Growing Up Twice

by Rowan Coleman

  ‘We brought some wine.’ Rosie hands Selin the bag and she looks into it.

  ‘Oh, red, that makes a nice change from your usual …’ She stops dead in her tracks. She pulls out a large party pack of fun-size Mars Bars from our off-licence carrier bag. She looks from me to Rosie and says, ‘Who?’

  Rosie and I, still standing like the accused in the dock, point at each other.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say uncharitably and unfairly. ‘Yours is much worse than mine.’ I can see that Rosie has changed her mind about wanting to tell Selin the news. I can see she is considering moving countries, changing her name by deed poll and undergoing plastic surgery in order to avoid telling Selin the news. And when you consider that earlier today she phoned her mum in Palm Beach and had no trouble telling her at all, you’ll understand exactly how much we care about each other’s opinions. Especially Selin’s, who in all of our years of friendship has never ever been wrong, not once. That’s not an exaggeration.

  ‘Owen is back in touch,’ Rosie says, shrugging her shoulders for my benefit and waggling her eyebrows. I think she is trying to tell me she wants to abort the mission. But this is going to have to happen at some point between now and next May and I’m not letting her off the hook.

  ‘Oh no, tell me you aren’t going to see him again.’ She looks at Rosie. ‘Did you tell her about, you know, the thing that we discussed?’

  Rosie nods.

  ‘Yes, she did tell me, thank you, oh, and thank you for deciding what I am and am not grown up enough to deal with myself.’ I am still indignant about that even though I know they were just trying to protect me and that Rosie’s tactic of prolonging the moment before she makes her revelation is working.

  ‘I’m not going to see him again. I wasn’t even before Rosie told me her bombshell, I’m not interested. No, Rosie go on, tell Selin the real news.’

  Rosie gazes longingly at the glass of wine in Selin’s hand and then, looking as though she has had the best idea in the world, says brightly, ‘We’re moving back to Stokey to get away from Owen.’

  Selin breaks into a huge smile, leaps up from the chair and hugs us both at once, dripping a bit of wine on to my foot. I wish people would stop hugging me when there are beverages involved.

  ‘That’s fantastic news! It will be so great having you around the corner, hooray! And a good idea too, Rosie, well done.’ Rosie smiles and nods in the style of a sensible person, enjoying her last few seconds of Selin’s approval.

  ‘Rosie,’ I say sternly.

  ‘What else?’ asks Selin with a tone of cautious resignation. The three of us are now standing in an uneasy triptych, like guests at an unsuccessful cocktail party.

  ‘Oh well, I’m pregnant too, so that, I suppose.’ Rosie turns and picks up from the mantelpiece a school photo of the three of us aged around sixteen, when were all into U2 and wore tight black jeans, fake biker jackets and lace fingerless gloves. ‘God, we were thin, weren’t we? I’m going to join an aqua-aerobics class for mums-to-be at the sports centre, by the way.’ There is a nano-second of silence.

  ‘You’re pregnant!’ Selin roars at the top of her voice and just at that moment her older brother Josh walks in through the living-room door.

  ‘Pregnant? Which?’ He looks astounded.

  ‘Rosie,’ I say quickly, and he breaks into a huge smile and engulfs Rosie in a massive bear-hug. It’s so typical of him to be instantly sweet and non-judgemental.

  ‘Are you OK with it?’ He steps back and looks down at her with concern.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles up at him. ‘I am pleased and I’m keeping it, aren’t I?’ She looks at me for back-up and I just nod in agreement, knowing that whatever Selin might be about to say now, she will certainly have a whole lot more to say to me about this very soon.

  As Selin stands open-mouthed and for once pretty much speechless, clutching the party pack, her mother comes in and snatches it out of her hand.

  ‘You girls, your teeth will fall out,’ she says. ‘Don’t you ruin your appetite with these things.’ She sees Coşgun standing with his arm around Rosie. ‘Ah, my oldest son, come here, darling.’ She kisses him on both cheeks several times, taking off his coat and pinching his flesh as she does so. ‘It’s not a prerequisite to be starving when you are an artist, you know. Why do you never eat?’

  ‘I eat the entire time, Mum, I’m just lean and I can’t help it. High metabolism – don’t worry about me.’ He kisses the top of her head.

  ‘He lives in a squat,’ she tells us. ‘He works as a gardener all weathers when he’s not inhaling paint fumes, he has had more girlfriends than the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’ None of us understands what she means but we keep quiet. ‘And he tells me “Don’t worry”. Don’t worry? You get a proper job and a nice girl and then I won’t worry. Now, Jennifer, you’ll have wine?’ She goes over to Rosie and kisses her again, breaking into a huge smile. ‘Rosalind, I’d better get you some juice as you’re expecting.’ And then, ‘worse things happen at sea, you know,’ she says to Selin, patting her on the arm as she returns to the kitchen, chuckling quietly and leaving us standing about in an embarrassed silence. So much for keeping it between the three of us for now.

  ‘I don’t have that many girlfriends,’ Josh mumbles. ‘None for ages, actually.’ He has had his black hair shaved close to his head. It suits him, funnily enough. His quest to find the inner artist has seen him go through more silly hairstyles and clothing items than your average workaday clown. In fact, half of the fun of having him as my surrogate older brother is teasing him about his latest tortured-artist look. I remember with a smile the time when he used to wear his black hair long and use Selin’s hair irons to straighten it out. That was back in the days when one idle eye-linered glance would have my teenage heart in paroxysms of desire, my God, I loved him so! I’ll have to give teasing him a miss today though, as he looks quite presentable for a change, even bordering on sexy. He takes a seat at the table and watches us.

  Selin sits down again and drains her glass. She leans forward, resting her chin in the palm of her hand for a second, and looks at the bottom of her empty glass.

  ‘When did you find out?’ she asks me. Rosie has gone to sit on the sofa in the corner and is looking very interested in her new false nails.

  ‘Yesterday,’ I say. ‘We tried to call you, but you were out.’

  ‘Who’s the dad?’ She is still talking to me, and I can’t work out if she is cross or not. I know that I feel like a naughty schoolgirl, standing here alone in the middle of the room.

  ‘Chris,’ I say quietly. Selin says nothing for a moment and then goes to sit beside Rosie.

  ‘Rosie,’ she says gently. ‘Are you sure about keeping this baby? Have you thought it through?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie says, and now that she lifts her face I can see her cheeks are streaked with tears. ‘I think I really can do it. I really want to. It’s a person in here.’ She pats her stomach. ‘I want to give my baby a good happy life and I know I can. It’s not ideal that the father has the maturity of an undeveloped Teletubby or is about as likely to want to be involved with his own baby as he would to live in a monastery, I know. But I’m lucky I have the means and the support to make this work. A lot of people don’t have that. And I’ve got the best thing in the world. I’ve got you two, and if you’ll help me I know I can be a good mother. And even if you won’t I’m going to give it a damn good go.’

  All at once we are together in a big hug, each one of us in tears. Josh watches from the other side of the room and as I catch his eye he smiles at me and nods. The front door bangs shut and a moment later Mr Selin walks into the room.

  ‘My God, my house is full of crying women! Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, it’s hormones, right? I am a man who knows about hormones.’ He shakes his head indulgently and comes and hugs us and kisses the tops of our heads. His show of kindness makes us cry even more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs Selin has made us some dolma because she
knows we will complain if she doesn’t, but the main part of the meal is a lemon-roast chicken with roasted vegetables and it’s beautiful.

  ‘We can help you find a place round here,’ Mr Selin says. ‘Seli, what about Mr Carlton? He rents some properties, I believe?’ He smiles so that his many chins dimple and crease.

  ‘Yes, he does, I’ll call him tomorrow. Might be able to get you a good deal.’

  ‘And Adem of course, why not ask him?’ he says. I knew that they would be able to help us out.

  ‘Mmm, OK, I will. Good idea,’ Selin says, studying her plate before exchanging a glance with her mother, who then proceeds to tap Mr Selin on the back of the hand with her fork. Mr Selin shrugs and shakes his head and the whole bizarre pantomime ends, inconclusively in my opinion. This is one strange family. Selin smiles at Rosie and me in turn. I want to ask her about her pool nights, but I can’t find the right moment to bring it up, and anyway, judging by that performance, maybe we are not supposed to know about them, although goodness knows why not.

  ‘I think it’s well cool that you’re pregnant,’ Ayla says, sending her father’s eyebrows and blood pressure sky high. ‘God, don’t worry, Dad, I’m not going to get pregnant, I’m going to university, remember? But, you know, when you’re a bit older, Rosie’s age, it’s cool. It’s the twenty-first century, man. You don’t need men for anything these days.’ Josh leans back in his chair and laughs, tipping back his chin and closing his eyes.

  ‘You need us for at least one part of that scenario, don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘No. We’ll all be able to get sperm donors soon, just like going to a supermarket. In the chiller cabinet,’ she says with a sweet little smile, and poor old Hakam gags into his glass of Coke.

  ‘Oh, really.’ Josh’s eyes are sparkling with mischief. ‘And have you told this to Jamie Bolton yet? I’d expect he’d like to know your view on these things before he gets around to asking you out.’

  ‘No!’ She giggles and covers her eyes with a beautifully manicured hand. ‘Leave it, Josh! You’re gonna be in big trouble!’

  ‘Oooh, who’s Jamie Bolton?’ Rosie joins in. I think she is glad to have the conversation steered away from her, which must be a lifetime first. Selin joins in now with the same wicked sibling-teasing smile her brother is brandishing.

  ‘Jamie works behind the record counter at Woolworths,’ she says. ‘Ayla loves him, don’t you?’ Ayla laughs good-naturedly and her eyes sparkle with the first-crush flush of excitement and anticipation.

  ‘No! I don’t love him!’ She turns to me in a touching kind of conspiratorial way and says, ‘He’s well cute though, seriously, and he’s a nice bloke too, well safe.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, feeling the spirit of Auntie Marge entering my body, ‘I’d hate to think of him being in peril.’

  Later, after coffee so strong it could launch a rocket, ice-cream and some baklava from the bakery on the corner, Rosie and Selin get out boxes of old photos, Mr Selin nods off in a chair and Ayla becomes engrossed in a phone-text conversation with someone who makes her giggle a lot. Hakam, free at last, has gone back to his bedroom. Mrs Selin refuses any help with clearing away and I flick through her collection of easy-listening LPs, looking for a Dean Martin track that I really love. Josh sits opposite me rolling a fag and now he goes to the balcony doors at the back of the room and steps outside saying, ‘This is my last, giving up today!’.

  ‘It’s still pretty mild out here,’ he calls back though the nets and I go out and join him to look at the outside world.

  We have a wonderful view of the back gardens and rooftops of North London. The brown and grey houses and scatter of aerials and satellite dishes have the gentle rosy glow of one of the year’s last summer evenings. The sound of the traffic has abated a bit, somewhere nearby kids are playing football and we can smell a barbecue a couple of houses down.

  ‘So, how are you doing in all this?’ Josh says. He smiles at me in that way that makes the stubble on his chin crinkle into dimples and I think how nice it is to have had a big-brother figure around all these years. When I first met him I used to have the maddest crush on him. It’s funny really; we laugh about it now. I used to clam up and go red whenever I saw him. Funny because he’s just not my type any more, and we have become firm friends.

  ‘Rosie is very lucky to have a pair of friends like you,’ he says. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ He always takes the trouble to ask.

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty good, really,’ I say. ‘We’re lucky to have Rosie.’

  ‘They told you what I heard about Owen, didn’t they?’ I nod and sigh, biting my lip as I look out over the neighbours’ back gardens.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re over that, it sounds like he’s gone a bit mental from what I hear. If you ever wanted me to, you know, sort him out for you I would, you know.’ I smile at him and pat the top of his hand which is resting on the railing. I think to myself that I can’t imagine Josh getting heavy with a cuddly toy, never mind someone like Owen.

  ‘You’re sweet. But I think this will all go away on its own and I don’t want anyone getting into trouble over him. I just feel so stupid.’

  ‘Stupid? Why?’

  ‘Because looking back I can’t believe I ever had anything to do with him, let alone loved him. I would have done anything for him. I often did.’

  ‘You weren’t stupid. I saw you together, he was a plausible bastard. He even had me convinced the first couple of times. All that charm and bohemian bollocks did wear a bit thin after a while, though.’ He smiles at me. ‘Maybe you were a bit stupid.’ I laugh and thump him lightly on the chest.

  ‘Bastard. What about you? Your mum thinks you’re the Casanova of Church Street. Is anyone safe from your charms?’ I flutter my eyelashes at him in a mock flirt.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’ He rolls his eyes and grins.

  ‘What happened to Wanda?’ I ask. She was a many-plaited art-school beauty queen – they had been the Stoke Newington art collective’s celebrity couple for most of last year.

  ‘Some bloke from Scotland happened to her. In my bed.’

  ‘Oh. I always thought she was a no-good slut,’ I joke, but I’m not just saying that for Josh’s benefit. I found her and Owen talking very intimately at the back of the garden at a party once. ‘But you’re such a nice bloke, you should have girls queuing up after you.’

  He chuckles a bit and says, ‘No, girls never like us “nice” blokes, do they? What about you? Met anyone who lights your fire lately?’ I think about Michael and the kiss and the touch of the sun and the falling leaves and the resounding silence of my phone.

  ‘Well, put it this way, someone kindled the ashes a bit.’

  ‘Really? Do you think that someone might turn into something?’ he says, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘Mmm, no. No, it won’t, it can’t really,’ I say, sounding a bit guilty despite myself.

  ‘God, he’s not married, is he?’ Oh dear, Josh really does think I’m a lost cause.

  ‘Oh no. It’s way more complicated than that.’

  He’s quiet for a moment and turns to look at me, rubbing the back of his newly shaven head self-consciously. ‘Just take care of yourself, OK? No more Owen-type experiences – promise me? I mean, you’re like family to me, all of you. I mean, well, Seli is obviously, but you and Rosie too. I don’t want to see you hurt any more. Promise me.’

  ‘Promise,’ I say, thinking that you can’t get much more different from Owen than Michael.

  Josh nods in approval and changes the subject. ‘I’ve got an exhibition coming up in a few weeks in Hoxton, with the collective. You lot should come down. It’s sponsored by Smirnoff, some bloke from Time Out is coming to give it a review.’

  I laugh at his attempt to bribe me with a free Moscow Mule.

  ‘I’d love to. And you know I’m going to rope you into helping us move, don’t you?’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. We go back into the living-room where Rosie
and Selin have just found photos of us on our first-ever lone holiday to Bournemouth, sporting sunburn and a bottle of Thunderbird. Mrs Selin has set the record player to play Dean Martin’s ‘Sway’ and she and Selin’s dad are dancing a makeshift rumba. Things are good.

  As we leave Selin walks us down the stairs and says, ‘We have a lot more to talk about, you know, there’s a shit load of stuff to work out.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree,’ I say, nodding vigorously.

  ‘I know,’ Rosie says, ‘let’s go out on Saturday night!’

  Selin and I look at each other.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not ill, I’m just knocked up. And if I’m not drinking or anything the baby will be fine, and if I feel a bit dodgy I’ll go home.’ She looks at me. ‘We could go to Starsky and Hutch?’ She knows that a bit of seventies disco will almost always tempt me.

  ‘Well, if we just go for a bit?’ I say, looking at Selin, who shakes her head in resignation.

  ‘If we just go for a bit and I can stay at your place and we go out for Sunday lunch and talk things through properly. OK?’ Selin says like a mum working out a compromise with a couple of unruly kids.

  ‘OK,’ we say in unison like a couple of unruly kids.

  As I get in the back of Kaled’s cab I fish my phone out of my bag. There is a little envelope sitting in the top left-hand corner of the screen. I have a text message. This is only the second text message I have ever had. It must be from Ayla, I think, who sent me the first one as soon as she got her phone for her birthday. I open it up and it reads, ‘sry hve not bn in tch. things hve been difclt hre. will call sn, hve bn thinking of u. mike xx.’

  It takes me a couple of seconds to work out what he’s saying and a couple more to feel a rush of delight; yes, he’s called me, messaged me, whatever, not that I care. All I mean is that I’ve still got the old charm. I should probably just ignore him but I’m a bit tipsy and I have a fluttery feeling in my stomach. I press reply. ‘speak 2 u sn. j xx.’