by A J McDine
I spy Rosie by the runner bean wigwams and join her. The next hour passes quickly as we ease the young plants out of their pots and into their prepared beds. The early summer sun beats down on the back of our necks and for the first time I feel my bump getting in the way.
Rosie notices, too. ‘Baby’s getting big now,’ she says, pointing at my belly.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ I wait for her inevitable response.
She doesn’t disappoint. Her eyes widen. ‘It’s a girl, and you’re going to call her Rosie, remember!’
‘If she’s a she. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.’
Rosie gives a little shake of her head. ‘When she’s a she.’
The truth is, Matt and I don’t know what we’re having. We decided not to find out at the twenty-week scan.
‘It’ll give us something to focus on during labour,’ I told him, as the sonographer squirted gel over my bump and began running the ultrasound probe over it. I wasn’t fooling anyone. Matt knew as well as I did that knowing whether the baby was a boy or girl would just make it harder if the worst happened.
Twelve weeks after the scan our baby is still very much here. I know the statistics off by heart. Ninety per cent of babies born at twenty-seven weeks survive. But they are still considered premature if they are born before thirty-seven weeks. I do everything in my power to keep our baby where it should be.
When the last runner bean is planted I sit back on my haunches and stretch my back. Rosie is bent over the smallest plant trying to coax it around the bamboo pole, but every time she winds it around it uncoils in her hand. She growls in frustration and I lay a hand on her arm.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll surprise you. They always find their own way up the poles in the end.’ I pull off my gardening gloves finger by finger. ‘Cuppa tea?’
‘Cuppa tea,’ Rosie agrees, the runner beans forgotten.
It’s been a busy afternoon and it’s not until I’m standing in the tiny kitchen at the back of the office waiting for the kettle to boil that I remember the boy on the escalator. I picture the familiar contours of his face. The features that don’t belong to Ed are Lou’s, I realise.
The knowledge is like a punch in the gut.
I saw her today. In Canterbury. Flaunting her pregnancy. Rubbing her belly and smiling this secret smile, as if she and the baby were in on some private joke, just the two of them. It made me want to puke.
I had nothing planned so I followed her, keeping my distance so she wouldn’t see me. Not that I needed to worry. She was too caught up in her perfect little world to notice me. I may as well have been invisible.
She bought a shirt. Blue to match his eyes, of course. Such a cliché. Then she headed down the escalator to the children’s department. I was surprised, knowing how superstitious she is. I loitered behind a display of Orla Kiely storage jars while she trailed through the aisles, fingering soft-as-down sleepsuits, running her hands over embroidered blankets and pulling tiny outfits from the rails and holding them up to the light to examine the intricate stitching.
I made a mental inventory of her haul, for later.
She dithered before she walked over to the till, wrestling with her conscience. Sophie’s so open, I can read her like a book.
She’s worried she’s tempting fate.
Thing is, she just might be.
Chapter Three
Now
No-one likes to admit to a bit of Facebook stalking, so I force myself to wait until I’ve finished my dinner and cleared up before I sit down at the kitchen table and open the laptop. I’ll just take a quick look. Clicking on the familiar blue logo, I ignore the half a dozen notifications awaiting my attention. Instead I type Edward Sullivan into the search box and, holding my breath, hit enter.
Of course there are hundreds of them. It’s not exactly an unusual name. I scroll down, dismissing various Edward Sullivans from Nottingham, Dublin, Vancouver and Oregon. I know the further down the list I go the less likely I’m going to find my Ed. Facebook’s famous algorithms will have seen to that.
My Ed. I swallow. He hasn’t been that for more than twenty years. What does he look like now? Have the years been kind to him? Have his features softened with age? Does he have a bald patch, a paunch? What would he think if he saw me? When people voice surprise that I’m six years older than my husband I laugh and tell them you’re as young as the man you feel. The fact is I work hard at staying young.
I chew a nail. Perhaps he’s not on social media.
‘Bet Lou is,’ I mutter. I’m about to type her name into the search box when I realise there’s a quicker way. I scroll down my friends list until I find Jasmine Carter, former head girl at our school and prize busybody. If anyone’s kept in touch with all the girls in our year, she will have.
I click on Jasmine’s profile and find her friends list. It’s no surprise that she has nearly two thousand. Impatient, I whizz through them until I find who I’m looking for. The familiar face of my former best friend, Lou Stapleton. My hand hovers over the keyboard, my index finger itching to press enter. But I hesitate. What long-buried feelings am I about to disturb? Why on earth would I want to dredge up all that unhappiness now? I have a good life, a happy life. I know it’s not too late to stop. I can shut down my laptop, pretend I never saw the boy. Their boy. I’m teetering at the edge of a cliff. I could step back. Retreat with my dignity and sanity intact. But I’m weak. Curiosity gets the better of me and I click Lou’s name.
Luckily she hasn’t bothered to set a single privacy setting. She was always lax about things like that. I used to tell her off for keeping her pin number on a piece of paper in her purse, right next to her bank card. She’d just laugh and tell me to take a chill pill.
I study her profile photo. She’s on a beach, somewhere exotic like the Maldives or the Bahamas. Behind her the sea sparkles azure-blue. She’s sitting on the end of one of those wooden-slatted sun loungers you get in country house spas and is holding a cocktail that is a radioactive shade of orange. Lou always liked a drink. Before we went out she’d raid her parents’ drinks cabinet, taking a small swig from each bottle so they didn’t notice. Cherry brandy, whisky, pale sherry and aniseed-flavoured Ouzo. She didn’t care what she drank, said it helped her get into a party mood. By the time we left the house her eyes would be glittering and her voice a few decibels louder than normal.
She’s wearing a strappy dress in the photo. Huge sunglasses. Her hair, cut in a choppy bob, is blonder than it was at school, but I expect she has highlights to hide the grey. She’s laughing, the dimple on her chin clearly visible. Is Ed behind the camera, pulling silly faces or prompting her to say “sausages”? Is she happy with the way her life turned out? I hope so, after everything she took from me.
Feeling as though I’m standing behind a locked door, peeking through a keyhole into Lou’s life, I scroll down her feed. Frustratingly, she’s one of those people who only post photos of inanimate objects so there are dozens of pictures of beautiful sunsets, restaurant meals and views of the countryside but none of any actual people. I keep scrolling, hoping someone who does take photos of people may have tagged “Lou Sullivan nee Stapleton” in a post.
I’m about to give up when a photo of an American football team catches my eye. It’s a standard team photo. Eleven players wearing helmets, royal blue jerseys and cream pants. I heard on the grapevine Ed and Lou moved to New England after Ed got a job at a prestigious Boston law firm. My heart beats faster as I zoom in, scanning the players for Ed, but it soon becomes apparent they are boys, probably aged around fourteen or fifteen. I check the date. The photo was taken four years ago. That would fit.
By the look of it the woman who posted the photo has tagged every parent and most of the players. There are lots of all-American names like Brad and Chuck. And then, last but one, is the name I’m looking for. Josh Sullivan.
My iPhone starts buzzing, brashly loud in the silence of the kitchen, and I start. It’s Matt, wanting to Face
Time. I hold my hands to my burning cheeks, arrange my features into a smile and press accept.
‘Hello, Sophie.’
My heart constricts. No ‘Hey baby’ or ‘Hi gorgeous’ tonight. Just a bald, wary hello. He’s still mad at me. Not that I blame him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He loosens his tie. He’s sitting at the desk in his digs. On the wall behind him is an enthusiastic oil painting of the Scottish Highlands by his landlady, Moira.
‘I know. You already said. It was just a drink with a couple of mates from work, Soph. I don’t see what the problem was.’
Neither do I, now. But when Matt told me he was off to the pub last night I hit the roof. Virtually accused him of having an affair. Spent the rest of the evening smouldering with jealousy and resentment and checking Find My iPhone to make sure he was where he said he was.
‘I don’t know what got into me. My hormones…’ I trail off.
His face softens and I know I’m forgiven, this time at least. ‘Speaking of which, how’s that baby of mine? Still cooking nicely?’
I push the chair back and stand so he can blow the bump a kiss. He leans towards his phone so closely I can see his five o’clock shadow.
‘I swear you’re bigger than you were yesterday.’
I wiggle my eyebrows. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better how exactly?’
He finally laughs. ‘The bigger you both are, the more there is to love. What have you been up to today?’
I fish around for an interesting story that doesn’t involve seeing the son of my ex-boyfriend and former best friend and then stalking them on Facebook. He wouldn’t be jealous - he’s not the type - it’s just that it’s all too complicated to explain.
I remember the Paul Smith shirt. ‘I bought your birthday present.’
‘Is it an Aston Martin in Volcano Red for my mid-life crisis?’
I snort. ‘No, it’s not. Anyway, you’re too young to have a mid-life crisis.’
‘A new road bike then?’
‘Nope. And it’s not a Bang and Olufsen sound system or a smart TV either, I’m afraid.’
He pulls a sad face and starts telling me about his day but I’m only half-listening. He’s halfway through a long and convoluted story about his deputy manager taking the afternoon off when he stops, waiting for my response. I smile. ‘That’s nice.’
‘I said Cheryl’s dad was rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack. He’s in intensive care. Were you listening to a word I said?’
I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. ‘Sorry. You know my brain is mush. Blame the baby.’
He lets out a long sigh. ‘I hate being away from home, especially at the moment. I should be there for you both.’
‘We’re OK. Only two more sleeps.’ I smile again, as if it doesn’t matter, even though I would give anything to have him here, to feel his arms around me. When the bank offered him the role of manager at its busy Brighton branch just over a year ago I was the one who convinced him to take it. We’d spent all our savings on fruitless rounds of IVF and I knew the pay rise would fund another attempt. At that point I would have gladly sacrificed a kidney to have one last shot at having a baby, so sending my husband to work ninety miles away was a small price to pay.
But I worry the weeks spent apart are taking a toll on our marriage. We’re becoming too used to our own company. We spend Saturdays remembering how we fit together. And just when we do it’s time to say goodbye again.
‘Two more sleeps,’ Matt agrees.
We blow kisses and end the call and I set my phone face down on the kitchen table. The room feels empty now he’s gone. My laptop sits in front of me. Lou’s Facebook page has been replaced by the screensaver and I’m glad. What on earth was I thinking, trying to track down Ed? I need to forget all about him and Lou. Matt’s the only one who matters. He’s my world. The father of my unborn child. Why would I do anything to jeopardise that?
Chapter Four
Then
We’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by our Superdrug spoils. Wella Shaders and Toners - light ash blonde for Lou, rich mahogany for me - cucumber face masks, pearlescent-pink nail varnish and lip gloss. We have splurged at least a month’s wages on our haul. And that’s not including my sapphire-blue satin slip dress and Lou’s crushed red velvet number, which are hanging side by side on the doors of Lou’s pine wardrobe.
Her walls are plastered with posters of Marti Pellow and Love is all Around is playing on a loop on her Sony stereo system. It’s been number one for two months now and it’s seriously beginning to get on my nerves, but Lou is a massive Wet Wet Wet fan and it’s her bedroom, so I can’t really complain.
‘You have the first bath,’ she says generously.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. You need to look your best if you’re going to pull Sexy Ed. I’ll take one for the team. Just remember not to pull out the plug. I’d rather have your dirty water than a stone-cold bath, even if you are shaving your legs.’
‘Thanks Lou.’ I blow her a kiss. My stomach is a swarm of butterflies as I tie back my hair and apply the face mask. I’m light-headed with anticipation. The speech day disco is one of the highlights of the school year, a chance for everyone to let their hair down after months of study. As we primp and preen in Lou’s bedroom the school hall is being transformed with hired disco balls, balloons and lights into a den of infinite possibilities.
‘Do you think he’ll even notice me?’ I mumble through closed lips, for fear of cracking the face pack.
‘’Course he will. He’s been giving you the glad eye all term,’ says Lou, who is wrestling with her mum’s eyelash curlers.
‘Glad eye?’ I scoff. ‘Who are you, your nan?’
She tuts. ‘You know what I mean. It’s obvious he fancies you.’
‘So why hasn’t he asked me out?’
‘I dunno. Perhaps he’s shy.’
‘But I’m shy, too! What if we’re both too shy to make the first move? I’ll die a lonely spinster and he’ll turn into a sad old man shuffling around the supermarket with plastic meals for one.’
Lou abandons her eyelash curlers and reaches under her bed. ‘That’s where I might be able to help.’
I blink. ‘Not pills, Lou.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s just vodka. It’ll relax you, give you a bit of Dutch courage. And it won’t smell on your breath.’
‘I don’t know -’
‘I’m having some even if you’re too chicken.’ She unscrews the top of the half-bottle and takes a slug.
‘I’m not chicken. It’s just that pissed people are so annoying, all shouty and aggressive one minute and puking up in the bushes the next.’
She fixes her brown eyes on mine. ‘I’m not though, am I?’
‘’Course not,’ I tell her. But I’m lying. Booze changes Lou’s character, and not for the better. Sober Lou is funny, warm and loyal. Pissed Lou is argumentative, stroppy and has a nasty habit of disappearing with boys at parties leaving me on my own. Give me Sober Lou any day of the week.
‘Go on, just a wee dram,’ she says in a terrible Scottish accent.
I giggle. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt just this once. I’m worried if Ed and I don’t get it together tonight we never will. He’s been shooting me smiles from the other side of the common room for ages, and he always makes a beeline for me in the lunch queue, but we just chat about inconsequential things, like how soggy the chips are, and what an old witch Mrs Evans, the head of sixth form, is. I get the feeling he likes me, but he’s never asked me out. Perhaps he never will. So, unless I make the first move…
‘Oh alright,’ I say, taking the bottle and grimacing as the alcohol scorches the back of my throat.
‘Good girl.’
Basking in her approval, I take another slurp. Once we’ve blow-dried our newly-coloured hair and painted our nails, the nerves have disappeared and I’m ready to take on the world. I slip into my dress and help
Lou with her zip. We stand in front of her mirror and pout.
‘We look a million dollars.’ Lou drops the half-empty bottle of Smirnoff into her bag and links arms with me. ‘Ready?’ she asks, raising one of her perfectly-plucked eyebrows.
I grin. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
Chapter Five
Now
My resolve not to track Ed down lasts all of two days. Work is busy as I prepare for our recruitment evening and when I’m there it’s easy to push him to the back of my mind. But on Thursday night when I’m updating our Facebook page with photos I’ve taken of the vegetable garden, my curiosity gets the better of me. I type in Josh Sullivan before I can talk myself out of it.
The moment I see his profile picture I wish I hadn’t. But I should know better than anyone that you can’t turn back time. I force myself to take another look. Josh’s arm is draped around his father. Ed’s eyes burn with the same intensity they did when he was seventeen. But that’s where the similarity ends. His cheeks are sunken and his complexion is as grey as ash. His hair, that beautiful chestnut-brown hair I would run my fingers through, has disappeared, replaced by a chemo-induced wispy white fuzz.
My dad died of a brain tumour. I know what stage four cancer looks like. And there’s no dressing it up. Ed looks like a dead man walking. Terrified what the photo might mean, I slam the laptop shut.
That night I sleep fitfully. Whenever I do nod off my dreams are filled with Ed. Not the boy I remember but the gaunt shadow of a man he is now. Or was. Once upon a time we promised each other we’d always be together. Now I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. I realise I gave up my rights to know a long time ago, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Is that why Ed and Lou’s son is in Canterbury? Perhaps they wanted to come home for Ed’s final weeks. Lou’s family moved up north soon after I left school, but I assume Ed’s parents and older sister are still in Whitstable. I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into them over the years to be honest, but even in a small city like Canterbury it’s easy to hide.
