Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  The doorbell rang again. Double damn!

  I propelled myself to the front door and pulled it open, forcing a smile on my face.

  ‘Hi, Jacinta.’

  ‘Hello, Penny.’ At least she had the grace to look nervous. ‘I’ve come for Charlotte. Is she ready?’

  ‘Almost.’ I looked behind me. No sign of her. ‘Er, would you like to come in?’ I could feel my teeth clenching as soon as I’d said it. Any minute they’d be grinding themselves to a powder.

  She’d arrived looking like something off a fashion catwalk: heels so high they would have tipped me flat on my face and a hip-hugging designer dress that left no room for a baby to blossom inside her. The cow wasn’t even showing yet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She followed me into the living room and hovered near the bookcase.

  ‘I didn’t know you had so many books,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes, I like to read.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Steve with a book in his hand.’

  ‘No, he never was a great reader. Unless it’s magazines about cars or car manuals.’

  ‘True,’ she said, with a nervous laugh.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you. You’re looking great too. Like you’ve lost some weight?’

  ‘I wish,’ I said. I tried to summon a smile but my face felt like it had been Botoxed. I could have killed her for mentioning the subject — me looking like a pincushion next to her darning needle.

  ‘I’m going to keep going to the gym for as long as I can. I like to keep trim.’ She looked me up and down and I felt every inch of my girth bulging. ‘It’s so important to look after yourself.’

  It didn’t take much for me to pick up the inference that I could do better in this regard. I was starting to seethe. I looked around for something to talk about, something to do.

  ‘Er, would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Oh, no thank you. I’m not having any caffeine now I’m, um …’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, kicking myself for mentioning the damn coffee. ‘Water then?’

  ‘No thanks, Penny. I’m fine.’

  ‘You keeping well?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m fine.’

  Now, I might look like a bit of a bimbo sometimes, especially on a Friday night after a hard week at work and a half-consumed glass of pinot, but I’m not stupid. I know when a woman says she’s ‘fine’ that she usually means exactly the opposite. I’ve said it myself many a time and waited for Steve to realise that ‘fine’ in fact means ‘I am in great need of some TLC’. Needless to say, he’d take me at my word and within seconds we were usually in the midst of an almighty row.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said, summoning up as much sympathy as I could under the circumstances. ‘No morning sickness then?’

  ‘What? Oh, not really … that is to say …’ Jacinta’s face crumpled and she sat down hard on the sofa, a picture of misery. ‘Well, yes. I’ve had terrible morning sickness. It’s not just in the mornings either. It seems to be with me all day.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, brightening.

  ‘I’m absolutely desperate. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep anything down most of the day, and it’s so important to eat well for baby. I feel like a failure.’

  ‘Morning sickness is truly awful, I know. I used to get it too, though not nearly as bad as you, by the sound of it. I remember leaving a wine biscuit by the bed at night: if I didn’t move in the morning, I could eat it before I got up without feeling sick.’

  ‘I’ve tried that,’ she said ruefully. ‘Didn’t work. I’ve tried everything I can think of. I’ve tried eating lots of protein, but I felt even sicker. I’ve tried Vitamin B6. No joy. The doctor says I’ll just have to do my best until I get over it. I’d do anything to feel normal again.’

  How about not being pregnant? I thought nastily, then banished the thought as quickly as it came, giving myself a good telling off for even daring to think it.

  ‘I don’t know that there is anything you can do except wait for it to pass,’ I said. ‘Except, I do recall one of my friends saying something about … what was it now? I can’t remember. Something she had to eat.’

  ‘Broccoli? Spinach? I’ve tried just about every vegetable in existence.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t green. Let me think.’

  ‘You’d think you’d get a craving for something that would make you feel better. But I haven’t had any cravings either.’

  ‘No? I remember having a craving for cheerios once at Charlotte’s second birthday party when I was pregnant with Adam.’

  ‘Cheerios? What are they?’

  I figured Jacinta would never have had the good fortune to have encountered children’s parties or cheerios before. I felt a short burst of unrestrained glee at the thought of the pristine Miss Perfect having to stoop to serving cheerios, tomato sauce and fairy bread with coloured sprinkles at her parties, instead of caviar and canapés.

  ‘Mini saveloys,’ I replied. ‘Children love them.’

  Jacinta visibly blanched. ‘Oh. I hope I don’t get a craving for that sort of thing. The only food I’ve fancied so far that I normally wouldn’t touch is baked beans. But I didn’t have any in the pantry, so I went without.’

  ‘Baked beans. That’s what it was!’

  ‘Baked beans?’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘How ghastly.’

  ‘Well, not exactly baked beans. Just beans. That’s what the cure was. Beans. Not green beans, though. Dried ones. Legumes.’

  ‘Legumes? That sounds like a possibility. I haven’t tried legumes for a while. I’ve felt so sick I haven’t tried to eat much at all. But I used to eat a lot of beans when I was vegan.’

  ‘You’re not vegan now?’ This was the first I’d heard of it. I recalled Charlotte going through a vegan period when she was copying Jacinta just a few months ago.

  ‘No, not since I thought I might be pregnant. My doctor advised against it.’

  Bravo doctor, I thought. Glad to see someone can knock some sense into her.

  ‘Well, maybe a few beans would be worth a try,’ I said. ‘I think my friend said to eat small amounts often. She said it worked really quickly, but the morning sickness only went away for a couple of hours after she’d eaten, so she’d have a few more.’

  ‘Sounds like I’ll need to lay in a store of legumes, then,’ she said and flashed me a sudden smile. ‘Thank you, Penny.’

  ‘’S’okay.’ I shrugged. I couldn’t believe myself, trying to make life more comfortable for my sworn enemy. I looked around, embarrassed. I didn’t know what else to say, then remembered Charlotte was long overdue. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ I said to Jacinta and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Charlie, are you coming?’ I called.

  ‘Yeah, just a minute,’ she called back.

  I hovered at the foot of the stairs, too awkward to return to the room with Jacinta.

  After what seemed like forever, I yelled again: ‘Hurry up. Jacinta’s waiting.’

  Moments later Charlotte clattered down, bag in one hand, the other carrying a cellphone clamped to her ear.

  ‘Sorry, Jacks,’ she said poking her head round the living-room door. ‘Yeah, Becks,’ she said into the phone. ‘Gotta go.’ She flipped it shut and shoved it in her pocket. ‘Let’s go then.’

  It was with a great sense of relief that I closed the front door behind them. I ran upstairs to get changed, ready for Simon to pick me up, but then had a pang of anxiety about the advice I’d given Jacinta. What if I was wrong? No matter how badly I didn’t want her and Steve to start nesting together, I didn’t wish her actual harm.

  I decided to call Helen, who’d been pregnant at the same time as me. She’s the one who had suffered appalling morning sickness and who had mentioned the life-saving properties of legumes. I called her mobile.

  ‘Hi, Penny,’ she answered almost immediately. I could hear background noises that sounded very much like a l
ively Friday-night bar. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. The noise diminished.

  After the usual small talk, I asked her about her so-called fail-safe cure for morning sickness.

  ‘Yeah, sure, that’s what did it. Beans. Lots of ’em,’ she said.

  ‘Any particular sort of beans?’

  ‘No, just as long as they were beans. Pinto beans, kidney beans, haricot beans, black beans, white beans, red beans. You know, the sort of beans you put in soup — well, the sort of soups grandma used to make.’

  ‘I get it. Lots of beans.’

  ‘I take it this has to do with Jacinta? Why are you trying to help her? That’s crazy!’

  ‘I know. I must be nuts. I guess I took pity on her.’

  ‘Silly you.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m a sucker for a hard-luck story. Always was.’

  ‘In that case, I’ve got good news for you.’ Helen started to laugh again.

  ‘Really? What’s that?’

  Helen was guffawing down the phone so loud I could hardly hear what she was saying.

  ‘Don’t you remember me telling you about the side effects of eating lots of legumes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t tell you then. I was probably too embarrassed.’

  ‘Why? What do they do?’

  ‘Come on, Penny, you know what they do. What happens when Adam has a whole pile of baked beans?’ She was still laughing. In fact, she sounded as if she was close to hysterics.

  Finally, I got it.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I started to laugh too.

  ‘Hey, Penny, you’ve done it! You’ve finally got your own back on Jacinta after all this time. After eating beans morning, noon and night, she’ll be farting as often as a dairy cow! Won’t Steve just love that?’

  • • •

  Helen’s good news set the tone for the weekend — in terms of it going well, I mean, not in the sense of passing wind. The thought of my arch enemy farting furiously at the sort of swanky parties she and Steve went to filled me with glee — so much glee in fact that I didn’t phone Jacinta and warn her of the bum rap of digestive repercussions she was likely to experience.

  After all, I reasoned with myself, she might not take any notice of my suggestion. If I was in her ever-so-high Manolos or whatever, would I take any notice of some supposed rescue remedy dreamt up by her lover’s ex-wife? I don’t think so.

  I spent a good part of the weekend with Simon, whose kids were away skiing with their mother. I left Adam to get Dad takeaways again on Friday night, freeing me for a candlelit dinner with Simon at a local high-rating restaurant. It was just as perfect as the review said it would be so, by the time we got back to his place we were both in just the right frame of mind for a nice romantic tussle on the couch followed by a much more vigorous rematch in the bedroom.

  It was six months since we first met and about four months since we’d started dating — okay, I admit it, since we started shagging — but there was still so much to learn about each other: about our likes and dislikes, our quirks and foibles. But in the bedroom, it’s as though we’ve known each other forever, as if we’ve always belonged together.

  Most men — so I’m told — think that foreplay means prodding you to see if you’re awake. But Simon’s not most men. He has always known how to turn me on, how to find my G-spot and how to please me. And somehow I seem to have the same effect on him. We can even fall asleep in each other’s arms and wake up in the morning lying next to each other like spoons in a drawer, in perfect harmony, completely rested. Then I’ll roll over and go back to sleep and Simon, ever the early riser, will get up and shower and make me breakfast in bed — a luxury unheard of until four months ago.

  It’s always a wrench to tear myself away from his warm bed, but it was Saturday and I had a house full of washing waiting for me, sheets to change, vacuuming to do and a casserole to start in the slow cooker. I’d told Simon I had tickets for the rugby semi-final on Saturday night, however, so he came around in the late afternoon and joined us for dinner. Unfortunately, just as we were leaving to catch the train to the park it started raining. Simon cursed and zipped up his jacket.

  ‘I hope we’re under the roof of the grandstand,’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh, look,’ I said, feigning surprise when we reached the gates and held out the tickets. ‘We’re on level two.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, taking hold of them after the ticket man ripped off the stub. ‘Hey, we’re in a corporate box!’ He looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, are we?’ Try as I might, I couldn’t stop grinning.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you? No wonder you told me not to wear my old woollen jersey. Whose box are we in?’

  ‘Ginny wangled me tickets to one of her clients’ boxes. She’s going to be there too.’

  ‘Good on Ginny,’ Simon said, smiling broadly. ‘I’ve never been in a corporate box. Not the sort of thing we university types usually get invited to.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of this awful weather and into the warm.’

  From that moment on Simon was like an excited child, eyes popping at all the food and drink that was continuously pressed upon him. Until the start of the game, that is, when, like everyone else in the box, he was single-mindedly focused on the field.

  Thankfully, we won. And luckily it stopped raining in time for the journey home.

  We caught the train back to my place. Dad was watching a delayed telecast of the game in the lounge so, while I made tea, Simon joined him and watched it through again, careful not to give the score away. He entertained Dad while the ads were on with descriptions of some of the more unusual people he’d met in the corporate box.

  Ginny was one of them. Though he’d met Ginny several times now, Simon couldn’t decide what to make of her — which was not unusual. I had known Ginny for many years and still wasn’t completely sure I had her fathomed.

  Simon fluctuated between thinking she was appallingly crass and hilariously funny, and found the best way to cope was to send her up — in her presence and out of it. Ginny, for her part, found Simon cute bordering on quaint, and sent him up in return. If it weren’t for Ginny’s love of horses and her ability to analyse exactly what would make Simon’s daughter’s horse handle the jumps better, I would have expected fireworks between them before too long, but there seemed to be a mutual respect underneath all the sarcasm and piss-taking.

  I’d fallen asleep in front of the telly by the time the match finished for the second time; Simon woke me gently and told me he was off home — we’d agreed not to spend the night together as he had to drive up the coast early the next day to visit a marine reserve he and one of his colleagues were studying as part of a research project. Just the same, I was reluctant to let him go. In my sleepy state, I could happily have taken him upstairs to bed, snuggled into his long, warm back and curled my legs under his.

  Chapter 8

  Without Simon to bring me breakfast in bed on Sunday, I wasn’t in the least tempted to lie in. I made up for his absence by throwing myself into gardening, belatedly pruning the roses (and earning myself several ungrateful jabs from stray thorns) and trying to restore some order to the depressingly bare patches of earth and bedraggled shrubs sulking for spring. By the time I came inside to put the roast on at four, my muscles were aching and I was pooped. Tigger, on the other hand, was just warming up for his pre-dinner kitchen dance and nearly knocked the roast onto the floor — which would have made his day.

  With the lamb in the oven rather than in the dog, which was firmly shut outside with a bone, I just had time to pick Dad up from St Joan’s before it was time to put the vegetables on.

  He was in a funny mood when I got there. I found him tucked away in Mum’s room with the door shut and the telly on. Dad was sitting opposite Mum and she was ignoring him — not unusual these days. She’d gone through a patch of thinking he was a stranger and refusing to have anything to do with him but now she just seemed to take him for granted.<
br />
  If what Dad had told me about her and Mr Jamieson was true, I could understand why he’d be upset. He’d been devoted to his wife for nearly sixty years and now he might as well not exist.

  I felt for my Dad, looking so forlorn and still so much in love with this silly old woman who didn’t even recognise him any more. It just didn’t seem fair that she could put him through this, that she could be so unfeeling and mean, that she had no idea of the hurt she was causing. For the first time, it crossed my mind he’d be better off if she was dead. I was so shocked at myself for even thinking it that I dropped the television remote on the floor, spilling the batteries under the bed and knocking over Dad’s teacup.

  ‘Sorry, Dad, I’ll get a cloth.’ I hurried out to the laundry cupboard to find something to mop up the carpet.

  ‘Oh, Ms Rushmore.’ A nurse was waving to me from further down the corridor. ‘I’m glad I caught up with you,’ she said when I drew closer. ‘I wanted to warn you. Your father’s been terribly upset this afternoon. We’ve done our best to console him, but he’s taken it badly, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’

  ‘Well, when he arrived here after lunch he found your mother sitting next to Mr Jamieson, holding his hand. And she wouldn’t let go. She got quite vocal when we tried to persuade her to sit with your father, so we just had to leave her there with Mr Jamieson. Your father got quite distressed, and understandably so.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said.

  ‘So you’ll find him a bit down in the dumps, I’m afraid. He’s asked if he can meet with the home’s geriatrician and I’ve agreed. I think it would be a good idea. Dr Tomkinson will be able to explain the situation.’

  ‘Dr Tomkinson? Oh yes, I remember him.’ The name had thrown me for a minute — Dad had always called him Dr Tomahawk.

  All the way home Dad was silent, which was most unusual. Normally, he’d comment on the cars we passed, on the sounds coming from under Rosie’s bonnet, on the state of the roads and the behaviour of other drivers. At first I tried to engage him in conversation, asking his opinion on Rosie’s speedometer, which had recently started bouncing frenetically back and forth at a more alarming rate than my hot flushes. But, save for a desultory glance in its direction and a raised eyebrow, it failed to capture his interest, so I left him to his thoughts and switched the radio onto the classic hits channel he likes, hoping that at least might soothe him.