by Adele Parks
I can’t wait.
Obviously, I have to, there’s no alternative, but I’m beginning to really understand the term ‘expecting’. I’ve never longed for something so much in my life; I’ve never anticipated, yearned, craved or dreamed for anything with such ferocity; not even Hugh. Yet I am exhausted, and I could probably do with some time resting; if the baby is late I should put my feet up. If I’m honest with myself it may be my last opportunity.
Ever.
There has been so much to organize before the birth. Over three months ago I drew up a list of jobs that I wanted to complete before the baby was born. There were forty-nine necessary jobs on the list. Fifty would have been neater.
The list was deceptive. A job such as ‘sort childcare’ took no more space on the piece of paper than ‘pack hospital bag’, but in fact it took an unfeasibly long time. I’ve visited eleven nurseries, the homes of six childminders, and interviewed twelve nannies, six of whom could actually speak English. I’m still undecided. I have my name down on two nursery waiting lists and, assuming I do negotiate six months’ leave, there’s an Australian nanny who is planning to come to England after Christmas; I liked the sound of her over the phone but would still have to meet her. Other things on the list included: clear out cupboard under the stairs, clear out kitchen cupboards, paint nursery wall, put up shelf in nursery, put up curtain rail in nursery, make up cot, fix video recorder, fix camera, update address list, buy announcement cards, plug hospital telephone number into my mobile phone, buy all baby equipment (as per list B), pick up pram, etc., etc., and so on and so forth. Although there seemed to be an enormous amount to accomplish, the list did give me a greater sense of control. But, then, it crossed my mind as I packed labour massage oil into my hospital bag, that I’m fooling myself. The fact that I’ve packed bedsocks and sanitary towels doesn’t mean I’m any more prepared to be a mother. I’m still going off into the unknown with little or no relevant experience. The difference is this no longer terrifies me – it excites me.
I subdivided the job list into three categories: those jobs I reasonably thought I could tackle, those that necessitated outside labour, and those I thought Hugh could be responsible for. The split was roughly thirty-five, eleven, and three.
Three jobs are still outstanding.
Four, if you include ‘make peace with Becca’.
My only outstanding job.
Interestingly, it’s this one that will probably prepare me best for being a mother. I want my child to be born into as much love as possible, and whilst it’s messier and more perplexing than the traditional two-point-two-with-a-dog-family, this is the family the stork has pre-destined for my little bundle of joy. I don’t want any jealousy or cruelty or bitterness between Kate and Tom and my baby. I mean, I know I’ve always found Kate and Tom ghastly, but I’m hoping that this is a stage – mine. If possible I’d like them to know each other, grow with each other and even love each other. This won’t happen without Becca’s support. But Becca doesn’t owe me any loyalty. So, although it’s a long shot, it is my only shot – I have to ring her up. I want to assure her that after the baby is born, Kate and Tom will still be as much a part of their father’s life as they’ve ever been. I want to apologize for the fact that he’s not as much a part of their life as he should have been. I’m not sure if things could ever have turned out differently. I still believe I couldn’t help loving Hugh as much as I did. So, whilst I can’t undo what’s done, I can try to salvage some of the relationships and stop there being any more human debris.
I pick up the phone and start to key in Becca’s number.
Christ, Libby’s right, people don’t make this sort of call.
It’s madness.
I hang up before I’ve pressed the final digit. I take a deep breath. For the last fourteen years every action, every deed, every impulse I have ever made has been driven by my passion for Hugh. I know for certain that Hugh would not approve of my making this call. He’s always been very strict that I don’t discuss the past with Becca, he said it was too painful for her, which I understand. Besides, he maintains that we have nothing to apologize for. He’s often saying that true love operates on a higher plane than the concerns of the everyday. Which presumably includes his children, a thought that appears almost obscene now. In his more romantic moments of old, he used to say we simply couldn’t help ourselves, that we were destined for one another. Besides which she was having an affair, a fact he never tires of repeating.
Even so I have to make this call. Not just for the baby. For me. It seems right to me.
I punch the numbers in.
‘Hello, Becca.’
‘George, are you in labour?’ She sounds startled, as well she might – there’s not much call for us to phone each other to natter.
My hand is shaking and I reach for the glass of water that’s on my desk. This is definitely the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But then I haven’t been in labour yet. ‘No.’
‘Oh.’ She’s stumped but too polite to ask, ‘so why the call?’ ‘Well, to be fair, I owe you one,’ she laughs.
‘sorry?’ She owes me?
‘An emergency dash to the maternity ward,’ she explains.
‘Oh, of course.’ I now understand that she’s referring to our mad dash when she went into labour with Kate. Hugh was away at a conference and I’d promised to look in on Becca as she was past her due date. I was there when her contractions started; I dashed through the traffic giving the finger to those who hindered our speedy progress across London. It was way before the affair began, of course. So much has changed since. Some things are the same, though. I mean, what was Hugh thinking of, booking a conference after his wife’s due date? I work in the business, I know that it’s unlikely that the cure for cancer or even for the common cold would be discovered at one of our conferences. I know ‘conference’ is a generous euphemism for piss-up.
‘I think you broke every traffic law. Speeding, U-turns, stopping on red routes,’ laughs Becca. It had indeed been a cinematic dash.
‘I was scared,’ I defend.
‘You were scared! I was petrified.’ We both fall silent. ‘You were very good about my waters breaking in your car.’
‘No problem,’ I say, as I’d said then. In fact the stench was so gross and so pungent I’d had to sell my beloved Spider at a ridiculous discount – in fact, I’d have paid someone to take it away.
‘After having seen that labour I’m surprised you ever went in for a baby,’ adds Becca.
‘I’m not going to be as stoical as you with regard to drugs. My policy is, yes please, as many as you can, as fast as you can.’ Becca laughs, as women who have only used gas and air throughout labour do laugh. It’s an odd mix of envy and pity; there’s always a smidgen of superciliousness – they are probably entitled to the superciliousness. Probably. The current ‘right thing’ with regard to labour is to want a natural birth because ‘we’ve had natural births for centuries’. My thinking is that for centuries we’ve thrown Christians to lions and drowned women with PMT, calling them witches, and we don’t any more – it’s seen as progress. I’ve been held ransom to the arbitrary ‘right thing’ for decades and now I moonie at it. Give me drugs.
I stayed with Becca for most of her labour until her mother arrived. Hugh arrived just in time to catch the froth from the champagne bottle. He missed the placenta slopping into a bucket. I’d thought at the time that this was further proof of how unsuited they were to one another. I’d even taken a certain amount of pleasure from the fact that Hugh obviously didn’t feel compelled to be with his wife at that unrepeatable moment, the birth of their child. Why didn’t I see it as a measure of the type of man he is? Why did I insist on believing it was a measure of their relationship? A cold film of shame drenches my entire body and simultaneously hardens my resolve. I owe her the apology. What sort of woman watches another woman in labour and gets pleasure from the fact her husband missed the event?
Not a very hono
urable sort. Not the type of woman I want my baby to be brought into the world by. I used to think that when certain things went wrong they could never be put right – what a defeatist attitude.
That said, I’ve no idea where to begin. The silence yawns between us.
Becca resorts to the weather. ‘the heat is stifling. How are you managing? Are you wearing hippie-chick floaty dresses?’
‘No. The look I’m going for is more elephant man. I stay in as much as I can and if I could wear a paper bag, then I would, but they don’t make them in gross size,’ I admit, laughing. Becca laughs too. I wonder which one of us is most surprised by my honesty.
‘Nearly there,’ she encourages.
‘my weight and blood pressure are soaring with the temperature.’
‘And your spirits?’
‘soaring too.’
‘Well, that’s the main thing.’
I see an opening. ‘Would you like me to call when I go into labour? I would… you know… if you wanted me to,’ I offer hesitantly. I mean, what is the etiquette?
‘Well, you needn’t call me when you go into labour, but call as soon as you know anything, sex, weight, mother and baby doing fine. That sort of thing.’
‘Yes. I will. Because Kate and Tom will be interested,’ I clarify.
‘Yes. Kate and Tom will be,’ she agrees.
‘A half-brother or sister,’ I add cautiously.
‘Indeed.’ She doesn’t sound overjoyed, but then nor does she sound at all distressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I rush.
I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m hardly being particularly clear about what I’m sorry about. I’m certainly not sorry I’m having a baby, a half-brother or sister for Kate and Tom. But I am sorry for so many other things. However, it quickly becomes clear that this is one of those unsur-passably embarrassing and painful moments in life, when you think you have just said something absolutely momentous, and the other person thinks you’re making small talk about the shocking price of organic vegetables.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Georgina, it’s probably a bit late now, but I have a baby bath, a Moses basket and a high chair’ – she pauses – ‘well, I’m sure you’ve bought everything new.’
‘No, no, we haven’t.’ That’s a lie, actually we have. Or rather I have, but I want to accept Becca’s offer in the spirit it was intended.
‘Well, you’re welcome to borrow them,’ Becca says generously. And then she adds, ‘As long as you’re careful.’ I’m pleased to recognize the bossy perfectionist; she’s less disarming. ‘You never know, I might have need for them again, one day.’
‘What?’ I know I should have made an effort to hide my astonishment.
Becca laughs. ‘I’m only your age, George, I haven’t thrown in the towel.’
‘No, of course not,’ I rush to cover my gaffe. Becca having more children is something I’ve never considered. Why does she insist on proving that there is life after Hugh?
‘I made a mistake once, but I can’t let that dictate my whole life, can I? Sorry, I probably shouldn’t refer to Hugh as a mistake when speaking to you, but so much water has passed under the bridge that I think we can talk about it like adults, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’ We can talk about it, I wanted to talk about it, but this isn’t the conversation I was expecting. She doesn’t sound like a woman waiting for me to apologize. Apologize for wanting Hugh so much, for tempting him away, for not giving them a fair chance.
‘they say one man’s meat is another’s poison, don’t they? Or, in this case, one woman’s poison is another woman’s meat.’
I let the cliché pass. I remember the trouble I got into last time I pulled someone up on their over-reliance on these clichés. I’m beginning to reappraise my view of the wisdom available from Garfield desk diaries; perhaps it’s an important social currency.
‘I always knew you’d be there to pick up the pieces. That was a great comfort to me when I threw him out. I’d long suspected that you were in love with him. I knew that he’d fallen in love again and as cruel as it sounds that’s quite a relief for the conscience.’
‘I’m sorry? Are you referring to your affair with your tennis coach?’ Suddenly I’m piqued. I’m confused. What is she saying? This isn’t what happened. She didn’t throw him out. She had an affair. She became sloppy and unreasonable and then Hugh left her for me.
Becca laughs somewhat indulgently. ‘Poor Hugh. I never had an affair. He never would believe me; he had to think that I threw him out for someone else because he just couldn’t believe I simply didn’t want him.’ Suddenly Becca remembers who she is talking to. ‘Goodness, this is hardly a cheerful conversation for you, is it? I’m not saying you got
my leftovers or anything. You two seem much better suited; you always had so much more in common. I never could get excited about advertising concepts or pot-holing but you like all that, don’t you?’ She stops digging. ‘Perhaps I could give the baby stuff to Hugh next time he picks up the children?’
It is possible that she’s lying, that she’s trying to wind me up, but I don’t think so. Oddly, I trust Becca more than I trust Hugh. Hugh never left Becca for me. He didn’t choose me. She never even knew he was having an affair. In light of this it seems unlikely then that she begged him to stay, not even ‘for the sake of the children’. It seems unlikely that she’s spent the last fifteen months sat by the phone waiting for me to call and apologize. I don’t owe her or Kate or Tom anything.
Well, that’s a relief.
And it’s the most shocking, galling, abominable deceit Hugh has ever thrown at me.
Julia pops her head around the door. ‘dean wants to see you, George.’
Oh bugger, I’m not in the mood to argue about maternity leave.
50
The flat is thick with silence. Accusations hang in the air like fine cobwebs – when you walk into them they cling, impossible to brush off.
I hear Hugh’s key turn in the lock. Slowly the door opens and I hear his footsteps, normally strong, one, two, three, and he’s in the sitting room; today they are hesitant. I hear him take off his jacket and the gentle clink of coat-hangers banging together as he hangs it up (unprecedented – normally his jacket stays on the back of a chair until the next use). It’s obvious that he is delaying the inevitable.
I am sat on the settee, curled up into the smallest ball I can possibly make my 39-weeks pregnant body shrink into. If I could, I’d disappear altogether. To say it’s been a bad day is a woeful understatement. First the call with Becca, and then Dean.
Obviously Hugh has heard about the security escort that frogmarched me out of Q&A. Every advertising agency in the city will have heard by now. Always a hotbed of gossip, such a momentous occasion could not have passed by uncommented upon. I doubt very much that electricity was needed to power the thousands of PCs in the West End this afternoon; the buzz from this scandal will have been power enough.
I’ve been fired. For stealing a creative concept from Rartle, Roguel and Spirity. The Project Zoom creative concept, to be accurate. From Hugh, to be explicit.
‘Hello.’ Hugh’s voice, although expected and well known is a shock, precisely because it is so familiar to me. How could he have done it? I ask myself for the millionth time that day. How could he have thought so badly of me and betrayed me so completely? Talk about Judas’s kiss.
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask.
‘You shouldn’t have looked in my file.’
‘You think I looked in your file?’
‘Well, didn’t you?’
I don’t bother to dignify the outrageous slur with anything more than a very articulate ‘you bastard’. I am so splintered with fury that it takes quite a few seconds before I’m composed enough to add, ‘You faithless, untrusting bastard.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t read my files?’
‘Of course I didn’t. I can’t believe you think I would have.’
�
�I kept telling them it was unlikely.’
‘Unlikely?’ I yell. ‘Unlikely? You signed my death warrant. Why didn’t you say it was impossible?’
‘But it was possible, George. I did bring a paper file home. Besides that there were electronic details of the concept on my PC. You have access to that.’
It takes every ounce of reasonableness I possess to resist physically evicting him from my flat there and then. I think I could do it; what with my Incredible Hulk-like proportions and rages, I’m sure I could. Instead, I take a metaphorical and literal deep breath.
‘So let’s get this straight. Frank Robson showed your CEO Q&A’s winning creative concepts – a highly unprofessional move since they are still only in pre-production, I might add.’
‘My CEO and Frank are quite friendly. I think that’s why my CEO was so sure we’d won the pitch.’
Ah, now I understand why Hugh did the ill-advised interview with Campaign. How stupid of him. He, more than anyone, ought to know that personal relationships count for very little in this business.
‘Then your CEO showed the concepts to you and you said that they were your idea.’ I want to get my facts right.
‘Yes. I recognized then instantly.’ Hugh pours himself a whisky and sits down on the sofa opposite me. He doesn’t even appear concerned.
‘But they weren’t your idea,’ I splutter.
Hugh opens his briefcase and lays on the coffee table some illustrations of a penknife, a telephone, and a laptop. I have to admit the concept is oddly similar to the one we used on the Project Zoom creative pitch. I’m pleased to note, even in my wrought-up state, that they are not as good. We used a Swiss Army knife, not a penknife. We used a WAP mobile, not a land-line telephone, an iPAQ, not a laptop. Hugh’s concepts have no edge. There’s no Guy Ritchie, no Ewan McGregor, no suggestion that this car is the dog’s bollocks.
