The Idea of You

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘He doesn’t know what to do. He loves my mum, they’ve been together forever, but when she’s drunk it’s so horrible in the house . . . and I couldn’t stand it any longer so that’s why . . . that’s why I wanted to come here.’ She caught her breath.

  ‘Oh, Camille, you poor love.’ She would never confess to the slight relief that there were no darker implications to the girl’s revelation. Her mum’s jealousy, however, was still a horrible thing. ‘Your mum doesn’t mean it. That’s just the drink talking.’ She heard her words, leaping to the defence of a woman she had never met and whom she judged harshly. She was, however, aware that all that mattered was Camille’s view on the situation, and she hoped these words would make her feel a bit better. ‘Come and sit on the sofa with me. You’ll get a numb bottom sitting down there and that will never do.’

  Lucy slowly stood and Camille followed, flopping down against the wide arm of the sofa, facing her. Lucy decided to keep the light low and pulled the faux-fur throw from the back of the sofa and placed it on the girl’s legs. Camille nodded her thanks, and ran her palm over the soft fur as though it was a pet offering comfort.

  Her voice quavered. ‘And my dad was all I had. Even though I didn’t see him all the time, he was my escape. I used to think about coming here and living with him when I’d finished school, and it was getting closer and closer and I thought about all the adventures we would have. And then he married you and it changed everything for me, everything.’

  Lucy nodded. This she understood.

  ‘And when you said about it being just the two of you, how much you loved your life, I felt like crap. I’d imagined coming here for so long. I thought it would make everything better and instead I felt like you didn’t want me here or couldn’t wait for me to leave.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Lucy felt a jolt of guilt at the words.

  She jumped up and grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and gave it to the girl, sinking back down on to the sofa next to her. ‘I wish you had told me this sooner; all I ever wanted to do was to get to know you. I want us to be great friends, I really do. I didn’t want to detract from the life you had before I arrived. I wanted to add to it!’ She tried out a small smile.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Lucy.’ Camille shredded the damp tissue in her fingers. ‘I don’t know where I fit in. I feel like I’m floating, like rubbish on the sea.’ She cried anew.

  ‘You fit right here! And you always will. This is where you live for as long as you want it to be. I think we could have fun together, if you let me in. But never doubt that you will always, always, have a home here with your dad, who loves you more than anything in the whole wide world, and he always will.’

  Camille looked up at Lucy and her tears seemed to slow. She took a breath and tilted her chin upwards. ‘I don’t know if he will always want me here.’

  ‘Camille, I give you my word. It doesn’t matter how much time you have spent apart, you must believe that he loves—’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘You’re . . . What?’ Lucy thought she might have misheard.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Camille’s words tore open a box of shock and concern. Thoughts of worry and surprise were sent flying up into the air like newly released bats that swarmed around their heads, spreading a sense of panic that fogged all rational thought.

  Lucy heard the blood rushing in her ears. Camille, this seventeen-year-old girl, currently in her care, was pregnant. Her mouth felt dry with nerves, and it reminded her of being sixteen again, knowing what she wanted to say, but not having the confidence to say it. She prayed, as she had then, for a steady hand on the tiller, someone that could take control and guide her through these choppy waters. She wished that Jonah were by her side. She had had no training, Tansy was right, and she felt sick at the prospect of saying or doing the wrong thing.

  ‘Are you . . . are you sure you’re pregnant?’ She was aware of the stunned tone of her enquiry; even saying the word out loud felt alien. It hit her with force in the gut. She had thought it likely that Camille and Dex were having a physical relationship, but full, unprotected sex? It had not really occurred to her, not in this day and age with contraception so freely available and encouraged that she thought it would be a given. She also knew that had she and Camille been closer, discussion of such a thing would have been so much easier. This was another terrible example of her holding back where her stepdaughter was concerned.

  Camille averted her gaze, looking down at the throw on her lap, displaying the embarrassed signs of a seventeen-year-old who was still bashful about sex because it was new, and who was still tinged with the guilt that Lucy remembered feeling.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I had my scan today. I knew I was, already, but I had kind of blocked it out, but it was confirmed today.’

  This little girl was pregnant. Having a baby.

  She felt the bile of jealousy leap into her throat. Lucy felt numb.

  ‘You had a scan?’ Lucy pictured Camille treading the shiny, sanitised floors that were so familiar, lying on the couch in a room where the memory of her own misery lingered, and awaiting the sonographer’s words as Lucy had done so many times, only for it to end in the same way, with her tears and an awkward drive home, as she and Jonah silently pondered what might have been.

  Camille nodded.

  ‘Does Dex know?’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t know how to tell him.’ She started crying again. ‘It’s such a mess.’ Finally she looked up.

  ‘Oh, Cam, it is a bit of a mess, but not the end of the world. It really isn’t.’

  ‘It feels like it,’ the girl managed.

  Lucy hardly dared ask her next question. ‘How far are you, did they say?’

  ‘Thirteen weeks.’

  Thirteen weeks . . . she had made it to thirteen weeks.

  Camille slid from the sofa and stood, arching her back to reach into the pocket of her jeans. As she did so, Lucy saw the unmistakable swell of a bump beneath her T-shirt. She hadn’t noticed it before, partly because she hadn’t been looking and also because the loose layers that Camille favoured did much to disguise any shape. But there it was. Oh my God, a tiny bump . . . She instinctively placed her hand on her own stomach and felt another punch of resentment that the thing she had yearned for and coveted most, the thing she had failed at, seemed to have fallen unrequested into the lap of this girl.

  Camille sat back on the sofa and handed her a grainy black-and-white image. Lucy held the matte, square photograph towards the arc of light from the lamp and could quite clearly see the image of a baby. She touched her fingertip to the outline of the large head, a rounded stomach and the legs bent up towards the chest. The arms appeared to be up and folded behind the head, as if the little thing was relaxing on a lounger. Lucy’s smile was almost involuntary; her happiness to see such a special picture was evident. But it was coupled with an ache in her chest for this to be her baby.

  ‘It’s a little boy,’ Camille added. Lucy had almost forgotten she was there and jumped when she spoke.

  ‘A little boy,’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told your mum?’ she wondered, as she handed back the picture.

  ‘No.’ Camille shook her head. ‘I don’t want to tell her, not until I have to. She will only go crazy and I can’t cope with that right now.’ She sniffed.

  ‘You will have to tell her, but you and your dad can decide on how and when. Try not to worry about it right now.’ Lucy considered what it might feel like being present when Jonah and Geneviève shared this news. Their daughter was having a child. She looked ahead and could only see more exclusion from this ever-growing family that she had hitched her wagon to.

  Camille nodded. ‘Can you tell my dad for me?’ She started crying again.

  ‘Oh, love. I need to think about it, but right now, I’m not sure.’ Her hands fidgeted. ‘I think it might be best if we do it together. I can say the words, but you should be there and it
will be fine,’ she soothed.

  ‘But supposing it’s not fine? Supposing he throws me out? I don’t know what I would do! Where would I go?’ She raised her voice with an edge of hysteria.

  ‘That’s not going to happen, trust me.’ She felt a leap of nerves, wondering exactly how Jonah was going to react and what would be the best way to orchestrate the time and place of discussion. ‘Have you’ – Lucy thought carefully of how to couch her next question – ‘have you made any decisions, Cam, about the future, about the baby?’

  ‘I’m keeping him. No matter what. I’m keeping him.’ She raised her chin, speaking with a sense of clarity and assuredness that Lucy recognised. It fired a bolt of admiration right through her heart.

  ‘Your maturity and confidence are wonderful.’ She smiled, hoping that her expression was enough to mask the many concerns that leapt into her mind. Not least of which, how was this young girl going to cope with the demands of motherhood? How would she cope financially, emotionally and practically?

  ‘I’m scared,’ Camille whispered.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  The two sat in darkness, both quiet for very different reasons as the reality of the situation in which they found themselves began to permeate.

  It was Camille who eventually spoke.

  ‘Sometimes I feel okay, and I think I can do this, and I picture me and Dex and this baby and it makes me feel happy. And then others, I think about what will happen if Dex doesn’t come back from New York or just dumps me when I tell him and I will be on my own and I don’t earn any money and I can’t picture what my life will be like!’ Her breathing once again came in irregular bursts and her tears fell.

  Neither can I . . .

  ‘Have you thought about where you might want to live, how this might work?’ She gestured towards the girl’s stomach.

  Camille shook her head.

  Sweet Jesus!

  Lucy stared at the girl who most of the time was averse to doing the most basic of chores. She pictured Adam and Fay, who ran around at the behest of their kids, the relentless parenting tasks that filled their very long days, and she wondered how Camille would fare. She thought of tired Tansy, who moaned about sleepless nights, Benedict’s teething and the strains of parenting while working. Even with two incomes coming in, money was still tight for her and Rick. Camille yawned, as if on cue, and Lucy felt a swell of sympathy for her, picturing her life being shaken upside down at a time when she was trying to navigate the rocky, obstacle-strewn path from child to woman. And now, on top of her hormone-driven outbursts, the immature rants of a girl brimming with self-doubt and a lack of worldliness, she would have to cope with the demands of motherhood. She hoped that Camille was strong enough.

  Lucy pictured herself at sixteen: almost entirely ignorant of the reality that lay beyond the front door of her family home and yet entirely convinced of her own invincibility, believing she could take on the world and win. Was that blind faith, or sheer ignorance? She wasn’t sure. She thought about her mum, who had always been there to help her navigate that rocky path.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Camille whispered.

  Lucy touched her palm to her cheek; she hadn’t realised that she was. ‘I guess it’s just a very emotional time.’ She chose not to heap anything more on to the shoulders of this fragile girl.

  Lucy watched as Camille ran her hand over the slight swell above her waistband. What she felt was again a dash of envy but mainly pity for this young girl who was about to be thrust into adulthood and all that it brought with it. She found it hard to see her so distressed at this time.

  ‘There are some things you need to be doing, Camille, like taking folic acid.’ She decided to offer practical advice, a positive action that might boost the girl’s confidence.

  ‘I already am. I read that on the Internet,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good, that’s smart.’ Lucy smiled. She stood and walked over to the bookshelf, reaching deep behind the French Revolution to find her baby book.

  ‘I think you might find this interesting.’ She sat on the sofa next to Camille and opened the book. ‘This is the first page and so I always thought it must be one of the most important messages.’ She gave a small cough and then read aloud, by lamplight, though it clearly wouldn’t have mattered a jot had she not been able to see the words, since Lucy knew them by heart. ‘“It is a known medical fact that stress in a mother can be rather harmful to the unborn child. It can raise the baby’s own level of stress hormone, and this has been known to contribute to babies being born prematurely. It is therefore highly recommended that mothers-to-be avoid stress wherever and whenever possible.”’

  Camille sniffed. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? It’s telling me not to get stressed and yet I don’t think I have ever felt so stressed and so scared in my whole life. I will try, though.’

  ‘Shall we have a cup of herbal tea?’ Lucy knew she certainly needed one. She handed the book to Camille, who followed her into the kitchen, where Lucy switched on the light and filled the kettle and set it to boil, before grabbing two mugs and placing a rose-scented teabag in each.

  Camille leant on the worktop; her eyes were almost swollen shut as a result of her intense sobbing.

  ‘Do you think I could get an apartment if I, like, went to the welfare office or whatever? Would someone give me a home?’

  ‘I don’t know, honey. I’m not sure how it works, but I think it would be unlikely.’ Again the girl’s naivety brought a lump to her throat.

  Camille flicked through the baby book, reading aloud: ‘“At week ten your baby is growing fast and could weigh up to eight grams. Despite being so tiny, all its vital organs are now in place, including its brain, lungs and bowels.” It says, “Your baby is moving around a lot but you will not be able to feel it just yet.” Gosh, I’m over thirteen weeks, so mine will be doing even more than that, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he will.’ Lucy closed her eyes briefly as she reached into the fridge for the milk.

  The two of them sat at the table with a hot mug of tea each and a shared plate of crusty bread, slathered with butter and strawberry jam.

  ‘When I came down here on my birthday morning, I couldn’t believe what you had done for me, Lucy. Those big balloons and pancakes and a whole stack of presents and cards – it was so cool. My mum has never made me a birthday breakfast like that, never really got me a cake. I couldn’t believe it, and now I think about that and realise that it was the day I was born, the day she got me, and she doesn’t seem that bothered. It makes me feel terrible.’

  23 January at 11.10 a.m. The date and time leapt unbidden into her mind.

  ‘Maybe she is suffering too, Cam? Maybe there are things going on with your mum that you don’t know about, but that might be difficult for her.’

  ‘Like what?’ Camille grabbed a slice of thick-cut sourdough from the plate and took a bite.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied after some thought.

  ‘Well, thanks for that,’ Camille quipped, and they laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

  ‘I love that you are determined, Cam, and I think you have made a difficult decision all alone and that’s admirable . . .’ She paused. ‘But there is a lot to consider.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not sure you do know,’ she pressed. ‘A baby is a wonderful thing, a gift, goodness knows that’s what I believe, but a baby will change your whole future. It will become your future, taking the space of any thoughts or ideas you might currently have. It doesn’t mean you can’t have the things you have planned for, but it means they will undoubtedly be harder to achieve, and it means you can’t put yourself first. That’s before you even consider the practicalities, like how you can earn a living and where you might live. You need to think these things through, Lucy; you need to understand that this will change every aspect of your life. It’s not like it is in the babyGap ads, not all smiling and easy. It will be hard, harder than you can imagine.’


  Camille stared at her, her expression blank, whether in shock, fear or resentment it was hard to tell. She suspected it was a measure of all three.

  ‘You called me Lucy,’ Camille pointed out.

  ‘Did I?’

  The girl nodded, and again they both felt a snicker of nervous laughter that went some way to lighten the mood.

  ‘I know you are right. I know there is so much to sort out and so much to think about, but I will do it and if things take longer for me or I have to go about them in a different way, then that’s just how it will be.’ She shrugged.

  Lucy nodded at her brave, easy words of justification.

  ‘Is it okay if I use the computer in the study? I want to look up some stuff about being pregnant and I want to look into any allowances that I might be able to get, but my iPad cuts out sometimes if I want to download anything. It’s quite old.’

  ‘Yes, of course you can. You don’t have to ask.’ She smiled, gladdened by Camille’s proactivity.

  Camille yawned. ‘I feel exhausted.’

  ‘Me too, honey. Me too.’

  My stepdaughter fell pregnant, and I can tell you: it felt bittersweet having a pregnant woman in the house who wasn’t me. I didn’t have the chance to tell my husband immediately. I thought it would be unfair to do so while he was so far away on a business trip, but the fact that I knew this thing about his daughter was a horrible burden and one I disliked. It felt disloyal. My stepdaughter was adamant she didn’t want her mum to know, and with greater understanding of the strained nature of their relationship, this made more sense.

  I would wake in the middle of the night and think about the thirteen-week marker, picturing the scan picture of that little baby, and I’d put my hand on my tum, before waking more fully and remembering that it wasn’t me that was pregnant and it wasn’t my child. I’d lie back on my pillow and cry myself to sleep. That sadness was always lurking and manifested itself in a variety of ways. I couldn’t bear to see former colleagues come into the office, passing around a new baby like a prize – which of course it was, a prize of the very best kind. Far better they think me off, aloof, work-obsessed or disinterested as I scuttled past the gathering in the reception, trying to block out the oohs and aahs of the instantly besotted, hopeful women who jostled for a better look, running their fingers over the rounded, rosy cheeks of the baby and thinking of the day it would be their turn. I wanted to remind them that for some people the universe had a different plan, that it might never be their turn. But of course I didn’t. I kept my eyes on the file in my hands and quietly closed my office door.