Then I make out the soft snores coming from the bedroom. I’ve never been so happy to hear those snores.
I tiptoe in there to find her sleeping amidst packets of crisps and Malteser packets, the TV on some shitty romcom. God, she’s cute. Even when she’s snoring her head off, mouth agape. I hate that she’s had to resort to junk food.
I can’t work out if she’s more beautiful when she’s dressed up to kill or make up free in her pyjamas.
I take the remote and turn it off. She startles awake, eyes wide in alarm.
‘Shh, it’s only me,’ I whisper.
She clutches at her chest, as if I almost gave her a heart attack.
‘Have you eaten?’ I try not to look over the junk food wrappers.
She shakes her head, looking guiltily down at the bed. ‘No mayo burgers.’
I bark a laugh, glad she’s attempted to break the ice. She smiles shyly up at me.
‘I’m sorry for being such a head case. These hormones are turning me into a crazy woman. I swear I’m normally not like this.’
I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘I get it. I’m asking an awful lot of you right now.’
She shrugs, but I can see now, looking so closely into those hazel eyes that the responsibility weighs heavily on her shoulders.
‘But we’re a team, right?’
She nods. ‘We are. But…’ She worries her lip.
‘But what?’
She fidgets with her necklace. ‘I just think we should keep things a bit clearer. Put this back to as much of a business arrangement as we can.’
I frown, but quickly try to recover. Business arrangement? She’s kind of right, of course. There’s too many blurred lines between us. It’s all too tempting for me to reach over in bed at night and touch her skin. Pull her under my arm. Spoon her. Wrap my arms around her swelling belly.
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa from now on,’ I offer.
She sits up. ‘No, I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You’re not asking, I’m insisting.’
I plan on making this as easy as possible for her.
‘I can’t expect you to sleep on that sofa and then get up for a full day’s work. Why don’t I just get a bed for the spare room?’
‘That’s the baby’s room.’ I don’t like this. Something deep in my gut tells me this isn’t right. She’s slipping through my fingers right in front of me.
‘Well, it makes sense for me to be in there with it anyway. That way you can get a full night’s sleep.’
I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep without her anyway. How is it I’ve found such a selfless woman in a sea of manipulative gold diggers?
‘Look, we’ll sort it out later. For now, I’ll take the sofa.’
I couldn’t care less where I sleep. For once someone else’s happiness is paramount to mine.
Friday 13th November
Charlotte – 30 Weeks Pregnant
I got myself a single bed delivered for the spare room. Arthur says he’s fine sleeping on the sofa, but I do notice him cracking his neck. That sofa is killing him, but he’s too proud or stubborn to admit it.
I’ve decided to take myself shopping where I can also pick up a duvet and some new bed sheets. Make my bedroom a bit cosier. I’m also craving some fatty food. It’s funny the things you miss when you have everything taken care of for you. I miss scanning the aisles and treating myself to a chocolate dessert. Checking out the specials and sales. Especially with all the healthy food he has in the apartment.
So today I’m having a wander round and enjoying my time. I pass the dog food aisle and I don’t know why, but I get the sudden craving to want to eat it. What the hell is wrong with me?
I must just be craving stew. I go down to the meat aisle but everything I look at makes my stomach churn. I don’t know why, I’m hardly a vegetarian but ugh. I just can’t do it.
I browse round the rest of the shop, all the while feeling drawn to the dog food. Dammit, why do I want it? Maybe I need to be checked into a mental health facility. Get some sort of evaluation.
There’s no harm in me just walking down the aisle. Maybe I’ll be able to smell it from there.
Now I’m at the cans.
Jesus the urge to just open one up and sniff it is strong. Indescribably strong. Is this a pregnant thing? Or have I had a breakdown?
I have a quick look around me and the coast seems clear. I just need to sniff it. I’m sure I’ll be so disgusted I’ll never go near it again. I break one free from the plastic packaging and peel off the top of a can. I sniff it, but instead of finding it disgusting it smells delicious to me. God, how I want to eat it, but I just can’t. Thank God I’m not that barmy.
Oh well. At least I had a sniff.
‘Charlotte?’
My stomach bottoms out. Too fucking late.
I throw the tin back onto the shelf but in my haste it rolls off and smacks against the floor. I look up to follow where the food has exploded and there stands Arthur’s mother and two friends. Sprayed in dog food.
‘What on earth, Charlotte?’ She says, grabbing tissues out of her bag and passing some to her friends.
They look on in horror, meaty chunks in their hair.
What a way to be introduced to your friend’s fake daughter in law.
‘I’m so sorry.’
My cheeks are on fire. Why? Why was I doing that?
‘What on earth were you doing with open dog food?’ Linda demands. ‘It looked like you were about to eat it.’
I force a laugh, but it comes out more of a squeal.
‘Of course not! I was just… I was inspecting it.’
‘Inspecting it?’ She repeats in disbelief, dabbing at her Chanel jacket. ‘Why on earth would you be inspecting it?’
Think Charlotte, think. Now is not the time for baby brain to kick in.
‘Because… because I’ve heard some mixed reviews about their quality and… and I wanted to see for myself.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘But you don’t even have a dog?’
She’s right. Why would I be concerned when I don’t have a dog? I have to think here. I don’t doubt she’d jump at the first opportunity to have me locked up in a psych ward.
‘Well… we’re considering getting one.’
Her face scrunches up in revulsion. ‘Sorry, you think that just before having a baby you should get a puppy? Are you mad?’
I grimace. ‘Well, obviously I’m doing my research into it first. Hence the dog food.’
She nods, unconvinced. ‘Well at least you’re being thorough, but may I suggest you talk this through with Arthur. It’s a very big commitment.’
Whereas getting married and having a baby isn’t. Yeah right.
‘Will do.’ I salute her, turn and run the fuck away as quickly as I can.
Saturday 14th November
Charlotte
I’ve somehow talked Arthur into going shopping again. Not to the supermarket, thank goodness, but baby shopping. I don’t think I can go back to that particular supermarket ever again. I mean what if they have security cameras down that aisle? I bet I gave them a great laugh. Arthur was so confused, asking why his mum thought we were getting a puppy. I had to bullshit and say she misheard me.
I’ve promised him I won’t cause an incident of any kind. Yeah, like I can really make those kinds of promises. I haven’t got a crystal ball and I apparently have zero control over this pregnant body.
It’s already bloody stressful and we haven’t even left the car yet. There seems to be absolutely no parking spaces.
‘It’s everyone doing their bloody Christmas shopping,’ Arthur whinges as we go round again in the hope that someone’s left. ‘All I seem to hear is how everything is online nowadays. How the high street is struggling. Well every fucker is here today.’
I snort a laugh. He’s so cute when he’s moody. His ears go red and his jaw hard. He glares at me, but I can see the pulling at the edges of his lips. He wants to sm
ile and I love that I can bring that silliness out of him.
A smart car pulls out of a space in front of us.
‘There!’ I shout triumphantly. Finally.
He speeds over but then pauses to assess it, chewing on his lip.
‘I’ll reverse in.’
Now that I look closer it is a tight spot. I’m not sure if we’ll fit in.
He grimaces, chewing on his bottom lip. ‘No offence, but I’m not sure you’ll get out once I’ve parked, so maybe get out here and guide me in?’
‘So what you’re saying is I’m a whale?’ I glare at him, really more amused than angry. It’s true, I’ve really popped recently. Everything is starting to feel squashed. I’m not sure someone of my frame was ever meant to carry a big bastard baby of his.
He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. ‘I never said that.’
‘It’s fine.’
I really need to stop winding him up. He’s stressed enough as it is. I must tell him to get his blood pressure checked.
Like a trooper, I get out and then start guiding him back with his windows down. Another two cars are waiting for us now. Way to add to the pressure. I’m starting to sweat. Everything makes me sweat nowadays. That whole pregnancy glow bullshit is really just us being slick and shiny with perspiration.
‘Straighten up, now left, now—’
I hear a crunch and at first don’t understand what’s happened. Until I look down and see that he’s driven over my fucking foot! The wheel bumps off it. I jump back and scream hopping on my good leg. An ear-splitting scream that I don’t even recognise as my own erupts from my lips. I fall back against the other car, wailing for him to stop.
He jumps out of the car, his eyes bulging out of their sockets when he takes in the scene.
‘Charlotte? What the hell happened?’
‘Foot. Ran. Foot,’ is all I can make out to him. The pain is blinding, taking over every cell of my body. I can’t even think straight.
The other cars start to beep impatiently. Can’t they see this is a medical emergency? Arseholes.
He bends down to unzip my caramel suede boot. I scream out from the slightest touch, slapping him away from me like a crazed woman.
‘Shit.’ His face drains of all colour, his eyes blinking rapidly. ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’
‘Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!’
20
Wednesday 18th November
Charlotte – 31 Weeks Pregnant
I’ve fractured my foot. Or should I say Arthur has fractured my foot. Stupid bastard. I have crutches for six bloody weeks and let me tell you, being pregnant and on crutches is hard.
It’s an added chore when you have to explain to everyone what happened. More humiliating when the gossip magazines start tweeting about it and its discussed on Good Morning Britain.
Sometimes I wish he’d run me completely over and killed me. I joke. I’m just being dramatic.
Arthur has been amazing, in his guilt he’s treated me like a queen, which I bloody need. I’ve gone from an independent woman to a disabled person that needs help doing everything. It would be humiliating in front of anyone, let alone a guy they barely know.
He tried to talk me out of work, claiming again I should take early maternity leave. I told him no, that I wanted to work.
It’s a lie; I don’t want to work. Does anyone? Well, maybe I’d want to work if it was doing what I loved. Not dealing with the psychopath that is Roger. But regardless, I don’t want to start my maternity leave so early.
A huge part of me is still waiting for the bottom to fall out of this arrangement. For Arthur to realise he doesn’t want a live-in family he never asked for. If he comes to that conclusion before the baby is born I want to be independent enough to afford to raise this baby. I want as long as possible with it before I have to go back to work which is looking the more likely option.
Mum’s even talking about going down to two days so she can come up to help look after it. It’s stuff I don’t want to think about but know that I might have to. I’m not sure if she really meant it though. She was apologising because she can’t make the baby shower. I don’t know what’s more important than your first grandchild, but there you go.
Maybe the saddest thing of all is that thanks to the crutches I’ve had to kiss goodbye to my heels far earlier than I’d planned. I only own one pair of flat black ballet pumps so I intend to do some serious internet shopping tonight, even if I can only wear one. I feel so frumpy in flats. It does nothing for my legs and I’ve had to cover my toes from the cast with a black sock. Not exactly professional to have your toes hanging out at work.
Roger has had next to no sympathy. Said I’ll have to ask someone else to make his coffees as obviously I can’t hop back with it from the kitchen.
I’m just writing up a report for him when I feel a pain around my stomach. A sort of tightening, like someone is pulling a band around it. That’s weird. I thought I had enough to worry about with my palms aching and the muscles under my armpits killing me.
I carry on but after a while I get another. It’s not painful enough to be worrying. I’ve felt more for a period pain. Maybe I just need a trip to the toilet.
I hurry in there as quickly as I can and have a quick wee. When I wipe myself I freeze, staring down at the tissue paper stained with a spot of bright red blood in it. Shit.
I stare back at it for what must be minutes. That is blood, right? I’m not imagining it. I place it on the floor in front of me, sure my eyes must be playing tricks on me. I grab a fresh piece of tissue and dab myself. Another spot. I lay it on the floor.
Before long I have seven pieces of loo roll on the floor, each with their own small spot of blood. Okay now I’m panicking. What the fuck could be wrong? I’m only thirty-one weeks. The scan at the hospital after the accident showed the baby was okay.
I need to stay calm, but my pulse is hammering, my throat pinching from not bursting into tears. Stay calm and get the book they tell us to take everywhere. Call the number and ask them what to do. Hopefully I won’t get the same nurse from blow job gate.
I rush back to my desk, nearly catching my crutches on a piece of flooring and landing on my face. I call and tell them as quietly as possible what’s happening. They tell me to come straight into triage. This still doesn’t feel real. Like I’m in a distant nightmare.
Now just to tell Roger.
I struggle to his door, balance myself on the door frame to knock and walk in before waiting for an answer.
‘Yes?’ he asks, his tone sharp.
‘Hi.’ I grimace a smile. ‘I’m going to have to go to hospital. I’m… I’m bleeding.’
Just saying it out loud again has me feeling hysterical. No, Charlotte, this is fine. Everything is going to be fine.
‘Okay,’ he nods, not the smallest bit concerned. ‘But before you go could you please call Jacob in IT and tell him we’ll have to reschedule our meeting to tomorrow.’
I nod, turning around to leave. Hang on a minute. What am I doing? I just told the guy I’m bleeding. My baby could be dying right now and he’s more worried about a bloody meeting. It’s time I stand up for myself.
‘Actually… I’ll do it after I get back from the hospital. I am bleeding so I think that takes precedence.’
He nods, the chords in his neck tensed. The guy is a grade one arsehole.
I try calling Arthur as I walk out, but holding a phone and crutches together is near on impossible. When I finally get a cab I try again. It’s going straight to voicemail. I call his PA and ask him to call me when he’s out of his meeting.
I’m sure it’s nothing anyway.
I’m in triage and they’ve attached my bump to a machine which is measuring something that is printing out on a chart. I keep hearing women all around me being told that they’re suffering from Braxton hicks, a totally normal part of pregnancy, and that they can go home and not worry.
I know they’re going to say the same to me. I
’ll be just as embarrassed as the rest of them. But at least I can get home. I hate hospitals and being pregnant, I can smell every single thing in here. Even the tuna pasta salad the woman in the cubicle next to mine had for lunch.
A cheery nurse comes to check on my chart. I smile, hoping she’ll be nice to me when I get embarrassed for wasting their time. God knows how busy the NHS is and I’m laid up here being stupid.
‘I’m actually feeling better.’
She nods, still looking at the form, her expression levelling out to an eventual grimace. ‘Well, it seems that you’re having three contractions every ten minutes.’
I wait for her to finish, to tell me its Braxton hicks. But she doesn’t.
‘But that’s normal right. Braxton hicks?’
She purses her lips, not looking at me. ‘No, these aren’t Braxton hicks. These are real contractions showing on the chart. I’m going to talk to the doctor.’
She smiles and leaves, pulling the curtain around me. Shit, why is she pulling the curtain? I thought you only had contractions when you were giving birth? I can’t be giving birth. I’m only thirty-one weeks. It’s miles too early.
The curtain pulls and an Indian doctor in his fifties appears with the nurse. That was bloody quick. Why so quick? Are they worried? Should I be more concerned?
‘Hello, Miss Bellswain.’ He takes the chart and looks over it. Then he places his hands on my stomach and feels around.
‘Right, I’d like to do a scan.’
Another nurse brings in some weird looking portable machine.
‘Scan? Do you think the baby is in trouble?’ I don’t recognise my own wobbly voice.
Dear God, if I lose this baby I won’t be able to cope. It’s the only thing I’m sure about.
He smiles briefly. ‘No, but we’d like to check to see if the baby is breach.’
I snort a laugh. ‘But I’m thirty-one weeks. I’m not having my baby for ages. That gives it months to turn, right?’
Whitehall Baby: A Surprise Pregnancy, Fake Relationship Romantic Comedy Perfect for Chick Lit Fans Page 14
