“Come on up!” I said. Why did I say that? Well, I could hardly send him away, could I? “I’m doing this for you,” I whispered to my bump. Even now, I was barely showing.
I checked my hair in the mirror. Fortunately, my red waves were having a glossy day. I couldn’t have the father of my child thinking that I was sloppily groomed. What would that say about my maternal competence?
To my surprise, Simon arrived wearing running shorts and a t-shirt. I didn’t have him down as a runner – not that I really knew anything about him. I suppose I assumed he was one of those men who went to the gym a lot – not because he was fit (although he undeniably was) but because he seemed very sure of himself, which was a quality I associated with working out a lot.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered.
No, don’t follow me into the kitchen! Oh, this was embarrassing. I looked at the floor where I’d knelt over his head and practically forced him to lick my pussy, and cringed. I turned around – there was the toaster he’d shoved me against as he pounded me with his … I turned again. Shit. I accidentally looked straight at Simon. Eye contact was the last thing I could bear. He was smiling. And I knew exactly why he was smiling. I was surprised to find the faintest of smiles forming on my own lips. Nervously, I chuckled. Then he chuckled. Suddenly I realised I was beaming, and we were both giggling, stupidly.
“Okay, that’s it!” I laughed. “Go and wait in the living room. I’ll bring the tea through.”
He smiled and did as he was told.
As I poured water into the teapot, I smiled to myself. Then, I heard conversation. That was odd. As I entered the living room I realised he was watching telly.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I skipped back to the beginning of the episode.”
Oh, so he was planning to watch DVDs together, was he? That was unexpected and presumptuous but not entirely unwelcome.
“Not at all,” I replied, and handed him his cup of tea. Then I added, “Is there a particular reason why you’re here?” I hoped he wasn’t planning on offering any more insufferable advice.
“Dave told me that you’re coming off lithium, so I wanted to see if you were all right.”
Oh.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Shall we watch some telly then?”
“Sure.”
His ease of manner took me by surprise. His only agenda appeared to be checking that I was all right. I couldn’t fault him for that. In fact, although I hated to admit it, I was actually a little touched.
As the episode played, I was surprised by how comfortable we were together. Perhaps we were putting the dinner party, the sex, the pregnancy shock, and the row in the park behind us.
As uncomfortable as it felt, he did have a point about accommodation. I couldn’t stay here once the baby was born. There wasn’t space, but more importantly, it wasn’t fair on Nicky and Dave. Nevertheless, I could find my own place. I didn’t need Simon to do it for me.
An episode ended and we went straight through to the next one without a single fight. And I wasn’t particularly trying to be on good behaviour, I just didn’t find anything to pick a fight about.
“I didn’t know you were into running.”
“I’m not,” he said, to my surprise.
“Roller-skating?” I asked, giving his shorts a confused glance.
“No, I was running.”
“I’m not following.”
“I’m going to do the Antarctic Ice Marathon.”
“Wow. Seriously?” He didn’t look built for long distances. He wasn’t fat but he was broad, and he certainly wasn’t tall. I didn’t have him pegged as an outdoorsy kind of chap. And why in the world would you run a marathon, least of all at the South Pole, if you weren’t into running?
“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly and clicking his teeth. He looked reluctant, to say the least.
“Why are you doing it then?”
“It’s for my friend.”
“Must be a good friend.”
“He was.”
I remembered the conversation at the scan, about how he’d lost somebody. I also remembered, with horror, the dinner party. I’d made a senseless remark that had silenced the room. I decided that, in the absence of any natural diplomacy, I would be silent and see what happened.
I said nothing.
The pause extended.
Should I ask?
“He died,” explained Simon.
I’d feared as much. Having no idea how to respond, I made a pointless, useless ‘Aw’ sound. I thought about how much it would pain me to lose Nicky, and recognised that ‘Aw’ didn’t really cut it, but what else could I say?
“He died running the Antarctic Ice Marathon.”
“Ah. Now I’m starting to understand. How did he die?”
“Undiagnosed heart condition.”
“Shit.” Subconsciously I placed my hand on my tummy.
“So I’m going to finish his marathon for him.”
“Wow,” I said. I hadn’t expected that. I found myself enormously impressed – I certainly hadn’t expected that! Then, for some reason, I just couldn’t help myself adding, “A bit rude, though, wasn’t it? Couldn’t he have died during a warmer race?”
Why did I do that? Why did I have to say something stupid? Why didn’t I just do the sensitive thing and then shut my mouth? Damn my inappropriate sense of humour.
I was surprised to see that he was laughing. “I know! That’s what I thought. Or perhaps an egg and spoon race.”
We both chuckled. Apparently, we had a similar sense of humour. I was enjoying this, getting on with my son’s father. It was going to make the rest of my life so much easier. It was a shame it had started so badly.
“Simon …” “Emma …” we spoke simultaneously.
“You go.”
“No, you go.”
“I was just going to say …” I paused. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, for being so rude to you at that dinner party.”
“I didn’t think you were rude. Feisty, maybe. Argumentative, definitely.”
I buried my head in my hands.
“Don’t sweat. It was obvious that you’d had a bad day.”
I looked up. “Thank you,” I mouthed.
“If you do change your mind about me finding you a house …”
“Don’t push it!” I snapped, then laughed.
“Let me get you another cup of tea,” he said, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder. I was going to go after him and protest against a guest having to make tea, but then I remembered the memories that the kitchen held, and decided it was safer to stay put.
Chapter 6
September brought thunderstorms and gale force winds. No rooftop was left unscathed, no dustbin left upright. The trees became more torn and tattered with every hour. Rubbish blended with leaves, littering the streets. It wasn’t the ideal time to be house hunting.
By now, my bump was getting rather sizeable. I felt like an elephant and the extra weight was definitely taking its toll on my energy levels. Nevertheless, elephantine proportions or not, I was determined to find a place to live.
Nicky and Dave had been absolutely lovely about the baby and assured me that I could stay as long as I liked. However, knowing how much they longed for a child of their own, raising my son under their noses would be too cruel.
My dislike of letting agents grew with every day. ‘A charming starter home in the suburbs’ would turn out to be a squat on the moors. ‘A spacious, central apartment’ would be a studio flat on the outskirts.
However, today was different. Today I’d found somewhere that sounded perfect even after I’d translated agent speak. It was a small terraced house on a road only half a mile from where I lived now. It boasted central heating, double-glazing and a newly fitted kitchen – specific things that couldn’t possibly be subjective. What’s more, the website said ‘Perfect for a small child’.
I decided to
walk, forgetting about my hippo tummy and in denial about the rain. It was only half a mile, right?
By the time that I arrived at Farmview Drive, I resembled a load dragged out of a washing machine, through a hedge and then flung into a swamp. My clothes were drenched, my hair hung in sodden rats’ tails and the housing details that I printed off the web were now in tatters. Fortunately, the house looked lovely.
“Good afternoon!” said a particularly chipper young man, who appeared to be bone dry. “Is it just for yourself?” he asked.
I looked down at my bulging tummy.
“And the little one,” he added. “What I meant was: you are single, right?”
I nodded, taken aback by his manner.
“Right, now, it’s round the back.”
“Oh, can’t we use the front door?”
“Well that’s 14 Farmview Drive. You’ve booked to look at 14b.”
What? How could a two-up-two-down be divided? These were small enough houses to begin with. I followed him around to the back of the house, more concerned about finding shelter now than seeing the property. How could half of a starter home house a mother and child?
I noticed a grating next to one of the exterior walls and looked down to see a window buried in dirt. Wait! This house had a basement? He guided me towards some slimy, wonky steps and turned a key in a mouldy lock.
The door opened into a room that was actually surprisingly spacious. It was dark, and smelt of damp, but it was a good three metres square. Perhaps with some daylight bulbs …
“Can I see the other rooms?” I asked, opening a door. “Oops, no, that’s a cupboard.”
“This,” he said, gesturing to the door I’d just opened, “is the child’s bedroom.”
“But it doesn’t even go all the way up; it’s only four foot high.”
“Yes. Like it says on our website, ‘Perfect for a small child’.”
* * *
It’s irritating when a man presumes you need his help, and infuriating when he’s right. How was I going to bring myself to admit that actually, despite my past protest, I did need Simon to find me a house? How was I going to get from “There is nothing I need less than help finding a new home!” to “Hey buddy, fancy helping me find a home?”
Simon pulled up next to me in his midnight blue BMW, hardly a car that suggested one likely to be gracious in victory. I climbed in. He was looking particularly flash today, in a blue shirt that brought out the pigment of his eyes. I frowned. This man could make me feel subordinate just by wearing a well-chosen shirt.
“Evening!” he said, with a grin.
“Hey,” I replied, flatly.
“You said you wanted to talk. Shall I take us to the pub? Sorry! I forgot – no booze for you. I’ll take you to a coffee shop instead. I could get you a fruit juice …”
“Actually …” I took a deep breath – may as well spit it out, “I wouldn’t mind going to look at some houses.”
I waited for it – the victory dance, the smug grin, the stupid laugh … but none came. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Sure, I’ve got a couple in mind.”
For a moment, I was speechless – thrown by the unexpected humility. It was the perfect time to say ‘I told you so’, but instead he’d left my pride intact. I hadn’t expected that.
“Rental?” I checked.
“Yes. I thought it was time to talk to some property owners and put some of those empty houses to good use, like you suggested.”
“I meant for housing homeless people, those really vulnerable …”
“Well, you are a priority need in my book.”
“What?” This annoyed me. There were people who needed housing much more urgently than I did; for a start, I had a home already. “Why would you say that? Just because I’m pregnant, and bipolar, and a woman, does not mean that I’m …”
He smiled at me kindly. “It’s none of those things; it’s because you’re Emma.”
Oh.
That actually sounded quite sweet … I think. Was being an Emma a good thing? I tried to see myself through his eyes – perhaps not.
“That’s a good thing,” he added, as if he’d read my mind. I hated it when he did that.
Chapter 7
There were so many cots – white cots, brown cots, wooden cots, plastic cots, double-sided cots, single-sided cots – and they were all so … WONDERFUL!
I stood in the furniture store, literally spinning on the spot. How could I possibly choose just one cot when they were all so lovely? I wanted to get the authentic wooden one with carvings on the posts, but if I got that one, I would be depriving my little boy of the white one with ANIMAL STENCILS!
Well, I couldn’t stand here all day looking at cots, cots, cots. My baby was due in two weeks and I still hadn’t finished furnishing the house. (The house by the way is a-may-zing! So chuffed with Simon for sorting it out. Perhaps I should have invited him shopping – no! My house. Our baby but my house. We need boundaries if this is going to work.)
To save time, I decided to buy five cots. There were five rooms in the house. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised the advantages of MULTIPLE COTS before. This way, I could have my baby in the same room as me whether I was peeling the spuds or watching telly. Oh yes! This was a brilliant idea.
I could tell that the cashier thought it was a brilliant idea too. He shot me a big, wide smile as I plugged in my credit card and punched in the number.
“I’ll have them all home delivered please,” I requested.
“To the same address?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Of course!” I said, “I want my baby with me whether I’m peeling the spuds or having a poo.”
“Oh,” he said, softly.
* * *
I simply could NOT wait for the cots to arrive. Oh my God – five cots! This was going to be great! I had assembled a flat-packed coffee table already that week, so I knew how much I LOVED assembling flat-packed furniture. It was always so rewarding to see flat pieces of wood turn into three-dimensional objects – a bit like a mini mathematical miracle.
When the doorbell rang, I leapt up. I sang a tune with a whistle in it. (How odd that people always either sing or whistle – a tune with a whistle in it is so much more EXCITING!)
I signed the thing I had to sign and tugged the cots into the hall. Wow! That was hard work, especially with my belly now the size of a large watermelon. But, oh YES! Today was going to be cot-building-tastic! Why hadn’t I got pregnant sooner? This baby preparation stuff was just such delightful fun! I’d been dreading maternity leave but now that it was here, I was in my element! “Ellie-ellie-element!” I sang. “Ellie the Element built a cot, and said goodbye to the circus!”
Not that I was through even half a cot when there came another ringle-dingle at the doorbell. “Who could this be?” I sang, forgetting to whistle, so I whistled a separate tune for good measure.
“Hello!” I warbled, swinging open the door so fast that the inside handle chipped the paintwork.
Two well-dressed middle class types – one of each – stood on the doorstep. I presumed that they were lost. It was a pretty nice area, but one of them was wearing expensive fur (fake, I hoped).
“Look what I did!” I giggled, pointing at the paintwork and trying to keep a straight face. “Shhh!” I hushed. “Don’t tell Simon!”
“Don’t tell Simon what?” asked the maler one of the two.
“Don’t tell Simon I chipped the paintwork,” I whispered, then giggled.
“Are you Emma?” asked the female poshy, looking a little concerned.
“Holy mother of fuck!” I chuckled. “You are here to see me! I thought you were lost or something. Nobody really has this address yet, so you must be …” I paused to think.
“Simon’s parents,” said the man, sounding very grave.
“Oh yes! Of course!” I sang. “I knew he had parents! I knew it! I knew it! Well, you simply must come in! He’s a very good friend of mine you know. Well, our
s!” I said, patting my belly.
They exchanged looks. Oh dear, looks like they’re Tories, just like their son. Still, for a Tory, he wasn’t half good in BED! I giggled. Perhaps, if I asked nicely he’d agree to a rematch …
Both of his parents were around the same height – she was slightly tall for a woman, he was slightly short for a man. She had ash blonde hair in a tidy bob. He was almost bald. His chin oozed into his neck. Hers was pointy.
I led them into the living room, which had five cots in it, all liberated from their packaging, but none of them yet fulfilling their cotty potential.
“As you can see, I am building cots!” I announced, making a sweeping gesture.
The lady sniffed suddenly. “Mmm, I can see that.”
“Why do you need so many cots?” asked the man, sounding gruff.
“For your grandson!” I cried. Then, I hurried over to the one in fur and whispered in her ear, “He does know I’m up the duff, doesn’t he?” then I chuckled again. ‘Duff’ was such a funny word. I repeated it in my mind – duff, duff, DUFF!
“I am well aware of your condition. I want to know why there are so many cots,” he demanded.
“One for every room!” I explained. “So that I can see my little baby whether I’m on the loo, doing a poo, eating a poo …” I started giggling again. “Excuse me, just my little joke!”
“Are you quite all right?” asked the lady.
“Yes! I’m perfect.”
“Is she drunk?” the man asked the woman.
“Drunk? I’m prrrr-eg-nant!”
“High on something, I suppose,” he muttered.
“High?” I laughed. “Do you know what? The doctor was worried about me coming off my mood stabilisers, but I’m just FINE!”
“Mood stabilisers?” repeated the woman, softly.
“What do you mean mood stabilisers?” questioned the man. “Are you ill?”
“Not at ALL!” I shouted. “I’m just dandy. Don’t know why I didn’t come off the medication years ago!”
The man placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and said quietly, “I’m going out to the car. I’ll see if I can reach Simon on his mobile.”
The Ice Marathon Page 5
