She checked her watch again. Her blood pressure began to rise. Even though she’d called to check Bridget was on her way, Gemma was certain she’d still get waylaid, miss her slot and Dr Mapadhi would set the whole process back another month. But no, there she was, bustling down the pavement in paint-smattered jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
‘Bridge! I can’t believe you’ve worn that.’
‘Why does it matter? They’re interested in my reproductive abilities, not my dress sense.’
‘I know but…’
But what? Bridget was right. Gemma hugged her.
‘Thanks so much for coming. Off you go inside. Hopefully Dr M’ll be running late and you can enjoy all the magazines.’
‘You know I hate magazines. They set up impossible standards for women.’
‘OK, OK! Sorry! There are free biscuits and tea and coffee.’
‘Bring it on!’
Gemma squeezed her arm. ‘I’ll be in the Lebanese café on Wigmore Street. See you there.’
Gemma spent an hour trying to read the paper but really staring out of the window at the parade of buggies. Bugaboo was still the brand of choice, she noted. Gemma guessed that that was what she too would go for, even though she knew it was a bit of a cliché. Although maybe she should buy a Phil & Ted’s to convert it to a double buggy if they had a second child… If Bridget was willing. If…
She had to get a grip. Even if Bridget’s eggs were fine and she handed them over, they might not take to Gemma’s womb. She might miscarry. Gemma’s heart clenched as she mentally listed the disasters that could befall them – the baby might be stillborn or deformed or develop a passion for the works of J. R. R. Tolkien or grow up to be a Christian fundamentalist. But what was the alternative? Carrying on with her life of meals out, films, holidays. All lovely, obviously. But the thought of there being nothing more terrified her. Life seemed to stretch before her in an endless unbending line, like a road through the desert. She needed motherhood to intervene, to throw things off at a tangent.
Still, at least Coverley Drive would be a bend in the road, the dawning of new possibilities.
‘Heeey!’ said Bridget’s voice behind her.
Gemma was instantly suspicious. ‘That was quick. Did he see you? What did he say?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Bridget smiled up at the waiter. ‘A double espresso please. All the usual crap you’d expect – how delighted he was to meet me, what a wonderful thing I was volunteering for. Then did I know exactly what was involved. I told him I’d read about it online but he said he still had to go through it all with me, so he talked me through the whole IVF procedure when I have to say I did nod off a little. Then he told me I was going to have to have all these physical tests and counselling. I told him that was unnecessary, that I’ve spoken to dozens of healers in my time. But he said it was obligatory.’
‘I told you it was.’
‘I know, but I was hoping I could talk him round. Save us all the aggro. I asked him what kind of issues we needed to talk about and he said well, there’s the fact I didn’t have children, which made me laugh. I was like: “Yes, thank God!” ’
How could she be so flippant? Though it was true, it was just as well.
‘I told him I didn’t want children, that I found them a drain on the earth’s resources and that anyway too many issues with my own parents are unresolved. But he said, “Fine, but that might change.” And if for whatever reason I decided I wanted kids but I couldn’t have them then the fact I’d given you my baby might prove tricky.’
Gemma shut her eyes and squeezed her nails into her palms. But Bridget was chortling.
‘I told him not to worry. But he said, whatever, I still had to do it. One session on my own and then one session with you guys all together. So we’ve been booked in for a fortnight today.’
‘A fortnight? That’s ages away.’
‘The counsellor’s on holiday. In the meantime there’s various medical tests they’ll do on me – blood, hormones, they’ve got to measure me, weigh me. I was like – woah! – are you sure? You’ll regret it when I break the scales and you have to buy a new pair.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Gemma said shortly. The weight issue was worrying her, it might interfere with ovulation. At least Bridget was drinking black coffee instead of one of her usual milky sugary confections. Gemma would rather she wasn’t drinking coffee at all, but this wasn’t the time.
‘That’s what they told me. So I’m going in on Friday for all of that.’
‘It’s really kind of you,’ Gemma said, filled with one of her sudden rushes of fondness. Bridget was doing so much for her and doing it for nothing. Just love.
‘Ah, it’s my pleasure. Fancy another… what are you having? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Herbal tea. No thanks, I’d love one but I’ve got to get going. Got a reiki appointment.’ That was not strictly accurate; she did have a reiki appointment, but it wasn’t until four. The truth was that now the deal was nearly done, Gemma had an overwhelming urge to scarper. She was anxious Bridget might annoy her and she’d snap and everything would be off. Best to leave on a high.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Well, before you disappear, just help me choose a Valentine.’
‘A Valentine?’
‘Yeah. C’mon, Miss Organized Knickers, you’re not going to tell me you’ve forgotten what day tomorrow is.’
‘Of course not.’ Gemma had bought Alex’s card a week ago, along with the tasteful gift – a small print from a gallery in Islington – and the ingredients for a special dinner. She’d never go out for a meal on the night itself; could you imagine anything tackier than being stuck in a restaurant with an overpriced set menu and dozens of other couples being forced to gaze romantically into each other’s eyes?
‘Who are you buying one for?’ she asked, pulling on her coat.
‘Oh, just this guy.’ Bridget gave a most un-Bridgety giggle. It was soft and sweet and positively feminine. She turned to her sister, smiling. ‘He’s called Massimo and he’s a barrister.’
‘A barrister!’ Gemma was stunned. Bridget went out with minicab drivers and asylum seekers who wanted to marry her to get a passport. Gemma was the sister who went for men with prestigious, lucrative careers. Half of her was delighted that Bridget was seeing the light, another half of her felt oddly threatened by this news.
‘Yeah, he’s gorgeous. Blond hair, blue eyes.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In Costa Coffee in Ealing. Where he works.’
‘Where he works? What, with his laptop?’ Gemma imagined a bewigged and gowned man sitting among the dossers tapping notes about his latest case into a dinky Mac, as he sipped on a frullato.
‘Not with his laptop. Behind the bar.’ Bridget gave her an odd look and then started to giggle. ‘Oh no, you didn’t think I meant he was like an Alex boring barrister. He’s a barista. He makes coffees.’
‘Oh.’ Gemma began laughing too. ‘I did think it sounded unlikely.’
‘Imagine me with a stuffy lawyer! Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘It’s OK.’ They were in the newsagent’s now, browsing over the card rack. ‘So… has anything happened between you and this guy?’
‘Not yet. But we always have a great laugh when I go in. I just think he needs a bit of kicking in the right direction.’ She held up a card. ‘Here, how about this one?’
It was a monstrosity of hearts and flowers, purple and gold, sequins and glitter. The kind of thing Gemma loathed.
‘Yeah, that’ll do,’ she shrugged diplomatically.
‘The message is “I Love You”. Do you think that’s OTT?’
‘No, it’s a Valentine, that’s the whole point of them,’ Gemma lied. After all, it wasn’t as if this would go anywhere, it would be the same as Bridget’s last eight million relationships.
‘You’re right, it is, isn’t it?’ Bridget squeezed Gemma’s arm. ‘I’m so happy I’m doing this. I really feel it’s going
to bring us so much closer together. Closer than we’ve ever been before.’
‘We’ve always been close.’
‘I guess.’ She shrugged. ‘But I don’t know. Sometimes I haven’t felt it. Last time I was in Goa I talked a bit to my meditation teacher about our relationship.’
‘We haven’t always seen as much of each other as we should,’ Gemma conceded. ‘But you’re never here. Look, I’m sorry but I really have to dash.’
‘OK.’ Another one of Bridget’s clumsy bosomy hugs. ‘I’ll call you, let you know how the tests went.’
‘Thank you,’ Gemma said and felt the damn tears prick again at her eyes, overwhelmed by genuine affection for Bridget for being so big and shambolic and genuinely kind.
But still, it was time to go.
‘Don’t sign the Valentine, will you?’ she called over her shoulder, as she opened the door. But Bridget’s reply was swallowed by the roar of traffic.
10
It was Tuesday morning. Nick was turning cartwheels naked on a beach. Seagulls were crying, the sand was soft under his hands and there was a strong smell of… burning. Was it his pale skin in the tropical sun? But then a siren started wailing. Were the police chasing him? Or was it an ambulance?
‘Nicky! Nicky, wake up!’
‘Oof.’
‘I’ve set off the smoke alarm trying to make your breakfast,’ Kylie squealed. ‘Help, I can’t reach it.’
‘Oh, shit!’ Nick jumped out of bed and ran naked into the kitchen. He climbed on to the table, wrenched at the jangling smoke alarm and ripped out the battery.
Silence.
‘Fucking hell, Kylie, you got to stop burning the toast.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I just can’t get the hang of this De’ Longhi thingy. I’ll go to Argos and get us a new one.’ She grimaced ruefully. She had a very pretty face, Nick thought, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Now get down from there. I’ve got a Valentine’s surprise.’
Valentine’s Day. Nick hadn’t forgotten; he’d have had to have been deaf, blind and imbecilic given the hints she’d been dropping for what seemed like months. Kylie wasn’t materialistic but she did set a lot of store by soppy cards and teddy bears to mark things like anniversaries. He’d asked Andrew to organize a big bunch of flowers to be delivered at some point in the day. That should keep her happy. After all, there’d be no romantic dinner because it was the Shepherd’s Bush gig that night. And before that they were busy with a magazine shoot, followed by some studio time.
‘Come on,’ Kylie said, taking his hand and leading him – still naked – into the dining room.
‘Ta dah!’
‘Oh, shite.’ Nick looked around. Huge pink balloons hung from the ceiling. Pink glitter dusted every surface. There were pink candles on the mahogany table, which was laid with pink plates, pink flutes filled with…
‘Champagne at this time in the morning? You must think I’m a rock star or something.’
Kylie threw her arms around his neck, laughing. ‘Oh, Nicky, you’re so funny. Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. Now I know we can’t go for a meal tonight but I thought we could have a special Valentine’s breakfast instead. Look what I’ve done!’
He looked at his plate. A fried egg had been cut out in a rough approximation of a heart shape. There was a lump in his throat. He bet Jack and Myrelle St Angelo were snorting cocaine off each other’s buttocks. But Kylie’s gesture was undeniably touching.
‘Do you want to eat it in the altogether? Or shall I get you a T-shirt?’ She grinned lasciviously. ‘I know which I’d prefer.’
‘A T-shirt. We’re not in a bloody nudist camp.’
She laughed again and bustled off to get one. Nick looked at his plate. A fuchsia envelope sat next to it. Before he could open it, Kylie returned.
‘I know there’ll be all those groupies bombarding you with their knickers tonight at the gig, so I thought I’d stake my claim on you first thing.’ She kissed him. ‘Eat up.’
As she spoke the door dringed.
‘That’ll be the car.’
‘It’s only nine. They’re early, aren’t they?’
‘No, nine was the pick-up.’ He gulped down the tea and pushed the untouched egg away. ‘Listen, thanks for this. See you later, eh?’
‘At the gig.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, remembering his invitation to Lucinda. The thought of her bumping into Kylie made him cringe. She’d surely think less of him if she saw how ordinary his girlfriend was. But why would they talk to each other? There’d be thousands of people there. His phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Nick. It’s Charles.’
‘Oh, hiya,’ Nick said furtively. His financial adviser, only a few years older than him and already jowly and red in the face, but with a confidence that Nick could only dream of, the result of an expensive education. Charles was in awe of Nick because he was in a band, but secretly Nick was far, far more in awe of Charles.
‘How’s it going with the flat?’
‘Um, just a minute.’ He walked into the bedroom and closed the door. ‘I’ve put in an offer and it’s been accepted,’ he mumbled into the handset.
‘Sorry?’
‘My offer’s been accepted.’
‘Excellent. I’ve checked it out online and it seems a very sound investment. Congratulations, mate. So now you have to instruct a solicitor.’
‘That’s what the estate agent said. How do I do that?’
‘I’ll do it for you. And you need to arrange a survey.’
‘A what?’
‘A survey. To check the flat isn’t about to fall down or anything. It’s important, Nick, don’t skip it.’
‘Can you sort it out for me?’
‘I can. But I’ll have to bill you for it.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘So what does your girlfriend – Kelly, is it? – think of the flat?’
‘Um, she loves it.’
Kylie banged on the door. ‘Nicky, your car’s waiting!’
‘Got to go, Charles, talk to you later. Thanks, mate.’
‘You’re welcome. All part of the service. I’ll get a surveyor on the case.’
‘Who was that?’ Kylie asked as he emerged.
‘Just work. I’ll see you at the gig, yeah?’
‘I can’t wait.’
He was sitting in the back of the chauffeur-driven Merc when he realized with a pang that he’d left Kylie’s Valentine on the breakfast bar. She’d be so hurt.
Oh, for Christ’s sake get over yourself, he told himself.
The shoot was at a studio somewhere in west London. Nick thanked the driver (he had read somewhere always to be ‘kind to the little people’) and pushed his way in through the revolving door.
‘Nick?’ A tall, skinny girl with a blonde pony-tail that scraped her buttocks stepped forward. ‘Hi, I’m Zinnia from Fashionista. So great to meet you. Like, all my friends and I are rarely into you.’
‘Rarely into us? So who are you into the rest of the time?’
She threw back her head and laughed hysterically. ‘Not rarely. Really. Really into you. Ha, ha. Come this way.’
He followed her into a lift that carried them up to a kind of penthouse: a huge white room opening on to a big balcony with views across London. Not unlike Flat 15, Nick thought. A man in jeans and a checked shirt was faffing about with cameras, the make-up girl was setting up in the corner and a skinny Indian man in flares and a blue sequinned top more suitable for a honeymoon in the Maldives than February in London was sorting through a rack of clothes. Nick waved at Paul and Ian, who were lolling on beanbags, drinking tea and helping themselves to trays of Danish pastries. As ever, Andrew was on the phone, one finger jabbed in his ear. Andrew crapped while making phone calls, had sex while making phone calls and would no doubt still be making phone calls from the grave.
‘Morning!’
‘Look what the cat’s dragged in.’
‘Fuck off,�
� Nick replied. ‘How is everyone today?’
‘Knackered. Been having a fine Valentine’s morning.’ That was Paul, who was straight out of I’m-in-a-rock-band central casting. He was short, carrot-haired and arguably had a too-big chin, but since their ship had come in he’d been making the beast with two backs with anyone with two X chromosomes. ‘This cute model that I met in Mahiki. She did this amazing thing with her little finger…’
‘Too. Much. Information.’ Nick cuffed him ineptly round the head in a you’re-my-mate-and-I-don’t-know-how-else-to-display-emotion kind of way.
‘What about you, Nick? Been making the sweet, sweet lovin’ on this special lovers’ morning?’ It was Ian, whose new girlfriend Becky, a glamour model, was the closest thing Kylie had to a friend in London.
‘Yeah, course I have.’ Nick rolled his eyes and picked up another cup of tea from the hospitality table.
‘Hope it hasn’t got in the way of your songwriting,’ said Andrew, slipping his phone in his pocket. He sounded jocular, but Nick knew he was worried. Fucking leech. All he did was sit around eating free cakes and drinking free coffees and for that he took twenty per cent of their money. It was ridiculous. Maybe they should get rid of him? Manage themselves. If the bloody Spice Girls had done it, it shouldn’t be beyond their capabilities.
‘Nick. Andrew asked you a question,’ Ian said.
‘It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And yeah. Some progress.’
‘Anything to take into the studio next week?’
‘Plenty!’ He looked around, trying to find a distraction. ‘Where’s Jack?’
‘That is a very good question,’ Andrew said grimly. ‘Been trying to raise him. Time to try again now.’ He picked up his phone and jabbed in a number, but without much confidence. But then…
‘Hello? Ah, Jack, you fucker, where the fuck are you?… No! That is not good enough!… Mate, you’re needed for the shoot now… And what about the gig tonight?’
The band caught each other’s eyes, like naughty schoolboys summoned to the headmaster. Jack had been doing a lot of this lately. They’d all grown fond of the recreational extras that were one of the perks of the job, but Jack had fallen hopelessly, passionately in love with them. Increasingly, he was up all night, coked out of his skull, and then found it impossible to go to sleep without a handful of downers. It was usually impossible to raise him before noon, so his absence today came as little surprise.
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