‘Darling, you can’t possibly come with me. You look awful.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered.
‘I don’t mean that horribly,’ he assured me, ‘but I can see you’re not feeling fab. Come into the lounge. Get those feet up and I’ll make you a ginger tea before I go.’
He was all concern now, leading me out of the bathroom, into the open-plan kitchen-living area. My eyes widened slightly at the change in the flat’s appearance. What had once been a chic and minimalist bachelor pad now looked like it had been invaded by several branches of Mothercare. Mum was the culprit. She wasn’t Nick’s biggest fan, but once she’d known a baby was on the way, she’d decided to make the best of the situation. Her feelings might only be lukewarm for Nick, but she was determined her grandchild would be the most loved baby ever and was revving up to be a besotted grandma.
I worked my way through the obstacle course. So far, we’d amassed a cot, boxed-up playpen, a pram that converted into so many different things the manual would have to accompany me wherever we went, several large boxes of flat-pack nursery furniture and bagful after bagful of baby clothes. I had no idea how we were going to fit all this into the small second bedroom. Currently it was Nick’s office, and only just about accommodated a small desk and filing cabinet.
I flopped down on the sofa, trying to ignore the nausea and not dry heave in front of my partner.
‘What time will you be back?’ I asked, as Nick busied himself with the kettle and rifled through an assortment of fancy teas that I never usually drank, but which I was now steadily working my way through. There were teas to help you relax, detox, wind down, or perk up, depending on one’s required mood. None of them seemed to be working for me, but I suspected that was down to my mismanagement of my life, which was full of endless aggravation. I was either dealing with Nick’s daughters’ contempt, or my parents’ anxiety, but also, and worst of all, the silent anger emanating from a man who had so obviously felt boxed into a corner. After Nick had finally calmed down about the pregnancy news, he’d given assurances of wanting to be with me and our child. Nonetheless I knew he was festering with resentment.
Perhaps I would have coped better if I’d felt better, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to this pregnancy nausea. My main diet consisted of ginger biscuits and tea whilst prostrate on the sofa. My reading tastes had changed too. Once I’d endlessly devoured trashy novels, but now I avidly read mother and child magazines, thumbing through glossy pics of expectant mothers looking rosy-cheeked and dewy-eyed as they bloomed away. Unlike me. I looked washed-out and knackered, and the only blooming going on was of the blooming awful variety.
‘Here,’ said Nick, passing me the tea.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and sipped gratefully.
‘So,’ Nick raised his eyebrows at me, ‘you won’t be joining me after all.’
‘No, best not. You’re right. I’d only be a wallflower, and there’s nothing worse than a wilting wallflower at that. You go. Give Tod and Jackie my apologies and have a nice time.’
‘Sure.’ He bent down and pecked me on the cheek in the same manner as one might dutifully kiss an aged aunt. ‘Here,’ he said, passing me one of my expectant mum magazines. ‘You can have a flick through whilst enjoying your tea.’
‘Thanks, I’ve not read this one.’
‘Right,’ he said, gathering up his jacket hanging off the back of a chair. Even chairs were doubling up as wardrobes since I’d moved in. The apartment wasn’t generous with closet space. ‘Don’t wait up.’
Seconds later, the flat’s main door clicked shut. I was on my own. I took another sip of tea and began skimming through the magazine pausing to read, with interest, an article entitled ‘Sex During Pregnancy’. Really? Did anyone honestly have sex in pregnancy? I’d imagined nobody would particularly feel like it. I certainly didn’t. The last thing I wanted was a tongue landing in my mouth when I was gagging. Not that it would happen right now. There had been no invitations from Nick to participate in nookie, so absolutely nothing was going on under the duvet. In fact… I paused to remember the last time we’d done anything other than snuggle, spoon or cuddle. It had all ground to a halt pretty much since moving into the flat. There had been the briefest brushes of lips on cheeks, like the one delivered earlier as he’d said goodbye. But no passionate kisses. Nick had been honest and told me it wasn’t personal, but he didn’t find expectant women attractive. But then again, I could see where he was coming from. Lying on the sofa impersonating a beached whale was not a pretty sight. It wasn’t just my stomach that was swollen. My ankles were accessorising nicely, folding neatly over my shoes, and my face looked permanently bloated. The antenatal nurse had told me it was fluid retention and would go after the birth.
Despite all these inconveniences, I loved my bump. My hand rested upon it now, stroking it tenderly. Nothing was more pleasurable than lying in the tub and watching a tiny fist or foot shoot out, making my tummy shift like a human sand dune. I took another sip of tea and continued reading, boggling slightly at one expectant mum’s under-the-cover pregnancy tale.
* * *
Dale absolutely loves me when I’m pregnant, so much so that he jokingly says he’s going to keep me in the Pudding Club until I hit the menopause, ha ha ha! He likes running his fingers through my hair, which, thanks to all those surging hormones, is always lusciously thick and shiny. More than anything though, Dale adores my boobs. Pregnancy always makes them double in size. I’m a big girl anyway, but the minute those twin lines on the pregnancy tester turn blue, my chest gets so massive it makes Katie Price’s look like two thimbles on a tablecloth. Sex in pregnancy can be very comfortable if you lay back on lots of cushions and let your partner concentrate on the bit of you that is going to give you both the most pleasure. Breasts easily fit into this category. To spice things up, Dale’s favourite is bringing a can of whippy cream into the bedroom. The sexiest thing in the world is having your man transform your twin peaks into cream turrets and then lick it all off. It’s good to experiment too. Eton Mess works well, although the meringue’s sugar makes things a bit sticky…
* * *
I took another sip of tea and cogitated. Perhaps this was where I was going wrong. Nick wasn’t a big fan of cream, but he liked berries well enough. Maybe, instead of retiring to bed in an outsized pair of pants and a nightie in extra-extra-large, perhaps I should whip everything off to reveal some strawberries impaled on my nipples. I was just wondering if raspberries might work better, when the telephone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Hattie. How are you doing?’
It was Nick’s brother, Tod.
‘Hi, I’m fine,’ I said, and then mentally smacked myself. If Tod thought I was okay he’d wonder why I wasn’t coming over this evening. ‘Actually, I’m a bit under the weather. But I don’t like complaining.’
‘Ah, Jackie was the same when she had our boys. It will be worth it in the end, you’ll see.’
I smiled at his words. ‘I don’t doubt it. Anyway, what can I do for you, Tod?’
‘Much as I love hearing your dulcet tones, Hattie, I’m actually after Nick.’
‘Nick?’ I repeated, surprised. ‘But he should be with you.’
‘Oh?’ Tod sounded confused.
‘Your drinks party.’
There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line.
‘Isn’t it tonight?’ I prompted.
‘Ah, the drinks party,’ said Tod.
Even though he wasn’t in the same room as me, I could sense his brain whirring.
‘Yes, how silly of me,’ he continued, giving a forced laugh. ‘I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. Oh, hang on, someone’s at the door, must be some guests arriving. Okay, no worries, Hattie. I was only calling Nick for a chat, but I’ll be able to natter to him all night now. Fantastic!’
‘Er, yes,’ I said, doubtfully.
‘Bye then!’ said Tod, and with that the line abruptly disconnected
.
I put the handset slowly down and stared blankly at the page I’d been reading. I was fully aware that my hormones were all over the place, but I wasn’t so emotionally addled as to realise that Tod knew nothing about the drinks party he was supposedly hosting, and that Nick must have lied about where he was going this evening. I had a feeling that I was going to need a lot more than whippy cream to fix this.
Forty-Nine
It was long after midnight when Nick crept into the flat. He stumbled around in the dark, believing me to be asleep, stubbed his toe on the end of the bed and emitted a muffled oath. I lay there, inert, as he slid under the duvet. He settled on his side, facing away from me. I turned over.
‘Who is she, Nick?’ I said, addressing his back.
In the gloom, I saw the mound next to me stiffen.
‘What are you talking about?’ came his cautious reply.
‘I’m talking about your fancy woman,’ I said, suddenly sounding like an actress out of EastEnders. Honestly, Hattie, who says ‘fancy woman’ these days?
‘Eh?’
‘You ’eard.’ Oh God, I was even talking like her now.
Earlier, after putting down the phone to Tod, I’d rehearsed this moment over and over. In my head I’d planned to question Nick in a cool and calm manner. A bit like an icy female detective inspector questioning a suspect. My tone would be measured. Confident. But steely too. Nick would instantly crack and deliver a sobbing confession. However, in the reality of the moment, my BAFTA-nomination line of questioning had dwindled to a one-liner spat out as a harsh accusation worthy of Kat Slater.
The bedside lamp flicked on.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Nick demanded, shifting on the mattress so he could peer at me. His brown eyes were full of anger as they bored into mine, which were both screwed-up against the sudden light and attractively bloodshot from bawling.
‘Where’ve you bin… been?’ I cried.
‘At Tod’s,’ Nick enunciated, as if talking to a rather dense person.
‘Liar!’ I shoved him hard in the chest.
‘I can’t believe you’re being so ridiculous,’ Nick hissed. ‘You know perfectly well I went to Tod and Jackie’s drinks party. You were even thinking of coming with me, remember?’
‘Except Tod rang about an hour after you left asking to speak to you. He seemed very surprised to hear he was playing host to a large gathering of friends, but quickly recovered himself and covered for your lies. Why weren’t you with him when he called?’
‘Because,’ said Nick through clenched teeth, ‘I popped in on Mum first. In case you’d failed to notice, she’s a widow, hasn’t been very well lately, and appreciates the occasional visit.’
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. There was an element of truth in Nick’s explanation. Doreen had recently had a series of chest pains that had frightened her, but other than being diagnosed with mild angina and prescribed beta blockers, she’d been given a clean bill of health.
‘I asked Mum if she fancied coming along with me, but she declined, saying she wanted a quiet evening in front of Strictly with dear Brucie and darling Len.’
It was true that Doreen adored Strictly Come Dancing, enjoying the late Bruce Forsyth’s banter, and had a soft spot for Len who reminded her of her dearly departed husband.
‘Right,’ I said, finding my voice. That still didn’t explain Tod’s apparent surprise that he was having a bit of a do, but then again, I hadn’t physically seen Tod in person to bear witness to his astonishment. Had I simply imagined his reaction? I was no longer sure.
‘What was that, Hattie?’ said Nick sarcastically, theatrically cupping one hand around his ear.
I frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Apology accepted,’ he said, eyes flashing.
It was a look I’d seen many a time in the workplace. A look that dared a colleague or tricky client to question him further.
‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like some kip. I’m picking up Lucinda and Charlotte at nine in the morning.’
My stomach lurched. Oh no. What ‘fun’ day had Nick got lined up for us all?
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I know you’re not up for cycling around Bedgebury’s cycle trail or taking them swimming afterwards.’
‘N-no, quite,’ I said, trying not to sound relieved at being exempted. ‘Quite tiring for you though,’ I said sympathetically, attempting to claw my way back into his good books.
‘Yes, which is why their mother is coming along too.’
‘Amanda?’
‘I do believe that is the name of the girls’ mother,’ Nick retorted.
‘B-but you don’t usually do things with Amanda,’ I said, my heart starting to pound uncomfortably. What was going on here? Happy Families Part Two?
‘Amanda is currently between boyfriends, and the girls asked if their mum could come along. Is it a problem?’ he asked, tetchiness evident in his voice.
‘No, of course not,’ I said, determined to be relaxed about it. After all, Nick was hardly likely to be getting his leg over with Amanda in front of two young girls now, was he?
And why would he anyway, Hattie? sneered the little voice in my head. You know what your problem is, don’t you? You’re unreasonably distrustful. Pregnant and paranoid. What a combination.
Oh shut up, I mentally snapped back.
Talking to yourself too. It’s meant to be the first sign of madness.
‘Right,’ I said crisply, flicking the duvet up and over my shoulders as I eased myself back against the pillows. ‘Best switch that light off and get some shut-eye.’
Seconds later the bedroom was once again plunged into darkness. The mattress rocked under me as Nick walloped his pillows, plumping them up before flopping heavily against them. At length he spoke.
‘There’s nothing going on between Amanda and me,’ he said gruffly.
‘I didn’t say there was,’ I protested.
‘No, but I know how your mind works. That ship has long sailed. Understand?’
His tone was gentler now. Conciliatory. I nodded, not that he could see.
‘Of course,’ I said, making my tone light, even though I felt as if an invisible hand were squeezing my larynx.
‘Good. Friends again?’
‘Yes,’ I said, as my eyes brimmed without warning. Bugger these pregnancy hormones. Heightened sensitivity and over-reaction seemed to be the norm, but it was very draining.
‘Night, sweetheart,’ he said. Moments later a warm hand reached out and patted me on the bottom, a bit like a master affectionately patting a faithful old dog on the rump.
‘Night,’ I replied. I lay there, eyes leaking tears that slid sideways into my pillow, soaking my hair and making strands of it stick damply against my cheeks. Within minutes Nick was gently snoring. I remained awake, getting up twice in forty-five minutes to relieve my bladder, thanks to the baby lying on it. And all the while the little voice in my head taunted me with its incessant chatter.
Despite Nick’s reassurances, I felt edgy and badly out of sorts.
Fifty
On the work scene, I soldiered on until my seventh month of pregnancy. There was nothing in the Employer’s Handbook to say I couldn’t continue being Nick’s secretary, and anyway, thanks to Amanda’s divorce settlement for Charlotte and Lucinda, we needed every penny. I left the office laden with flowers, a ton of baby paraphernalia and enough teddies to fill a toy shop. I dumped everything in the flat’s kitchen-lounge and looked around me in dismay.
‘Perhaps you can spend the next few weeks getting the baby’s nursery organised,’ suggested Nick.
‘Yes, I’m sure bending down and putting together flat-pack furniture will be a doddle,’ I said tartly. These days my tone always seemed sour, possibly aggravated by the endless indigestion and acid reflux.
Nick got as far as busting open one cardboard carton, and spreading the contents over the last remaining bit of flo
or space. Five minutes later, he irritably abandoned it.
‘Putting furniture together isn’t really my thing,’ he said, scratching his head at the unfathomable instructions. ‘Can’t you ask your father to come over and help you? After all, it was him and your mum that bought most of this stuff.’
‘Fine,’ I snapped.
In truth, I was reluctant to ask for their help. Since getting together with Nick, I’d felt a need to justify this relationship to my parents. Consequently, I’d rather overdone it, showcasing him as some sort of knight in shining armour who’d crashed into both my life and my heart, so attentive I could hardly breathe without him regularly taking my pulse and checking I wasn’t having the vapours. My parents also believed I was a popular step-mother figure in a newly blended family, and that my influence with the girls had been so magical both Lucinda and Charlotte had morphed into two sweet little girls who adored me. My mother was keen to practise her granny-to-be skills and kept badgering me to set a date to meet ‘Nick’s little darlings’, which brought me out in a cold sweat whenever the subject arose.
Antenatal appointments were running closer together at this stage of the pregnancy. I made friends with a group of other first-time expectant mums. One of them suggested we start up a coffee morning club and keep it going once the babies were born. The idea was to support each other and encourage our newborns’ social skills from the off. I was both thrilled and horrified – thrilled to be invited into their homes to share our pregnancy experiences, but horrified at the thought of reciprocating the invitation. Where would they sit? I had visions of pointing to the kitchen worktops and saying, ‘If you could all squeeze in somewhere between the kettle and condiment jars. Ah, perfect!’
I shoved the thought away as I now set off to my new friend Melanie’s house, which was on a small development just around the corner. She greeted me like a long-lost friend. Funny how you can bond with some women so quickly. We’d done just that as I’d mindlessly scratched a tummy rash in the doctor’s waiting room. Melanie had been shifting uneasily on one of the plastic chairs. Catching my eye, she’d grinned.
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