by Adele Parks
‘And there’s Becca,’ I add.
‘Becca?’ Libby is understandably surprised.
‘I feel guilty, seriously guilty about breaking up Hugh’s marriage. I’m beginning to think I owed Becca a bit more… ‘I hesitate. I know the word but don’t think I can bring myself to say it. ‘A bit more solidarity.’
‘Oh, call her and say as much, I’m sure she’ll understand,’ says Libby glibly.
‘I think I might.’
‘I wasn’t being serious!’ She’s horrified. ‘People don’t just call each other and say, “Look, I’ve been giving this some thought, maybe I shouldn’t have run off with your husband.” People just don’t do that.’
‘I might.’
Because, for the first time in my life, not doing the done thing seems to be exactly what I ought to be doing.
August
48
Sam or Becca? Becca or Sam? Both are foul calls to have to make. Both involve eating a gag-inducing amount of humble pie. Libby says that I’m just trying to avoid the really big issue of Hugh’s philandering. It’s possible.
Two more weeks go by and I’ve done nothing. Well, I’ve been to work; at least there I’m still basking in the glory of the pitch win. I’ve edged closer and closer to my expected date of delivery. I’ve passed Hugh in the hallway. I’ve even slept in the same bed with him but I haven’t called Sam or Becca and I haven’t pushed Hugh on the pertinent question of who he’s screwing now.
‘Are we going to Sam’s wedding, then?’ asks Hugh.
It’s the first sentence we’ve exchanged in over two weeks so I feel a bit of a spoilsport when I have to answer in the negative. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Christ, George, she’s your best friend. I can’t believe you’re missing the wedding because you’re too fat to fasten your strappy sandals.’
I glare at him. ‘that is not the reason I’m not going to the wedding. For your information, as it’s so obviously passed you by, Sam and I have had a falling-out.’
‘Really?’ It’s touching that he does pause to look at me before he asks, ‘Because she wouldn’t let you be bridesmaid?’ Believing that I’d cut off my best friend over something so trivial is less touching.
‘No, Hugh, because we had a major disagreement about love, life and the reason we are here.’
‘Girls! You really overcomplicate things. Why do you talk about such stuff?’
‘Because neither of us follow football,’ I mutter, and then I turn back to my book on breastfeeding.
Hugh leaves the room.
Even for a pregnancy outfit my wedding outfit is gorgeous, by virtue of it being a wedding outfit. I’d planned to wear a long red dress that pretty much covers everything from shoulders to ankles. The only thing it does expose is my vast cleavage, as the dress has a great plunging neckline. I know that my heaving bosoms are my best attribute at the moment (although, admittedly, the competition from the rest of my body is at an all-time low). I’m working on a theory of drawing the eye up over or down over, actually anywhere away from my expansiveness, and so have bought scarlet, shockingly high sandals and a very wide-brimmed hat. Both of which are swathed in sequins, feathers, glitter and all manner of girliness. Weeks ago, Hugh suggested I wear my black shift from Mamasoon, presumably so I’d blend in and minimize myself as much as humanly possible. I did buy black shoes and a black hat but later rejected them; I don’t want to disappear. I want to be loud and proud, I want to celebrate my fertility and femininity.
And, anyway, I can no longer fasten the black number.
Not that it matters either way, as things have turned out. The hat and the sandals are still in their boxes. I haven’t called Sam. Sam hasn’t called me. I won’t be throwing any confetti today.
It’s five to eleven. Right now Sam is climbing into a cream Rolls-Royce and heading to the church. I’m lying on my bed in my bedroom. The windows are open and bright sunshine is bathing the room. I can hear next door’s kids squabbling over a tennis racket; I can hear a lawnmower and I can smell the freshly cut grass. It is a beautiful August day, a perfect day for a wedding. I can’t help but grin to myself because I know, absolutely know, could put money on it, that Sam will have woken up this morning and said, ‘Happy is the bride whom the sun shines on.’ I know exactly what’s happening.
The bridesmaids are wearing gold. The readings are a mix of the secular and the divine. Obviously the congregation are obliged to sit through I Corinthians 13 – ‘Love is patient and kind… ‘– because no wedding is complete without it, but Sam has also chosen a John Donne poem, one of the raunchy ones. She’ll walk down the aisle to Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ and leave to Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’. She chose all this before she completed her university finals. It’s not easy finding a comfortable position at thirty-seven weeks but this thought doesn’t help.
Hugh comes back into the bedroom. I spend most of my time here now, often asleep, sometimes just lying on my bed thinking. I’m working on a theory of Why stand when you can sit? Why sit when you can lie? It’s not as easy as it sounds. The thinking that is, not the lying. I realize that there is a genuine possibility that I’ve never thought before. I’ve fantasized, imagined, idealized. The pitch is over and I’ve started to think. I’ve been the Dutch boy with my finger in the damaged dam wall. I’ve been trying to hold back a tidal wave of thoughts and now, carefully, slowly, I’ve dared to remove my finger. I want the flood. Hugh spends most of his time downstairs in the living room. He’s taken to playing his CDs at a very high volume. I use his track selection to follow his mood. In many ways it’s a more reliable form of communication than actually talking to him ever was. He’s worked his way from Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’, to Culture Club’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’, which I never did like. And this morning he listened to Tom Jones singing ‘I (Who Have Nothing)’. This, if I needed it, is absolute proof that he’s not gay, and that he doesn’t understand the female psyche. In situations like this you should end with Gloria.
I close my eyes. I don’t want another row. I’m just not up to it.
‘I thought you might like some lemonade. It’s homemade.’ He puts the glass down on the bedside table.
I open my eyes (not least to check that this is for real and I’m not dreaming; towards the end of my pregnancy my dreams have become extremely vivid). I heave myself up to take a sip. ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’ I only just resist asking, ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Do you want a pillow for under your feet? I read that it helps with the water retention.’
Call the FBI – the body-snatchers have got him! Hugh goes into the wardrobe and rummages around for the spare pillows, and then he helps me to stuff them in between my knees, under my bump and under my feet. I know I look like a stranded hippo but I don’t care. After years and years of trying to be skinny, lithe and energetic for him, it’s a relief to be so peaceful just being me. He can take me or leave me – what am I talking about? He already has.
Hugh sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I can’t believe we’re not at Sam’s wedding.’
‘No, nor can I.’
‘After all these years.’ He pauses and gazes out of the window. I half wonder what he’s thinking but I’m no longer curious enough to ask. Yet, somewhat out of character, he volunteers his thoughts. ‘We all go back such a long way, don’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s wanted this for a long time, hasn’t she?’
‘yes.’
‘Do you remember how Sam always dressed up as a bride for all the fancy-dress parties at uni? Every Halloween party she went as Frankenstein’s bride. The Tudor party, she went as all six of Henry VIII’s wives. The bondage party, she went as wedlock. She always wore white gowns at the end of term ball.’
‘At the Christmas party she went as a fairy on the top of the tree,’ I defend.
‘She looked like a bride.’
‘True, she did,’ I concede.
It’s no good; her behaviour was transparent and as such difficult to defend.
‘Can you name Sam’s three favourite films?’
‘Four Weddings and a Funeral, My Best Friend’s Wedding and Muriel’s Wedding.’ I giggle, everyone can name Sam’s three favourite movies. ‘seven Brides for Seven Brothers comes a close fourth.’
‘I love playing charades with her,’ smiles Hugh. Whilst it’s a bit disloyal poking gentle fun, even Sam would admit that we are entitled. Hugh and I have watched all these videos on so many rainy Sunday afternoons that our tapes have worn thin. Hugh jumps up and grabs the chair from the end of the bed. He drags it towards the wardrobes and stands on it. He starts to rummage around in the cupboard space above the wardrobe. Hat boxes, shoeboxes, sacks of old clothes and bundles of old letters and cards cascade to the floor.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘These,’ he pronounces cheerfully as he carefully pulls out my photo albums from the top of the cupboard. He picks out the large black leather albums housing the photos from my university days. I’m meticulous in the categorization of my memories – black leather equals university. Blue leather for the photos from New York; there are five of those albums, one for every year. Then I have brown albums until 1998, when the albums become red. I would never have guessed that Hugh knew my code. It’s odd that he can still surprise me.
Pleasantly.
I turn the pages of the album; the tissue paper between the card pages wafts gently, promising unlimited treasures.
‘That was Freshers’ Week,’ I say, pointing to a shot of Hugh stood by the table where they were recruiting rowers.
‘Look at your hair on that one. It’s almost brown, I’d forgotten.’
‘There’s Sam as Frankenstein’s bride.’ I laugh.
‘God, I hope she looks better today.’
‘There you are with the rugby team,’ I comment. A young Hugh smiles his boyish smile from under his blond fringe.
‘You look lovely on that one.’ Hugh is pointing to a picture of me in my third year. My transformation was in process. My hair is blonde and I’m slim, but it’s early days because I’m smiling and I look careless. I’m stood next to Sam, who looks just like Sam. Happy, hopeful and wearing a white ball dress. It’s probably just my hormones, but I’m crying again.
Hugh lays his hand on my leg and says, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then he squeezes my leg and leaves the room.
I’m overwhelmed. Hugh is not prone to bouts of sentimentality. I’m moved that he cares that he’s missing Sam’s wedding, that he cares that I am. Isn’t it the strangest thing? After countless displays of Hugh’s insensitivity and neglect, as unreasonable as it sounds, it is in this moment of tenderness that I finally realize.
I don’t love Hugh any more.
I wish I could. I wish I believed that the lemonade and the pillows and the breakfast in bed the other week were motivated by genuine repentance, but I fear they are the result of an inflamed conscience. I wish I could forgive him for ignoring his growing child, for his countless examples of irritability and selfishness. I wish I could forgive myself for falling in love with an idol and ending up living with a man. I really wish I could love the man. I stroke my stomach and apologize to the baby for getting everything wrong. And whilst I’m still not sure how to go about getting it right, I promise, I swear to the baby that I will.
I must have fallen asleep again, because the sound of the phone ringing wakes me up. In my half-conscious state I feel around for the handset.
‘George?’
‘Sam!’ She’s rung me with a debrief! She’s rung me to ask me to go along to the reception. I’m already reaching for my red frock. Oh, I love her, I love her. I just want us to be friends again. I want to un-say all the stuff I said. It wasn’t worth saying, not if it meant I would lose her. Even if I was just being honest. I forgive her all the things she said. She was just telling it like it is.
‘Sam, I’m so glad you called. I’ve missed you so much. How was the wedding? I’m very sorry I wasn’t there. I am glad you called,’ I start to repeat myself as I rush on. Excitement is mixed with self-consciousness, mixed with absolute glee. ‘How was it? Are you beautiful?’
‘I am officially show-stopping,’ she laughs. Her laugh is high-pitched and hysterical. I wonder if she’s been swallowing helium from the balloons. I pull myself to a sitting position and start to inch out of the massive, shapeless T-shirt that I live in. I wonder if I’ll have time to wash my hair.
‘Congratulations, Mrs Crompton,’ I trill.
‘Actually, it’s congratulations, Ms Martin.’
‘You’re keeping your name?’ I’m stunned; it’s a very un-Sam thing to do.
‘Well, imagine the scenario, I’m in all my finery and, oh George, I did look good.’
I’m struggling to undress with one hand, hold the phone with the other and try to listen to every particular at the same time. In the end I give up dressing and pause to drink up the details. Pregnancy has left me unable to multi-task, which will be a bloody disaster after the baby is born if I’m handicapped thus.
‘Did you go for a tiara in the end, or flowers?’
‘Tiara.’
‘Hair up or down?’
‘Up.’
‘Oh God, I bet you were gorgeous. I wish I’d been there.’ Sam is silent. ‘Go on, I want to hear everything, from start to finish.’ I’m now propped up against the headboard, the phone is cradled under my ear. My fingers are itching to unwrap the sandals and hat, to release them from their boxes and expose their finery. If I hurry, I might still make it in time for the first dance and maybe even the speeches.
‘Well, the thing is, I’m sat in the Rolls on the way to the church…’
‘Yes.’
‘And my father is telling me some funny story about his and Mummy’s wedding day, but I can’t hear him. I’m staring right at him, and I can see his mouth opening and closing, and he’s sat right next to me, but I couldn’t hear him.’ She pauses for breath, I’m trying to catch mine too. ‘I could hear you,’ she says.
Oh God.
‘I could hear you telling me to get my own set of values and opinions. You telling me to think very carefully. You saying that marrying Gilbert isn’t fair to him or to James or to me. I couldn’t get that stuff you said out of my head.’
The hat box slips off the bed and falls to the floor.
‘You – ‘My heart slows, almost stops.
Yes. I thought I could ignore you, but I couldn’t. I realized, you’re right.’
Oh no. Oh no. I mean, oh yes. Yes, I am right, but oh no.
‘It’s not about the dress, or the flowers, or the canapés, or the swans –’
‘You had swans?’ Even at this undoubted code-red moment I think swans are worth commenting on.
‘Yes,’ says Sam with some dignity and then she continues, ‘it’s about the man. And as nice as Gilbert is, he’s not the man. James is.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You stopped the wedding?’
‘Yes.’ Sam is trying to sound brave but I know her well enough to appreciate that she’s seconds away from boohooing for an Olympic medal. ‘so you see that’s why it’s congratulations, Ms Martin.’
Sam dissolves into tears and I tell her I’ll order a cab.
49
I’m sat at my desk, making a ‘to do’ list for Julia, who is going to cover for me whilst I’m on maternity leave. My heart’s not really in it, particularly as I know that Julia will lose this list within the first thirty minutes of being in sole charge. I am not going on maternity leave until I actually go into labour. Obviously, this isn’t an ideal case scenario; all the maternity books suggest that you take at least a fortnight, if not four weeks, off work before the birth. However, Dean isn’t keen to give me more than three months’ leave in total, and I want to spend as much time as I possibly can with the baby. I’m still negotiating for six months, but Dean keeps insisting that Q&A need me; suddenly, he se
ems to think I’m single-handedly keeping his agency afloat. This is no nearer the truth than when he thought I was losing my touch, but he, like many advertising-agency types, likes to operate in extremes. I can understand why, it makes life so much simpler. The hues and tones I’ve been dealing with of late are terrifically complex.
I am now just one week away from my EDD. Just seven days, or 168 hours, or 10,080 minutes, or 604,800 seconds, depending on how you look at it. And whilst I know that many, many babies are late and that first babies are notorious for being so, I still have my fingers crossed in the hope that mine will be on time. I know that every day after the EDD will seem like another month, because every day that’s passed in the last few weeks has seemed an aeon. For a while, after Sam called off her wedding, time flew past as I was genuinely immersed in her problems, all of which seemed more immediate than anything I had to worry about. Suddenly, I was in charge of the disposal of 200 chicken drumsticks and returning several toasters. Her constant bemoaning her fate was definitely a welcome distraction; not that it was easy to see her in such a bad way. She hasn’t yet plucked up the courage to face James, Gilbert, or her mother. She spent the first ten days after the non-wedding hidden in her flat with the blinds down, the answering machine on and the doors locked. I intravenously dripped pizza and gin into her system, and listened whilst she beat herself up for being ‘so cruel’, ‘so blinkered’ and, finally, after several pizzas (ai funghi and Fiorentina), ‘so fat’. After she’d crawled in and out of her hair shirt I persuaded her to take a holiday (after all, she was due a honeymoon, she was waxed in all the appropriate places, and her bikini was packed). So at the moment she’s soaking up the rays in the south of France, although she did promise that she’d catch the first plane home the moment my contractions start.
