by Laura Tait
‘And, please, call me Marc.’
I give Ben a tour of the house while Dad makes a pot of coffee.
‘Is this Stefan’s?’ asks Ben as we reach the room at the end of the upstairs corridor.
‘It’s mine,’ I tell him with a laugh. ‘Why?’
‘The plain blue walls just don’t scream teenage girl.’
‘That’s how you know it’s not Stefan’s,’ I say, sliding my hands under his shirt and up his back. ‘Anyway . . . blue is my very favourite colour.’
‘Good to know,’ he mumbles, planting soft kisses down my face, closer and closer to my mouth until his lips are on mine.
‘Mmmm,’ I mumble, smiling into his kiss. ‘That really is a sexy outfit.’
‘You’re a sexy outfit,’ he mumbles back.
I pull my face away from his and smirk.
‘I don’t know what that means either,’ he says. ‘Just don’t stop kissing me.’
My lips find his again, then we fall sideways on to my bed, running our hands over each other.
‘We should go back downstairs,’ I tell him, making no attempt to move.
‘Yeah, we should,’ he agrees, sliding a finger across my jaw, down my neck and into the V of my dress.
‘You know,’ he tells me, ‘your dad isn’t nearly as scary as I thought he’d be.’
‘You’re talking about my dad while your hand is under my bra?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, laughing. ‘I was just wondering why he didn’t like that Nick guy.’
I tilt my head and sigh. ‘I don’t know, really. He just didn’t trust him. He didn’t like how much time we spent up in my room.’
‘Right.’ Ben springs up from the bed and smooths his shirt with his palms. ‘Let’s get back downstairs.’
Dad’s living room is a cosy den; the only room that is pretty much unchanged since Granny lived here, but now her bookcases are filled with design books and autobiographies rather than spy novels and old issues of Reader’s Digest.
‘Who plays?’ asks Ben, gesturing at the piano.
‘Rebecca,’ says Stefan.
Ben’s eyes widen as he looks at me. ‘Why don’t I know this?’
‘Can’t you tell she’s got penis fingers?’ says Stefan.
‘Pianist fingers!’ I yell.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Anyway,’ I say to Ben, hitting Stefan with a cushion, ‘I don’t play. I took a few lessons when I was young, when we were back staying with Granny. I gave up, though.’
‘Too impatient,’ clarifies Stefan.
‘Not true,’ I lie.
Dad leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. ‘She thought she’d come away from her first lesson being able to give a full rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.’
‘Well, who wants to spend an hour doing scales?’ I complain.
‘See?’ says Stefan.
‘A few weeks ago she asked me to show her how to do a perfect boiled egg,’ Ben says, leaning conspiratorially towards the others. ‘Then she tried it herself once, and it was only half cooked when she opened it, so she bashed it to death with her spoon and poured herself a bowl of cereal. She hasn’t tried it again since.’
Dad and Stefan burst out laughing and I glare at Ben with faux hurt, though I’m happy to see the three of them being so pally.
Ben’s eyes lock with mine, and even after eleven months, the intimacy of his look still has the same effect it did on that night at Arch 13. It’s an effort to tear my eyes away.
I don’t know why I was worried earlier. Everyone loves Ben and everyone loves my dad. The two of them not getting on would be like Phillip Schofield and Dame Judi Dench meeting and deciding they’re not really each other’s cup of tea.
‘Can you still play anything?’ asks Ben.
I shake my head as Stefan grabs my hand and drags me up. ‘Let’s do a duet,’ he says.
‘We don’t know any—’
‘Yes, we do. We nailed it – don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.’
Reluctantly I sit next to Stefan on the stool.
‘It’s that crap one everyone knows,’ I announce over my shoulder to Ben. ‘It was in the film Big.’
I start the lower notes and wait for Stefan to come in with the melody.
He gets it right for about five seconds before he starts hitting the wrong keys. He doesn’t stop, though; he just carries on as if he’s doing it right.
‘Stop going off-piste,’ I yell at him.
‘I’m here and I’m perfectly sober,’ he says.
‘Knob.’
‘Sshhh, and concentrate, before you ruin our recital.’
‘The piano originally belonged to Alice, my wife,’ Dad tells Ben as they both chuckle.
‘Oh, Dad, I forgot to tell you.’ I stop playing and spin around, before the conversation goes down that road. ‘Danielle is moving out.’
I fill him in on the details.
‘So what’s next for you?’ he asks.
My eyes find Ben and I see him look down into his mug. It’s painful to admit – and I won’t out loud – but I was so sure Ben would instantly suggest moving in when I told him about Danielle. That’s what he does, he jumps right in. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t ask.
Worried he’ll think I’m trying to coerce him now, I inject some enthusiasm into my answer.
‘It’d be weird living there with anyone else. I guess I’ll just rent by myself until I can afford to buy somewhere. It’ll be nice to have my own space.’ There you go, Ben – off the hook. ‘It might have to be a studio flat, or somewhere further afield where the rent isn’t so high. Charlton, maybe.’
‘You know,’ says Dad, ‘if you feel ready to buy somewhere now, I can help you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With a deposit. I’ve set something aside for you. So if you’re ready to buy somewhere, then let’s have a chat about it.’
‘Wow.’ I laugh, taking it in. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Ben looks as shocked as I do – but when our eyes meet he gives me a grin.
I look at Stefan, wondering if he knew about Dad’s secret fund. ‘He did the same for me when I bought my flat,’ he says. ‘So don’t go thinking you’re the favourite or anything.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, son,’ says Dad, getting to his feet and patting Stefan’s shoulder playfully. ‘Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to set the table for our delicious Italian feast.’
As a family, we always eat at a table. Admittedly, we ate out half the time when I was growing up, but even at home, it was always at the table. No telly, no phones, no computer games. Music was OK as long as it was quiet enough to chat, because Dad always insisted meal times were family times.
It’s a habit I never got out of until I met Ben. The first time he cooked me dinner at his he carried the shepherd’s pie through, and I followed excitedly holding the crockery.
‘For the love of God, what are you doing?’ I asked, watching in horror as he placed the pie on top of a magazine on the coffee table.
‘Thought we could sit on the couch and eat,’ he said, looking perplexed as he watched me set two places at the dinner table. ‘Watch a film or something?’
So we did. And after we finished eating, Ben pulled my legs on to his lap while we watched the rest of the film. We ended up falling asleep, me snuggled into his shoulder.
Then that became the norm, though I would never suggest it when coming to my dad’s.
The feast, when we eventually sit down to eat it, is far from delicious. It is, at best, edible. We all know it. Dad doesn’t pretend to be a good cook – he just isn’t a believer in not doing something just because you’re a bit crap at it.
‘That was really nice,’ says Ben, soaking up the final spot of tomato sauce on his plate with burnt garlic bread and swallowing it, before sitting back and patting his tummy.
‘It was?’ asks Dad.
I feel the corners of my mouth twitch.
>
‘Absolutely.’
Stefan picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, and I can tell once again he’s trying not to laugh.
‘Would you like more?’ I ask Ben sweetly. I pick up the pot without waiting for an answer and serve a huge dollop on to his plate. ‘There you go.’
‘Lovely. Ta.’
He gives Dad a smile.
‘You are welcome,’ I say.
He manages to finish his second portion and I’m still struggling not to smile when Ben says: ‘Oh my God – who’s that?’
‘That’s Alice,’ says Dad, following Ben’s gaze to the photo on the fireplace as he tops up our wine, not seeming to notice I’ve barely touched mine. ‘Their mum.’
‘God, she looks like you, Rebecca.’ Ben stands and goes to pick it up, looking perplexed. I avert my eyes, but the image in the frame is imprinted in my mind. My mum is gardening. Her fair hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and even though she’s crouching, you can see how petite she is. Her dungarees hang loosely from her shoulders, rolled up at the bottom above her tiny, bare feet. I take after my dad in every way, except . . . ‘It’s the eyes! Those are your eyes. That’s incredible.’
I try to turn my attention away, and think about something else. I take a sip of my wine but all it does is make me realize how dry my mouth has become, and it hurts to swallow.
‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ I announce, turning quickly but catching the confusion on Ben’s face.
Picking up my handbag en route, I rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind me, leaning my head back against it and shutting my eyes. I feel like a terrible person. No wonder Ben’s confused – I’ve never told him anything about my mum or exactly how she died. It’s not that I want to keep it a secret or anything. I just find it hard to . . .
Once my breathing is back to normal I reach for my bag and pull out the pregnancy test I bought at the station. I thought I could put it out of my mind for the night – to pretend it’s not happening. But suddenly I know I can’t walk back downstairs without knowing.
I can’t even begin to think how Ben will react if I tell him about this. If he isn’t ready to live with me then Have Babies is way down on his To Do list.
My hand shakes so much I almost pee on it. Please, please be negative.
Chapter Three
BEN
The plates are cleared and Marc is loading them into the dishwasher when Rebecca finds us in the kitchen. I direct a smile her way but it’s like her eyes are embroiled in a particularly competitive game of dodgeball.
‘Why don’t you two go for a stroll?’ her dad says. ‘Walk off your dinner and let Ben see a bit of Deal.’
Rebecca scratches the inside of her wrist, acting as though no one has said anything.
‘Good idea,’ I say, and her eyes jink to me at last, but only for a microsecond.
I can tell something’s up, and she obviously doesn’t want to go for a walk, but if I’ve done something wrong then I’d quite like to know, and I can’t exactly ask her in front of her dad and brother.
‘Fine,’ says Rebecca. She fills her lungs and moves her hands from her hips so that they press into her belly. ‘I could do with some fresh air, anyway.’
We stride down a cobbled street towards the town centre. I’ve had to adapt my natural walking pace over the last eleven months, because Rebecca walks everywhere like she’s trying for a personal best. I normally find it amusing, but today she has no particular place to be, and it almost feels like she’s trying to run away from something.
Within a few minutes we reach a quiet seaside strip that feels undiscovered, or like it never wanted to be discovered in the first place. There are no amusement arcades, and the fish and chip shop is closing up even though it’s not yet eight o’clock.
We cross a deserted road and join a path of wooden planks that leads on to a pebble beach. For some reason I feel nervous.
‘How’s your headache?’ I say, remembering the Nurofen.
For a second she looks at me like she hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. ‘Oh, yes. Better, thanks.’
The only sound as we stray on to the shingle is the lingering whistle of a man walking his Labrador. The tide is coming in, and I waltz away from a line of frothy water that spills towards my feet, to see if she’ll laugh, but her smile is dutiful.
‘Has today been a total disaster?’ I say. ‘Is that why you’ve gone quiet?’
Rebecca stops.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she says, her thoughtful expression dissolving as she looks me in the eye. ‘Today hasn’t been a disaster at all.’
She gives me a reassuring smile and hooks her arm guiltily into mine as we start walking again. When I look at her I can see mischief in her expression.
‘What?’ I say.
‘I was just thinking about today.’ She pinches her lips in on themselves. ‘I didn’t realize how good a suck-up you were.’
‘Suck-up?’
‘Well . . .’ She tilts her head momentarily. ‘I’ve never seen you defer to anyone before. Except me, obviously.’
I laugh, though I’m not really following.
‘It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you,’ she explains. ‘You’re a bit Che Guevara about authority.’ She puts Che Guevara in air quotes. ‘Albeit a pale, less mysterious, far less cool Che Guevara.’
‘I’m cool!’
‘But today, with my dad, you were like—’
‘And I’m mysterious.’
She stops, regarding me. ‘OK, I’m a fair woman. I distinctly remember one occasion, when we first started dating, you left it ages before replying to one of my texts.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘Forty-five minutes or something.’
‘Oh, be quiet, penis fingers.’
‘Don’t you start!’ she says, laughing. ‘Really glad you liked Dad’s spag bol, by the way. Did you enjoy your seconds?’
I eyeball her. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’
‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. I knew you’d be too polite to say no.’
I bump her shoulder with mine, but our arms remain hooked and she boomerangs back into me.
‘I just wanted to make a good impression, is all.’
Rebecca holds my gaze. ‘It was sweet.’
Lads always ask whether you’re a bum, legs or boobs man, and I’d always answer legs. But for the past eleven months, since meeting Rebecca, I reckon I’ve become an eyes man. Obviously I haven’t said that out loud, because whichever lads I was with would have downed the rest of their pints, left the pub and never contacted me again.
‘So you’re not going to dump me like Nick McDermott?’
She laughs again. ‘That was never gonna happen, Ben.’
I feel relieved, although I still don’t know what was up back at the house.
‘Can’t believe Dad’s giving me a deposit,’ she says.
‘I know, right?’ I say. ‘You should start looking at places, get a feel for what’s out there – I’ll come with you.’
My enthusiasm isn’t one hundred per cent genuine, but I’ll get over it. I guess I should be grateful the whole topic came up. I’d be popping the Will you live with me? question right now if she hadn’t told her dad that she couldn’t see herself living in the flat with someone new.
Yes, I’m disappointed, but as an ex-girlfriend once pointed out, I’m a bit of an emotional express train, and I know Rebecca is more like a cross-country service that stops at every town. It’s another reason I fell in love with her. I’ve got bored of every girlfriend I ever had before Rebecca. I guess I like a challenge.
So I’ll wait, and maybe in a couple of years we’ll buy somewhere together. That’s the reason I accepted a permanent job at London Transport – so I could start saving for a deposit. Which reminds me: I really should start saving for a deposit.
‘You know I designed my very first building on this beach?’ she says. ‘Sometimes I’d spend my summe
r holidays here if Dad was on a particularly busy job. Granny would bring us to the beach but I hated it back then. You can’t make sand castles out of pebbles.’
I grin, happy to be finding out something I don’t know.
‘One year we came here just before Christmas. I was seven or eight. Me and Stefan were going to spend a few days with Granny and then Dad would arrive on Christmas Eve and we’d have Christmas together. So the day we arrived it started to snow. It just kept falling, and the next day Granny brought us here and I swear you couldn’t see a single pebble. The beach was completely white. Stefan wanted to build a snowman but I made him build a snow house instead. I was like the foreman, telling him what needed to be done until we had a mini mansion with windows and everything. It even had a front garden.’
I widen my eyes to show that I’m suitably impressed.
‘The next day we came back and it was still there, good as new. Same the day after, even though most of the snow had melted. The next day Dad was arriving and I couldn’t wait to show him. He was knackered from his flight but it must have been obvious how excited I was so he came along to the beach. Except the house wasn’t here. It had finally melted.’
I stop and draw her into me, overcome by affection.
‘Dad still claims it was the only time he ever saw me inconsolable as a kid. I just wanted to make him proud.’
After a few moments I withdraw from the hug so that I can take her hands in mine, as though I’m about to say something sincere and comforting. ‘And you call me a suck-up?’
She laughs, but it stumbles.
‘What’s up, Rebecca?’
She presses an index finger into the corner of each eye in turn, like she’s trying to shove any tears back into their ducts.
‘It’s the sea breeze, it makes my eyes water.’
‘There isn’t a breeze, Becs.’
She digs her right foot into the pebbles, looks to the sky and sighs.
‘I took a pregnancy test earlier.’
I feel like a puppet whose strings have been cut. My jaw just drops. And then it’s like I’m on my deathbed, except the thing that’s flashing before my eyes is not my life over the last twenty-seven years, but my life over the next twenty-seven, the life of an unborn child, which in my head is a boy, and I’m taking him to the park in his first-ever Man City top, and then I’m teasing him about the bum fluff on his chin, and then we’re in the pub for his first legal pint.
