by A J McDine
I check. No blue lines yet, thin or otherwise. That’s good news, surely? But deep down I know I’m pregnant. Up the duff. Knocked up. In the family way. Dress it how you like, I have well and truly cocked right up. Or Ed has, anyway. I clamp my hand to my mouth, stifling the gasp of hysterical laughter that’s bubbling in my windpipe like indigestion. I have no idea why. This is so not funny. I have literally nothing to laugh about.
‘Is it time?’
‘One more minute.’
I take a deep breath. In just sixty seconds I’ll know my fate. Lou is re-reading the instructions on the back of the box. She’s been amazing, she really has. I expected her to completely freak out when I finally summoned the nerve to tell her I might be pregnant. But she didn’t. She caught a bus to Herne Bay so she could buy the Clearblue One Step pregnancy test kit from a chemist where no-one knew her. And she held my hand and promised she would look after me, whatever the result.
She meets my eye. ‘OK. Time’s up.’
I’m too scared to look. I pass Lou the plastic stick and she takes it without a murmur, even though I was pissing all over it three minutes ago. She gasps and if I didn’t know before, I do now.
‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I?’
Our eyes meet. Pity is etched across her face.
‘We should do another test, in case this one’s wrong.’
I shake my head. ‘What’s the point? You read the box, they’re ninety-nine per cent accurate.’
‘You might be that one in a hundred person. Let’s at least try.’ Lou tips the second plastic wand out of the box and hands it to me. I stand stiffly and wait for her to step out of the way so I can flip up the lid of the toilet and pee on the stick. This time I hand it straight to her.
The walls of our tiny bathroom are closing in on me. ‘I need to get out of here. I’ll be in my bedroom.’
A few minutes later Lou pads across the landing and my door swings open. She has the Clearblue box in one hand and a bottle of vampire-red nail polish in the other. She plonks them both on my dressing table and gathers me in her arms.
I cry until I can cry no more.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Now
I wake with a start when my alarm goes off. The duvet is tangled between my legs and my pillow is damp. I barely slept last night, and when I did my dreams were filled with images of Matt having porn star sex with a series of faceless women. It was just a dream, I tell myself. But I can’t erase the images from my mind.
I groan, bury my head in the pillow and consider phoning in sick. But that would only give Angela ammunition for my next verbal warning, and I’m not giving her the satisfaction. Instead I force myself out of bed and into the en suite. Out of habit I scrutinise my face in the mirror. I look like crap, wan and hollow-eyed. My hair is dull and frizzy, and my roots need doing again.
‘Fuck’s sake. No wonder Matt’s playing away,’ I tell my woebegone reflection. ‘I would if I woke up to you every morning.’ I stab my finger at the mirror. ‘You washed-up old hag.’
I feel more human once I’ve showered and drunk my first cup of tea. Especially when my phone pings with a text from Matt.
Morning gorgeous. Happy Friday! Can’t wait to see you tonight. Love you x
He wouldn’t be sending texts like that if he was having an affair, would he? Unless it’s a cover. But I can’t believe the man I married is capable of such duplicity. As I’m about to reply to his text I have an idea. I’ll make an extra effort tonight. I’ll pick up a couple of steaks from the farm shop on the way home from work and open the ludicrously expensive bottle of Chateauneuf Du Pape I bought him for Christmas. I’ll put on a dress and a smile and see if I can’t rekindle at least some of the heart-thudding passion we enjoyed when we first met.
Love you too, I type. Don’t be late home. I have something nice planned x
Promises promises! I’ll be home by seven at the latest, I promise. Have a good day x
By the time I arrive at Cam I’m almost cheerful. It’s another glorious summer’s day, and although it means I’ll spend the last hour of the afternoon watering, it’s a small price to pay. As I let myself into the garden I’m hit by the sweet scent of honeysuckle and roses. Mr Pickles darts out from behind an over-sized hebe and weaves through my legs. I bend over with difficulty and pick him up. He purrs when I tickle him under the chin. It’s only cupboard love - he wants his breakfast, not me - but it makes me smile all the same.
‘Come on, gutbucket. Let’s find you something to eat.’
Geoff’s already in the office, sitting at Angela’s desk flicking through a seed catalogue. I deposit Mr Pickles on the floor and he stalks over to the fridge and miaows.
‘In a minute,’ I tell him. And then to Geoff, ‘No Angela? Has she got a meeting?’
‘She didn’t mention one.’ He folds the catalogue, running his soil-stained fingers along the crease. ‘I hope she didn’t give you too much grief yesterday.’
I shrug. ‘Just a verbal warning.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘To be honest it’s the least of my worries. How’s Martin? Have you spoken to Maureen?’
Geoff drops the catalogue in Angela’s in tray. ‘He saw the support worker yesterday and she’s adjusted his meds. Maureen says he’s already a lot calmer. She might bring him over for a cup of tea later if he’s up to it.’
‘Good idea. I don’t want him thinking he’s not welcome.’
I pick up my clipboard and skim-read the worksheets. Today Rosie and I are supposed to be weeding the long bed at the far end of the garden with Nancy, who at sixty-five is one of our oldest gardeners. But the ground’s so hard I think we’ll make a start on the bunting for the open day. Angela has decreed she wants the garden festooned with the bloody stuff, and what Angela wants, Angela gets.
Mr Pickles miaows again and butts my leg with his head.
‘Did no-one ever tell you patience is a virtue?’ I scold. The tip of his tail twitches. His narrowed green eyes remind me of someone, but I can’t think who. It’s only later I realise. He reminds me of Roz.
By ten o’clock I’ve set out everything we need for the bunting on a shady picnic table. One by one I tick them off on my fingers: the remnants of material I picked up for a song in town, a tape measure and a pen, a roll of brown garden twine, some pinking shears, a pair of eyelet pliers and a box of brass eyelets.
Angela’s still not here. I’m surprised. She usually lets Geoff or me know if she’s going to be this late. Although I suppose I didn’t give her a chance to before I stormed out yesterday. A small kernel of anxiety is growing in the pit of my stomach. Surely she wasn’t upset by my outburst? I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. She’s as hard as nails.
The arrival of the minibus is a welcome distraction to my spiralling anxiety and soon Rosie, Nancy and I are sitting around the table, our heads bent together as we make the bunting. Rosie commandeers the pinking shears and the tip of her tongue protrudes from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on cutting triangles from the many different coloured fabrics. Nancy is a dab hand with the eyelet pliers, grinning with satisfaction each time she stamps a hole in the top corners of Rosie’s triangles. The fiddly job of inserting the eyelets into the fabric is left to me but it suits me fine. It takes my mind off everything else.
At eleven I heave my bulk out of the seat and head for the office to make tea for us all. As I’m dropping teabags into mugs the door clicks open. Expecting it to be Angela, I’m surprised to see Maureen shooing Martin into the office.
‘Rosie said we’d find you in here. Martin has something to say, haven’t you, Marty?’
He shuffles towards me, his head low and his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m sorry for the other day,’ he mumbles. ‘I never meant to frighten anyone.’
‘Of course you didn’t. It’s fine. Honestly. But thank you for apologising anyway.’
He gives a quick nod. I reach into the cupboard for two more mugs.
‘You�
��ll stay for a cup?’
‘Just a quick one,’ Maureen says.
‘You go on out and I’ll bring these over.’
While the kettle’s boiling I check my phone to see if Angela has texted. She hasn’t. I open our shared diary on my computer, but no meetings are scheduled. I contemplate phoning her, to check she’s OK, but before I can Rosie bowls into the office, chivvying me up and rifling through my desk drawers for my secret stash of chocolate biscuits.
Martin and his mum are sitting either side of Nancy at the picnic table and I call Geoff and Mary over to join us. We chat about the weather and preparations for the open day and everyone admires our burgeoning lengths of bunting. I’m draining the last dregs from my mug when the gravel crunches and a car door slams. I check my watch. It’s half past eleven.
‘Angela?’ Geoff says, his eyebrows raised.
I tut. ‘About time. I’ll remember this the next time she lectures me on my timekeeping.’
Busy brushing biscuit crumbs from the table, I don’t notice how still Martin has become until Maureen says in a voice heavy with worry, ‘Everything OK, Marty?’
He’s staring at the entrance to the garden with a look of horror. The horror escalates to anger and he turns to me, his eyes blazing. ‘You liar!’
‘Martin!’ cries Maureen.
‘You promised you wouldn’t call the police!’
‘The police? I didn’t.’
‘Then who is that?’ he shouts, pointing to the entrance with a trembling finger.
I turn and look. Sure enough, a uniformed officer is making his way towards us. He’s over six-foot tall, with the muscular physique of someone who spends all their free time in the gym. With him is a woman with cropped, bleached blonde hair. She’s wearing a severe black trouser suit and although she’s almost a foot shorter than her colleague she still manages to match him stride for stride. As they approach the muffled static of a two-way radio cuts into the silence. The man says something to the woman, steps aside and starts talking into the handset in a low, urgent voice.
I glance at Martin. The anger has subsided as quickly as it arrived and he’s clutching his head in his hands and rocking in his seat.
Maureen touches his shoulder and he looks up at her with pleading eyes. ‘Not hospital. Please, Mum. I can get better, I promise. But not if you send me to hospital.’
I don’t hear what Maureen says because the female officer is consulting her pocket notebook and saying something. It’s only when Rosie gives me a nudge that I realise it’s my name.
‘Sophie Saunders?’ the woman says again. There’s a trace of exasperation in her voice but all I can think is, please God don’t let it be Matt. Because that’s why the police turn up on the doorsteps of law-abiding citizens, isn’t it? To deliver bad news.
‘That’s me,’ I say, barely above a whisper.
The officer’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
This is the bit where she asks if there’s anyone I’d like with me. But she hasn’t read the script because instead she points to the open door of the office. ‘In there, perhaps?’
‘Of course.’
Geoff makes as if to stand but she shakes her head and gestures him to stay before following me inside.
‘I’m DC Sam Bennett from Kent Police. And this is PC Dillon Grant,’ she says, as her musclebound colleague steps through the door. ‘He’s on secondment with CID.’
He holds out his hand and I shake it on autopilot.
I feel the detective’s eyes burning into me. ‘Are you alright,’ she says. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘Has something happened to Matt?’ I ask.
She frowns. ‘Who?’
‘My husband, Matt Saunders. Is that why you’re here?’
Her face clears. ‘You think we’re here to deliver a death message? Not today. We’re investigating a report of arson with intent to endanger life at a house in Union Road, Bridge, last night.’
‘That’s where Angela lives!’
DC Bennett flips open her notebook. ‘Angela Platt. The manager of Camomile Community Garden. Your boss.’
I sit down in my chair with a bump. ‘The arson was at her house? Is she alright?’
‘Fortunately, Mrs Platt’s neighbours were still up, heard her fire alarm and called the fire brigade. The fire damaged the carpet in the hallway and I understand there’s some smoke and water damage. Mrs Platt was taken to hospital suffering from smoke inhalation but she’s due to be discharged this afternoon. She’s an extremely lucky lady. If the fire had been left undiscovered for even a few minutes longer I may well have been delivering that death message you appear to have been expecting.’
I don’t like her tone, but there’s no time to unpick why she’s being so snippy with me.
‘Why do you think it’s arson?’
‘Because a gallon of petrol was poured through her letterbox, closely followed by a lighted rag.’
My hand flies to my mouth. ‘Oh my God, that’s terrible. I should let our chairman know -’
DC Bennett cuts across me.
‘I need to ask you a few questions. Is there anyone here who has a grudge against Mrs Platt?’
An image of Mary, the wronged wife, worms its way into my head. Angela’s affair with Bob is the worst-kept secret at Cam. But it’s ridiculous to think she’d set fire to Angela’s house. I shake my head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘No-one’s had a falling out with her? An exchange of words, anything like that?’
I fiddle with the pen on my desk, hoping DC Bennett hasn’t noticed the dark flush creeping up my neck. ‘I can’t think of anyone, no.’
‘That’s strange,’ DC Bennett says, consulting her notebook. ‘Because Mrs Platt told us this morning that you and she had words after she gave you a verbal warning yesterday. She said she’d never seen you so angry.’
‘What, that? I force a laugh. ‘I was just a bit hormonal.’ I gesture at my bump. ‘Blame it on the baby.’
She makes a non-committal noise and jots something down. Panic grips my insides. Surely she doesn’t think I set fire to Angela’s house?
‘A neighbour’s CCTV caught someone standing outside Mrs Platt’s home last night, shortly before the fire started. Unfortunately they had their back to the camera, but you can see them pouring in the petrol and using a lighter to light the rag.’ She looks me up and down. ‘They were about your height.’
‘You think I… ? That’s crazy. I know Angela and I don’t always see eye to eye, but I would never -’
DC Bennett clears her throat, cutting me short. We both know she holds all the power. All I can do is watch and wait for her to pounce, and she doesn’t disappoint me.
‘Where were you between eleven o’clock and midnight last night?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Then
I’ve been avoiding Ed for days. Every time I see him in the distance I dip into an empty classroom or hide in the toilets until I’m sure the coast is clear. I know his timetable off by heart, and as we’re doing different A-levels it’s surprisingly easy to evade him. I know he’s looking for me. Lou says he nabbed her in the canteen the other day and pleaded with her to tell him why I won’t see him, what he’s done wrong.
‘You’re going to have to talk to him,’ she’d said afterwards, but I’d shaken my head. The only thing that’s clear to me in this complete bloody fuck up is that Ed must not know I’m pregnant. I can’t lay that on him. His heart’s set on reading law at UCL. He’s been offered a place, too. But he needs three As. What’s going to happen if I tell him that in five months’ time, on the day he’s expecting to sit his first history paper, I could quite possibly be in Kent and Canterbury Hospital’s labour ward giving birth to our baby?
Baby. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been avoiding going there, too. I can just about accept the fact that I’m pregnant, but I’m still in denial that pregnancy = baby.
Because here’s the
irony. I want children, I always have. When I picture my future I’m always surrounded by a brood of kids; three or four at least. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child, but I want a big, noisy family of my own. But not until I’m in my thirties, happily married with a job I love, a nice house and two cars on the driveway. Having a baby at seventeen is not part of my life plan. Now when I picture my future, the farmhouse kitchen with the cream Aga and scrubbed pine table morphs into a grotty bedsit draped with damp washing. Instead of cooking mountains of spag bol for my happy tribe of kids, I’m trying to calm a wailing toddler before he wakes the druggie neighbours.
The other irony is this: if I told Ed I was expecting our baby he would stand by me, I know he would. He’s the most loyal, decent person I’ve ever met. He’d give me a hug and say, ‘Soph, you daft cow, everything will be alright. I’ll look after you. We’ll make it work.’
But the truth is, we can’t make it work. Not really. Two naive seventeen-year-olds with their heads in the clouds and a tenuous grip on reality? We’re barely able to look after ourselves. We wouldn’t stand a chance.
I love Ed so much it physically hurts. It kills me that he thinks I’m giving him the cold shoulder, when all I really want to do is run into his arms and tell him everything. But he’s better off without me. He has a golden future in front of him. I will not mess that up.
So, when he tracks me down in the library after lunch I channel my inner ice maiden.
‘Sophie, why are you ignoring me?’
I shrug, my face blank.
He tries to take my hands but I snatch them away. His shoulders sag. His fringe is flopping over one eye. It’s as much as I can do not to run my hand through it, straighten it out.
‘What’s the matter? Why won’t you return my calls?’
There’s a catch in his voice. My heart is shattering into a million tiny pieces.
