Deranged Marriage (23 page)

‘That’s right, wrap her in cotton wool. If only she’d kept her legs shut—’

‘Imogen!’ my father exclaimed. He rarely raised his voice. I had to suppress an unexplainable desire to laugh.

‘Daddy, she’s right. Half this problem is the fact that George has some preposterous idea about us being made for each other, the other half is my fault. I understand Imogen’s anger.’

‘Even so, it’s not going to help. Now I’m going to make some tea.’ My mother closed the conversation.

It hadn’t been as painful as I had feared. Actually, apart from Joe, none of it had been as bad as I’d imagined. My parents faces showed no signs of the disappointment I had anticipated. Francesca hadn’t been angry with me like I was sure she would be. I was guilty of underestimating people; even Lisa had reacted differently to how I’d expected.

I spent the rest of the weekend with my parents (Imogen was sulking, which surprised me because she was never usually angry with me for long). My mother plied me with fruit and vegetables, my father told tales of when my mother was pregnant, I cried a lot, not just because I was sad, but because I was happy too.

*

Freddie called my mobile on Saturday evening to tell me that the story had been picked up by the
Daily
News
and was being run on Monday. He had been told it would be on page thirteen, definitely unlucky for me. The reality hit hard.

Although with Cordelia behind it, we had expected press coverage; now it had happened. The
Daily
News
was probably the fourth biggest tabloid, and page thirteen wasn’t exactly a priority page; more of a filler. Freddie calmed me down and said that the two biggest tabloids had, it seemed both turned down the story for now, which meant that we could perhaps get one of them to print my response to his allegations. The
Daily
News
was also known for being as downmarket as a tabloid could be; there was a small amount of comfort in that. The situation was containable. So Freddie said, anyway, and I needed to believe him.

I returned to London on Sunday evening, bracing myself for whatever happened next. There were a few messages on my answerphone but only one I cared about. It was from Joe.

I listened to it over and over trying to discern from his voice what he wanted because I couldn’t from his words. All he said was that he wanted me to call him. I wondered why he hadn’t tried my mobile, but the fact he had called was enough. I took a deep breath and dialled the number that I knew so well.

‘Hello.’ His voice still made me weak at the knees.

‘It’s Holly.’ There was a silence that would break all silences. I didn’t want to say anything in case I said the wrong thing. Finally, he spoke again.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you sleep with George?’ He asked me the one thing I couldn’t answer.

‘I don’t know, I really don’t, Joe. I didn’t want to.’ I had never felt more inadequate in my entire life.

‘He didn’t...you know...force himself on you?’ I realised what he needed to hear, but I couldn’t tell him that. No more lies.

‘No.’

‘Right.’

‘Joe, I can’t explain because I don’t know myself.’

‘But you did.’

‘Yes,’ I whispered, as I heard the phone go dead.

I don’t know how long it took me exactly, but I know I held on to the receiver for a while before putting it down, almost as if that was my last link with Joe. I cried. Of course I cried, it was all I ever did these days. Then I went to my kitchen, opened the cupboard and took out the chocolate biscuits that Freddie had bought for me. I hoped that the baby wouldn’t mind; at least I wasn’t feeding it with spinach or something bland. I was sure it would be grateful that its mother was turning into a chocoholic. I decided not to consult Dr Miriam on the matter, just in case.

I sat on the floor leaning back against my kitchen cupboard and munched. I don’t know how long I was there, but I munched and munched until I had run out of Hobnobs. Then I pulled myself up ready to get some more. I looked at my stomach which seemed to be growing by the day, but still wasn’t exactly huge. Still I didn’t think anyone would guess I was pregnant just by looking at me. Well, they wouldn’t if I stopped eating so much. I resigned myself to a cup of herbal tea and that was all. I had to look after myself and chocolate wasn’t good, it had caffeine, sugar and all sorts. I didn’t want a hyperactive baby.

It was all so confusing thinking constantly of someone else. I had just lost the love of my life. Pre-pregnant me would have drowned my sorrows in style. Booze, cigarettes, anything to numb the pain of losing him. But I couldn’t do that. I had to be strong. I had to cope. I had to keep my unborn child healthy. It was all far from easy. I missed Joe so much. There was so much pain. I’d never known this pain before. The worst period of my life was, as I have already explained, when George had left for America. But that pain had nothing on this.

There was this fear, a massive fear which was rooted deep inside me. I could feel it constantly. The worry I felt about the baby, the paternity issue and the press, could be identified separately. At times I felt happy about the baby, at times scared, I was worried about the paternity issue, and the press onslaught, but that was nothing to the fear I felt about losing Joe. That was all encompassing; that was the worst I’d ever felt. I could only deal with things (and I wasn’t coping that well), by separating them. Each was a separate issue. The woman that was crying herself dry over Joe was different from the woman that was talking to her unborn child, different to the woman who fretted over the father of that unborn child and different to the woman who was about to appear in a national newspaper. There were four Holly Millers. That was the only way I could keep my very precarious grip on life.

I picked up the phone and called my mother. Although my father had been the stronger parent when I told them, I needed the reassurance of my mother, as a mother. When she answered the phone, I just cried. I felt as if I was five years old again and had scraped my knees. I wanted my mummy.

‘Holly, listen to me darling, it is going to be all right. I know that seems impossible at the moment, but you are still the same wonderful, strong, independent woman that you were before all this. There will be an end. Just remember that. Because when you know that this nightmare will be over, you can live. Remember you’re carrying our first grandchild and your father and I can’t wait to be grandparents, it doesn’t matter who the father is, it’s still your child. I can’t solve this one, but I can tell you that it will all work out for the best, as things do.’

‘I don’t know if I can cope.’

‘You can. You will. You’re not the sort of person who runs away. Don’t let him force you away. Listen darling, I’ve arranged for Lisa and Max to come over this evening and they’re staying for a week.’

‘But they can’t leave their flat.’

‘They can and they are. You need to be in your home, and your friends are there to take care of you. Max has a job in Scotland from Tuesday, so it’ll be the two of you. Don’t argue with me, I won’t allow you to be alone.’

‘I love you, mum.’

‘I love you too.’

Is it awful that it takes a crisis to make you appreciate what you’ve got? Probably. But the way my family and friends had supported me was wonderful and I made a vow to never take them for granted again. Although I am sure I would, because it’s only when people are so supportive that you do take them for granted. But I would try.

Lisa and Max arrived shortly after my phone call. Lisa was clutching wine and a big bunch of flowers, Max had enough luggage for a month.

‘Sorry, Hol, Lisa insisted that these were all essentials.’

‘Don’t apologise, I’m sorry that you had to leave your flat.’

‘Not at all, it’s like going on holiday,’ Max said, and I burst into tears again.

‘Fuck, I always cry. I am trying to put it down to hormones because if this is the new me I really don’t like it.’

‘Don’t worry, if you carry on crying all the time I’ll tell you to stop. But I’ll let you for now,’ Lisa said, as she uncorked the wine and pulled a bag of celery out of her handbag.

‘Lisa, why have you brought celery?’ I asked.

‘I decided not to smoke around you. It’s not good for the baby.’

‘I don’t think it’ll really harm it, unless of course I sit in a smoky pub for the next six months.’

‘Well I think that it’s better to give it a healthy environment, so celery has become my substitute cigarette.’

We all settled down with drinks and food. Max ordered pizza and garlic bread, they drank wine, but I abstained and stuck to my herbal tea. I drank herbal tea (no caffeine, no badness), which I hated, because that and water were the only things that were completely good for you, apparently. I was behaving irrationally, I know, I was probably going mad.

‘When do we find out the sex?’ Max asked. He was patting my stomach and asking why the baby wasn’t kicking. When I told him it was too soon he seemed disappointed. I got the impression he was a bit broody.

‘We don’t.’ I had thought about it and decided against it. I don’t know why, but it felt like tempting fate. I wanted the baby to be healthy, I would do anything I could to ensure it was healthy, that was it.

‘But then how do we choose names?’ Max asked, disappointed.

‘She’ll choose names for either sex, of course,’ Lisa said.

‘No, I’m not choosing names until it’s born.’ Lisa and Max exchanged looks, then they both looked at me.

‘There’s more to this, isn’t there?’ he asked.

‘It’s George isn’t it?’ she added. I nodded.

‘The truth is that George is going to find out about the baby at some point. Then when the baby is born we will have to do the test and I’m scared, petrified, that when we do the test, the baby will be George’s and he’ll take the baby away from me.’

‘Shit, Holly, you should have said,’ Lisa put her arm around me.

‘We won’t let George take him away, even if he is the father,’ Max said. He reminded me of Joe when George had been trying to get me to marry him. Joe the protector; now Max the protector.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered, but I didn’t believe it. My mother had said it would be over at some point, but I had no idea when. It was an evolutionary process. If George wasn’t the father then it would be over. If he was, then he would take me to court for custody and there’d be yet another battle to fight. So many battles all of a sudden. One shag and I had managed to get myself into this much of a mess, it barely beggared belief.

‘Holly we will. I promise that Max and I will do everything to protect you from that abominable man.’ Lisa was angry. I was touched and impressed; I didn’t know Lisa knew words like abominable. ‘So, when is the first antenatal?’ she asked.

‘I should have gone before now but as I didn’t know I was pregnant...I don’t think I’m going to go. They’re full of happy couples and I don’t think I could cope. Francesca has given me the number of her yoga teacher, she does private lessons for pregnant women, that’s meant to be just as effective.’

‘What does your doctor think?’ Max asked.

‘She doesn’t know. I’m seeing her tomorrow, I’ll ask her then.’

‘I’ll come to yoga with you,’ Lisa announced. ‘I quite fancy getting bendy.’

I raised my eyebrows and stifled a giggle. ‘It’ll be more to do with exercising my birthing muscles.’

‘OK, well then I’ll be there for support.’

‘But Holly, if your doctor thinks you should go to antenatal you will won’t you?’ Max sounded worried and that made me feel so much better. These people were all in this pregnancy with me, because Joe was not.

‘Only if it’s essential.’ I really had made my mind up. I wanted to do something privately. I wasn’t interested in meeting other pregnant women and swapping stories. For obvious reasons.

Everything was fine until I decided to go to bed. I kissed my friends goodnight and thanked them again, then I realised that I was going to bed alone and I felt that fear more keenly than ever.

I dreamt about the baby. I dreamt about how it would feel about its mother having made such a mess of her life. I dreamt it looked like George; then I dreamt it looked like Joe. I woke up, feeling more anxious than ever as I realised that it was Monday and George’s story was going to be in the paper.

I looked at the clock, it was half past six. I got out of bed and pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms. Then I found my biggest jumper and put it on over my T-shirt. I found my keys at the bottom of my handbag, grabbed some change and went out. There was silence from the spare room, and I tried to be quiet so as not to wake my guests.

It was bitingly cold and still dark. The sky was filled with dark clouds; I shivered as I realised how sinister it looked. Then I shivered at the cold. I walked as slowly as I could to the tube station, to the newspaper stand, that I knew would already be catering for the early-morning commuters. When I got there I realised how odd I looked against the smart suits clutching the
Times
,
Telegraph
, and
Mail
. I waited in the queue until it was my turn.

‘
Daily
News
please.’ I thought the man behind the counter looked at me oddly, but then I was paranoid. He handed me the newspaper, I handed him the money. Then I walked home.

I resisted the urge to open the paper and read the story straight away. My hand shook as I clutched the paper to my chest. I don’t know if I was torturing myself, but I let myself in the flat, went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of herbal tea. It was only when the steaming mug was in front of me as I stood at the kitchen counter, that I opened the paper.

It seemed to take me ages to get to page thirteen. I was trying to breathe slowly, not panic because I could feel the anxiety building up. I cupped my mug as tightly as I could with one hand, while I turned the pages, slowly and deliberately with the other. Then I reached page thirteen. The first thing I noticed was a photo of George, looking forlorn, groomed but forlorn. It was typical Cordelia. Then I read the headline.