My shoulders slump with relief.
He was just hungry.
As Albie sucks, I keep my face lowered, my grown-out fringe flopping in front of my eyes. I can tell people are looking at us, though. I can feel the heat of their gaze, their eyes boring into the top of my head.
I’m not used to being looked at this way. At least, not in real life. I’m short and slight and mousey-haired, my features small and even, yet entirely unremarkable in their symmetry. It’s almost like I’ve been designed specifically with invisibility in mind. People tell me I have nice eyes, but it’s generally an observation they make after a long period of time in my company – a revelation they have to put in the time to earn. I’m a slow burn and I always have been. I don’t mind. Not being noticed gives me something far more precious in return – the time and freedom to notice others, to observe. It’s a luxury someone like Frankie doesn’t have. Frankie is always being looked at. Within the last couple of years she’s grown tall and leggy and acquired boobs and hips. Adding in her inky-black waist-length hair and a smile that stops traffic, it’s a combination that demands attention, whether she likes it or not.
On stage it’s different. On stage, I love being looked at, love the sensation of multiple eyes tracking my every move. Because they’re not watching me, they’re watching me play a character; and if I’m doing a good job, they should forget about me entirely. I think that’s why I like acting so much. It’s nothing to do with showing off. I like taking on other characters, delving into someone else’s life so deeply I almost disappear altogether.
I’m under no illusions that the people currently looking over at us are actually interested in me, at least not independently from the tiny warm body currently nestled in my arms. Without Albie, I would sit here entirely unnoticed, like a ghost. With him, I am a curiosity, a mystery to be unravelled. I know what they’re thinking. They’re looking at me and trying to work out how old I am, if I’m his mother or not. They’re making their mind up about what kind of person I am.
At the next stop, a group of girls around my age pile on, chatting animatedly while passing round a bottle of Coke.
One by one, they clock me and Albie, nudging each other until they’re all looking in our direction. I can feel my face reddening. It’s one thing to have older people stare and make silent judgements, quite another to be confronted with a group of girls my own age.
It only takes a few more seconds before one of them, a girl with a tangle of long dark hair, speaks up.
‘He’s well cute,’ she says, pointing at Albie.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say.
‘You should think about getting him into modelling.’
I smile, unsure how to respond.
‘Why not? He could make a packet.’
I just continue to smile, playing the part of the bashful yet proud mum.
‘What’s he called?’ another girl asks.
‘Albie,’ I reply, immediately kicking myself for using his real name.
‘Aw!’ the girls chorus. ‘Albie!’
They look so young and carefree, fresh-faced and bright and summery in their denim shorts and crop tops, long hair swishing around their shoulders, bulging Primark bags at their feet. They remind me of Frankie and me. And yet I can tell from the way they just addressed me, that it hasn’t even crossed their minds that we might be peers, that just over a month ago I was just like them – a normal teenage girl who went shopping with her mates and cooed absent-mindedly over cute babies, confident motherhood wouldn’t be part of my reality for at least a decade, probably longer.
When they get off at the next stop, they all cry ‘Bye, Albie!’ in unison, tumbling off onto the platform in a noisy rabble, cueing a deep ache in my belly I can’t quite interpret.
Chapter 19
Three weeks ago
I can’t sleep.
Although my room is quiet enough, I can sense the hustle and bustle in the rest of the building on the other side of the door. That’s not the problem, though. Even with the darkest, quietest, most comfortable room in the world, I would struggle to sleep right now. I keep replaying my earlier conversation with Mum in my head. A big part of me is swayed by her argument. This way, I still get to go to the Arts Academy and my friendship with Frankie is preserved. Plus, it’s my chance to put things right, to give them the child they’ve always wanted – the child I’ve prevented them from having. And yet every time I think about surrendering to the plan, a mass of panic as big as a bowling ball takes residence in my belly. And with it, a picture of the baby – his skinny little body covered in blood and goo, his hair, thick and black as ink and totally unlike my mousey-brown wisps, sticky and matted against his tiny skull – embeds itself in my head, always accompanied by a single, confusing word.
Mine.
I roll onto my back, my horrible nappy rustling, the pain between my legs making me wince.
My jaw clenched, I reach for the remote and turn on the TV so I can find out the time.
2:11 a.m.
Before I can stop myself, I press the call button Hayley pointed out earlier.
It’s a few minutes before a nurse I don’t recognize appears. She’s young, possibly only six or seven years older than me. With her long limbs and dark hair and olive skin, she reminds me of Frankie.
Frankie. She has no idea I’m here. The thought of her tucked up in her bed, fast asleep and oblivious, makes my heart twist.
‘Hiya, Joanna,’ the nurse says. ‘I’m Lacey. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Is it too late for me to visit the Special Care Baby Unit?’ I ask.
Her face softens. ‘Of course not. You sit tight and I’ll go grab a wheelchair.’
The SCBU is on the floor above.
As Lacey pushes me through the brightly lit corridors, she showers me with questions.
What’s his name?
How much did he weigh?
How early was he?
Standard baby stuff.
Only I don’t know the answers to any of them.
‘Don’t you worry,’ she says when I apologize. ‘Your brain does funny things when you’ve just given birth.’
When we arrive at the unit, a different nurse takes over from Lacey, pushing me over to a plastic cot in the corner of the dimly lit room.
‘He’s doing really well,’ she says. ‘In fact, if he keeps going like this, he should be able to join you on the ward as early as tomorrow afternoon.’
I wait until the nurse has moved away before using the wheelchair arm rests to push myself up into standing position. I shuffle a little closer and peer into the cot.
For some reason, I’d expected him to be naked apart from a massive nappy, and hooked up to lots of machines, like I’ve seen on the TV. Instead, he’s wearing a lemon-yellow babygro and there are no machines in sight. As I remembered, his hair is black and thick, nothing like my pink bald head when I was born. He’s fast asleep.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
He has the tiniest nose. Like a button. And pouting pink lips that look like they’re about to blow a kiss. And the longest, darkest eyelashes I think I’ve ever seen.
He’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
Did I really make him? The thought makes my brain ache with wonder and confusion.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ the nurse asks, coming up behind me and making me jump.
‘Is – is that allowed?’ I stammer. ‘I mean, will he be OK?’
‘Of course. You sit down and I’ll pass him over.’
I settle into a comfortable chair and watch as the nurse scoops up the baby with ease.
‘Here we go,’ she says, lowering him into my arms.
He barely weighs a thing.
‘Is the way I’m holding him OK?’ I ask.
‘Perfect,’ she says.
‘He’s so warm.’
She laughs. ‘I know. Regular little hot water bottles, they are.’
I smile.
A real smile.
Perhaps my first since I arrived at the hospital.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. ‘If you need me for anything, just give me a wave.’
I look back down and just stare at my baby for ages, studying every centimetre of him, not daring to move a muscle in case I disturb him but at the same time willing him to wake up so I can look into his eyes and say ‘hello’ – a proper one this time.
The nurse comes over to check how I’m doing.
‘Good, thanks,’ I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away.
‘Does he have a name yet?’ she asks.
At the moment, according to the plastic bracelet around his wrist, he’s just ‘Baby Bright’.
‘Albie,’ I say slowly. ‘I think I’m going to call him Albie.’
The nurse smiles. ‘It suits him already,’ she says.
I hold Albie until I can’t feel my right arm any more and the sun is peeping through the crack beneath the lowered blinds.
A few hours later, I’m moved from the private room onto a ward where I’m the youngest patient by at least ten years.
The other women’s bedside cabinets are cluttered with congratulations cards, pink or blue helium balloons proclaiming ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl!’ bobbing gently above their heads. Steady streams of visitors troop in bearing oversized teddy bears and bundles of impossibly tiny clothes.
I’m the only one who doesn’t have their baby with them.
‘Soon,’ Hayley tells me just after breakfast. ‘In the meantime, would you like these?’ She holds up a stack of gossip magazines. It’s not the sort of thing I’m usually interested in, but right now mindless and glossy is exactly what I’m craving.
‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘Oh, and would you mind drawing the curtain around my bed?’
She glances around the ward and then back to me, her face soft with sympathy. ‘Of course, lovey,’ she says.
Shortly afterwards, the woman in the bed next to me is discharged. I watch through the gap in the curtain as she and her husband carefully transfer their baby from its cot to an obviously brand-new car seat, their faces full of worry and wonder. I can tell, just by looking at them, that this baby was very much planned. I picture them huddled over a pregnancy test, whooping with joy when the two pink lines or whatever appeared in the little window. I envy their joy, their togetherness, their cosy little family of three.
The woman catches my eye through the curtain. Quickly, I look back down at my magazine, reading the same paragraph over and over again, my cheeks on fire, until I’m certain they’ve left the ward.
I’m relieved when Mum and Stacey turn up. They looked tired yet happy, the dark circles under their eyes offset by the flush in their cheeks. Stacey in particular is buzzing, chatting merrily about all the things we’re going to need for the baby, making a list on her phone.
‘He’ll be OK in a Moses basket in our room for now,’ she says. ‘But we’re going to have to think about kitting out a proper nursery for when he’s a bit bigger.’
‘I wish I’d hung on to Jojo’s baby things,’ Mum says.
‘You weren’t to know,’ Stacey replies, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Plus, it’ll be nice to get new stuff, don’t you think?’
At no point do they ask for my opinion. It’s like I’m not even in the room, their upbeat chatter clearly not requiring my input. I want to tell them to slow down, that I’m not ready to agree to something this big, but I don’t know how. They seem so happy, so excited, and I don’t want to be the one to break the spell.
Shortly after lunch, Albie, his blood sugar levels now normal, is delivered to the ward. As his cot is wheeled into place next to my bed, I sit up straight, eager to see him again, to check if anything has changed in the few short hours we’ve spent apart.
‘Can I hold him?’ I ask.
Mum and Stacey look at each other. I’ve failed to mention my 2 a.m. visit up to the SCBU.
‘Perhaps it’s best if you don’t right now,’ Stacey says, positioning herself in front of the cot, blocking my view.
‘Sorry?’ I say, convinced I must have heard her incorrectly.
‘The thing is, your mum and I have been talking, and if this plan is going to work, we’re going to need to put some boundaries in place.’
I throw Mum a desperate glance.
‘It’s for the best,’ Mum says as Stacey turns away, scooping Albie into her arms. ‘Don’t worry,’ she adds. ‘You’ll have lots of chances for cuddles later on. It’s just that these early days are so crucial for bonding.’
So I sit in bed while Stacey holds my baby in her arms, her body subtly angled away from me. And when he wakes up, it’s her eyes he connects with, not mine. The pain almost takes my breath away.
‘It’s for the best,’ Mum repeats.
And even though all I want to do is rip Albie from Stacey’s arms, a big part of me knows Mum must be right. And so I sit and watch, trying my hardest to ignore the desperate ache in my chest.
Chapter 20
I have over half an hour to kill before the next train to Swindon leaves. Albie, drunk on milk, is on the brink of sleep, his eyes drifting shut, his body slack in the carrier.
I browse around the Paddington Bear shop and on a whim buy him a cuddly Paddington Bear. Handing over the money to the cashier, I feel vaguely foolish. I only have limited funds. Should I really be spending my money on a cuddly toy? At the same time, I desperately want Albie to have something from me and only me.
‘Can you remove the tag, please?’ I ask the cashier.
‘Of course.’
De-tagged, I place Paddington in my backpack, his head poking out the top.
As we leave the shop, my stomach lets out an angry rumble. Although I can recognize that my belly feels empty and hollow, I don’t feel remotely hungry. Still, I know I need to eat something. I need to keep my strength up.
For Albie’s sake, more than anything else.
I queue at Upper Crust and buy a tuna baguette, then head to WHSmith where I purchase a chocolate flapjack and a bottle of water.
The moment the platform is announced, I heave my backpack onto my shoulders and head for the barriers, my fingers gently circling Albie’s skinny little ankles. On board, I select a non-table seat in the furthest standard carriage.
I eat my baguette robotically, barely tasting it. The flapjack is starting to melt. I polish it off quickly, in five mindless bites, the chocolate coating my teeth and tongue. The lot is gone before we even set off.
With Albie well and truly in the land of nod, I take my book out of my bag and try to read. I can’t concentrate though, and end up reading the same passage over and over.
The conductor comes through the train to check tickets. He inspects mine, scribbling on it with a biro before handing it back.
‘And the little one’s ticket?’ he says.
‘I – I don’t have one,’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t think he needed one.’ I didn’t even think to check. It’s not like he’s taking up a seat. I’m not going to get fined, am I?
‘Just messing with you,’ the conductor says. ‘Of course he doesn’t need a ticket.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, my face reddening. ‘Ha ha …’
He winks and keeps moving down the train, my heart still thumping like mad.
About forty-five minutes into the journey, I realize I need the loo. It makes sense. I haven’t been since I left the house this morning.
I assess my fellow passengers. Across the aisle, a girl in her early twenties is hunched over a laptop.
‘Um, excuse me,’ I say, waving to attract her attention.
She removes her earphones.
‘Would you mind keeping an eye on my stuff while I nip to the loo?’ I gesture at my backpack.
‘Sure,’ she says. Her eyes drift to Albie, lighting up at the sight of his snoozing form. ‘I could watch him too, if you like,’ she adds.
‘No, no, that’s OK,’ I say quickly.
‘Are you sure?
I’m dead good with babies.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Just the idea of letting Albie out of my sight make my stomach churn. For a moment I get an insight into how Mum and Stacey must be feeling right now. This is different though, I tell myself. I’m not some random stranger.
Albie belongs with me.
‘Next stop Swindon, next stop Swindon.’
I blink my eyes open.
I was dreaming. Frankie was in it and she was shouting at me, but every time I tried to respond an aeroplane would swoop over our heads, drowning out my words.
I look down. Albie is still strapped to my chest, still fast asleep.
I glance to my left. My backpack is on the seat where I left it, Paddington’s nose poking out the top, his sewn-on eyes looking directly at me. The girl across the aisle, though, has gone.
Groggy from my impromptu nap, I gather up my things, shoving my rubbish in the nearest bin and pulling my backpack onto my shoulders before stumbling towards the doors, clinging onto the rail with one hand, my other arm wrapped protectively around Albie as the train sways into the station.
I step out onto the unexpectedly pretty platform. A wave of accomplishment sweeps through my body.
We made it.
It’s mid-afternoon and the sun is blazing down. I stop to retrieve Albie’s hat from my bag and slip it on his head, before hurrying to follow the flow of people towards what I guess must be the town centre.
I walk down the vaguely familiar high street, past the usual shops and restaurants – New Look, Nando’s, Argos, Poundland, McDonald’s, Boots. I head straight into Boots and buy another pack of nappies, a big bottle of water and a reduced-price egg and cress sandwich to eat later.
Next step: find somewhere to stay.
Somewhere safe. Somewhere anonymous.
Somewhere Albie can sleep horizontally after an entire day strapped to my body.
Somewhere I can recalibrate and gather my thoughts behind closed doors.
I still don’t dare to turn my phone on, so I’m going to have to rely on my instincts. It doesn’t take long before I stumble upon the perfect candidate – a budget chain hotel on a nondescript road about ten minutes’ walk away from the high street. Clean, basic, comfortable (enough), not too expensive.
First Day of My Life Page 12
