‘Lacey? I’m getting a bit worried about you … If you don’t answer, I’m going to get a coin and unlock the door,’ I gently threaten.
At that, I hear the door unlock and Lacey’s very slow footsteps come down the hallway. What’s she playing at?
Oh my God.
Lacey is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, pale as a ghost, holding my positive pregnancy test in her hand. I’d thrown it in the bin yesterday intending to empty everything today for the big bins, but hadn’t expected visitors.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, actual fuck.
‘Lacey, I …’ I start and then trail off.
‘Whose is this?’ she says quietly and eerily calmly.
I just look at her, head tilted, mouth closed, desperately wishing she could read my mind and know how sorry I am that it’s not hers.
‘Is it yours?’ she says, still calm.
‘Lacey, I didn’t mean for this, I never—’
‘IS THIS YOURS?’ she erupts, angry tears starting to fall down her cheeks. I’ve never seen such furious, hurt emotion. I don’t know how to handle this at all.
‘Yes. It is. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.’ As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth in a bid to soothe her, I know I’ve made it worse.
‘What I’d give for it to “just happen” to me,’ she says, leaning into the door frame for support, letting her hand, and the test, drop despairingly to her side and sobbing. ‘I’m happy for you, but …’
‘Lacey,’ I say so gently I can feel my own tears starting to well, ‘you don’t have to be happy for me. I know this is so shit and so unfair and I am so sorry to hurt you in this way. You know I didn’t do this deliberately.’
‘I know that!’ she says, anger bubbling again. ‘I’m not stupid, I’m just fucking barren!’ She cascades into a shout, throwing the pregnancy test halfway across the kitchen floor. Neither of us move to go and pick it up, we just stand and stare at it for a few moments.
This is getting intense. They don’t give you instructions on how to tell your desperate-for-a-baby friend on the side of the bloody pregnancy test, do they? Maybe they should include a helpful pamphlet covering some of the basics.
‘You’re not barren, it just hasn’t happened yet,’ I offer weakly.
‘In the meantime, though, it’s happening to every single other fucking person I fucking well fucking know.’
Wow, three ‘fuckings’ in one sentence.
‘Lacey, I don’t know what to say to make this better. I’m in an impossible position. If I say it wasn’t planned, I hurt you. If I say it was planned, I hurt you. If I say I want it, I hurt you. If I say I don’t want it, again, I hurt you. I know how much you want this, but I don’t know how to make it right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened to me and not to you, and I’m sorry you found out like this and I’m sorry we’re even having this conversation! If I could offer you a magic wand to make everything better, you know I would!’
‘You’re in an impossible situation? Are you kidding me? You have everything right now! You already have one perfect, healthy child and now you’re having another, but you stand there with the audacity to suggest you might not want it!’
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ I say, panicked.
‘So you’re keeping it?’
‘I … I don’t know. Yes, I think so.’ As I finally say the words aloud, part of me panics, part of me wants to celebrate. But right now, I need to push all that to one side. For the moment, I need to concentrate on Lacey and the pain you can almost feel coming off her in waves.
‘You think so? But you don’t know so? You’ve been given the greatest thing anyone could ever be given, and you don’t fucking know?’ This is so hard.
‘Lacey, you’re being unfair. I’m not in your shoes. I don’t have a Karl or stability or anything like that. I’m a single mum who just about has her shit together. You know how long it’s taken me to get this far. To be even semi-stable.’
‘So you’re going to abort it?’ Lacey practically spits.
‘It’s not that simple, Lacey! “Abort it” sounds so harsh.’
‘Well, it is. It’s wrong. You’re wrong.’ Wow. I know we all have different opinions, but I don’t think she has the right to say it’s flat out ‘wrong’. This is my body. My life. My mess.
‘I think this has gone too far. I know you’re angry and I know this hurts, but you can’t judge other people – judge me – based on your own circumstances. Try as we both might, we can’t put ourselves in each other’s shoes. I’m your best friend and I love you, always and forever, but at this moment, actually, I need that in return, Lacey.’
‘I can’t. I can’t be that person right now. Not while you have everything I could ever want and I have nothing,’ she says, almost in a whisper.
Her eyes drop to the floor but I can still see every bit of pain she’s in.
‘I’m sorry, Lace, I’m sorry,’ I say, as big, fresh tears plop down onto my origami-folded napkin.
She walks over to the breakfast bar, stepping deliberately over the pregnancy test lying on the slate floor, and I think she’s going to go in for a warm gesture like a hug or hand-hold but no, she silently picks up her bag, gives me a look so full of sadness and walks out of the house.
Lacey and I have been through all sorts together over the years. But I think of the look on her face as she left and this feels like the worst thing that could have happened to us. I take in a deep, slow breath to try to centre myself and, as I do, I catch the scent of the cooling coffee and throw up in my own hands.
TWO HOURS GO BY and I feel no better. I spend what’s left of the morning cleaning the house. I’m not normally one of those women who gets a kick out of new cleaning products or actually puts into practice any of the tips and tricks I watch on those speed-cleaning videos on YouTube, but today, it’s cathartic. The more I tidy and wipe and wash and polish, the less I think about the future, the pregnancy test, Lacey, Lyla or me. I’m lost in the rhythm of making my house shiny.
One by one, I do every single room. I start in the kitchen by taking all the rubbish out, including the Starbucks that I would usually have enjoyed, emptying the fridge of anything gone off, wiping all the surfaces and mopping the floor. I get down on my hands and knees to wipe down the cupboard doors (and the little bit of sick splatter I made earlier). I take a wire brush to the stove and scrub it for much longer than I need to. I put all the dishes away, pair all of Lyla’s snack boxes with snack box lids and disinfect the big old dining table. Arms already aching, I move into the hall, the lounge and then the downstairs loo, hoovering, mopping, polishing and wiping. I look at the wicker bathroom bin and feel a pang of pain for what’s just happened but push it out of my mind.
I do this for hours. While I’m working, my brain is quiet. Then 3 p.m. chimes and, like a reverse Cinderella, I must change out of my rags into something more presentable, get into my carriage (well, my car) and drive to collect Lyla.
The usual gang – Gillian, Finola and someone I don’t recognise, perhaps a new mum – are there but I rush past. ‘Can’t stop! I’ve left a chicken in the oven,’ I say in a fake cheery voice, taking Lyla by the hand and bustling back to the car. There’s no chicken in the oven. Unless the chicken is a bun and the oven is my womb.
I can’t face going back home. The space between now and bedtime feels like an eternity and in that eternity I might think about the baby, think about Lacey, think about the decision I have to make – and right now, that’s far too much.
I know exactly where I need to be.
I drive to Auntie Kath’s. If there’s anywhere you want to be in a crisis, it’s there.
TWELVE
STEPPING INTO KATH’S HOUSE is like stepping into a cuddle. A teddy bear cuddle with sweet perfume. Sweet lavender perfume.
At first glance, Kath’s house is an assault on the senses. Every surface you look at has a colour, pattern or texture. Swirly 1960s technicolor carpets, textured wallpaper in th
e hallway, flock wallpaper in the front room, orange and yellow floral murals hand-painted (by Kath and her late husband Derek in the 1980s) in the kitchen. In every alcove or corner there’s shelving or a display case cluttered with frames and ornaments and mementos of Kath and Derek’s adventurous lives together, trinkets they collected on their travels. Kath’s taste in art is unique to say the least. She has no qualms about mixing classic oil paintings with modern prints, and no issues with putting ornate gold frames alongside white IKEA ones.
On the surface it sounds hideous, but once your eyes have adjusted to the myriad colours, it all works. The chintzy floral sofas with lace doilies and pompom cushions fit right in, and even Mollie the dog has a bed covered in rainbow crochet.
Today it seems a little more chaotic than usual with every available coffee table, worktop or shelf space covered in lavender crafting paraphernalia. She’s really taking this phase further than all the others (including the time she hot-glued strips of lace to literally everything. Even my duvet was Kathed).
‘Hello, love. I was just bottling up my latest batch of creams for the WI. I’m giving them samples for their Spring Family Fun Day,’ Kath says as we mooch through to the kitchen and plonk ourselves down at the table overflowing with bottles, jugs and labels.
‘You’re doing really well with all this,’ I say, absent-mindedly picking bits up and putting them down again.
Kath notices my lacklustre attitude and sends Lyla through to the front room to watch videos. Kath is the only person I know who still has a VHS machine. She buys children’s videos at car boot sales and in charity shops and Lyla absolutely loves them.
Once Lyla’s scampered off with a plate of peeled and chopped-up apple (Kath is the kind of loving person who washes, peels and chops fruit. She’s a better woman than I), I take a deep breath.
‘Kath, I’m not having a good day,’ I say, looking studiously at the table in case by making eye contact she reads my mind and works it all out.
‘Are you not, lovey? Do you want some of my lavender essential oils? Moira’s been putting some in her bath at night and says Allan’s never been more attentive. Even more so than with the cream I made her. She said it’s been years since he took it upon himself to go—’
‘No!’ I interrupt urgently. ‘I don’t need any oils.’ I really don’t think I can face the rest of Moira and Allan’s reinvigorated love story. ‘Thank you, though, really lovely of you. But I think I’m going to need more than oils for the trouble I’m in.’
‘Is it the bank? I know you’re working hard but that big mortgage is a lot on your shoulders, petal,’ Kath says, sitting down at the table too.
‘No, it’s not that, it’s …’
‘It’s man trouble, then, isn’t it? Has that wrong’un Theo been sniffing around again? I tell you, if I ever get my hands on him he’ll certainly know about it!’
Bless Kath for constantly being in my corner.
‘Man trouble of a sort, I suppose. It’s all because of a man – well, because of me and a man and a stupid bottle of pink Moët. And I think it’s going to lead to more man trouble, anyway.’
I look at Kath and I can tell from her face that she’s worked it out. Kath’s not stupid, and she’s certainly read enough romance novels to know what man plus woman plus champagne plus trouble equals.
She reaches across the table and takes hold of my hand, with a questioning expression on her lovely face.
I nod slowly and my eyes start to well up. Without meaning to, my other hand moves to rest on my stomach. I flinch.
‘Robin, you’re not alone. I love you and I love Lyla and between you, me and her, we’ll have enough love for this baby,’ she says, squeezing my hands extra hard.
With that, I let myself cry more big, fat tears. This time, though, they’re not tears of sadness or pain, they’re tears of relief. I’m not alone, there is someone to stand by me and love me and not judge me. Any last thoughts I had of not keeping this baby leave me and I know that whatever happens, I’m going to have to make the most of it. Kath continues to hold my hand very tightly.
‘I know, lovey, I know. It’s a lot but you are so much stronger than you think. I’m constantly amazed by you and how much you can do. Look at all you’ve achieved: Lyla is a treasure, your new job, your beautiful home, all your gallivanting about!’
‘It’s all that gallivanting that’s got me in this mess!’ I say, and try to smile through my tears.
‘This is not a mess, my love. This is a blessing wrapped up in a mess. All we have to do is have a think, sort out a plan and look at all the positives.’
‘But I’ll have to raise it by myself, I don’t think I can do it.’ The idea of having a newborn again is overwhelming, especially on my own. Simon wasn’t good at a lot of things but he was good at helping me in the night, making tea, taking Lyla out in the pram so I could sleep. I won’t have any of that this time. Edward’s on the other side of the sodding planet.
‘Don’t think you can do it? Look at Lyla! You’re already doing it, and you’re doing a blooming marvellous job of it! Has he said he’s not interested, then? This chap with the pink Moët?’ She’s let go of my hand now and is fiddling with a bottle top while she tries to piece it all together.
‘The chap is Edward, the one from New York who comes over.’ Kath nods in understanding, having heard about our brief encounter last year and knowing we’ve messaged a bit since then. ‘And he hasn’t said anything yet because he doesn’t know. I only found out a couple of days ago and all I’ve done since is cry, be sick and clean my house to distract myself.’
‘Well, there we are, some positives already, your house is clean! That’ll save me a job when I next come over,’ she says, smiling and rubbing my arm enthusiastically until I relent and let out a weak laugh.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now, we don’t know that this Edward isn’t interested until you speak to him. You’re going to have to tell him at some point and the sooner you do, the better. Derek always used to tell me, “Half the job is in starting”, so why don’t we start now?’
‘Start how?’ I feel horrified that she might just grab the landline and ring him up. ‘Hello, this is Auntie Kath and Robin has something she wants to tell you’ isn’t going to go down well. Of course she isn’t, though. It’s not 1998, and even Kath has a mobile. I eye it on the table and hope she’s not going to proffer it to me.
‘You could write him a letter. That way he has time to digest and come back to you. I’ve got some lovely stationery upstairs, shall I fetch it?’ OK, so it’s 1948 now and we’re corresponding by snail mail.
‘As much as I’d love to use the lovely stationery’ – God bless Kath – ‘I think I’ll go for an email instead. It’ll reach him quicker,’ I add to spare her from feeling like I’ve spurned her ink and quill.
‘Righty-ho. Remember, though, whatever happens, this will be all right. I’m here, you’ve got all those nice new friends at the school, Lyla will be more help than you think and Lacey, I’m sure, will be thrilled that you’re expecting. She loves babies, doesn’t she?’
Then I tell Kath about earlier with Lacey. Kath fully understands. She and lovely Derek, a wonderful, kind man who we truly miss, never had children. I’ve never really questioned this, I don’t know how I would even try to ask for more details, but I’ve always assumed it was a similar set-up to Lacey and that that’s why she’s always so sympathetic. She really is the best, my auntie Kath.
Less than an hour later, my tears are dried, I’ve had several more pep talks from Kath about how this is a blessing in disguise and Mollie the dog has offered me her soggy favourite toy several times. Now the table is laden with buttered new potatoes, green beans, perfectly cooked carrots and tender chicken breasts. Lyla comes in just as it’s being dished up, bleary-eyed from zoning out in front of the TV.
‘Is this the chicken in the oven?’ she asks.
‘Pardon?’ I say, confused.
‘You told t
he other mums we had a chicken in the oven.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose it is,’ I laugh, thinking how everything turns out OK when Kath’s around. Maybe this lovely family moment with my girls is a sign of things to come. Maybe it will all be OK.
THIRTEEN
THE NEXT DAY I’M back in work. I already feel like I’ve let Natalie down completely, and I know she’s still deciding what to do about my part in that horrible pitch document fuck-up. I need to fix things. I know from the calendars that she’s not in today, she’s on a shoot, so I figured I’d go in, work hard and keep my head down.
I’ve been sick twice already by 10 a.m. (once before I woke Lyla up for school and once just after I’d dropped her off, darting quickly back into the house before I spewed in the car), but thanks to heavy-duty concealer and super-absorbent translucent powder, we’re all good. Thank God for a good mask of make-up.
I’ve gone for skinny jeans (hooray for New Look adding elastane to their denim) and a loose shirt. I know there’s no bump there – other than the usual squashy tummy – but I’m paranoid and don’t want to face any conversation or speculation at all. Hair in a high ponytail (a practical necessity when you keep having to lean over a toilet) and diamond stud earrings (I say diamond, I mean whatever it is Accessorize puts in their jewellery) and I think I actually look quite good. Maybe I have got that ‘glow’ after all!
After a quick chat with Alice and Stuart about the ‘mystery bug I must have caught from one of the children at school’, I get into a rhythm working through the pile of admin they have put on my desk. Then Skye knocks on the door. She enters before I’ve even said ‘Come in’.
Skye actually looks a bit sheepish. Usually she’s such a powerhouse of poise and opinions, so to see her with even slightly slumped shoulders is strange. She’s wearing black gym leggings and a baggy hoodie with her hair in a messy topknot. In fact, she looks almost fragile.
Wilde About the Girl Page 9
