by Marian Keyes
‘Hugh might have given me time off, but I’m not sure I gave it to myself. This sounds mad but I don’t approve of my behaviour with you. It’s called cognitive dissonance –’
‘You read about it in Psychologies?’ A little smile.
‘Yes. So there’s that. I also feel sad. About lots of things. About the young woman. She’s had a confusing life, in terms of whom she should love, and being pregnant is terrifying for her. And she’s particularly close to my – to Hugh and I’m sad he’s not here for her.’
Josh puts his hand over mine but I whip it away, he can’t be touching me in public. Apologetically, I say, ‘Sod’s law, Marcia’s best friend will walk in.’ But I feel cold and shaky and I’d love him to hold me. ‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ I say. ‘And you’re not to read anything into it. Okay? Did you cancel the room, the hotel room, like?’
‘No.’
‘Please don’t expect anything because I totally couldn’t, but can we go up there?’
Fully clothed, we lie on the bed, curled into each other. He strokes my hair while I talk in fits and starts, relating inconsequential stuff, Mum’s vlogging adventures, Kiara’s idealism, the beauty of Jackson’s long, dark hair. I lapse into silence for a while, then remember something else.
As time passes, calm steals over me and my sorrow lifts away. ‘Tell me things about you, Josh. Do you write stuff? Film scripts?’
He pauses before he answers. ‘Not any more.’
‘You used to?’ Almost absently, I begin playing with the front of his jeans, sliding my fingertips up and down the sharply creased fold of denim that covers his fly.
‘Yeah, when I was – Amy, what are you doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please stop.’
‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’
‘But –’
‘Can we just see what happens?’ I whisper.
‘No.’ He catches my wrist and holds my hand away from him.
‘Please. Please, Josh. I want to do this.’
‘It doesn’t feel right.’
‘It does to me.’
This time is entirely different. It’s tender, gentle and achingly lovely. When he enters me and begins his slow circles, silent tears spill from my eyes. Horrified, he freezes and I say, ‘Please don’t stop, Josh. I want this.’
He’s rearing back and out. ‘No.’
With my hands, with my legs, I clamp him to me. ‘Please. Stay in me, stay with me.’
‘But it’s making you sad.’
‘It’s making me less sad.’
‘It doesn’t look that way.’
I manage a watery laugh.
‘Are you sure?’ he whispers.
I cry through it and he kisses my tears, and he says, ‘Amy. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Amy.’
80
Wednesday, 30 November, day seventy-nine
On Wednesday night when I get home from London, Sofie is even more peaky and pinched-looking than she was two days ago.
‘I can’t eat until it’s all over,’ she repeats.
Panicking, I make a rash threat. ‘If you don’t eat I won’t let you go to England.’
‘If you won’t let me go, I’m never eating again.’
‘Sofie!’
‘You don’t understand, Amy – I’d rather die than have a baby.’
‘You’re not having a baby. I swear to you on everyone I love that you’re not.’
She shakes her head. ‘The flight could be cancelled, the clinic could burn down, the anti-choice people might kidnap me –’
‘Sofie, that’s mad talk! How about if I made you some soup?’
‘Soup is food.’
‘Milkshake?’
‘Food.’
‘What about rehydration salts?’
‘Oh-kay.’
Well, it was something.
Derry won’t be in Ulan Bator next week, but she’ll be in some other far-flung location so she won’t be able to pick Sofie up from the clinic.
‘Who do you trust?’ she asks.
‘Easy. Alastair. But he wouldn’t be right for this.’
And as Steevie and Jana still aren’t talking to me, and Petra never gets time away from the twins, my options are narrowing.
‘What about Maura?’ Derry suggests. ‘Siena? Jackson?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No. No.’
‘Jackson’s mum?’
‘She can’t.’ She has a special-needs kid, who needs a lot of care.
‘Urzula?’
‘No fucking way!’ That makes both Derry and me laugh.
Doubtfully Derry says, ‘Joe?’
I sigh. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think he’ll lie through his teeth to get out of it. If he, by some unlikely chance, commits to it, he’ll let you down on the day. You’d be a wreck, waiting for him to pull some stunt.’
She’s absolutely right, on all counts.
‘Derry,’ I say. ‘There might be another route. Sofie, she literally isn’t eating. She says she won’t until this is fixed. So could she be said to be suicidal? Because the law says that if a woman is suicidal, she can have an abortion.’
Derry shuts me down fast. ‘They’d keep getting more and more opinions and by the time they’d decreed Sofie really was suicidal, the foetus would be starting university.’
‘Or Sofie would have jumped off a bridge.’
‘Or simply starved herself to death.’
‘Right.’ Well, it had been worth a try.
‘It’ll have to be Neeve,’ Derry says. ‘There’s no one else.’
‘She’s too young.’
‘She’s twenty-two. And there’s no other choice.’
She’s right.
‘And Kiara can stay with Joe,’ Derry says. ‘It’s the least that useless fucker can do.’
‘What’s going on?’ It’s Thursday morning and Alastair has phoned me from London.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Thamy says you’re out of the office on another mysterious skite this afternoon. And you’re taking Monday off.’
‘Thamy rang you? Rang you in London?’
‘And you can’t shout at her. I made her tell me. What the hell is going on, Amy? I mean, I know you’re riding Josh Rowan’s lights out. What can be more exciting than that?’
‘You – you fucking nosy-poke!’
‘I tell you everything!’
‘But this isn’t my secret to tell.’
‘Oh!’ He gets it now, that this isn’t some jokey thing.
‘But, lookit, I might have to tell you anyway. Sofie is pregnant.’
‘Oh, shite.’ Then, ‘Why might you have had to tell me anyway?’
I almost laugh. ‘She hasn’t fingered you as the baby daddy, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
‘That’s one thing I need never fear. I respect you so much that I’d never do any of your family.’
‘Except maybe my hot sister.’
‘Except maybe her. Yes. And Lilian O’Connell, mother of five, how is sh–’
‘So my skite this afternoon,’ I talk over him, ‘is taking Sofie to a counsellor.’
‘I am genuinely sorry, Amy, for calling it so wrong and for what you and Sofie are going through.’
‘She’s having an abortion in London on Tuesday.’
‘Isn’t that the day of your big Tabitha Wilton thing?’
‘Yeah. So I might need you, Alastair.’
‘I’m there,’ he says. ‘Just tell me when you need me.’
81
Monday, 5 December, day eighty-four
‘Next stop is ours,’ I say.
Sofie, Neeve and I stand up immediately, reaching for our wheely cases, trying to keep our balance on the wobbly train. We didn’t need to get up for at least another three minutes but we’re doing everything ahead of time. We’re almost three hours too early for the appointment, but better to be early than late.
The clinic is in deepest
Wimbledon and we kill time in a café that reminds me of the one the losing team in The Apprentice go to. It hurts my heart to see Sofie so young and lost. This wouldn’t be easy, whatever country it was happening in, but it’s worse that she had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch a flight and that she’s having to make her way around a foreign city.
There’s something I’ve back-and-forthed on: I don’t want to load Sofie up with shame, but she needs to be protected.
I swallow. ‘We should use a fake address. We don’t want this to come back on Sofie.’
‘This is bullshit,’ Neeve says.
‘Please, Neeve, not everyone in Ireland is like us. People judge.’
Her tone is placatory. ‘It’s okay, Mum, I get it. I’m just pissed off that it has to be this way.’
The clinic is in a big, ugly house on a busy road. The entrance is around the side. Sofie is visibly shaking and even Neeve looks fearful.
We say our hellos, and a quick glance around the room establishes that there are about eight other clusters of people, different ages and ethnicities. Maybe some of them are Irish, too. No one makes eye contact.
My ‘address’ is an amalgam of those of friends and family. Clues are everywhere and Derren Brown would crack the real one in thirty seconds flat. If only I’d had the foresight to use a fake surname when I made the booking. Medical records are supposed to be confidential, but if someone raided this clinic and published all the details to shame the women and …
God. My hands are sweaty.
‘Y’okay?’ Neeve asks.
‘Yep, sure, yes, certainly!’
‘Sofie?’ A woman in a dress I recognize from Cos has poked her head around a door. ‘Come through.’
‘Can Amy, I mean my mum, come too?’ Sofie asks.
‘No, hon, we’re going to have a chat. It needs to be private.’
Another counsellor. I’m glad. The more counsellors the better, as far as I’m concerned.
Sofie is gone for about an hour and no sooner is she back than a woman in scrubs takes her for her scan. This time I’m allowed to go with her.
‘You’re almost ten weeks, Sofie, just in time.’ She gives Sofie two pills to swallow with a cup of water. ‘If you vomit within an hour of taking these, you must come back.’
Seeing as Sofie hasn’t eaten in days, what are the chances of her vomiting? Very low, I can only hope.
‘You might start cramping tonight or tomorrow morning, but you might not. If you do, take ibuprofen, nothing else. Be back here tomorrow at two p.m. You’ll be here for about three hours and you must have someone to take you home.’
I say, ‘My daughter, er, my other daughter, Neeve, the one in the waiting room, will come with Sofie tomorrow and stay to take her home.’ But I’m losing my nerve. Surely this is too frightening to burden Neeve with.
I know that other young women do this without the likes of me being involved. I know that when I was twenty-two I had a lot more responsibility than Neeve will have tomorrow. And yet I feel as if I’m abdicating my parental duties.
Should I ring Alastair and ask him to come to London tomorrow and cover Tabitha Wilton’s launch?
Before we leave the clinic, it’s time to cough up. Jackson’s parents said they’ll pay half the costs but we’re waiting until I have a final figure. Meanwhile, I very much regret all the pointless dresses I’ve been buying and hope that my credit card doesn’t explode.
But the amount is less than I’d expected. ‘Is this only part of the cost?’
The woman says, ‘We have a lower rate for those coming from Ireland. Because it’s already costing you so much.’
‘Thank you.’ It’s decent of them, extremely so. And yet I feel ashamed that a foreign country is helping us because our own country won’t.
En route to Druzie’s, Sofie perks up considerably.
‘Please will you eat something this evening?’ I ask her.
‘Yes!’ Then, ‘You don’t think that if I eat something I’m tempting Fate and something will go horribly wrong and –’
‘Nothing will go wrong.’
We stop off at Tesco and buy doughnuts, fresh pineapple and other delicacies, and once the girls are installed in front of Netflix, I call Alastair.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good, fine, okay. I think. Just, I’m sort of losing my nerve about tomorrow. About leaving Neeve to deal with it all.’
Without even a breath, he says, ‘I’ll get the first flight to London in the morning. I can work just as easily from there as here.’
‘Really? But where will you stay tomorrow night? We’ll be here in Druzie’s.’
‘I’ll get a hotel.’
‘You could sleep on the couch?’
‘I’ll get a hotel.’ Then, ‘It’s no problem, Amy. None. And it’ll give you the choice about what to do.’
‘You’re a good man, Alastair Donovan.’
Sofie shares my bed and I skim the surface of sleep all night, never fully under in case something goes wrong and she needs me. But morning comes and all seems fine.
‘No cramps?’ I ask.
‘No. I guess now they won’t start until the second pills.’
I’m still undecided about what to do today. The notion of abandoning Tabitha Wilton and the charity to Alastair feels wrong, even though Alastair would have everyone charmed in four seconds flat.
However, I’m not sure how Sofie would feel about a man picking her up from the clinic. She knows Alastair vaguely, and seems well disposed to him, but she’s at her most vulnerable. The best thing is to have him as back-up.
But now I’m anxious about undermining Neeve so I grab her while Sofie is in the shower. ‘Neeve, you know Alastair I work with? He’s in London today. If anything goes … happens, you’re to call him.’
‘Okay. You know, this … it’s a bit scary.’ Quickly she adds, ‘Like, it’s cool, I can do it, I’m totally down with it. But good to know that if anything … Yeah. Thanks, Mum.’
Grand. I ring Alastair and ask him to be standing by. It’s a huge relief to know that Neeve and Sofie aren’t doing this alone.
82
Tuesday, 6 December, day eighty-five
At twelve o’clock, the taxi arrives for Neeve and Sofie. Then I catch a tube to the Jade, a small, pretty, slightly shabby hotel near Goodge Street, more expensive than it looks. Finding the right venue for this event has been, frankly, a bloody nightmare. As it’s being thrown by a charity, it can’t look ostentatious, but because I need the media onside, it can’t be too mingy either. This means there’s wine but no Prosecco, Gruyère bites but no kobe mini-burgers.
The set-up has just begun when I arrive. Over the weekend, I had the brainwave of having a pick ’n’ mix sweet stand – I thought it might send the subliminal message that Tabitha was sweet (which she so isn’t). But now, looking at the big clear plastic bags of foamy bananas and fizzy cola bottles, I’m wondering if it looks frivolous, if everything has been disastrously misjudged.
The cloakroom is geared up for a hundred people – Tabitha Wilton is such a controversial figure, the media turnout will be high.
But the most important thing is that the food and drink comes thick and fast. ‘Don’t pace things,’ I tell the staff. ‘This isn’t a civilized crowd. This is the press.’
The official start time is five o’clock, but at seventeen minutes to the hour, the first hack shows. Followed by three more right behind her.
‘It’s showtime,’ I mutter in Tabitha’s ear, and start steering her around the fast-filling function room, introducing her to journalist after journalist, keeping her on message, even as she’s asked questions likely to rile.
For a while I actually forget about Sofie. Then I see a text from Neeve: All good. On our way back now. And I feel such a wave of emotion – relief and an odd sorrow – that I almost miss Tabitha giving an arsey answer to a man from the Telegraph.
At six thirty, when the event is meant to finish,
the place is heaving and everyone is jarred. The waiters have stopped serving wine, which normally gets rid of people sharpish.
But we have a problem: the pick ’n’ mix is a massive hit. There are crowds around the stand, stretching over each other, red-faced and happy, filling blue-and-white-striped paper bags with wine gums and jelly fried eggs. I wish to God they’d all just feck off home, instead of standing there, joyously recalling childhood memories.
‘Cherry lips!’
‘Apple rings!’
‘How much are the penny sweets?’
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha! We used to say that to the man in the shop! Did you say it too? Ha-ha-ha-ha!’
It’s almost eight o’clock by the time I get rid of the last guest and haul myself into a taxi. I’m leaden with tiredness, my face hurts from smiling politely, and as I get closer to Druzie’s, my stomach begins to burn with anxiety. Will everything be okay? Will Sofie ever recover from this?
Neeve lets me into the flat.
‘Well?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘She’s good.’
Sofie is in bed, curled into a ball. She’s paler than I’ve ever seen her and it seems a struggle for her to sit up. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘Relieved.’ She bursts into tears. ‘Oh, Amy, I’m so relieved. I’m not afraid any more. Thank you, Amy, thank you.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s like bad period pains, but I don’t care.’ She sobs and sobs and sobs. ‘I’m so glad, I’m so thankful. Now I’m just me again and I’m so happy, I’m so happy, I feel like I’ll never be sad again. The relief, Amy. I couldn’t bring another person like me into the world. And I’m never, ever having sex again.’
We’ll see how long that lasts.
We lie on the bed and I wrap myself around her, holding the hot-water bottle to her stomach, drifting towards sleep.
Just before I tumble down into the delicious nothing, Sofie murmurs, ‘I wish Dad was here.’
83
Wednesday, 7 December, day eighty-six
At Heathrow, we round the corner to queue for security – and oh, no! There are dozens and dozens of people, corralled into long, snaking lines, travelling off into the distance, then doubling back on themselves.
