by Adele Parks
‘And Hugh?’
‘He’s at another agency, R, R&S.’
‘What’s with this initial thing? Why can’t advertising agencies have proper names? I thought that was the point of advertising agencies, to make distinct brands.’
I smile. ‘Good point. It’s designed to confuse.’
‘Hugh was talking about pitching for new business too. But he’s not a New Business Director, is he?’
‘No. He’s the MD.’ And I can’t help myself, I shimmer with pride. ‘But the MD is always intrinsically involved in new business. I report into a guy called Dean, who’s my MD.’
‘Is he a good boss?’
I think about it, perhaps for the first time, and find that my not very inspirational answer is, ‘Mostly good enough.’ ‘Do you like your job?’
‘Ditto. Mostly good enough,’ I admit. Oddly enough, I haven’t ever really given it that much thought. It’s what I do. I’m reasonably good at it, or at least I am when I concentrate. ‘What about you?’
‘I work in an STD clinic, in the city. I deal with the bankers that are more than wankers,’ she grins.
‘I bet you have some stories to tell.’
‘I do,’ says Libby, laughing to herself. I think that she’s about to enlighten me, but we fall silent when Libby notices a fox. We watch it cross the path sleekly and glide into nothingness in the hedgerow.
‘So, do you like your job?’ I ask.
‘Funnily enough, working as a receptionist in an STD clinic wasn’t my ambition,’ admits Libby with a wry smile.
‘What was?’
‘I wanted to be a doctor; the surprise arrival of Millie put paid to that idea. I was in my third year at medical school.’
‘Where’s Millie’s dad?’
‘Missing since action.’
‘Oh. That’s hard.’
‘It was when I was alone in my bedsit, counting stretch marks, whilst my mates were out on the razz, chasing tequilas, but it got easier and now I see that Millie is definitely the best thing that ever happened to me.’
Libby must be doing some weird drugs. I mumble that indeed it must be a relief now that Millie is out of nappies and can put her own bread in the toaster. Libby laughs, although I wasn’t making a joke. I am so lucky. I am. At least Hugh isn’t about to do a Houdini. ‘What was Millie’s father like?’
I know I’m behaving like a student again. Not just because I’m doing a credible line in asking, ‘Where do you come from?’, ‘What grade A levels did you get?’ and ‘What position on the UCCA form was this university?’ There’s something else very studenty about this conversation; it’s direct and honest and seems drunken. I’m not asking Libby polite questions that I know would be socially acceptable (as is usually my way); I’m not asking pointless questions such as ‘what type of tree is that?’, which would be safe and give the impression that I give a damn about stuff. I’m asking her the things I want to know. It’s a relief, it’s unusual. Libby doesn’t seem fazed by my directness but answers me in the same straightforward way that the question was intended.
‘What was Millie’s father like?’ She repeats the question to herself and then shrugs, ‘I can’t really remember.’
I don’t think she means that she can’t remember who Millie’s father is; her tone suggests that time has eroded the memory of how he was.
‘Quite funny and not entirely useless in bed. Millie has his smile,’ she adds.
I try to think of Millie’s smile. Today, she has done a fair amount of scowling, snarling and sulking – have I seen her smile? Yes, I think I do remember her bestowing it at teatime. Suddenly her smile burns my retina. It’s wide and sincere. A charming smile, although I presume her father had more teeth.
‘How did you meet Penny?’ The more I know about Libby the less likely their friendship seems.
‘At prenatal groups. Josh is the same age as Millie.’
‘And you’ve stayed friends all this time?’
I obviously don’t do a very good job of keeping the incredulity out of my voice, because Libby answers. ‘She can be a bit straight, but her heart is in the right place. She’s been very good to me over the years. There are times when I’d never have managed without her. Girl friends really come into their own when you’re pregnant, don’t they?’
I don’t reply because, to be frank, mine haven’t. None of my friends have experience in this department. Ask them what you like about lymphatic drainage, calorie content, the effects of grape seed as an antioxidant and the advice is limitless. They can list over 100 uses for Vaseline (thickening lashes, conditioning nails, a cheap lip gloss… ) but I doubt soothing baby’s bottom would be one of them. They don’t do babies. Sam always asks, ‘So, how are you?’ but before I can answer she comments, ‘Gilbert and I can’t wait to start a family,’ and then she talks about Gilbert or, more accurately, the wedding. I don’t spend as much time at work and I never see Julia after work now; even if I did I don’t think she’d be interested in my pregnancy. In fact, I know she wouldn’t. I’m beginning to realize that work was all we ever had in common. The champagne-swilling, vol-au-vent-eating women who I used to meet at parties and receptions were never more than acquaintances. On hearing about the pregnancy, many of them have telephoned – once. Which is the correct thing to do. I’ve assured them all that I’m thrilled and excited, the correct thing to say, and I haven’t mentioned my mood swings, hot flushes or frightening discharges, as these are distinctly incorrect things to discuss. I don’t wallow, but return to the question of Libby’s career.
‘Maybe you could go back to uni and finish your training, now Millie’s a bit older and at school.’
‘Yeah, I keep saying I will. The people at the clinic are really good about Millie’s childcare arrangements, so I bet they would be flexible about study time, if that’s what I really wanted. It’s just that I’ve never quite got round to putting pen to paper to apply. If I ever have five minutes spare I eat chocolate or drink a glass of wine.’
‘Perhaps it’s for the best.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘What year did you say you were in when you fell pregnant?’
‘My third.’
‘Well, consider your basic grasp of biology – surely they’d done the birds-and-the-bees bit by then?’
Libby laughs out loud, as I’d hoped she would. It’s a strong confident laugh that rings through the woods. She links my arm in hers and we walk back to the cottage, discussing whether Jude Law’s arrogance is off-putting or gob-smackingly sexy.
24
At eleven-thirty I decide to turn in. I’m far too tired and sober to stay up to argue the pros and cons of Leo Sayer’s voice versus Barry Manilow’s.
‘Where’s Hugh?’ I ask Sam.
‘Dunno,’ she slurs back. To be fair, she is juggling her wine glass, a fag and a hand of cards, so I can’t reasonably expect her to keep an eye on the whereabouts of my boyfriend as well.
‘We whipped their hides,’ adds James, giggling drunkenly, then he turns back to Sam to make another toast to their victory. I almost pity them the hangover that is certainly scheduled for tomorrow. I wander through to the kitchen, where Gilbert is helping Penny dry the pots.
‘Have you seen Hugh?’ I ask.
‘Yes. He and Henry are fetching firewood from the shed,’ replies Gilbert.
‘They took the whisky bottle,’ says Penny, not bothering to hide her irritation. It’s code, of course, for, ‘They’ve gone for the night’, but why is she being so testy about it? It’s not a criminal offence.
I throw on my coat and gloves and scarf once again and brave the ‘arctic climes’. It’s such a clear, cold night; it really wouldn’t surprise me if it snowed again. I hear Henry and Hugh before I see them.
‘Congratulations,’ says Henry, and he bangs his whisky tumbler up against Hugh’s.
‘Thank you,’ Hugh over-articulates, immediately betraying that he’s more than a bit merry.
I tu
rn a corner and spot them by the barn, although they can’t see me as they have their backs to me. They are sat on a huge, neat pile of chopped logs, looking out into the black night rather than at each other. The sight is quite touching, brother sat with brother, shoulder to shoulder, so I pause to take it in.
‘How are you er… managing with the… erm… pregnancy?’ asks Henry. The question makes me smile to myself. Hugh and Henry are equally ill at ease with discussing anything remotely emotional or female. The mix of both pernicious subjects is crippling. They are archetypal products of a single-sex boarding-school education. They are charming, independent, witty emotional cripples. However, I’m sure that if Hugh is going to talk to anyone about how he feels about the baby it will be Henry, so I stand mute and still.
‘Clipped your wings a bit, no doubt.’
Now I really can’t move, it’s simply not possible. I’m rooted, waiting for Hugh’s response. I’m not sure what it will be. It strikes me that I don’t know how he’s ‘er… managing with the… erm… pregnancy’.
‘In a way, but they can be rather fun, though, can’t they? Children?’ says Hugh.
Isn’t that lovely? I start to breathe again, but I don’t move, maybe I’ll hear more lovely stuff.
‘If only George was a bit more fun.’
Or maybe not.
‘She’s not taking it too well, then?’ asks Henry, and I can hear concern in his voice.
‘You’d think she was the first woman on earth ever to get pregnant, the way she’s going on.’
Going on! I’ve hardly said one hundredth of what I feel. Going on!
‘Don’t you think she wants it?’
‘She says she does, but she’s behaving very strangely.’
‘Eating coal?’
‘Spitting fire.’ They both laugh, ‘A total dragon.’
I can hear whisky glugging from the bottle into the tumblers, another drink, and then silence as they savour the woody taste. A total dragon! It’s just not true. One row. We’ve had one row! I consider coughing and letting them know I’ve arrived on the scene because I am aware that people who eavesdrop never hear good things about themselves. I stay silent.
The giggling subsides and in a more serious tone Henry comments, ‘Well, it must have been a shock to her. You didn’t plan it, did you?’
‘Good God, no.’
‘And she’s quite a career woman. That won’t be easy to give up.’
‘No. I suppose not.’
So I’m giving up my career? Or at least Hugh seems to think so. We haven’t talked about it. I thought I’d be carrying on after the baby is born. We need the money and, besides that, I may not be saving lives but it is my career. I know that only half an hour ago, on this very spot, I described my job to Libby in the lacklustre terms, ‘mostly good enough’ but it is my mostly good enough career.
‘And you two have had a high old time living the fast life – holidays, parties, restaurants, bars – you can’t do all that after the baby is born.’
‘I can,’ insists Hugh, and, scarily, I believe him.
‘Shame that they all become victims of their hormones in the end.’ Henry shakes his head with genuine regret. I’m not sure what it is he’s regretting; the fact that women have the vote, perhaps? ‘I always had George down as fairly rational, quite considered. In many ways, I’ve always thought she was more of a man than I am,’ chuckles Henry. ‘Certainly has a better car and stereo.’
‘Not very good at maths, though, look at her blunder over her safe dates.’ Hugh starts to laugh at his own joke but I don’t think it’s very funny.
‘She was unnecessarily sharp over the Brie this lunchtime,’ admits Henry. ‘She does seem a bit tetchy.’ His disloyalty inspires a rage in me that makes me think hanging is too humane a punishment for such treachery.
Which possibly proves his point. Possibly.
‘Yes, she is,’ agrees Hugh.
‘And she always used to be so –’
‘Compliant, accommodating,’ Hugh fills in the gap.
‘Yes,’ nods Henry.
‘Such comfortable company,’ adds Hugh.
‘Yes.’
‘But now she’s always angry, tearful, neurotic’
‘Yes. Well, I’m sure it’s her hormones. They all get neurotic. I’m certain she’s no more neurotic than any other pregnant woman is. Hormones are to blame. Things will settle down after she’s had the baby,’ comforts Henry, with the sensitivity of a genocidal Neanderthal.
‘I hope you’re right, Henry. I do hope you’re right.’
I’m gutted. This is terrible. Absolutely irreparable. Hugh thinks of me as compliant, accommodating and comfortable. I thought he thought I was sexy, stylish and sassy. Not at this precise moment, admittedly. But generally.
My head starts to spin as I desperately try to compute what I’ve just heard. For once, I’m certain that the dizzy rush is nothing to do with plummeting sugar levels and the pregnancy. Compliant, accommodating and comfortable! Hugh thinks I’m docile, submissive and subservient! Which is just one step away from imbecilic. It’s so insulting. My breathing is shallow and fast. I can see it on the chilly night air, which is a small comfort. Seeing my breath cloud the icy night at least proves that I exist. That I’m here. Hearing your lover say such things can obliterate your very sense of self. The physical assurance of my presence helps me to remain calm. I watch my breathing become slower and more regular. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Maybe this is good news. Maybe I’m being too hasty and judgemental. Hugh probably means compliant as in kind and gentle. Gracious. And comfortable is a compliment. At ease. I put him at ease. Hugh thinks I’m gentle, gracious and tender. And as Hugh is with me because I’m gentle, gracious and tender, then it doesn’t matter if I’m not sexy, stylish and sassy. Which I’m not at the moment. Oh joy, oh joy, he’s not simply interested in my looks, he’s interested in the core me.
Providing, of course, that the core me is compliant.
Meaning gracious. It’s just semantics.
He did say that he was looking forward to having a child with me. That it will be fun. Which is a very positive thing to hear. I smile to myself. I’m thrilled, ecstatic, amazed. Hugh is interested in how I am, not how I look. Which is fantastic. What’s he saying now?
‘And she looks bloody terrible. She’s piling on weight and she used to have the most amazing tits but now they are fast beginning to resemble cows’ udders, decorated with veins and stretch marks that look like the Tube map.’
‘Big, though,’ Henry tries to be positive.
‘Yes, great big boobies,’ says Hugh with audible disgust.
It’s my own fault. No one ever hears good things about themselves when they listen to other people’s conversations.
It’s my fault.
It has to be.
Hugh finally comes to bed after 2 a.m. He starts to play with my breasts; obviously after a bottle of whisky it’s not always easy to tell the difference between ‘amazing tits’ and ‘cows’ udders’.
I chase the bitterness out of my head and heart and I try to remind myself that I shouldn’t have listened in to the conversation. It was a private conversation. And he wasn’t sober. Nowhere near. We can’t really be held accountable for the things we say when under the influence. We all say things we don’t mean. He did say that he was thrilled to be having a baby with me and that he couldn’t imagine anything being more fun. I can’t help but think of Libby, who hasn’t anything other than her bedsocks to keep her warm (unless she got lucky with James), so I cling to Hugh as though my life depended on it.
As indeed it always has.
We make love and, whilst it’s not planet-scattering, it does have the advantage of being well rehearsed; it’s warm and comfortable. I must make a bit more of an effort to be more ‘up’ when I’m around Hugh. I always used to ensure that he only ever saw me at my happy best. And although it is much harder now that I see him every day, rather than on two week nights and every second Su
nday, I simply must try harder. I have been unnecessarily snivelly recently.
I fold my body into Hugh’s and murmur that the fresh air must suit me. ‘I haven’t been sick for hours.’
‘It must suit Sam too; she hasn’t mentioned her wedding for hours, either,’ he quips.
We giggle. I start to tell Hugh about Libby, but quickly discover that I am wasting my time. He’s asleep. His breath gently pours on to the back of my neck, his left arm cradles my pillow, his right arm is thrown across my body, my back is toasted by his chest, and our legs are so entangled that it’s nearly impossible to work out who is giving whom cramp. It’s only when we are wrapped around one another like this that I feel really warm and truly safe. It is at moments like this that I remember where and why I’ve been travelling all these years. This is it, I have arrived.
Haven’t I?
25
I wake the entire house with my retching. The only consolation is that I’m not the only one feeling rough; those who are feeling vaguely human are in the minority. Surprisingly, Hugh is one of them. I can only assume his hangover is yet to kick in, because when I got up at seven – to empty my insides into the plumbing system – he got up too and went for a run. Penny obviously isn’t hung over as she only ever drinks moderate amounts. However, pretty much everyone else is reaching for the Alka-Seltzer. I realize that I can’t be a very nice person as I find being ill with company infinitely more palatable than being ill alone.
I wonder if that’s something I should work on.
‘I’m too old for such late nights,’ comments Henry.
Not for a second do any of us believe that his hangdog expression, pounding head and overactive sweat glands are the result of lack of sleep.
‘I could make a cooked breakfast,’ offers Sam. There is a roar of unanimous approval.
