скачать книгу бесплатно
This was the weekend I was to spill the beans, but so far, it’s not looking good. When things don’t work out between Gina and men, which tends to be the norm rather than the exception, there’s a set process, a series of ‘modes’ to be gone through, each one having to be exhausted before the next can begin.
Up until this point, for example, she’s been very much in hurt mode. I got home from the cinema to find her chain-smoking in the garden, looking like she’d suffered some kind of anaphylactic shock her face was so swollen from crying.
My first thought, selfishly, was that I could do without a grief-stricken flatmate what with everything else going on. But she was so upset – distraught enough to accept a hug and that’s saying something – that there was only one thing for it: A night in watching the entire box-set of The Office, eating oven chips and planning Jasper’s downfall.
The café’s emptying now, half-eaten breakfasts and bean-smeared plates left on its round mahogany tables with their retro gingham tablecloths. Used coffee cups are piled high on the original 1950s serving kiosk. The whole place seems to ooze with bacon fat.
I zone back to Gina, her fighter mode’s at full throttle now, her mind churning over the last few weeks’ events, scouring for evidence of when the demise began.
‘I wouldn’t fucking mind,’ she says, downing an espresso, ‘but only last week he was going on about how he was really falling for me. How I was “the most intelligent woman he’d ever met”. Ha! What a load of bollocks. So intelligent I can’t see what’s right in front of my eyes half the time. A total, A grade twat.’
I bite my lip and stare at the floor. It’s always slightly embarrassing when Gina starts on one like this, especially in a public place. Very audibly.
‘Don’t torture yourself, it’s best you found out now that he was a shit. Imagine if you were really into him and then found out. You’d be well pissed off.’
‘Guess so,’ she mumbles. ‘His loss not mine and all that. Anyway, I’ve had it up to here with wankers, I reckon I’m better off single. I mean, what’s wrong with me? Do I have “I only date losers” written across my forehead?’
‘No, of course not, you moron,’ I say, getting up to give her a hug but she brushes me off.
The sad fact is, Gina’s always gone for men who are destined to let her down. She did have a decent boyfriend once, Mark Trelforth, all the way through university. But Mark’s doting just did her head in the end, she had to put him out of his misery – the morning after the graduation ball just to add insult to injury, poor bastard.
Ever since then she’s been in search of someone ‘more exciting’, someone ‘edgy’. Mr so-called Perfect.
The problem is (as I’ve reminded her today) that if a thirty-five-year-old man’s key qualities are that he is edgy and exciting, that he models himself on Pete Doherty, just for example, then chances are commitment and unconditional love are not likely to be his forte. But Gina hasn’t quite grasped this.
The windows of the café are all steamed up from the persistent London drizzle that shrouds everything in a soft-focus haze. It’s only two p.m. but it feels much later, probably because we got here two hours ago. Since then, we’ve drunk two lattes, an espresso and a cup of tea between us and seen two whole seatings arrive, eat and leave. First, the thirty-something Islington hungover crew, with their shower-wet hair and their Racing Green body warmers. Then, the twenty-something brigade who are much cooler, therefore arrive later, and tend to be still wearing the same clothes as last night.
Through all this time, Gina has barely drawn breath whilst I’ve nodded and ummed and generally kept my mouth shut for so long, we’ve worked up an appetite worthy of an all-day breakfast.
I don’t mind, this won’t last for ever. After a day or so, this rant mode will subside, making way for a brief period of calm and self-reflection. This will move seamlessly into mild euphoria as Gina embraces her new-found single status, a period which usually finds her dragging me out to hideous speed-dating nights, until she finds herself another totally unsuitable man, at which point I’ll be largely redundant.
I don’t know why I’m going on. I’m hardly a shining example of how to do relationships in my current mess. It’s just, when you’ve known someone for such a long time, you come to know these things. You ride the waves with them, experience their storms and their fleeting sunny days. Except, she isn’t riding this, the biggest, scariest wave of my life. She isn’t able to help. Because I haven’t even told her.
A surly waitress plonks the all-day breakfasts in front of us and strides off, swinging her hips.
‘Cheer up love,’ says Gina. ‘It might never happen.’
No fewer than three people have said this to me in the past week. ‘Too late!’ I’ve wanted to shout. ‘It already has!’
Gina drenches everything in tomato ketchup – a breakfast massacre – and I suddenly feel a bit sick.
‘Do you know what really pisses me off?’ she says, cutting into her food aggressively.
‘I spent a hundred quid on my dress to wear to that wanky party of his.’
‘Haven’t you got the receipt?’ I offer. ‘Can’t you just take it back?’
‘Possibly, but it’s the principle of the matter Tess,’ she snaps, stabbing her fork into a sausage. ‘The fact I went and wasted my own money, money I could have spent on New York, just to please him!’
My stomach flips when she says this. New York. Shit. How could I go to New York now? Gina and I arranged to go to New York together a year ago – when we were in a pub (which is where I agree to most things). But how can I go anywhere now I’m pregnant?
Gina studies my face, my stomach rolls: does she know something? Every time we’ve talked in the past week, every time Vicky has rung and I’ve made some excuse to get off the phone, I’ve thought this is it. This is the moment my cover is blown. But then her face falls.
‘Look at us, eh?’ she says, laughing. I brace myself. ‘Pair of total fuck wits.’
You have to watch Gina when she does this. Tar you with the same brush as she tars herself, it’s a most irritating habit.
‘Speak for yourself!’ I laugh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t mean anything bad by it,’ she shrugs. ‘I just mean, you know, look at us.’
‘Look at what?’
‘Our lives, I suppose, look at our lives. We’re in our late twenties, prime of our lives, witty, talented, devastatingly attractive…’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Exactly. And can either of us get it together to find a boyfriend? Can we fuck.’
I try to think of something enlightened or positive to say, but all I can think about is the wave of nausea currently washing over me. I wish Gina would stop talking.
She doesn’t.
‘Do you remember when we were at uni and we used to play Would You Rather?’
Would You Rather was something we’d all play when we were too skint to go out. It mainly involved debating the lesser of two evil scenarios – the merits of shagging Noel Edmonds over, say, having to bear children to Bruce Forsyth.
When we got bored with debating the ridiculous, we’d introduce more serious dilemmas, like whether we rated marriage over kids, or whether a glittering career was more important than true love. It never occurred to us then of course, when thirty-year-olds were just people who wore court shoes – that we’d be heading towards being left on the shelf without either. (Well, almost.)
‘We still don’t know what we’d rather have in a way, don’t you think?’ says Gina. ‘We still don’t know what we want.’
I don’t answer, I can’t. I feel too rough. Plus, I don’t much like the way this conversation is going.
‘I mean, look at you and Jim. That was never going to work.’
She says this nonchalantly but I flinch.
‘I really like Jim, you know, despite his obvious shortcomings…’
What were they?!
‘…and I think he’s mad for not snapping you up. But it would have happened by now if it was going to happen. You need to stop pissing about, you two, find the real thing. I always thought you and Laurence would go the distance, if he hadn’t messed it up, that is. You two were so cool together. You were just too young.’
I feel the colour drain from my face. Should I have gone on the date? Should I have emailed back anyway? Maybe I am selling Laurence short assuming he’d never want to date me because I’m pregnant? He is a grown man, he can make his own decisions, after all.
‘And then there’s me,’ Gina goes on, ‘not a fucking clue what’s good for me. I thought Jasper was great, so different from anyone else I’ve ever gone out with…’
So a carbon copy of every other dickhead you’ve dated since Mark, I want to say but I’m too busy looking at the bloodied mess of eggs and beans streaked with ketchup on her plate and trying to keep the contents of my stomach intact.
‘Thank God we’ve got each other, eh? Thank God for you, Tess Jarvis. Who’d have thought we’d be still be living together now, eh? Right pair o’ lezzers.’
Gina’s on a roll now, but I’m not listening, I suddenly feel very, very sick. If I just keep quiet, I’ll be OK. If I just concentrate, this nausea will pass, right?
Wrong.
The adrenaline rushes around my veins, my cheeks suddenly burn, my mouth fills with liquid, I’m going to throw up. I’m actually going to puke!
‘Tess, what’s wrong? Are you alright?’ I hear Gina say, but it’s too late.
I stand up, throwing my chair behind me so violently it makes an ear-splitting shriek across the wet floor. I briefly weigh up my options – the door, toilet or bag. I have the good sense – even in this state – to remember my bag has a very nice Mulberry purse in there and the downstairs toilet is way too far so I make a dash for the door.
I practically sprint to the other end of the café, pushing anyone in my path – a horsey blonde, a child – out of my way.
I grab hold of the handle of the door, fling it open, lurch onto the pavement and…let’s just say it’s not pretty. I just wasted several drinks and half an all-day breakfast, narrowly missing a yummy mummy with pristine toddler in pram.
I hear Gina swear from inside the café, then rush outside.
‘Chist’s sake Tess,’ she says to me, arms folded, almost telling me off. ‘What brought that on?’
‘God knows,’ I say, wiping away the tears. ‘Probably just some twenty-four hour bug.’
The nausea passes as quickly as it came. After a glass of water drunk shakily and some baby wipes donated by the glamorous mother – so much more glamorous than me, at this precise moment and I haven’t even had the baby yet – I feel ready to brave it home.
The plan is perfect: DVDs, toast and a full on hibernation fest for the rest of the day.
Gina puts her arm around me as we walk along the Essex Road.
‘You scared me then,’ she says. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me to shut up?’
‘Easier said than done,’ I say.
‘True,’ she says, ‘sorry about that.’
It’s a miserable grey sludge of a day, one of those that never quite gets going. In the last eight days, since the row in Frankie’s, the only contact I’ve had with Jim has been three stilted phone conversations. We can usually yabber on for England on the phone, me and Jim. We once spent an hour debating whether Davina McCall had married out of her league when she married that fit bloke off Pet Rescue. Jim has been known to wander off mid-conversation then forget I am there, leaving me on the end of the phone, listening to him fart. We are so comfortable with one another it’s ridiculous. But not this week. This week for the first time ever I’ve sat in bed having small talk with Jim Ashcroft.
But now, I don’t know whether it’s because I don’t feel quite so sick anymore, or because I feel bonded to Gina, comforted that she’s here with me, after that ordeal, but for the first time in ages I feel the tentative fingers of something like calm feather my senses.
It’s still elusive. Like an under-developed Polaroid, but it’s there alright and it feels good. It’s as if everything that was hurled in the air, an emotional tornado, is suddenly floating gently back down to earth, to resume its rightful place.
I’d feel almost good now if it weren’t for the big secret hammering away in my brain, chipping away, trying to get out. Maybe I should tell her? Tell her now whilst we’re bonded in our respective misfortunes.
We turn into Blockbusters, pick up some shamelessly girly films, essential Sunday supplies, and carry on along the Essex Road that we’ve pounded so many times it’s imprinted on the soles of our shoes, our well charted territory.
By the time we make it home, the bottoms of our jeans are soaking wet and it feels like we’ll never get warm. I go and change whilst Gina puts the kettle on, turns up the central heating and arranges our supplies in little bowls.
‘Does poorly patient want a cup of tea?’ she shouts from the bottom of the stairs, as I root around in my wardrobe for something to wear.
‘Yes please nurse,’ I shout back, smiling to myself. Is this TLC I am experiencing? Is this me, Tess Jarvis being looked after by Gina Marshall for a change? And she doesn’t even know.
I pull on some old tracksuit bottoms and my netball sweatshirt. ‘Officially better,’ I announce, as Gina hands me a steaming mug at the bottom of the stairs.
I want to tell her. I’m burning to tell her so I won’t have to handle this alone and yet, I want to savour this moment, hold it for ever. Never again, when I’ve told her, will we stand in this kitchen as two, single, childless friends with nothing but ourselves and the rain battering the roof for company.
We move into the lounge and collapse on the sofa. Now’s your moment, ‘Do it now,’ I urge myself. ‘Find the words, come on!’
‘Gina,’ I say. My heart throws a punch at my rib.
She leaps to her feet. Shit, this is it!
‘I know, we’d better get on with it. Which one shall we watch?’ she says, marching over to the bag of the DVDs.
She takes out Lost in Translation, shows it me, I nod, weakly. She crawls over to the TV, bends down, her back to me, muttering something about Bill Murray, putting it in the machine.
I think about my promise to Jim, how we said we’d wait until after the scan to tell anyone…but the words are too big, they don’t fit in my mouth anymore, out they topple like I’ve got Tourette’s.
‘Gina,’ I say, ‘I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby.’
If I thought Gina was going to take this well, I was mistaken, sorely mistaken. I’m not prepared for the look on her face when she turns around. Shock is not the word. Something like disgust would be more fitting. She doesn’t say anything for what seems like ages. She just sits there, DVD in hand, and glares at me.
‘What?’ she says, through gritted teeth. It’s barely audible, a whisper.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Whose…?’
‘It’s Jim’s,’ I say, staring at the floor.
She looks at me through a gap in her fingers.
‘How pregnant are you?’
‘Eight and a half weeks,’
‘And you didn’t tell me?!’
‘Well can you blame me?’ I say. ‘Look at your reaction.’
‘But Tess, you’re not even with Jim, you don’t even love him like that. You’re not in love, either of you!’
The words sting. Didn’t she think I already knew that? And didn’t she think I wished it was different?
‘I do know that,’ I say, quietly. ‘But it’s happened now, and we’ve decided we’re keeping the baby.’
‘What?’ says Gina, half laughing, half crying. I retreat further back into the sofa.
‘But you can’t,’ she says, ‘that’s ridiculous; you can’t have that baby, not like this.’
‘Who says?’ I say, crying now. ‘Why is that so wrong? We’re both adults, this is not some teenage pregnancy. If I was to opt out of having this baby then I’d be opting out of life, choosing the easy way out, can’t you see?’
