriend.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yes. Him.” I can see the shock register.

  “So how’s he coping with the pregnancy?”

  “He isn’t.”

  “If I’m honest, he never seemed like the fatherly type.”

  “Then it’s lucky it’s not his.”

  Her jaw drops. “It isn’t?” Her eyes brighten with the promise of intrigue. “Can I ask whose . . . ?” she says.

  “You can. But I don’t know the answer.” For some weird reason, I want to laugh. I can see she wants to laugh too. So we both start laughing.

  “What have you been up to, Jennifer Cole? I know you’re trained in the art of discretion, but now I feel you’ve surpassed yourself.”

  I tell her the story of the heath and her expression betrays bemused awe.

  She pulls out her phone. “Let’s google him. I want to see what he looks like. What’s his name?”

  I wince. “I told you. I have no idea. I never asked.”

  She screams with laughter. The other tables look across at us.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll calm down.”

  “You don’t have to. Not on my behalf. At least we’re engaging in conversation.”

  “You know what? If I thought I was dying and some gorgeous guy appeared like an apparition on the heath, I’d have done exactly the same. I’d have opened my legs and said ‘Take me to eternity you hunk.’”

  “I think I said that!”

  “You did?” she yelps, then puts her hand over mouth, shoulders still bobbing.

  I snort. “No! Of course not.”

  “Wow, Jennifer! Wow!”

  “And to think I used to believe nothing ever happened to me.”

  “Yeah, well, I reckon you’ve now had your lifetime’s quota.”

  “Hope so. So are you ready for me to come back to work? I know I am.”

  Pattie fiddles with a paper napkin, her expression instantly becoming more serious. “Look. Are you sure you want to come back? Of course you can, and you have every right to.”

  “I couldn’t be more sure.” Her hesitancy makes me nervous.

  “Great. Well, I’ve put various packages together . . . you know, financial proposals for the different options, including part-time.”

  “Okay. I understand. I’m happy with that.”

  “We’ve been fairly flexible. You need to decide which one is the best way forward for you.” She feels inside her coat pocket and pulls out an envelope that she places on the table in front of me. She shifts awkwardly in her seat.

  “Tell me something. Would you rather let me go?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No! Of course not. You know that. We kept your post open for you when we thought you were dying. That’s how much you mean to us. But there’s an opportunity here for you—and us—to make sure that when you do come back—particularly after you’ve had the baby—that we’re all properly geared up for it and it’s on the right terms.”

  “What you mean is, you can’t ask if I’m going to come back once I’
ve had the baby but you’d like to know my intentions.” This is uncomfortable. I hadn’t expected my pregnancy to be such a problem. I’m an idiot. Pregnancy is always a problem!

  “Jennifer! Stop being so defensive. In a way that’s true. You know about this stuff more than anyone. But we want you back. And we want it to be set up in the right way so that you want to come back. So take your time and consider the options. Stop anticipating the worst.” She looks directly into my eyes. “We want you.”

  “Hormones,” I say. “Up the creek. Sorry.”

  “You’re in good company,” she says. “I’ve just started having hot sweats and it’s no fun, I can tell you. Look what I’ve had to buy.” She drops down to her handbag and rustles around its interior, pulling out a battery-operated fan that she flicks on, holding it to her face. “It’s wonderful. My best friend right now and it’s given me a fantastic idea.”

  “Go on.”

  “Yeah. I reckon if I could invent a fan that doubles up as a dildo, I’d be made. You can bet your life I wouldn’t go back to work. I’d go live on some Greek island for the rest of my life and drink Aperol spritz and ouzo and get unhealthily tanned.” She waves her fan. “And I’d have wild sex on the beach with a swarthy young waiter, with a name like Stavros. Ha! Who needs the heath? But in the meantime”—she taps the envelope—“this is the best thing on the table.”

  2

  The offers are all very fair. I can see Frank’s pragmatic imprint. I’ve accepted what I would label as the best compromise option and I’m going back to work in a couple of weeks.

  For now, I seem to find enough to do to pass the time. I’ve bought a sketch pad and a tray of watercolors and paint badly, but I’m trying to improve. I do Sudoku. I occasionally allow myself to watch daytime TV. Mainly, I enjoy reading. I’ve become addicted to a new kind of self-help book. I have five on pregnancy, all given to me by Isabelle. I’m still the beneficiary of her hand-me-downs. I read what each one says is happening at any given stage. They give me a good overview. It’s daunting but reassuring, and they have become my bibles. I’ve even written my own Ten Commandments, which I’ve posted on my fridge:

  Eat for two not three. Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you’re entitled to eat pastries and chocolate.

  Exercise regularly but don’t overdo it.

  Do your pelvic floors even when you don’t want to.

  Remember to take your daily dose of folic acid.

  Find a good prenatal class and remember to book it at around twenty weeks because they get heavily overenrolled.

  Think positive! You will get to twenty weeks and you will get to those classes at thirty weeks.

  Do not panic every time you feel a twinge.

  Do not keep imagining you feel a trickle.

  Do not keep expecting to see blood in your urine or one day you will.

  Do not keep checking your phone in the hope there might be a text from Harry.

  I know, I know. I’m not proud of the last one. But I’ll get there.

  I’ve taken out a membership at the local gym on Finchley Road, which has a massive pool and I go swimming every other day. I’ve read it’s the best exercise. And soon I’ll have another scan. I can’t wait for the next one. If I had my way, I’d probably go for a scan every week just for regular reassurance. But I read that too many scans are not best for the baby so I just have to reassure myself.

  Isabelle has started calling me daily to check up on me.

  “I’ve been thinking . . .” she says, one morning. “You should see my obstetrician. She’s wonderful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you’re nervous, and I think she’ll put your mind at rest.”

  “That’s really kind but, honestly, I’m being very well looked after by my own hospital.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re on the NHS. She’s on Harley Street. You won’t have to schlep over here if that’s what you were thinking. You can manage Harley Street, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “So when shall I book the appointment?” The thing about Isabelle is even when she’s trying to be nice, it feels like she’s bossing you around.

  “Isabelle, it’s not necessary.”

  “But I want to do this for you. Let’s call it my treat.”

  I laugh. “Is that what a treat is for me now? A visit to the obstetrician.”

  “I’ll take you out for tea at Claridge’s afterward,” she says. “Come onnnnnn.”

  “That’s really generous of you but, honestly, I’m much more relaxed about it than I was.”

  I’m not, but I really don’t want to visit some expensive Harley Street person who will only insist on all manner of tests, like the amniocentesis. Dr. Mackenzie suggested I have it but I steadfastly refused. He’s easy to manage. Isabelle’s lady will no doubt be able to twist my arm (after all, she’s paid to) so even though I’m sure she means well, it’s not what I want.

  “Seriously? Just one itty-bitty appointment. And then tea. Claridge’s. Yummy.”

  “I’m watching my waist, remember. Your instruction.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jennifer. Why are you being so difficult? Why won’t you let me be involved?”

  I look at the phone. “Is that what you want? To be involved.”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say?”

  “I just did.”

  I smile. “I’d love that. But you do realize being involved does not mean Harley Street. It means coming to Hampstead and braving the NHS.”

  “You make me sound such a snob. I’m not. We all know the NHS is up shit creek and Brexit is not going to save it.”

  “Fine. Forget it then.”

  “Okay. I’ll come to Hampstead.”

  I laugh out loud. “Great. Come to my twenty-week scan but be prepared for a long wait. Timing is not their forte.”

  “You’re going to wait for your twenty week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Isabelle! Do you want to be involved or in charge?”

  “All right. Point taken. Give me plenty of notice. I’ll drive you,” she says. “And I’ll bring my Kindle.”

  3

  I’m back at work. Full-time for now, and then a three-day week after my maternity leave. It’s a good arrangement. Walking back into my office for the first time felt very weird. It smelled different. Putting my things back in place helped me reclaim it: my photos, including a selfie with Isabelle and family from Christmas in a new frame, my stash of mints, a jar of my favorite pens and highlighters, my stapler, the ruler I never use but has followed me since school, and a little succulent plant, the sort impossible to kill. They make my desk my own again. I slowly get back into the rhythm of my old routine, glad to have my team around me. They all came by during my first day back and congratulated me on my pregnancy, accepting it without question as the reason for my absence.

  Being around people, attending meetings, dealing with recruitment, readdressing job descriptions, and managing all the other usual HR preoccupations has been good for me. Stopped me focusing too much on myself. But I’m not going to lie, sometimes evenings can feel quite lonely.

  I guess that’s how it’s going to be until I have a baby demanding my attention when I won’t have a second to think. And I remind myself that I can feel just as lonely in a relationship, with someone sitting right next to me. Still. Being rational doesn’t always make it any easier. If I really want to torture myself, I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone again knowing that the likelihood of a man taking on another man’s child is slight.

  For some reason, Saturday nights are the worst. That’s when I’ll pull out a bar of hazelnut chocolate that I’ve tucked away in a secret stash as thou
gh I’m hoping I might forget where I’ve put it. No chance. Sometimes you have to break one of your own ten commandments and forgive yourself.

  Tonight I’m halfway through a bar when my phone rings. It’s Olivia. She’s on her own this weekend, too. Dan’s at his stag. I’d invited her over but she thought it would be good for her to prove to herself she can still “fly solo” and she hadn’t become some sad codependent.

  “Are you busy?” she says.

  “Very!” I say. “I’m doing my pelvic floors. Actually, I’m eating chocolate.”

  “Do you think you could spare me an hour if I come round?”

  “Sure. And I’ll spare you a piece of chocolate if you hurry.”

  Dan’s stag is in Ibiza. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Eight middle-aged blokes let loose on party island. I did offer to make Olivia a hen do, but she said she couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  “I promise there’ll be no pink cowboy hats, or ‘Liv’s Hen Do’ T-shirts.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “And, hand on heart, I won’t ever book you a stripper.”

  “The fact that you’re even saying that makes me want to gag.”

  No hen do for Olivia then, and I can’t say I’m disappointed.

  I open the door to her pasty face. “Aw, Liv. Are you lonely?”

  She ignores my comment, walks straight past me into the kitchen, fishing a bottle of wine out of her tote. “You drinking or are you being good?”

  It’s as though we’re flashing back to the moment I told her about my ’osis. It seems a lifetime ago and yet the memory of that intense sadness rushes straight back into my stomach. I swallow. “You okay?” I say.

  “No,” she says, pointedly. “Are you joining me or not.”

  “Wow, you’re scaring me. Okay, then, just a tiny sip. To keep you company.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’ve had enough of drinking alone. It’s no fun.”