By the time I get home, dump my bag and coat in the hallway and pour myself a glass of wine, I feel a bit calmer.
I sit down at the breakfast bar, flicking aimlessly through my Insta, and think about Lacey and how rubbish it must be to constantly test for ovulation, map out every date and diarise every period. Thinking of periods, I remember to flick to my nifty little app that tells you the exact date your next one is due, as I’m sure mine’s this week. A big old dose of cramps and mood swings is just what I need when I’m feeling this drained and crap.
I tap open the app and the home screen telling me how many days long my cycle is flashes up.
What the fuck? Why has my cycle been thirty-nine days? That’s not right. I’m a twenty-eight-day-er, every month since I was about fourteen, apart from when I had Lyla. The app must be faulty. I flick to my iCal to see when I last had my period and my heart stops. It was that long ago. And there was the pink champagne and macaroni cheese night. I was so drunk. I know we used the condoms I bought, but it was such a long night with so many goes. Did we properly use one for every go? We can’t have. I can’t actually remember …
Fuck my life.
Am I pregnant?
TEN
THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS are a blur.
I spend the night alternating between total denial, sipping my wine and flicking through trash on TV (particularly the ones where young people are cooped up in giant warehouses and only let out to get wasted and shag each other – none of them get knocked up, do they?), staring at the dates, googling symptoms like sickness and fatigue, starting to accept the inevitable, feeling guilty for sipping the wine and trying to build up the courage to go out and buy a pregnancy test.
I think about doing a test at least a hundred times, but know once I’ve done it and the little blue lines flash up, it will be real. But even without one, I think I already know it’s real. This isn’t my first rodeo and I know what being pregnant feels like. Still, if I don’t take the test I can simply pretend it’s not happening. I can drink this glass of wine and not feel bad, I can carry on with my happy, single life and tell myself nothing is changing.
But my head is spinning.
Oh, God.
Lyla doesn’t need a sibling right now. For the first time in a long time, everything is going well. Lyla’s thriving at the school she’s lucky enough to go to because of Granny Wilde’s money, we have our network of Posh School Mums, or PSMs, for play dates and birthday parties and Kath loves to babysit. Asking her to look after Lyla – a potty-trained, communicative child – is one thing, but asking her to deal with a baby, too, so I can work? My job (until the shit-show today, I remember with a lurch) has been going well enough to fund our lifestyle. Basically, after so long doubting myself, I’ve finally stopped feeling like a totally shit mum. I can’t manage going through all that early stuff again.
I try to imagine telling Lyla that I am going to have another baby. How would I even begin to explain it to her? How would I explain this to anybody? I think about work. Natalie already hates me, thanks to Skye and her ‘fatty pics’. I can’t imagine that she’d be thrilled to hear ‘I’m pregnant’, after investing so much faith in me and giving me the huge bonus and promotion last year. Of course Natalie’s not the type to make it hard for women – but it’s still not an easy conversation to have with your boss. And would I have to let go of all I’ve achieved? How on earth would maternity leave work? I’ve only just gone from freelance to fully employed, so I don’t even know what I’m entitled to. I think about my hefty new mortgage. It was different last time. Simon was a financial help (if useless in all other ways). I’d have to go from badass single mum to broke-ass single mum.
And how would I tell my mother? She’s never been the same, since the ‘biggest mistake of my life’, which was leaving nice, safe, dependable Simon, even though I’ve explained time and time again that he was the one who cheated on and left me. ‘He was going through a midlife crisis, dear. It happens to a lot of men!’ she’d say from her house in Cornwall that she helpfully moved to shortly after Lyla was born. He was in his mid-twenties – it was not a midlife crisis, despite what Mum or any of the ladies from the Rotary Club think. Kath, I think, would handle it well – after the initial shock – so at least there’s the chance of some emotional support there.
And then there’s the biggest question. How would I tell Edward? ‘Oh, hi, Edward, I’m so casual, so breezy, it’s cool you live across a whacking great ocean and we’re not in a relationship because now I’m having your baby and we are bound together for the rest of our lives … do you want to talk about shared custody now, or once you’ve thrown up with the shock?’
This is a mess!
The next morning, I wake up after tossing and turning all night, and for a split second, I’ve forgotten. Everything is beautifully normal and all I have to do is get up and go to work. The nausea hits me first, the moment my bare feet land on the carpet, and then the sinking realisation that I am probably pregnant.
I can’t face going into MADE IT, so I text Natalie (I can’t even face ringing her) to say I’ll be working from home but that I am available if she needs me at all. She has read receipts turned on so I know she’s read it, but she doesn’t reply. Her biggest issue with me right now is the botched proposal. I wish that was my biggest issue, too.
After a twenty-minute stint on the bathroom floor with some delightful waves of sickness and a small, self-pitying weep, I reluctantly scoop myself up, throw on a white T-shirt and some navy velour tracksuit bottoms (if there’s ever a time for velour, this is it), head downstairs and force myself to nibble at a slice of toast and drink a cup of tea with extra sugar. Everyone makes tea in a crisis. Tea solves everything … Except it doesn’t.
How has this happened? People try for months and years to get pregnant but can’t, and here I am, pregnant after one boozy night of pink champagne and mac ’n’ cheese.
Oh my Jesus in heaven. Lacey. Of all the people I know, how on earth will I break this to her? How can I be so awful as to show any hint of this pregnancy being unplanned and unwanted when there is literally nothing in the world she wants more right now than to be pregnant herself? Oh, what have I done?
OK. Thinking about Lacey helps me take stock of the situation and come out of my own head. If I’m pregnant then I’m pregnant. I need to know. I need a test.
I decide to drive to a supermarket forty-five minutes away to avoid any chance of seeing someone I know while buying the test. It feels like a huge neon beacon in my basket, so I walk round the shop and add in all sorts of crap I definitely don’t need, just to dilute the presence of the little box. I threw it in hastily after spending as little time as possible perusing the different versions. How ironic that they stack the pregnancy tests next to the condoms. Bit late for that now, I think. Or maybe they’re there as a warning. ‘Don’t use a condom and just look what happens,’ I imagine a judgy middle-aged woman saying to me. Possibly my mother, although I can’t envisage her actually using the word ‘condom’, she’d mouth ‘protection’ instead.
Sitting at home, after using the self-service till to mitigate any chance of conversation re the box of potential doom then driving back feeling sick and panicked, I look at the white and blue stick on the kitchen worktop. It’s not a big deal, I tell myself. Women handle this every day. I can handle anything. It might be negative. Maybe I have a bug and my period is just weirdly late. It’s still an option.
A cup of tea later, half to soothe, half to help with the peeing-on-demand situation, I take the test into the downstairs loo and contort my arm into an undignified position to wee on the stick that will decide my fate.
There. Done. Test taken.
I put it on a square of tissue (I have just peed on it, after all), wash my hands as slowly as possible to put off the inevitable and finally take a look.
Pregnant. Fully and totally with child, pregnant.
Dealing with this in the most pragmatic and mature way I k
now how, I throw the stick in the bin, grab a selection of healthy items from the kitchen (a chocolate orange, two packets of Skips, a child’s smoothie carton and a banana) and head upstairs to spend the rest of the day in bed.
By 3 p.m. I’ve managed to sleep and brainlessly gazed at daytime TV for long enough to numb the shock and so the outing to collect Lyla from school is significantly less stressful than the outing to the shops this morning. I summon all my Magic Mum energy (this is very similar to the mum powers of holding 850 items in one arm, and I got a lot of practice during those grim days when I was trying to hide The Emptiness), swoop her up and switch into full autopilot as we head home. We talk about her time with her dad, go through spellings and homework, I sympathise when she tells me Corinthia deliberately danced right in front of her in ballet (that’s such a twatty Val-type thing to do), cook the dinner (tonight I actually enjoy spending time in the kitchen, baking a fish pie from scratch), wash her hair, blow-dry it and tuck her into bed. It comforts me to go through each step of our evening methodically and diligently, as if the more I channel myself into each task, the less I will channel my thoughts into the new life growing inside me and what I’m going to do about it.
As I settle onto Lyla’s tiny single bed adorned with one duvet in a fancy frilly white cover (a John Lewis Christmas present from Mum, who clearly has no idea what little girls want from Father Christmas despite having been one and had one herself) and about six crocheted blankets from Kath that Lyla can’t choose between and so has them all, propping myself up on cushions and cuddly toys to read her a bedtime story, the world feels very calm. I love this time of day.
The room is lit only by fairy lights and a small bedside lamp, Lyla smells delicious thanks to her strawberry shampoo and we are lost in a story about mice who live in hedgerows and adventure through the seasons, worrying only about collecting berries and taking care of each other. I relate to those little mice. All I really want to do in the world is collect what I need, take care of my sweet daughter and hole up in our cosy nest, blocking out the rest of the big, wide world. Lyla listens to the story carefully, gently stroking my arm without really realising as I read each page.
Once we’ve finished, I feel myself welling up. I’ve taken stock of how precious my life with her is, how much I love her and how I can’t bear for things to change when I’ve only just got things as good as they are.
‘Are you sad about the mice, Mummy?’ Lyla asks quietly.
‘No, silly Mummy’s got something in her eye,’ I whisper back, forcing a smile and nuzzling into a big cuddle with her.
‘Silly old Mummy, I love you,’ she says, cuddling back.
My heart feels like it might burst. Maybe another one like her wouldn’t be so bad?
ELEVEN
THE BRIEF GLIMMER OF hope I had last night at story time dissipated this morning as I threw up while trying to make a ham sandwich for Lyla’s lunchbox. It seems you can go from general queasiness to full-on routine vomming pretty quickly. Morning sickness is here to stay, then.
Great.
What was I thinking last night? I can’t do this! I can barely manage our morning routine, let alone do the whole single motherhood shebang all over again from the start.
No.
I drop Lyla at school and flat-out ignore every other human I walk past. People might have been speaking to me, I don’t know, but I just keep my head down, hoping they can’t tell I am secretly harbouring a new life in my womb. Am I emitting the ‘glow’ already? When I was aged sixteen and four-and-a-half days, I lost what I would describe as half my virginity to a boy called Oliver Mansell, despite secretly fancying Simon and wishing he’d get his act together to properly ask me out. As I walked the ten minutes home from his house, I remember wondering if passers-by could tell I was a ‘woman’ now that I’d had three shambolic pokes from a scrawny boy from the music college. I wanted to shout, ‘Hi, yes, I am Robin Wilde and I am SEXUALLY ACTIVE,’ with naive teenage pride. I feel a bit like that now, minus the wanting to shout about it. Can people tell? They might be able to see a bump or a sign. I really might be emitting that glow. Though probably not, given that I threw up forty-five minutes prior to getting in the car.
Lyla, thankfully, seems not to notice my inward panic and skips off to the cloakroom to hang up her coat and book bag without even a backwards look. Normally I’d feel a stab of pain that she can be so nonchalant, but today I’m just grateful that she exists in LylaLand and isn’t worried about everything going on around her.
I can’t face work today. I can’t face anything.
Hi Natalie, I’m really sorry but I’m not feeling well today. I’m going to take the day off. If there are any emergencies I’ll be here, but I think best not to pass anything on to anyone in the office. Ever so sorry, Robin xxx
I know I’ve gabbled on but I can’t help it. I hope she doesn’t read between the lines and see it for what it is: ‘I am pregnant and freaking the fuck out.’ Of course she won’t, I tell myself, that’s totally paranoid. But it’s not working. I take some deep breaths. I’ve not said anything unusual; she won’t suspect a thing.
Thank you for letting me know, comes Natalie’s swift and sharp reply with no pleasantries. I should have rung but I feel too sick and tired to even care right now.
At home I dump my bag on the hall table and head up to bed to wallow in self-pity. No sooner am I in bed and having a habitual scroll through Facebook, than a message from Lacey pings up.
You’re online! Aren’t you at work?
Shit, I forgot to cunningly switch myself to ‘appear offline’. Rookie error.
Oopsie! Meant to switch to invisible! Having a sick day! I reply, trying to sound normal.
Oh no! Are you poorly? Lacey replies straight away with a sickie emoji.
What do I say? I’m not poorly, I’m not OK, but for the first time in our friendship, she’s the last person I can chat to about this.
No, I’m OK, just worn out and fancied a home day to chill out, I lie.
Say no more! she replies with a wink face, OK hand sign and a shooting star. God, she loves those emojis. I go to reply but she’s offline and I’m ready to pull the duvet up, take off my bra and hoodie, switch on the TV and gaze mindlessly again. I know I need to face all this eventually but one more day of hiding my head in the sand won’t hurt. Tomorrow I’ll book an appointment with the GP to discuss options, maybe even speak to Edward, tackle it head-on. But not today.
Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rings. I haven’t ordered any parcels and Kath’s in town on a half-day pressed-flower course (I love that she takes herself off to do these things by herself, and always seems to have a ball), so I pull a crumpled T-shirt over my bare torso, schlep downstairs and go to see who it is. I’m assuming it’s a delivery for one of the neighbours or a cold-caller, but see to my horror as I look through the peephole that it’s Lacey.
‘Yoohoo, I can see you through the glass! It’s only me!’ she sing-songs merrily.
I freeze.
‘Hang on, just struggling with the lock,’ I lie, as I deliberately make a big deal of wiggling the key about and opening the door.
‘For someone who says they’re not ill, you look like shit!’ Lacey laughs, walking past me down the hall and into the kitchen.
‘I’ve brought supplies,’ she trills, plonking a Starbucks bag on the breakfast bar, diving in and pulling out fruit toast, butter, jam and setting down a tray with two large coffees in. The smell of it all wafting about makes me sway with nausea.
‘Oh … great,’ I say weakly, not managing to sound at all convincing.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks, sensing my lack of enthusiasm.
‘Nothing, I’m just a bit tired,’ I respond unconvincingly.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispers excitedly, ‘he’s here, isn’t he? Upstairs! You’ve got a man in your bed!’ You’d think we were fifteen again and she’d just caught me snogging in the school toilets. To be fair, that really was an ex
citing lunch break.
‘What? No! Jesus! Definitely not. I’m just not feeling too well,’ I say, trying to force out a little cough as if that’s going to prove my point.
‘I thought you said you were skiving,’ she says, narrowing her eyes and smiling as if I’m about to reveal some exciting gossip.
‘I am, I suppose, but I’m also a bit under the weather,’ I say as quickly as I can.
‘So you’re not skiving?’ She’s enjoying this cat-and-mouse game.
‘Oh God, I don’t know, Lacey! I’m just feeling a bit shit, OK?’ I snap.
She instantly looks injured.
‘Wow. Sorry. I’ll just have a wee and then I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, half hurt, half annoyed.
Guilty and relieved at the same time, I sit down on one of the breakfast bar stools and watch her slink down the hallway, wondering if, when she goes, she’ll take the Starbucks with her. Since when did everything smell so strong? Pregnancy is a strange beast. I feel terrible for stinging Lacey like that but it’s better than telling her the truth. I’ll have to apologise and make up something later about being on my period and feeling hormonal. If only.
I sit at the breakfast bar folding, unfolding and refolding the Starbucks napkins into little squares. Why is she taking so long? The mum in me almost shouts, ‘Are you having a poo? Do you need the wet wipes?’ but I’m not sure she’ll appreciate that, especially after I’ve just rebuffed her.
Time ticks on. I look at the little digital clock on my shiny, chrome, built-in microwave (urgh, I love this new house so much) and it shows she’s been in there over five minutes.
‘Everything OK?’ I shout.
She doesn’t reply. Bloody hell, I hope she hasn’t passed out or something.
‘Lacey? You all right?’ She’s always been the more dramatic one but I can’t imagine she’d be in that much of a huff with me that she’d lock herself in the loo and ignore me.
Wilde About the Girl Page 8
