The hotel foyer is empty. I press a buzzer on the reception desk and a few moments later, a man appears, holding one of those plastic portable fans a few centimetres away from his neck.
‘Can I help you?’ he says.
‘I’d like a room, please.’
‘Have you got a booking?’
I shake my head.
He taps at his keyboard. ‘How long you staying?’
I hesitate. I have absolutely no idea. ‘If I say one night for now and end up deciding to stay for longer, is that easy enough to sort out?’ I ask.
‘Sure. Just let us know before eleven a.m. tomorrow.’
‘OK, thank you.’
‘One night for now then?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Just the one guest?’
‘Well, me and him.’
For the first time, the man behind the desk registers Albie. ‘Need a cot then?’ he asks.
‘Oh. Yes, please.’
‘I’ll have to see if they have one available. First come first served, you see.’ He taps away again. ‘You’re in luck. I’ll get someone to send one up in a bit.’
‘Thank you.’
He taps at his keyboard some more, then says. ‘That’ll be fifty-nine pounds. Cash or card?’
‘Cash,’ I say, fumbling for my purse.
I count out the requisite amount of notes and slide them across the counter.
‘Just one more thing,’ he says, handing me one pound in change. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The name. For the booking.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s Amelia. Amelia Wylde.’
Chapter 21
Yesterday
I take extra care getting ready, covering up the shadows under my eyes with concealer and swirling Mum’s bronzer across my pale cheeks. I even get my straighteners out for the first time in three weeks and make a half-hearted attempt to coax my lank hair into soft waves.
Choosing an outfit is harder. It’s a hot day but anything strappy or flimsy is out. In the end, I tug a long loose T-shirt dress I haven’t worn in ages over a pair of calf-length leggings. I’m going to be way too warm in them but I daren’t risk Frankie catching a glimpse of the bulky maternity pad currently pressed into my knickers. At least my boobs have finally stopped leaking. Mum and Stacey decided that a bottle would be best, right from day one, so the milk is drying up now. My boobs are still tender and swollen, though, and twice as big as they used to be. I only hope Frankie won’t notice.
I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection.
To the untrained eye, I probably look totally normal. A little tired perhaps, but other than that, a perfectly average teenage girl.
What a joke.
‘You look nice.’
I turn around. Mum is standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur.
‘Looking forward to seeing Frankie?’
I shrug.
The truth is, I’m desperate to see her. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without seeing each other and I’ve missed her hugely. At the same time, the thought of seeing her face to face makes me so nervous I want to throw up.
‘It’s good you’re getting out of the house,’ Mum adds. ‘Being cooped up all day can’t be good for you.’
‘Mmm.’
‘What are you going to tell her?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Maybe nothing for now.’
‘You’re going to have to tell her sometime.’
She’s not talking about the truth, though; she’s talking about the story she and Stacey have concocted.
‘Would you like a lift?’ she asks.
‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m going to walk.’
‘OK, sweetheart. Well, if you need picking up later, you know where I am.’
I’m nervous as I approach Frankie’s front door.
What if she can tell? What if she sees through my lies and figures it all out?
My palms prickle with sweat as I ring the bell. Seconds later, the front door flings open and Frankie launches herself at me.
It hurts. After three weeks I’m still feeling tender. I don’t let on, though. I just hold on for dear life, frantically blinking away the tears in my eyes.
I get back home to find Mum and Stacey in the garden with Albie. He’s lying on his back on a blanket, Mum and Stacey on their sides, framing him. I watch from the patio doors. They look so happy. A perfect little family of three. My heart twists.
Mum glances up.
‘Oh, hello,’ she says, propping herself up on her elbows. ‘You’re back early. I thought you might stay for Bake Off.’
The new series is starting tonight, and for the past few years Frankie and I have made our weekly viewings a ritual, making mug cakes in the microwave during the ad breaks. She’d asked me to stay but I’d made up an excuse.
‘I was tired,’ I reply.
‘You should have called me for a lift.’
‘I wanted to walk.’
‘Did you have fun?’
I bite down hard on my lip. As afternoons go, it was probably one of the hardest of my life. I put everything I had into trying to appear as normal as possible and I’m exhausted. I knew lying to Frankie was going to feel horrible but the reality was even worse than I’d feared. And this is just the beginning.
‘It was OK,’ I say eventually.
‘See,’ Mum says, smiling triumphantly. ‘I told you getting out the house would do you good.’
‘Yeah,’ I murmur.
The entire time, Stacey doesn’t take her eyes off Albie.
*
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Mum asks, frowning at my full plate.
It’s dinner time. A plate of aubergine parmigiana, one of my all-time favourite dishes, sits in front of me but I’ve barely touched it. I can’t remember the last time I ate with gusto. If I think hard enough I can picture myself wolfing down pizza and making crisp sandwiches and scoffing entire packets of Jaffa Cakes in one sitting, but that feels like another version of me, one I can’t quite imagine being ever again.
‘I had loads of snacks round at Frankie’s,’ I say.
It’s a lie. I refused everything Frankie offered, blaming my lack of appetite on my phantom illness.
‘Sorry,’ I add. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘Well, get down what you can,’ Mum says. ‘I don’t like the idea of you just filling up on crisps and biscuits. You need to keep your strength up.’
I force a forkful into my mouth. It tastes like glue.
‘So,’ Mum says, wiping the corners of her mouth with her napkin. ‘I was thinking. Well, we were thinking’ – she pauses to glance at Stacey – ‘that we should probably look into getting Albie’s birth registered next week.’
My heat begins to beat that bit faster.
‘Why next week?’ I say, putting down my fork. ‘I thought we had ages.’
‘It has to be done within forty-two days of the birth,’ Stacey says. ‘And we’ve already used up twenty-two of them.’
‘I don’t think I’m ready,’ I stammer.
‘I know it feels that way, sweetheart,’ Mum says, reaching for my hand. ‘But we’re trying to be practical here. The new term is starting soon. Better we get this sorted now rather than have to fit it around school and things. Don’t you think?’
She gives my hand a squeeze. I don’t return it; just let my hand hang limply in hers before pulling it away.
‘I know it feels like a big step,’ Mum says. ‘But all it is really is a bit of paperwork.’
‘You’ll feel relieved once it’s done,’ Stacey adds, her voice overly bright.
I don’t say anything.
‘And once we’ve done that,’ she continues, ‘we can think about making things official. We’ve spoken to a solicitor and the process is surprisingly simple.’
I look up sharply. ‘When did you speak to a solicitor?’
Mum and Stacey exchan
ge a guilty glance. ‘Does it matter?’ Mum asks. ‘It was just a chat on the phone, very informal. And well, because of our circumstances, it’s just a case of filling out the relevant paperwork. We could have the whole process done and dusted in under a month.’
‘A month?’ I say. But that’s no time.
‘Yes,’ Stacey says, her eyes sparkling. ‘Great, isn’t it? I mean, there’s no point in dragging things out, is there?’
I throw Mum a panicked look. It doesn’t seem to register. She smiles and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear – her signature move. I have to resist every urge in my body not to bat her away.
‘The sooner we get things sorted, the sooner we get out of this limbo and move on properly. It’s for your own benefit, I promise.’
That’s what they keep telling me. Over and over and over again.
It’s for the best.
We’re only thinking of you.
Time heals everything.
But I’m still waiting for it to make sense and click into place. If it’s all for my own benefit, then why does it feel so very wrong?
They take my silence as agreement.
‘That settles it then,’ Stacey says, topping up her and Mum’s wine glasses in turn. ‘I’ll ring up the town hall tomorrow and make an appointment.’
After dinner has been cleared away, Mum and Stacey retire to the living room. I hover in the doorway as they get themselves comfortable, trying and failing to ignore the clutch of ‘new baby’ cards displayed on the mantelpiece and window sill, all of them addressed to ‘Stacey and Helen’.
‘We’re going to try that new Netflix show,’ Mum says, flopping down on the sofa as Stacey uncorks a fresh bottle of wine. ‘The one Auntie Jen was talking about the other day. Fancy it?’ She pats the sofa cushion next to her.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
‘Are you sure? The acting’s supposed to be great.’
‘I’m sure. I’m just going to go and read for a bit.’
‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll pop up and see you in a little while.’
‘OK.’
I leave them to it and head upstairs to the bathroom. The soundtrack of summer evenings – lawnmowers and children playing and the distant chimes of an ice-cream van – leaks in through the open window. I have a wee. My urine is dark yellow. I make a mental note to drink more water. I used to be really on it, diligently draining my water bottle every few hours before filling it up again, but over the past few weeks all my usual habits and rituals have fallen by the wayside. My eyebrows are untidy, my toenails overgrown, my teeth unflossed. I haven’t even looked at a razor.
I flush the loo and wash my hands. Reluctantly, I raise my eyes to meet my gaze in the mirror above the sink. Despite the heatwave, I’m as pale as anything. Apart from today, I haven’t left the house since we got back from the hospital, two whole weeks ago. It feels like longer – life before Albie a fuzzy memory. The days and nights have all melded together. If it wasn’t for the calendar in the kitchen, I wouldn’t have a clue what month it is, never mind what day.
During this time we’ve had a small but steady trickle of visitors – just close friends and family for now. Not one of them has questioned the surrogacy explanation. To give them credit, Mum and Stacey are pretty convincing, fleshing out their story with so many specific details that I almost start to believe it. Luckily, they haven’t insisted on telling Dad yet so at least I haven’t had to lie to him. I will eventually, though, and I’m dreading it. I avoid most of the visitors, hiding in my bedroom with my earphones in, only making an appearance if summoned, dutifully playing ‘big sister’. No one cares about me, though. Albie is the star of the show with Mum and Stacey in supporting roles. I’m a bit part at best. A glorified extra.
Unlike pretty much every other new mum on the planet, I’ve actually lost weight. My cheeks are sunken and my collarbones are protruding. Gingerly, I run my finger along them. They feel pointy and sharp. I stand back and lift up my dress. I can see my ribs, the very same ribs the midwife reckoned Albie was tucked behind the entire time I was carrying him, hence the complete lack of baby bump. I turn so I’m in profile and try to picture Albie inside me. I can’t, though. No matter how many times I tell myself he was in there for eight whole months, I can’t quite accept it as truth. It’s just too outlandish for me to get my head around. I let my dress fall back into place and venture out onto the landing, lingering outside Mum and Stacey’s bedroom.
The sound of the TV floats up the stairs. I can hear Mum and Stacey talking over it, the way they always do when they’re watching anything. I picture them making a toast, clinking their glasses together and saying something like ‘here’s to us and our beautiful baby boy!’.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my dress. It’s a message from Frankie, asking if I’m watching Bake Off. I ignore it and move towards the door. It’s ajar. I peer through the gap. The blackout blinds are lowered, the only light source a lamp in the shape of a crescent moon, a gift from one of Stacey’s work friends, balanced on the chest of drawers next to Albie’s Moses basket. I step inside, pulling the door to behind me, then pick my way over towards it. I peer in. Albie is fast asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I kneel down next to the basket so my face is level with his. I study his features, searching for bits of me, but only seeing his dad.
I straighten up and slide my hands under his warm little body, carefully lifting him to my chest. I sniff his head. He smells sweet and sour at the same time. I sit down on the edge of Mum and Stacey’s bed and cradle him in the nook of my arm so I can look at him properly.
Even after almost three whole weeks, he still blows my mind. I can’t imagine a time when he won’t.
I don’t know how long I sit there for, only that every time I think about returning Albie to his Moses basket, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. One more minute, I tell myself. Over and over and over.
He begins to squirm in my arms. I stand up and jiggle him slightly, the way I’ve seen Stacey do. For a moment, I think it’s worked and I go to sit back down, but then he lets out a cry – sharp and piercing. I keep pacing back and forth, singing softly under my breath in an effort to soothe him.
A few seconds later, the door bursts open. I whirl round. It’s Stacey, clutching the baby monitor in her left hand.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks, striding towards me. ‘Did you wake him up?’
I take a couple of steps backwards. ‘No. I was holding him and he started crying.’
‘Why were you holding him?’
‘I just wanted to.’
She tuts. ‘We’re trying to get him into a routine, Jojo. Do you know how damaging it is for a baby to get used to being held when they’re supposed to be falling asleep?’
‘He didn’t fall asleep in my arms, though. He was already asleep when I picked him up.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be disturbing him like that.’
‘I just wanted to hold him. You never let me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes it is.’
She won’t let me anywhere near him half the time. She does it all with a laugh and a smile, but the subtext is clear: he’s mine, not yours, so get used to it and keep your hands off.
‘We’ve discussed this, Jojo. It’s for the best. We don’t want you getting too attached.’
It’s too late, I want to yell. I’m already attached.
‘Just give him here,’ she says, tossing the monitor on the bed and holding out her arms.
For a second I imagine pushing past her and running down the stairs with him and out the front door. It’s a stupid idea, though. Where would I even go? Not to mention the fact Stacey wouldn’t let me get as far as the landing.
‘Jojo, I mean it,’ Stacey says, her arms still outstretched.
Reluctantly, I hand him over.
As she takes him, she turns away from me. ‘It’s not just cuddles, you know,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘Motherhood.�
��
‘I know that,’ I say. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
Slowly, she turns to face me. ‘I never said you were, Jojo,’ she says, her voice low and measured. ‘But it’s been three weeks now. I know this is a big adjustment, but it’s an adjustment for us all. I think you forget that sometimes. That this isn’t just about you.’
I feel like I’ve been slapped.
‘All this interference isn’t helping anyone,’ she continues. ‘You need to step back and let your mum and I get on with raising Albie, OK? For his sake if nothing else.’
She turns away, rocking Albie in her arms. As he begins to settle, my heart wants to break in two.
That’s my job, I want to shout. I should be the one who stops him crying, not you! I’m his mum!
But I can’t.
I agreed.
I owe them this.
A big fat tear slips down my cheek. I duck out of the room before Stacey sees it.
I fix up the arrangements with Frankie for tomorrow, for results day, then I’m reading when Mum knocks on my door.
‘Come in,’ I mutter.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ she says, padding across the carpet towards me. ‘All right if I sit down?’
I shrug and draw my knees under my chin to make room on the bed.
As Mum sits down, she picks up my book, a battered childhood copy of The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton, and smiles at the cover. ‘I remember reading this to you,’ she says. ‘You always used to ask for the chapter where they go up to the Land of Birthdays.’
She’s right. In the end, I knew it so well I could recite the entire chapter on demand and would be word perfect every time. I wish I could go to a magical land right now. Maybe not the Land of Birthdays, though. A land where it’s calm and quiet; a land where I can actually think.
‘You missed out,’ she says, placing the book back down on my pillow.
First Day of My Life Page 13
