Any Way You Want Me

by Diamond, Lucy

  ‘For you, babe, I’ve got all day,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

  An hour or so later, we were in the car and heading out of London. I had left a message on Alex’s voicemail saying that I had decided to visit Jemima, and to call me there if he needed me. Then, I had phoned Mark and told him there had been a change of plan and not to come round that evening after all. He’d been miffed – and had let me know so in no uncertain terms – but I didn’t have the energy to listen or care any more. It was high time I wrested back some control in the Mark thing, I reckoned. I had been letting him call too many of the shots for too long.

  Jemima was an old college friend who lived near Chichester with her ten-year-old son, Noah. She was kind and funny and sensible, and the very second that she’d heard the wobble in my voice, she had ordered me to pack some things and come to stay. I hadn’t needed telling twice. Jemima was the most sorted person I knew. She would know exactly what was the right thing to do and say. She would help me.

  Molly and I sang along to ‘Snap! Snap! Crocodile’ and ‘Two Red Hens’ and all the other greats from her animal songs tape as we powered down the A3. It seemed a luxury to sing again, after spending the last few days in a haze of self-flagellating guilt and despair.

  Snap! Snap! Crocodile

  We can see your toothy smile . . .

  ‘Mummy, you not cry any more,’ Molly said suddenly, breaking off from the rousing chorus. ‘You happy now?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I lied as gaily as I knew how. ‘Mummy’s very happy again, and everything’s going to be just fine.’

  I wasn’t sure who I was trying to kid more – my two-year-old, or me. She seemed to fall for it anyway. That was the main thing. Now I just had to go about convincing myself.

  Jemima lived in a picturesque, straight-from-Beatrix-Potter cottage near a long, sandy beach, a few miles outside Chichester. She had an enviably idyllic lifestyle, which included honeysuckle sprawling around the front door, a vegetable patch and herb garden, and several profit-turning sidelines of pottery, jewellery-making and watercolour-painting. She was tall and willowy, with long, tousled blonde hair, blue eyes and a button nose. When I’d first met Jemima, I’d spent a whole term wishing I could look more like her. Now I just wished I was her.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, hugging me on the threshold. ‘Hi, kids. Love those tights, Molly. And look at that bruiser of a boy! Isn’t he ginormous?’

  ‘I got my snowflake tights on,’ Molly said proudly, sticking a leg out so that Jemima could have a closer look.

  ‘You have! Aren’t they fab? I wish I had some like that. Now then. Tea, coffee, beer, gin?’

  ‘Tea,’ I said.

  ‘Beer,’ Molly said.

  Jemima laughed and chucked her under the chin. ‘You’re your daddy’s daughter, aren’t you, pet?’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’

  Jemima and I hadn’t seen each other since she’d come to visit just after Nathan had been born. It had been the usual ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? How was the birth? Well done!’ kind of conversation, punctuated by breastfeeds and photos of the birth and adoring looks galore. Luckily, she was the kind of friend that I could pick up with exactly where I left off straight away, even though it had been months since we’d been in the same room.

  After a pot of ratatouille and some green salad and couscous, we persuaded Molly to sleep in the box room, unpacked the travel cot for Nathan, and then Jemima started to open a bottle of wine.

  ‘Not for me,’ I said quickly. Then, as she gave me a quizzical look, I relented. ‘Go on, then. I’ll have half a glass, please.’

  She said nothing, just poured the wine and dug out a tin of shortbread. Then she bribed Noah to stay upstairs with a promise of a PlayStation all-dayer, just the two of them, at the weekend. From the way he cheered and ran upstairs to his room at once, I gathered this was a rare and much pestered-for treat indeed.

  ‘So,’ she said cheerfully, stirring the fire until sparks flew up the chimney, ‘are you going to tell me, then?’

  Talking to Jemima was like being in the best kind of therapy. I leaned back on the saggy sofa and told her everything. Everything. How smitten I had been with Mark. How alive and desirable he made me feel. How the sex had been in another league.

  Then I took a deep breath and told her about the bad side of him, too. All the things that had been niggling away inside me as being not quite right: the mind games, the lie about Natasha, the way he had been with Caroline. Oh yeah, and while I was at it: my birthday lunch, appearing on my doorstep the other day, inviting himself round to stay the night. There was quite a list of wrongdoings when I dared to think about them all at once.

  ‘No offence, Sade, but he sounds horrible,’ Jemima said bluntly, lighting a fag. She blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘He sounds really controlling. What do you see in him? Is it just the sex?’

  I stared at the fire. ‘He is quite horrible,’ I admitted, ‘but the horribleness is just a part of him, if you know what I mean. It makes him exciting somehow. More dangerous. And the sex is amazing.’

  ‘Well, great, if that’s what you want, carry on,’ Jemima said. ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  My head whipped round. That was not the answer I had been expecting. ‘I thought you were going to say, “Stop seeing him, you must stop seeing him,”’ I told her.

  She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Is that what you wanted me to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’ I shrugged, feeling confused. This wasn’t going quite the way I had expected.

  She laughed. ‘God, don’t ask me! I’m hardly someone to call on for relationship advice, Jemima the single mother, queen of failed romances. What do you want to do? You’re obviously still madly attracted to him, even though you can see how manipulative and . . . well, horrible he is to you.’ She blew a smoke ring and we both watched it widen and disappear into the air.

  ‘That’s not the only problem, though,’ I said. It felt as if there was a stone in my mouth, I couldn’t get the words out without a struggle. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  She didn’t look terribly surprised. ‘Is it Mark’s?’ she asked, hastily fanning her smoke away from my direction.

  I fiddled with my hair. ‘Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know,’ I said. I grimaced. ‘I am so white trash, Jemima. I’m up the stick and I don’t even know whose baby it is. Can you believe how awful I am?’

  She stubbed out her fag and put her arms around me. I was crying again. ‘Oh, babe,’ she said. She stroked my hair and it felt wonderful. ‘Oh, babe. Come on. Have a good cry. You’re not awful. You’re lovely. You’re so bloody lovely, it’s no wonder men are queuing up to impregnate you.’

  I giggled and snorted through my tears, then started sobbing again. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Don’t be nice. I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Jemima said, hugging me tighter. ‘Now more than ever, by the look of it. I’ve never seen you so skinny before – your face has practically caved in. And you look exhausted.’ She gave me another squeeze. ‘Now, listen. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to stay here for as long as you want. I’ll take the kids off down to the beach every day so you can rest, and I’ll fatten you up with lots of yummy, home-cooked food. Then, when you’ve had loads of sleep and sea air, and feel human again, you can start thinking about what you want to do. How does that sound?’

  I leaned my head against her. ‘It sounds great. You’re great. You’re like a fairy godmother,’ I told her. ‘Thank you.’

  She was as good as her word. Actually, she was even better than that. She got up with Molly and Nathan to give them breakfast every morning, and then she literally disappeared with them into the wilds of Sussex. I woke up after a full ten hours’ sleep each morning to the blissful sound of silence, with the occasional snatch of birdsong thrown in, just to remind me that life was carrying on outside the walls of the cottage.

  I spent three days largely by myself. I showered and
dressed, then had breakfast in Jemima’s tiny kitchen, with its glorious sea view. I couldn’t believe how calming it was to watch boats and seagulls while eating a plate of toast. The rest of my life seemed far away from here, where the waves rolled and smashed, rolled and smashed under the screeches of the gulls above.

  After breakfast, I took long walks along the coastal path, or curled up on the sofa to read, or ate my way through the contents of the fridge. One afternoon, Noah came back from school before Jemima and my two had returned, so we spent an hour playing Scrabble and Cluedo, sprawled out on the living-room floor. For the first time in months, I felt at peace.

  I’d given Alex Jemima’s number but had kept my mobile switched off, not wanting to hear from Mark, or anyone else for that matter. It felt safer that way, more relaxing. I was taking a complete break, clearing my head of everything and everyone.

  Alex phoned every night for a chat. He was as funny and down to earth as ever, but on the third night, he sounded sad. ‘When are you coming home? It’s so quiet here on my own,’ he moaned.

  I laughed at the little-boy-ness of his voice, and suddenly felt a great yearning to see him. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow. I’ve missed you,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, did you say? Great. I’d better get in a quick night down the pub tonight then, hadn’t I?’

  ‘You had,’ I said sternly. ‘Because there’ll be none of that going-out malarkey when I’m back, let me tell you.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to a bit of staying-in malarkey with you,’ he said.

  ‘So am I,’ I replied. ‘I really am, Alex.’

  The next morning, I had enough energy to get up with the kids and then, once Noah had left for school, we all went down to the beach for a last paddle. Molly was an old hand by now, kicking her football along the hard ribbed sand, building moats and sandcastles, screaming with delight as she splashed her toes in the freezing sea. I watched her run with Jemima, hand in hand along the sand, their blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind, and felt a fierce urge of protection. ‘I will never hurt you,’ I told Nathan, cuddling him into my jacket to keep him warm. ‘Or Molly. I’d never do anything to hurt you because I love you both so much.’

  For a second, I thought I was about to cry, then I realized that what I was actually feeling was a rush of joy. ‘That goes for you, too.’ I said the words aloud but meant them for the little prawn-shaped stranger inside me. The odd-looking ball of cells that now had a beating heart, the start of a spinal cord, a rudimentary circulation system. ‘You’re staying put, sunshine. Whatever happens, I’m going to love you, too.’

  The wind snatched my words and took them out to sea. I watched the waves rise and crash upon the shore and felt happier than I had done for a long time. I could taste salt on my lips, could feel the warmth of my boy’s body against mine. And I was keeping my baby. It felt the right thing to do.

  The trip to Jemima’s had cleared my head and given me strength and a new sense of calm. I had come to several decisions.

  I would tell Mark that our affair was over. It didn’t feel like fun any more. It had become something else.

  I would persuade Alex that we really needed to move down to the sea, get out of London.

  And I would tell him that I was pregnant, already, for a third time.

  The idea of living by the sea had grown on me like seaweed on a rock. I had already convinced myself that it would be the best thing for everyone. Hey, Alex had a laptop, he could easily work from home sometimes, couldn’t he? We would start again, in a stone cottage with a walled garden, away from Mark. We would have our third child; yes, of course it would be hard work but we’d manage. We’d slog it out together, as a family. And I’d plant hollyhocks and delphiniums in the garden, sweet-peas and lilies and roses. We’d grow vegetables and have a cat – hey, even a dog – and we’d all live happily ever after. It was all going to be just fine.

  ‘You can do it,’ Jemima had assured me, clasping my hands as we said goodbye. ‘The anticipation will be the worst bit. You might be surprised at how well they take the news.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I had said noncommittally. Inside I was thinking, you don’t know them like I do, though, darling.

  I wasn’t sure which of the three things on my to-do list was going to be the hardest. Telling Alex about the baby would be awful. I could hardly bear to think about the dismay that would undoubtedly spread across his face when the information registered. Yet cooling things with Mark was definitely the scariest option. He was so unpredictable, I was half expecting him to hit me. Or hurt me. Or print posters of my face and the word SLUT and stick them up all over town. He wouldn’t let go without a fight, I knew that much. The eight messages on my voicemail were testament to that.

  Over the weekend, I planned everything out thoroughly. I would go round to Mark’s office as usual on Monday and tell him then. This time I wouldn’t cave in so pathetically, the way I’d done after my birthday weekend. I wouldn’t bang on and on about the reasons why, I’d just say it and then get the hell out of there before the storm broke.

  I figured I’d soften up Alex over the following weekend. He’d loved it in Brighton, hadn’t he? Perhaps I would suggest another trip to the coast – either down to Brighton again, or somewhere prettier like Rye or Hayling Island – and then, once there, I’d guide him gently to some estate agent windows and say, ‘Gosh, look what we could get for our money down here, darling!’

  And, if he really baulked at the thought of being even further south than we already were, I’d play my trump card and suggest a move north instead. Yorkshire. I knew exactly how much he would love to move back there. Hell, if it meant escaping London, I’d do it, even if it did mean our children would grow up talking like him.

  Then, once he was really softened up and excited about moving, a week or so later, I’d drop in the pregnancy news. And, with a bit of luck, he’d be pleased.

  I was starting to feel happier about being pregnant. I’d even sneaked a couple of looks at my Miriam Stoppard book to see exactly what was happening inside me. It was just as magical and awe-inspiring reading about the process for a third time. I looked at the amazing photos of six-week-old foetuses, and their bumps and nodules that would eventually turn into a face, arms and legs, with a throb of excitement.

  My secret third baby that only Jemima and I knew about. Well, and Paige Kozinski, too, I supposed, but she didn’t count. Was this one going to be a girl or a boy? I wondered. Blonde again or dark-haired this time? Would they be mercurial and entertaining, like Molly, or placid and calm, like Nathan? I had worked out that the baby would be due on 27 November. A Sagittarian. I circled the date in my diary but wrote nothing next to it. It wasn’t like I was about to forget that in a hurry, anyway.

  On Monday, I woke up feeling determined. It was D-Day. Dumping Day. Out with the old and in with the new. Nothing would stop me this time.

  But then something terrible happened.

  Anna was round for lunch, and I was just bending to get a pizza out of the oven when there was an agonizing cramp in my side.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I groaned, clutching my belly. The pain was so violent, I dropped the baking tray, which crashed against the floor, pizza landing the wrong side up. I was bent double, gasping, vaguely aware of Anna’s open mouth saying something to me, yet I couldn’t hear her.

  ‘The baby,’ I managed to say. I could feel something wet in my knickers. Blood, rolling out of me, along with all those precious, precious cells. ‘I’m losing the baby.’

  ‘I’ll phone an ambulance,’ I heard Anna say, and I started to cry.

  Don’t go, I wanted to shout to my baby. Don’t leave me yet, little prawn. I want you. I always wanted you, really. Please hang on. Please stay with me. Please, please, please . . .

  I was on the floor with the pain, crying and shouting. Molly and Ella had run into the kitchen at the sound of the crash and were hovering nervously a few feet away, staring at me with f
rightened expressions.

  ‘Mummy, what you doing?’ Molly asked, her face pale.

  I couldn’t even pretend to be all right this time. Anna was kneeling next to me, stroking my hair. ‘They’re on their way,’ she said, over and over again. ‘I’ll look after the kids. What’s Alex’s number?’

  I had never believed much in the idea of divine retribution, but I did now. I knew that this was utterly my fault. If I’d only been keener about the pregnancy from the word go, the baby wouldn’t have felt unwanted. If only I’d been happier! It must have known I hadn’t planned for it to come along. I must have driven it out of me somehow with all my bad thoughts and stress.

  My kitchen was suddenly a blur of activity. Two male paramedics, kind and concerned, asking me questions as I lay on the floor. Molly’s wail of incomprehension as one of them lifted me up and took me to the ambulance. ‘I want my mummy! Mummy, come back!’

  Her cries rang around my ears the entire way to the A&E department.

  I was wheeled in for an ultrasound scan, which confirmed the worst. As the most horrible kind of foil to the scans I’d had of Molly and Nathan where I’d seen their wriggling fishlike bodies on the screen, and counted off their limbs and organs with joyous relief, this time the screen was black and empty. Too late. My baby had gone before I’d even seen it.

  I felt just as empty as I looked. I lay on the hard trolley, my stomach cold and wet from the jelly they’d squirted on it, and wept as if I’d never stop. Then the door burst open and Alex was there, kissing my face and hair, hugging me, holding my hand. And then he looked at the screen, too, and cried with me.

  ‘Did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. This one was too important to lie about. ‘Yes, I knew. I was scared to tell you,’ I whispered, breaking down into sobs again. ‘I didn’t think you’d want it.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t want it at first. But now that it’s gone, I want it back. Oh, I so want it back, Alex.’

  ‘I know you do,’ he said, stroking my face. ‘I know, sweetheart. I know.’