by Adele Parks
I remember looking Abi in the eye and saying, ‘No. No, I can’t abort.’
‘You’re going ahead with it?’ Her eyes were big and unblinking.
‘Yes.’ It was the only thing I was certain of. I already loved the baby. It had taken me by surprise but it was a fact.
‘And will you put it up for adoption or keep it?’
‘I’m keeping my baby.’ We both sort of had to suppress a shocked snigger at that, because it was impossible not to think of Madonna. That song came out when I was about five years old but it was iconic enough to be something that was sung in innocence throughout our childhoods. The tune hung, incongruously, in the air. It wasn’t until a couple of years later that the irony hit me: an anthem of my youth basically heralded the end to exactly that.
‘OK then,’ she said, ‘you’re keeping your baby.’
Abigail instantly accepted my decision to have my baby and that was a kindness. An unimaginably important and utterly unforgettable kindness.
She didn’t argue that there were easier ways, that I had choices, the way many of my other friends subsequently did. Nor did she suggest that I might be lucky and lose it, the way a guy in my tutorial later darkly muttered. I know he behaved like an arsehole because before I’d got pregnant, he’d once clumsily come on to me one night in the student bar. I was having none of it. I guess he had mixed feelings about me being knocked up, torn between, ‘Ha, serves the bitch, right’ and ‘So, she does put out. Why not with me?’ I tell you, there’s a lot of press about the wrath of a woman scorned, but men can be pretty vengeful, too. Anyway, back to Abi: she did not fume that I was being romantic and short-sighted, the way my very frustrated tutor did when I finally fessed up to her, and nor did she cry for a month, the way my mother did. Which was, you know, awful.
She made us both a cup of tea, even went back to her room to dig out a packet of Hobnobs, kept for special occasions only. I was on my third Hobnob (already eating for two) before she asked, ‘So who is the dad?’ Which was awkward.
‘I’d rather not say,’ I mumbled.
‘That ugly, is he?’ she commented with a smile. Again, I wanted to chortle; I knew it was inappropriate. I mean, I was pregnant! But at the same time, I was nineteen and Abi was funny. ‘I didn’t even know that you were having sex with anyone,’ she added.
‘I didn’t feel the need to put out a public announcement.’
Abigail then burst into peels of girlish, hysterical giggling. ‘The thing is, you’ve done exactly that.’
‘I suppose I have.’ I gave in to a full-on cackle. It was probably the hormones.
‘It’s like, soon you are going to be carrying a great big placard saying, I’m sexually active.’
‘And careless,’ I added. We couldn’t get our breath now, we were laughing so hard.
‘Plus, a bit of a slag, cos you’re not sure who the daddy is.’
I playfully punched her in the arm. ‘I do know.’
‘Of course you do, but if you don’t tell people who he is, that’s what they’re going to say.’ She didn’t say it meanly, it was just an observation.
‘Even if I tell them who the father is, they’ll call me a slag anyway.’ Suddenly, it was like this was the funniest thing ever. We were bent double laughing. Which was odd, since I’d spent most of my teens carefully walking the misogynistic tightrope, avoiding being labelled a slag or frigid, and I’d actually been doing quite a good job of balancing. Until then. It really wasn’t very funny. The laughter was down to panic, probably.
The bedrooms in our student flat were tiny. When chatting, we habitually sat on the skinny single beds because the only alternative was a hard-backed chair that was closely associated with late-night cramming at the desk. The room that was supposed to be a sitting room had been converted into another bedroom so that we could split the rent between six, rather than five. We collapsed back onto the bed. Lying flat now to stretch out our stomachs that were cramped with hilarity and full of biscuits – and in my case, baby. I looked at my best friend and felt pure love. We were in our second year at uni; it felt like we’d known one another a lifetime. Uni friendships are more intense than any other. You live, study and party together, without the omniscient, omnipresent parental influence. Uni friends are sort of friends and family rolled into one.
Abi and I met in the student union bar the very first night at Birmingham University. Although I would not describe myself as the life and soul of the party I wasn’t a particularly shy type either; I’d already managed to strike up a conversation with a couple of geology students and while it wasn’t the most riveting dialogue ever, I was getting by. Then, Abigail walked up to me. Out of nowhere. Tall, very slim, the sort of attractive that girls and Guardian-reading boys appreciate. She had dark, chin-length, sleek, bobbed hair with a heavy, confident fringe. She was all angles, like a desk lamp, and it seemed remarkable that she was poised to shine her spotlight on me. She shot out her hand in an assured and unfamiliar way. Waited for me to take it and shake it. In my experience, no one shook hands, except maybe men in business suits on the TV. My dad was a teacher; he sometimes wore a suit, but mostly he preferred chinos and a corduroy jacket. I suppose he must have occasionally shaken the hands of his pupils’ parents, but I’d never seen anyone my age shake anyone else’s hand. Her gesture exuded a huge level of jaunty individuality and somehow flagged a quirky no-nonsense approach to being alive. Her eyes were almost black. Unusual and striking.
‘Hi. I’m Abigail Curtiz, with a Z. Business management, three Bs. You?’
I appreciated her directness. It was a fact that most of the conversations I’d had up until that point hadn’t stumbled far past the obligatory exchange of this precise information.
‘Melanie Field. Economics and business management combined. AAB.’
‘Oh, clever clogs. Two degrees in one.’
‘I wouldn’t say—’
She cut me off. ‘That means you are literally twice as clever as I am.’ If she believed this to be true, it didn’t seem to bother her; she took a sip from her wine glass, winced at it.
‘Or half as focused,’ I said. I thought a self-deprecating quip was obligatory. Where I came from, no one liked a show-off. Being too big for your boots was frowned upon; getting above yourself was a hanging offence. Abi pulled a funny face that said she didn’t believe me for a moment; more, that she was a bit irritated that I’d tried to be overly modest.
‘OK, that’s the bullshit out of the way,’ she said with a jaded sigh. She didn’t even bother to introduce herself to the geology students. I glanced at them apologetically as she scoured the bar. ‘Who do you fancy?’ she demanded.
‘Him,’ I replied with a grin, pointing to a hot, hip-looking guy.
‘Come on then, let’s go and talk to him.’
‘Just like that?’ I know my face showed my astonishment.
‘Yes. I promise you, he’ll be more than grateful.’
She made me laugh. All the time. Her direct, irreverent tone never faltered, never flattened, not that evening or for the rest of the year. We did talk to the hot, hip guy; nothing came of it, I didn’t really want or expect it to, but it was fun. We spoke to him and maybe ten other people. It quickly became apparent that Abigail oozed cool self-belief; she thought the world was hers for the taking, and it was a fair assessment. She was charming and challenging, full of bonhomie and the sort of confidence that is doled out in private-school assemblies. The best bit was, she seemed happy for me to hitch along for the ride.
It was Abi who persuaded me to join the debating society and she was the one who insisted we went to the clubs in town, rather than just limit ourselves to the parties that bloomed in the university common rooms. She did all the student things like three-legged pub crawls and endless themed parties but she also insisted we did surprising stuff, like visit the city’s museums and art galleries. Some people whispered that she was pretentious; they resented the fact that she only enjoyed listening to music on
vinyl and was fussy about the strength of coffee beans; she refused to drink beer, sticking exclusively to French red wine; she rarely ate. She was, by far, the most interesting person I’d ever met.
We became close. She wasn’t my only friend or even my best friend but she was my favourite. I sometimes found it a bit exhausting to keep up with her and while she signed up for the university’s dramatic society, I was content to sit in the audience and watch her play a shudderingly shocking Lady Macbeth. I joined her on the coach to London and protested outside Parliament over something or other – I forget what now – she waved her placard all day, whereas around noon, I slipped off to Oxford Street for a quick look around Topshop.
She was the first person I told about my pregnancy. By the time we’d munched our way through almost the entire packet of Hobnobs, Abi commented, ‘Bizarre to think there’s an actual baby in there.’ She was staring at my still reasonably flat stomach.
‘I’m going to get so fat,’ I said, laughingly. Weirdly, this seemed a matter of mirth.
‘Yeah, you are,’ she asserted, sniggering too.
‘And no one is ever going to want to marry me.’ Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I was, to my horror and shame, crying. The tears came in huge, uncontrollable waves. I gulped and gasped for air in pretty much the same way I had when I’d been laughing, so it took Abigail a moment to notice.
‘Oh no, don’t cry,’ she said, pulling me into a tight hug. She smoothed my hair and kissed the top of my head, the way a mother might comfort a child that had fallen over. Abigail was beautiful and sensuous – everyone wanted to touch her, all the time – but she generally chose when any contact would happen.
‘Who will want to marry me when I have a kid trailing around after me?’ I hadn’t actually given much thought to marriage up to that point in my life. I wasn’t one of those who’d forever dreamed about a long white dress and church bells, but I’d sort of assumed it would happen at some stage in the future. It frightened me that the undesignated point seemed considerably more distant and blurry, now that I was pregnant.
‘You’ll still get the fairy tale,’ Abi said with her usual cool confidence. ‘I mean Snow White had seven little fellas hanging off her apron and she still netted a prince.’
This caused another round of near-hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard that snot came out of my nose. It was embarrassing at the time. A few months on, I became much more blasé about wayward bodily fluids. She hugged me a little tighter. ‘They will call you a slag, but it will be OK,’ she assured me.
‘Will it?’
‘Yeah, it really will,’ she said cheerfully. I felt a wave of something like love for Abi at that moment. I loved her and I believed her.
That feeling has never completely gone away.
2
Abigail
From the moment Abigail saw Rob she found him completely irresistible. It wasn’t an exclusive club; he was to many. Bad boys often were. That had always been their problem.
Irresistible. Such a silly word. It didn’t get near it.
It tore at her. What she felt for him back then ripped a hole in her and she knew no one could plug it but him.
There were several undergraduates vying for his attention in those early days. Nubile, brilliant, interesting, beautiful young women by the bus load. He’d flirted with a whole string of them. At least flirted.
She wasn’t someone who was accustomed to being turned down, to being told no, and she wasn’t prepared to settle for what the others did: heady evenings at the pub, one night of fun and thank you, move on. She had to have him. Make him hers. For real. For ever. He was studying for his PhD when she was just an undergrad. He took tutorials. Taught and formed young, willing minds and yet, as he was still studying himself, he was somehow one of them at the same time. He drifted around the university, unique and glamorous, enigmatic and brilliant. There was an element of power, otherness; it was very attractive. Her body leaned into his when he walked into a room, like a compass pointing north. Her throat dried up; everything else was wet. She pulsed, beat like a huge heart. It sounded ridiculous now, so romantic. Too romantic. All these years on. But at the time she thought she’d been peeled back, stripped bare. That she wasn’t anything more than a huge, bloody, exposed heart. Beating for him.
It was hard for Abigail to recall that now, that intensity, that certainty. It had been smothered. Years of living together had normalised them. Respectability and maturity had dampened the fire. Put it out. Layer after layer of ordinary things: shopping for groceries, one telling the other they had food stuck between teeth, listening to over-familiar stories, worrying about promotions, deadlines, accolades, choosing wallpapers and cars. Those things build layers around a pulsing heart – at once protecting it and smothering it.
And the baby thing.
And the other women.
Combined, those factors meant it was impossible to recall the unadorned longing, the wanting.
But back then, he was everything. She couldn’t see or think about anyone other. The boys that were buzzing around her, undergraduates, she swatted them away like flies. Rob was seven years older than she was. Enough of a gap to make him seem far more interesting than he probably was. He seemed more confident, knowledgeable, erudite. He was athletic and toned although not overly worked out. Tall. He took her to fancy restaurants, the theatre and arthouse cinemas. They talked about politics, novels, travelling. He was fiercely ambitious and focused. She couldn’t deny that ambition and focus had panned out for him. He was, undoubtedly, a success, as he’d always wanted to be, as he’d always said he would be. She couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed the fruits of his labours. He provided an enviable lifestyle.
When they first met and he was messing about with a few undergraduates, he explained to her he was owed a bit of crazy time. He’d not so long since split up from his girlfriend of five years. They’d split because that girlfriend had fallen pregnant and he hadn’t wanted the baby. They’d agreed on an abortion but, afterwards, there wasn’t much hope for them as a couple. They’d both found it hard to move past what had happened to them, past what they’d done. The ex maintained it was an accidental pregnancy. So many pregnancies in those days were. Fertile young people. Rob had never quite believed her story about throwing up the pill after eating a dodgy takeaway. He’d felt trapped. He felt the net fasten around him.
‘She was just about to haul me onto the fishing boat and bash my brains out,’ he’d said, laconically, as he pulled on his cigarette or took another swig of Merlot. ‘We simply wanted different things.’ These words, delivered with a shrug, somehow made it sound as though he was the victim and Abigail ought to feel sorry for him. Which she did.
He did choose her in the end; she became his official girlfriend. It took quite some months. Months of strategising, teasing, being in the right place, saying the right thing. But she did it. She was so happy, delirious, although never quite sure why she was the one he’d picked. She wanted to know. She thought if she knew exactly why he had chosen her, she could maintain whatever it was that had attracted him. If only she could pinpoint it exactly. Yes, she was attractive – she knew it then and she remembered it now – but many of them had been attractive. She was also buoyant, and independent, and confident.
Those things were harder to recall.
Maybe, she was simply the most persistent. The last woman standing.
Or just the most foolish.
Maybe the others got bored of his petulance, his pretentiousness, his unwillingness to commit. They settled for nice guys in their own year, even if those boys thought a great night was eating pizza from a box while watching Futurama. One day those boys would talk about political affairs and Booker winners. Everyone grows up eventually.
So that’s what it was. She saw it clearly now. Her twenty-year commitment began on the back of another woman’s heartache.
And now, it had ended in her own.
3
Melanie
Dearest Mel,
Well, I’m sure I’m a blast from the past and the very last person you’d expect to see pop up in your inbox. I know we haven’t managed to stay in touch as much as we’d both perhaps have liked, but we are friends on Facebook and I’ve always enjoyed reading your posts. Although why don’t you post more pictures?! I’d love to see how your family have grown. I flatter myself to think you might have caught one or two of mine over the years and have perhaps kept up with my news. The truth is, I’ve been thinking of you so often, recently. I just had to reach out. It felt like the right time.
Things aren’t going as well for me as one might hope. In fact, things are bloody awful. Naturally, when things are bloody awful you turn to your old friends, don’t you?
Rob and I are divorcing. There. I might as well just say it (or at least write it). I’ll have to get used to admitting it, I suppose. I imagine it will get easier to do so, although right now my heart is breaking. I mean that sincerely, no hyperbole. I can feel it crack. Have you ever felt that, Mel? I hope not.
It’s the usual story. Tragic only in its repetitiveness. He was having an affair. With his (much!) younger PA. I found them together in our bed. Can you imagine? It’s not like he couldn’t afford a hotel, it was just cruelty. I can only assume he wanted me to find out.
I am at a loss. I can’t go into work as he is, to all intents and purposes, my boss. I’m sure you know about our careers. I find most of my English friends keep up with what’s going on with me. He exec-produces my show; practically owns the channel, as a matter of fact. The humiliation. Everyone must have known before me. The wives are always the last to find out.
I’ve decided to travel home to England. Maybe find some work there. I need a change of scene. I have nothing to keep me here in the States. We never had children so I’m not tied by schools or whatever. My plans are vague. I’ll call in on my mother – my father died four years ago. I wanted to look up my old friends. I thought perhaps we could meet for a drink. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Reminisce over old, less complicated, days.
