by Adele Parks
‘No.’ He starts to take off his clothes and then wanders into the bathroom. I get out of bed and follow him.
‘Hugh, I think we should talk.’ This is perhaps unconsidered of me; as a bloke he’s never going to welcome this opener. His extreme anger, bruised pride and stupendous alcohol intake aren’t likely to increase his inclination for a heart-to-heart. But we do have to talk, sooner or later. There’s a lot to be said.
‘What about?’ He stares at his own reflection and doesn’t look at me.
‘I’m sorry about the pitch.’ It’s as good as any place to start.
‘Liar.’
‘I am.’
‘Oh well, if you’re sorry that’s that then, isn’t it? Apology accepted.’ His tone is scathing and cruel. I’d like to blame it on the drink.
‘I didn’t know you were pitching for the business,’ I explain. He still won’t look at me so I’m also talking to his reflection.
‘Liar, liar, pants on fire,’ he sings, and then he dances a small jig around the bathroom. I take a deep breath and try to see this as great practice for when the baby is born. His juvenile behaviour is exposed as astonishingly inappropriate when he stumbles and bangs into my bump. I move away from him and wrap a protective arm around the baby; he doesn’t notice.
‘I didn’t know,’ I insist.
‘Did.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did.’
This isn’t getting us anywhere.
‘Even if I had known, what could I have done? Would you have expected me to pull out of the pitch?’ I try to hold his gaze and to reason with him but he looks away. Surely this has hit a nerve. He can’t possibly have expected me to throw the pitch. He can’t have needed me to do that.
Hugh doesn’t answer for the longest time. Finally he replies, ‘Yes. You should have pulled out.’
‘Yes?’ I’m astounded.
I can hear the tap in the shower dripping and the cistern of the loo is filling up, but I can’t hear the words Hugh is saying. His mouth is moving but I must have got it wrong.
‘Yes. You pulled out of the race for the MD position at R, R&S, didn’t you? One more small sacrifice wouldn’t have made any difference to you. You’re about to have a baby, for Christ’s sake, what do you care about Q&A’s end-of-year billings? Your loyalties lie with me.’
He’s finally turned towards me, but I wish he hadn’t. His face is just centimetres away from mine; as he shouts he sprays spittle on my cheek. I’ve never seen him so furious. Tiny little lines of bitterness are engraved on his forehead, small shafts of resentment run along his cheeks up to his eyes and down to his mouth. I’m sure they weren’t there this morning. He looks ugly. This man, who has always appeared the epitome of beauty and fineness, is ludicrous.
I try to remain logical. ‘Yes, my loyalties lie with you. And yours with me. Winning this business is not about billings, Hugh, or the business-performance league tables. I’ll have to go back to work after my maternity leave. We need the money. Leaving on the high of a big account win is invaluable for me. It will make such a difference to my reputation, and Dean has promised me a bonus. Think how handy that will be, what with a new baby and the money we pay Becca and the kids.’ I’m trying to remind him that we are a team.
The truth is we need my job with its big salary and expense account. The offer of a company car and private health-care scheme are useful too. At this precise moment I’m even feeling affectionate towards the annoying little card that I swipe in the vending machine to get a cup of watery tea.
‘I’m wounded, George. I’ve nothing more to say to you,’ says Hugh. He has definitely missed his vocation and his era. He makes Oscar Wilde look underplayed.
‘There are other things to talk about,’ I insist. I’m getting heartily sick of him deciding the parameters. I try to provoke a response. ‘I’m not sure if I even care about the bloody car account,’ I mutter, not really under my breath, because I do know how to flick his switches.
‘What?’ Suddenly I have his attention. Surprise. Surprise. ‘You don’t care about the pitch?’
‘Well, not on the scale of things, no. It’s just business. It’s got nothing to do with you and me. And our particular business has very little to do with anything really important.’
‘Really important?’
‘Gear sticks versus the war-crimes tribunal and Slobodan Milosevic. Wheel girth takes on illegal immigrants suffocating in lorries. Two-tone metallic finish versus child soldiers.’
No response. I go for something a little closer to home. ‘Leather interior over and against Tom’s birthday tomorrow. You forgot to sign his birthday card even though I bought it over a week ago and left it on the dining-room table all this time. I had to forge your signature.’
It’s as though I haven’t spoken.
‘You’re not sure you care about the car account? So you wrecked my life for something you’re not really sure about. How could you, George?’
And he’s brimming, absolutely flowing, with indignation and self-righteousness. It’s almost laughable. In fact, it is laughable. I can’t help myself – I start to chortle. These inappropriate responses may or may not be a result of the pregnancy, but they are liberating; I do hope they last. I no longer care if R, R&S lost the pitch, I no longer feel guilty that Q&A won the pitch. In fact, I think I’m rather pleased. I don’t want what Hugh wants because I no longer believe that what Hugh wants is right. His halo has slipped from his head to around his neck; a little bit of me hopes it strangles him.
‘Oh Hugh, I didn’t wreck your life.’ I giggle at his melodrama. ‘they haven’t even sacked you. I hurt your pride. No, that’s not even true. You set yourself up for a fall by doing the interview for Campaign, by being the big man, saying your balls were on the line and that R, R&S had an unsurpassable pitch. I didn’t do this to you.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were working on the pitch?’ he screams, frustrated by my amused stance.
‘I never realized you considered me such a threat.’
Hugh snorts. I can’t make out any particular words but I’m pretty sure that whatever he’s saying involves plenty of blasphemy and lots of expletives.
I start to think about the films we’ve seen together, the meals we’ve eaten together, the miles we’ve run together, the holidays we’ve lazed through together. I’m thinking about the hours I’ve spent on Stair Master equipment, under hairdryers, in boutique changing rooms, cooking in the kitchen, body-brushing in the bathroom, loving in the bed-room, and I wonder why they don’t count for more. And I wonder why it doesn’t bother me that they count for so little. How did we end up here, so angry with each other and ourselves? Incapable of a civil exchange about the weather, never mind meaningful communication about our life together. Why can’t he calm me like he used to? Why can’t he excite me? Why can’t he reach me?
Why can’t I reach him?
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been to the Lucky 7 restaurant?’
I’m trying to keep my voice free of accusation, but Hugh knows me too well. I watch him in the bathroom mirror as he freezes, thinks for a second, and shouts (unnecessarily loudly, as I’m in the room), ‘Didn’t I?’ In that second his face sweeps through a rush of emotions. Initially angry, he suddenly becomes contrite, and then his contrition dissolves as a wave of irritation washes over his face and, almost instantly, disappears. If I hadn’t been watching him so intently I might have missed it. But then, I’m always watching him so intently.
He puts down his toothbrush which he’s been bandying around to help him express just how indignant he is; he’s oblivious to the little flecks of Colgate he’s sprayed everywhere – after all, he won’t be the one cleaning the bathroom tiles. He picks up a bar of soap and climbs into the shower. He turns the tap on and zillions of little particles of water whiz out of the faucet; even so I don’t think he’ll wash himself clean.
‘Didn’t I mention I’d been?’
‘No, you didn�
��t. Which is odd, don’t you think? Because normally you’re so keen to impress when you’ve been to a cutting-edge restaurant.’ I’m still sniggering to myself because, really, how stupid is it to show off about which restaurant you’ve been to? It’s not as though he goes to these fancy restaurants to actually enjoy the food. The wine list – yes; the prices – yes; who else was there – yes; but not what he ate. Still, I digress.
I open the shower door. The hope is that his nakedness will make him feel vulnerable, evening up the score – my inches of flesh make me feel very vulnerable. Not the fatness, that doesn’t bother me any more. The fact that this is a baby. I’ve made a little person with this man. This silly, spoilt, angry man is the father of my child. How can I retrieve this situation? What result do I want?
‘George, you’re getting water on the floor.’
‘Are you seeing someone else?’ Because this matters to us more than an £80 million pitch or £8 million of revenue ever could.
‘No,’ he says simply.
And in the past I know I’d have accepted his word, I’d have argued with myself that there could be any number of reasons that he’d eaten at Lucky 7. It could have been work. He hasn’t tried to deny that he was there, has he? I’d have told myself that I was being silly and that it was wrong and unfair of me to jump to conclusions. I’d have told myself not to rock the boat, to be grateful that this man, the pinnacle of everything I ever wanted, has chosen to be with me. I’d have glossed over the fact that, in terms of adultery, this man has form.
As it is I can’t.
‘I’m sick of these rows, George. I’ve had these rows before. Now if I can just have my shower in peace and then get to bed. Is that so much to ask?’ Hugh tries to push me away from the shower door and close it. I jam my foot in the door. I won’t be ignored.
‘When? Tell me. With Becca? Tell me. Say it. When have you had these rows before?’
‘OK, yes, I’ve had these rows with Becca,’ Hugh concedes, not getting my point.
‘And she was right, wasn’t she? You were screwing someone else. You were screwing me. So who are you screwing now?’
47
‘I’m desperately in need of some light relief.’
‘I’ll send Millie round.’
‘I didn’t mean light as in weighs less than four stone, I meant as in humorous.’
‘So did I,’ says Libby, indignantly.
Thinking about it, it is true that Libby laughs more than nearly anyone else I know. Could that be because she has a child? Well, you certainly do need a sense of humour to be with Millie twenty-four seven.
‘Are you going to leave him?’ she asks. Not one for beating about the bush. I’ve just spent thirty minutes on the phone bringing Libby up to date.
‘Fourteen years. Nearly half my life. Twice Millie’s,’ I justify.
‘Suppose,’ she comments, instantly understanding my investment. I don’t think I can explain about the fact that I feel truly guilty about splitting Becca and Hugh up. I can’t find the words to clarify that it would be OK if we were for real, for love, for ever.
‘And I’m carrying his child.’
‘True.’
‘I don’t want to be a single mother.’ ‘Is there any other kind?’
I laugh grimly. The thing is, I still believe in the happy ending. Bloody hell, no one wanted a happy ending more than I did (well, except Sam possibly). ‘I think there is another kind,’ I answer truthfully. ‘I have seen concerned and conscientious fathers at the water-conditioning class. I’ve spotted nervous and sweating dads-to-be waiting hopefully for the scan results. There have been sightings in Tesco’s and in the park on Saturday mornings. I watch them all the time.’
We’re both silent. It would be easier to pretend this type of man didn’t exist than admit that we’ve made bad choices. But I know they do.
‘I don’t think I’m up to being a single mother. I’m not as brave as you. Not as strong. You do a brilliant job but I don’t think I’d be up to it.’
I have these fantasies, you see. It’s Christmas Day and Hugh is carving the turkey, the flat is full of tinsel and good cheer. The baby is sat in front of a log fire opening its presents, Jessica and my father are there, even Henry and Penny and their kids have joined us.
Not that we have an open fire.
And, anyway, they are very dangerous with small children around.
OK, another fantasy, a bit lower on the risk list of accidents in the home. Hugh and I are lying in bed on a Sunday morning and the baby is lying propped up on pillows between us, gurgling, giggling. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Although, in reality, Hugh would probably expect to continue his morning visits to the gym, even after the baby is born. I’ll probably spend Sunday mornings juggling the baby and the roasting dish, because Hugh has said that he’d like to reintroduce Sunday roasts once we have the baby. Even though the baby won’t be tucking into a joint and three veg for quite some time yet.
I sigh. If I’m honest with myself I know that the fantasy will always be light years away from the reality. He will never help me choose clothes in babyGAP; even now I pick out Kate and Tom’s pressies. I usually do that in my lunch hour. I’m the one who washes floors, I cook, I shop, I iron and take our suits to the dry-cleaner’s and pick them up again. I buy loo rolls and change the water filter. Hugh only need mention that he fancies the new REM album (his tastes are mainstream, but he is thirty-four; he’s unlikely to express an interest in that-new-indie-revival-band-that-played-in-the-pub-in-Camden ever again). He expresses the interest and the next thing the CD appears in our stereo, as if by magic.
No, actually, as if I’d bought it and put it there.
Yet he looked horrified when I hinted that I might like a small token of his esteem as a thank you for having the baby. He said, ‘Don’t you buy the presents now?’
I order furniture. It’s me who arranges to be at home whenever there is a delivery of any kind. I arrange the payment of all bills – Barclaycard, Amex, gas, electricity, TV licence, council tax, mortgage. I am the one acting as a human incubator.
Hugh goes to work.
Abruptly, it seems extremely unbalanced.
I admit I used to do all these things for myself when I lived on my own, of course I did. But then the mess was my mess. My cereal bowl, my empty yogurt carton, my clothes in the washing basket and my wet towels on the bathroom floor.
What am I saying? That I’d be better off alone? No. Of course not. I can’t be saying that. I’m just saying it seems unfair.
Libby must have been thinking along the same lines because she says, ‘I don’t know why you think you couldn’t manage on your own. You have a highly paid job, you bring in massive revenues for your agency. You own your own flat, your own car. You’re the one who runs marathons for fun. You lived in New York, New York, for five years; you did all that on your own.’ (She says New York, New York, with a twang; a bad impersonation of a US accent is essential when saying those four words, however serious the discussion. I’m so pleased Libby has remembered this.)
‘That was the old me,’ I insist.
‘You’ll be the old you again, after the baby is born.’
The odd thing is I don’t know if I want to be. For a start, I don’t think I have the energy to read another article that promises I’ll banish cellulite for life, or that I’ll lose 15 lb in a month or that I’ll learn twenty-five sure-fire ways to increase my sexual energy. Sometimes I feel my head is bursting, it’s holding so much stuff – how to be brighter, better, wiser, thinner, more fashionable. I try so hard. Too hard. I try at every aspect of life. I try to be the perfect woman for Hugh, the perfect friend, the perfect employee. I even try to be the perfect stranger, for goodness sake. I sometimes think I’m going mad. The other day I found myself wishing I were a video recorder. Right now, I could do with a rewind, fast-forward and erase button. Although, notably, there’s still not much call for play or stop.
Secondly,
even assuming I had the energy (and time – unlikely) I don’t think I want to be the old me, because I’m not that keen on her any more. I’m not even sure if I ever really existed beyond being what I thought Hugh wanted. I don’t blame him for this. I blame myself. And I’m even sick of that, blaming myself. I want to fix things and move on. But what would be a ‘fix’ in this situation? I do know that I don’t want to put my considerable energy and whatever talent I might have into regaining skinny thighs because there has to be more to life than being a perfect size 10. I know there is; I put my hand on my stretched stomach and gently rub my bump. Besides which, trying all the time is exhausting and demoralizing because, however hard I try, I’m never quite good enough. There’s always something I’ve forgotten to do, even if it’s only applying a second coat of lipstick.
I want to articulate some of this to Libby.
‘I need to fix some things.’ ‘Such as?’
I sigh. ‘It was Sam’s hen weekend last weekend; she didn’t even invite me.’
‘Was it one of those outdoor-pursuits things? She probably thought it was too active at this stage in your pregnancy.’ Libby is already trying to find excuses.
‘No, it was nothing to do with the pregnancy.’
‘Have you had a disagreement?’
‘Sort of.’ I’m pretty certain that my wedding invite is invalid. Which strikes me as odd, I’ve been on the guest list for fourteen years and now I’m NFI ‘It’s complicated. I’m sorry I can’t tell you the details, it would be breaking her confidence.’ I know Libby is itching to ask me to spill the juicy gossip and I am tempted, but I resist.
‘Call her, uncomplicate it,’ suggests Libby, offering a solution as though she were a man.
I ache to call Sam. I miss her with such ferocity that I feel an emptiness that’s as real as hunger. We haven’t spoken since the evening at the restaurant when she confessed to her affair with James. I’d love for her to see the size of my bump now, it’s unreal. I just keep growing and growing and when it seems impossible that I can stretch any more without popping, then I grow some more. I’m sure she’d love to feel the baby kick. I’d like to tell her about the pitch win. But, most of all, I’d like to explain that I do understand; now I know exactly what she meant when she said getting married was all she ever wanted and she’d wanted it for such a long time she didn’t know how to want anything else. I know why she compared her obsession with getting married to mine with getting Hugh. I now understand how brave I was asking her to be when I suggested she dump the fantasy. I’m not sure I can, either.
