‘I know.’ I give her a quick hug. Her bones feel fragile and far too small. I turn to Franklin and tell him thanks. He shrugs as if it was nothing, but his face beams up at me all the same.
When I leave the room, they are looking at each other but not talking. I wonder if they communicate like that all the time, if it’s easier than words in a place like this. And I wonder if Paul and I would have ended up like that given time; in tune, calm and comfortable, rubbing along day by day.
As I walk down the corridor towards the staffroom, I think about Edie and how much she’s helped me already, and I think about how I can return the favour. Maybe it’s not too late for her to find love. Maybe I could lend a helping hand.
Or maybe not. My track record in the romance department is not exactly flawless. Probably I should leave well alone.
Shame, though. They really do make the perfect couple.
*
I get through my shift with no more mishaps, and at five past five I’m ready to head for home. I stop by the library on my way through town and borrow two thrillers. This is not the time for fiction of the romantic variety. Home Bargains is open, so I pop in and buy a bright blue lamp, a red knitted throw for my bed, and a fluffy green cushion in the shape of a pair of arms. It’s one way to get a hug, I suppose. As I approach the checkouts, I throw a writing pad and envelopes into my basket. Just in case. And then I head for Marks and Spencer. All this hard work and throwing up makes a girl hungry.
The new stuff brightens up my bedsit no end, and I waste no time in nuking the ready meal in my mini microwave, sitting down on my bed to eat it, a book propped up on my knees. As I tuck in to the sausage and mash with gravy I feel an odd sensation in my stomach. It’s like a bubbly feeling, champagne bubbles rising to the surface, but tickly too. It stops, and then starts again. I put down my tray, pull up my top, and take a look at my belly.
It’s looking pretty rounded, more so than yesterday I’m sure, but there’s nothing on my skin. Nothing itchy or tickly or …
Oh my God. Of course! In a flash I realise what this feeling is. It’s the baby. Kicking – or what passes for kicking at four months or so. Fluttering, really. Tiny little fluttery movements, invisible to the eye.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
Funny if the baby said hello back.
But maybe in a way it is saying hello. Hello, I’m here, and I’m growing. Look at me.
Tears spring to my eyes. I stroke my stomach and whisper hello again. There’s a baby in there, a real little person. Funny how easy it is to be pregnant, to be sick and feeling really ill, watching yourself thicken around the middle, but to somehow forget that there is an actual baby inside you.
I look at the writing paper and envelopes still lying by the kettle where I dropped them earlier. Paul, you should be here to feel this, to experience this with me. I should have pushed through your fears, tried harder to tell you the truth. Or just told you, and lived with the consequences.
I’m living with them now, anyway.
The bubbles start up again, and suddenly I’m laughing. From tears to laughter, as if it really were champagne, as if there was nothing but me and my baby: no problems, no trauma, just a happy future stretching out ahead of us. Why, I can’t imagine how I’ve felt so lonely for the last few weeks. I wasn’t alone at all. In fact, I’ll never be alone again. Not for at least sixteen years.
I lie back on the bed and place my hands gently across my stomach, fingers entwined. And in my mind, I begin to compose my letter to Paul. It’s time to answer him, I think. It’s time to let him know.
Chapter 15
I’m still in the throes of my epiphany when I arrive at the hospital on Monday morning for my scan. Today I should get a real actual due date, and from that I’ll be able to start planning. I feel like planning. I feel like my future is kind of exciting.
Which is why I don’t feel completely depressed to be the only woman without an eager man in tow. I take a seat next to a tall couple wearing matching sweaters. They turn and give me identical bright smiles.
Then I think about the mileage Paul and I would have got out of those two and my mood dips just a little.
I remind myself that I’m not alone because I have Bump with me. And I remind myself that he or she will always be with me now, no matter what. Until he or she is about sixteen, of course, and decides I’m embarrassing and useless and fit only for scorn.
Which leaves me with sixteen years of pure, unadulterated neediness. And this time, I’m going to love it. That’s the thing about becoming a mum the second time around: you know how quickly all the good bits pass. Lipsy’s baby years seemed to pass in a flash, and before I knew it she was an inquisitive toddler, then a loud and confident schoolgirl, and then ... well, then it gets kind of messy. One minute my daughter is kind and helpful, into ponies and following the rules and making sure her homework is done on time, the next she’s replaced by a sullen teenager who barely tolerates me and is only interested in boys and how many new spots she’s got this week. Then, in the blink of an eye, this Lipsy is replaced by mum-to-be Lipsy, wholesome and thoughtful and grateful for the smallest gift. How I wish I’d paid more attention to those lovely afternoons we spent painting her bedroom side by side, sharing jokes and silences, and Lipsy grabbing my hand to rest it on her tummy when her baby kicked.
Now she’s been replaced again, of course, by grumpy, workaholic Lipsy, constantly complaining and often too tired to raise a smile, let alone a laugh.
‘Oh, when will he be able to sit up on his own?’ she wailed down the phone last night. ‘My arms are dropping off with holding him.’
Soon enough, I thought. Too soon. Because isn’t that the cruel joke about having a child? What is sheer torture to go through at the time becomes a wonderful experience you missed out on looking back. Hindsight is most painful of all with children. Every stage of their life looks golden over your shoulder, impossible up close.
But this time I’m going to get it right. I’ll savour every single second. Sleepless nights? Bring them on. Toddler tantrums? What fun! No moaning from me.
‘Stella Hill?’
I’m it. I push myself up from the plastic chair, smile at Mr and Mrs Matching Sweaters, and follow the nurse down a short corridor. She smiles at me and says, ‘No daddy today, then? At work is he?’ For a minute I think she’s talking about my dad, and I wonder if I was supposed to bring him with me, and why.
But then I realise my mistake and feel like an idiot.
Then I feel pissed off. What if there wasn’t a daddy? What if he was sick, or dead, or had left me to go and live on a commune in Australia? What if I’d got pregnant by a one-night stand and had no clue who the daddy even was?
Or what if I’d ditched the poor daddy at the altar because he insisted he didn’t want any more children?
I bite my lip and follow her instructions to climb up onto the bed, raise my top up to my chest, and relax.
Relaxing … how do you do that again? Isn’t it what comes after a chilled bottle of dry white wine and a massage? Not what happens while you’re having some kind of clear jelly rubbed onto your tummy while lying on a padded table about as wide as a scaffolding plank.
‘This might feel a bit cold,’ she says cheerfully as she applies the instrument she’s clearly just pulled out of the fridge to my slippery stomach and begins to move it up and down.
I watch the black screen on the wall anxiously. There’s nothing on it that resembles a baby, but ... wait! What was that?
‘Ah, there we are,’ says the nurse. She pokes the instrument hard into my tummy and points out a head and a foot, and shows me the heartbeat – which is terrifyingly fast and makes my own heart pound in sympathy.
‘Do we want to know the sex of the baby?’ she asks, writing some notes on my file. I get the impression it’s nothing to her either way. I think about Paul, and wonder what he would say if he was here right now.
He should be here. I have no right to keep thi
s from him. Whatever my reasons, I know deep down there will be a time when I’ll have to account for this, for denying him this, and the thought makes my insides squirm.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘No, I don’t.’
At least that way we’ll both be in the dark. Sort of.
It’s over far too quickly – I could happily have watched that screen all day. Soon she’s handing me a scratchy paper towel to wipe the jelly from my stomach and turning off the machine.
‘Here’s something to show to your family.’
I look at the blurry photo the nurse hands me. My baby. A new life. Photographic evidence.
Maybe I should send Paul a copy with his letter.
‘Miss Hill?’ says the nurse, and then she smiles and reaches out to grab a tissue from her desk. ‘Here, take this. You’ll be all right. It’s an emotional experience, seeing your baby for the first time. Wait until you meet him or her for real!’
I blow my nose into the tissue and manage a feeble grin. I don’t tell her I’ve been through all this before, or that little more than a month ago I watched my own daughter give birth to my grandson. Instead I climb down from the bed carefully and pull up my jeans. The requirement for a full bladder means I’m now bursting for a pee, and I hop from foot to foot while the nurse consults her chart.
When she tells me the baby’s due on or around the thirteenth of August I give her a wry smile. Like Paul said, lucky I’m not superstitious.
‘Good luck,’ calls the nurse as I hurry from the room.
‘Thanks,’ I say. I sure am going to need it.
Chapter 16
I’ve just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rings. Lipsy and Rob are at work and I’m babysitting Phoenix on my day off. As usual. The shower in the shared bathroom at the bedsit is worse than useless so I tend to make the most of the facilities whenever I’m back home. I think of it as payment for my child minding services. And after all, it is my shower.
I quickly throw on my vest top and knickers, then wrap myself in Lipsy’s dressing gown and skip downstairs to answer.
The last person I expect to see when I open the door is Sharon.
She looks like she’s just stepped off a film set, all glowing skin and freshly brushed hair, skin-tight jeans and an artfully distressed brown leather jacket. Do all tall, well-built women feel this way when they see a skinny, beautiful, well put together siren, or is it just me? I’d quite like to strangle her.
‘Sharon,’ I gush, ‘what a lovely surprise. Come on in.’
‘Stella?’ She seems put off her stride by the sight of me, but it’s so fleeting I think I probably imagined it. ‘I’m so sorry to call by unannounced,’ she says, stepping into the hallway and taking up as much room as a peanut, ‘but I was wondering if we could have a quick chat. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ I say warmly. ‘Come on through to the kitchen.’
The kitchen is in turmoil as usual, but I bite my tongue to stop myself apologising for it. ‘Tea?’ I ask pleasantly. ‘Coffee?’
‘Just a glass of water for me,’ she says. ‘Spring, if possible,’ she adds as I reach for the tap.
I ignore her and fill a dusty glass from the cold tap, putting on my best fake smile as I hand it to her. Then I sit, trying to cover up my enormous legs with the dressing gown, and at the same time trying desperately to hold in my stomach.
‘I’ve tried you on your home number,’ she says, staring at me with a strange look in her eyes. ‘There never seems to be any answer.’
‘Lipsy and Robert work very hard. And in the evenings they tend to turn the phone off so it doesn’t wake Phoenix up.’
‘Ah, yes of course. Where is he? Can I see him?’
‘He’s asleep,’ I tell her. I don’t say if she can see him or not.
There’s a short, uncomfortable silence, and then she says, ‘It’s so good to see you, Stella. I’m sure I heard that you weren’t living here anymore, but I must have got that wrong …’
‘No. You got it right. I’m babysitting.’
‘Ah.’
I narrow my eyes. Seems like I didn’t imagine her surprise after all. ‘So, if you didn’t expect to find me here, why did you come round to have a word with me?’
‘Actually,’ she says with a disarming laugh, ‘I was hoping to talk to Lipsy.’
‘About?’
The word comes out harsher than I’d planned, and she jumps a little, then laughs again.
‘Oh, just stuff. But it can wait.’
I don’t think so. There can’t be many topics she has in common with Lipsy, and try as I might I can only think of one.
Paul Smart.
‘If it’s about Paul, I’d rather you talk to me,’ I tell her stiffly. ‘Lipsy has a lot on her plate right now and I don’t want her to be dragged into this.’
She looks off for a moment, as if finding it hard to think of the right words. I’m not fooled. She knows exactly what she wants to say, and I’m not looking forward to hearing it.
‘Yes,’ she says, sweetly, ‘you’re probably right. It is you I should be talking to.’ She takes a little sip of water, wrinkling up her pert nose as if it’s polluted.
I don’t respond. Let her sweat. Sporty girl like her, she should be used to it.
‘Paul’s asked me and Hannah to visit,’ she says eventually. ‘Hannah is really missing him, and I thought it might be good for her to spend Easter there. But it’s a long way for her to go on her own.’
I work it out in my head. ‘Hasn’t he been seeing her on his weekends?’
Sharon shakes her head. ‘He’s been too busy getting settled in. But he’s really keen to have her visit. And me too, of course …’
She tails off, but I can fill in the blanks. I think back to half-term and the way Sharon foisted herself on Paul and Hannah, and I wonder if she’s doing it again now.
Or maybe it’s Paul who’s instigating it.
The thought makes me feel completely sick.
I take a deep breath, then bend over quickly, worried she’ll see my stomach. Sharon must not find out about the baby. When Paul finally hears about it, it has to come from me.
‘Well, I hope you have a nice time, Sharon, but I really can’t imagine what business it is of mine. Or Lipsy’s, for that matter.’
‘No,’ she says vaguely, ‘it’s just that …’
And as she tails off again, looking out of the window with her perfect hair catching the light, I suddenly realise what’s going on here.
God, I am such an idiot sometimes.
‘You’ve come to make sure the coast is clear. You’ve come to find out if it’s really over between Paul and me so you can have a stab at him. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s what this is all about.’
She flinches, but soon recovers. Waving her hands as if to waft away her own crassness, she says, ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, Stella. But it would help me to know why you broke up with him. It might make it easier for him to move on, too. If he knew.’
Is that what he wants, I wonder? To move on? Not to reconcile or sort things out. I figured he’d still be waiting for me to respond to his letter – it’s taken me this long to get past the stuff he wrote in it, for one thing – but it’s only been a month.
I think about my own letter, half-finished in my bag. It’s what you’d call a work in progress – so far I’ve managed five words, and two of them are Dear Paul. The other three? I miss you. I guess it’s as good a way as any to begin.
But if he’s moving on, maybe I’m wasting my time. And if he’s moving on in the direction of Sharon, I’m definitely wasting my time.
‘Did he specifically ask you to go and visit him with Hannah?’ I have to know. I think back to how easily I accepted Sharon going along with them last time. Maybe I was wrong to be so trusting. Could it be that she’s always wanted him? It was Paul who ended it, after all, but she still chose to go on and have his baby. Without him.
Something the women in P
aul’s life seem to do a lot.
And then getting back in touch with him after all those years. Always round his flat, popping in with a form to sign for Hannah’s school or an invitation to a parents’ evening or to drop off some photos. Always wearing something skin-tight or super-short, hair and make-up just so, that brittle smile of hers fixed to her face like a mask.
Sharon smiles disarmingly and pats my hand. ‘You mustn’t get worked up about it, Stella. After all, you’ve had your shot at him. If he needs a bit of comforting … Well, let’s just say that even if he didn’t ask me outright, he sounded relieved when I offered to come up with Hannah. We’re staying for the whole of Easter. I didn’t have to twist his arm.’
I snatch my hand away and jump up. Kettle. Fill it. Give me something to do, time to think.
How can she sit there and look so smug?
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?’ I ask without turning around. ‘It’s only been a month or so.’
‘Are you saying you think you two might get back together?’ Her voice has hardened. I stare down at my hands for a moment. Nails bitten down to stumps, fingers white with tension. Then I turn and look at her, my hands on my hips, my expression tight.
‘He never talks about you, you know,’ she sneers. ‘I’ve asked him about what happened, but he just says it’s over. He says it was your decision and that’s that. In fact, I hope you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn here, but …’
For a moment I wonder why she’s stopped talking. She’s staring at something; her mouth is opening and closing but no words are coming out.
Which is a relief, frankly.
Until I realise what she’s staring at.
Ah.
‘Stella?’ She’s staring at my stomach. My beautiful bonny round bump, displayed to its full advantage and peeping out between the top of my knickers and the bottom of my vest top. I pull the dressing gown back over it and tie the belt more tightly. It is, of course, too late.
‘Are you …? Are you …?’
I’m tempted to make a joke of it. ‘I’ve been comforting myself with pies,’ I could say. Or, ‘It’s just really bad wind.’ But I don’t think she’d believe me. Annoyingly, I can feel my eyes tearing up again – what is it with these bloody hormones? I turn back to the kettle, and the noise as it comes to the boil drowns out whatever she says next.
The Family Trap Page 13
