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‘Jim it’s me again.’
‘I know. Listen, can I ring you back?’ he whispers. I hear a woman cough.
Oh brilliant, Annalisa’s there. I am phoning him to tell him I’m carrying his child, and his Italian F.B. is in his bed on one of her impromptu visits to London, almost definitely naked. I met her once, his gnocchi nookie, on one of her ‘romantic’ breaks to East Dulwich.
‘You should get togezzer with Tess, she is adorable!’ she apparently said to Jim afterwards. ‘You’re an English lost boy,’ she always says to him. (She means loser, but she never quite gets it right, and ‘lost boy’ sums him up so much better I always think.) I have nothing against her. I really couldn’t care less if she was in his bed four times a year, but now? ‘Christ Jim!!’ I want to say, but I can’t, because it’s not his fault. I mean I know it takes two to tango and all that, and that if I am pregnant (I am still hanging onto the fact this might all be a very large mistake), it’s his doing as much as mine, but I can’t start going all jealous wannabe girlfriend on him now. It’s just…stood here, his DNA fusing with mine, it’s in slightly bad taste, that’s all.
And so I say, ‘It’s really pretty important. I do need to speak to you. Now.’
‘OK, hang on,’ he says, and there’s a few seconds where he obviously puts his hand over the receiver and explains he has to take the call.
I can picture him now. He is getting out of bed, hair sticking up, skinny legs making for the door, holding his privates. He is slipping on his dressing gown, going into the kitchen and picking up the other phone.
‘So what’s wrong, hey?’
The concern in his voice makes me well up, my voice starts to wobble.
‘I am pregnant after all.’
Silence. He swallows.
‘What do you mean? You did a test, it was negative.’
‘I did another, it was positive.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There’s a cross.’
‘What sort of cross?’
‘A blue one.’
A pause. Just the sound of his breathing.
‘Are you sure you’ve read the instructions properly?’
‘Yes. I’m sure, I’m not that stupid.’
There’s another silence and then when he speaks again, there’s a tone in his voice I’ve never heard before.
‘Is it mine?’ he says softly. And as the tears finally fall, and I say, ‘Yes, yes, of course it’s bloody yours,’ I realize that the tone in his voice, was hope.
We arrange to meet outside the Tate Modern after work; I’ll bring the test so he can see it for himself. I put the phone down and walk back to the office, under a cloud, through a city sheathed in rain. I imagine that everyone I pass: a group of smokers huddled outside their office, a queue outside the post office, can see inside my womb, red and illuminated. And I have never felt so extraordinary in my entire life.
When I get in the lift for the third time today, who should step in behind me but Julia, my ridiculously glamorous friend from Journalism College, who is eight months pregnant herself. She’s features editor of Luxe now, having actually worked her way up rather than got to the first place that would have her and never moved again, so we often bump into each other like this and have some awkward conversation about how I should send her some features ideas, which of course I never get round to.
‘Hi,’ she says, but I’m not really listening, I’m too fixated on the words that bubble threateningly in my throat. ‘I’m pregnant too!’ I want to say. ‘Help! What do I do!?’ But I don’t obviously, that would be ludicrous. So instead I say, ‘Had a good week?’
‘Yeah, chilled out,’ she says, stroking her bump. ‘It’s all I can do to haul myself off the sofa these days. Fraser’s started calling me The Rock, because I’m so hard and big and immovable,’ she laughs. Then she says, ‘Oh God, don’t. My pelvic floor isn’t quite what it was.’ Then she laughs again and I do too on some very obvious delayed reaction.
I imagine she can sense it, smell the fact I’m pregnant. They say pregnant women have heightened senses. I know any minute now she’s going to say it and it’s making me nauseous with anticipation. I run through what I’m going to say in my head, how I’m going to explain.
‘Tess?’ she says eventually.
‘Yes?’ I gasp. Oh shit, here it comes.
‘I said have you?’
‘Have I what?’
‘Have you got anything planned for the weekend?’
‘Oh right! I say, letting out an almighty sigh of relief. She’s frowning at me now.
‘Yeah, quiet.’
I can sense her looking at me, but I stare at the floor. She giggles.
‘You’ve met someone haven’t you?’ she whispers in my ear. ‘Go on, I can tell by that face.’
I don’t stop staring at the floor.
‘Oh no! I know! You’ve finally got it together with Jim – that’s it isn’t?’
‘No!’ I snap, making her start back ever so slightly.
‘Oh right. It’s just, you were looking kind of shifty that’s all.’
Thankfully it’s then that we get to the eighth floor and Julia waddles out as I mumble something about having a hangover.
I rush to my desk, the email’s there. I didn’t send it. Thank fuck I didn’t send it!
To: LCane@blackberry.co.uk
Yes I’m free, if I haven’t been taken in by a polyamorous cult by then.
(Or if I haven’t been impregnated.)
I press delete.
By some miracle, I make it through the rest of the day, the sun sinking behind St Paul’s by the time I meet Jim outside the Tate.
He’s sitting on one of the black rubber benches when I get there. His gangly legs are stretched out in front of him and he’s carrying a bunch of freesias with foil wrapped around the stems.
He looks up when I say hello and squints into the light.
‘These are for you,’ he says holding out the flowers. They smell amazing. ‘I’m sorry about before.’
‘About what?’
‘Er, for being in bed with Annalisa when you rang to tell me you’re pregnant? I feel awful.’
‘Don’t worry, honestly I’ve forgotten already.’ A picture of her, nude, black hair flowing all over the pillow pops into my head. ‘Was she naked?’ I ask.
‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ says Jim. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I have, I have.’
I sit down beside him. The evening sun flickers like embers on the river in front of us. ‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Look at this.’
I undo the front pocket of my bag, take out the test and hand it to him. He unwraps it, looks at me, squeezes my thigh, then holds up the test to the light.
‘Mmm. There’s definitely a cross there isn’t there?’
‘Really? Oh God, I was hoping…Do you think?’
The reality hits me, there’s no getting away from this now. I burst into tears, tears of pure shock.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I just don’t know what to do. I cannot believe this is happening, what are we going to do?’
Jim rubs his face with his hands then puts an arm around me and we don’t say anything for a while, just stare blankly at the water. Then Jim says, ‘I don’t know. But whatever happens it will be alright, OK? I promise. Whatever happens, I’m here for you.’
In reality there never really was any question of whether I was going to keep the baby.
‘It’s your decision,’ Jim said, as we walked across Millennium Bridge. ‘I’ll stand by you whatever you decide.’
It felt like I was alone at that moment. As if the glittering towers at either side, the Gherkin glowing orange like a burning rocket and the river below us were holding their breath, awaiting my decision.
But the truth was, I had already made my decision. The decision was made the moment the blue cross emerged. If I was eighteen, I wouldn’t think twice, I’d have an abortion. But I am twenty-eight, a grown woman and besides, the way things are going lately – Laurence showing up out of the blue and now this, the second earth-shattering event of the year and it’s only April – half of me wonders whether life is trying to tell me something and I should sit up and listen.
‘I want to keep it,’ I say. And even though I mean it, I still want to gobble all the words back again as soon as they’ve left my mouth.
‘You do?’ Jim stops, turns and looks at me. He looks…what is that look?…delighted?! And for a fleeting second, I think what a brilliant dad he’ll make and maybe, just maybe this isn’t so terrible after all.
‘Yes,’ I say looking at him. ‘It’s scary as hell but I do. I mean, it’s not sunk in yet, and this isn’t conventional. Actually it’s utterly mental! But…’
But what? I think.
‘But to have an abortion would feel like the coward’s way out,’ I say, and for that moment I really believe what I’m saying. ‘It would feel like not choosing life. Not just literally in terms of the baby, but for me, for us.’
Jim gets hold of my hand. We’re right on top of the bridge now and the wind is blowing our hair sideways, making our eyes sting.
‘I agree, Tess, it’s alright, I agree…’ He says beaming at me now.
‘And the main reason,’ I add.
‘What’s the main reason?’ Jim asks.
‘In the future, the years to come, I couldn’t deal with what could have happened, you know?’
‘I know, I know.’
‘I couldn’t deal with what might have been.’
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_94c17fe1-3083-569f-9c0e-d130ea4e504b)
‘I knew as soon as I set eyes on Mac that I was in big trouble. At fifty to my twenty-six, he was way too old. But he was so bloody sexy – a big hairy bear on wheels, how could I resist that? People stare when he’s pushing Layla down the street in his leathers and old enough to be her grandad but I don’t care. He’s not what I expected, but he’s a kitten. The most loving dad Layla could ever wish for.’
Georgie, 27, Brighton
I could tell Jim was secretly delighted by his own virility – by the fact that he shot and he scored. But I also knew, despite his usual optimism, that he was freaked out beyond belief.
The days that followed were totally surreal.We were both – we still are – in a state of shock and took to calling each other sometimes three times a day with phone calls that went a bit this.
Me: Hello
Jim: Hello
Long pause
Jim: How are you feeling?
Me: Weird. How are you feeling?
Jim: Yeah, weird
Long pause
Jim: I’m going to be a dad, I can’t believe it
Me: You can’t believe it!? Try being the one who’s got to carry the thing for nine months
Jim: I thought I wouldn’t be able to have kids though, that I’d have killed all my strong swimmers with all the booze I’ve quaffed
(See, I was so right about the virility thing)
Me: Well you can and it’s true
Jim: I know, I just can’t believe it though, it’s like it’s happening to someone else
That particular line was not that encouraging. And I told him so.
We’re on the fourth floor of Borders on Oxford Street in the Parenting section.
I need to say that again.
We’re on the fourth floor of Borders on Oxford Street in the Parenting section.
Nope. Still sounds ridiculous.
