Deranged Marriage (41 page)

‘It moved,’ I said. ‘It kicked.’

‘Really, let me feel.’ Imogen put her hand on my stomach. ‘Oh my God, my nephew or niece kicked! Wow, this is amazing, I can feel it.’ We laughed then, and hugged before I went to repair my mascara. The baby was OK, therefore its mother would be OK too.

‘Four deep breaths. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.’ We repeated this four times before opening the door. Imogen went first, holding on to my hand, I followed her. I can’t describe how it felt to have all eyes on me. I would say that it was a bit like the first time I ever appeared in a school play. I was about seven but I can remember walking out on stage and looking out on to what seemed to a small child like a million faces all looking at me. At first there was silence, almost surprise I think. Then they all synchronised their actions.

‘Holly, smile for the camera,’ a voice shouted. I did smile but only because I was trying to work out what to do next. The cameras clicked away in unison. Someone asked me to turn towards them. I did. Obediently taking stage directions because I had lost my own. I looked at Imogen, still clutching my hand but also smiling moronically for the camera. You could tell at that moment that we were definitely sisters.

‘Where are you going?’ a woman shouted, frantically waving a microphone in my face.

I cleared my throat. ‘I’ve got a hospital appointment,’ I replied. I had no idea how confident or not I sounded, I could barely hear my own voice.

‘Are you going to have a DNA?’ another voice asked.

‘No. I don’t wish to discuss that right now.’

‘The
Daily
News
will pay for you to have the test if you give us the exclusive on the result,’ a male voice shouted. I blinked wondering if I had heard right.

‘My paper will do that too.’

‘No, we’ll do it, our circulation is bigger.’ The clamour of voices was overwhelming, offering money for the result of a bloody test. The test I hadn’t even agreed to have.

‘I don’t wish to discuss this further. If you’ll excuse me I really am going to be late.’ I walked down the short path, and on to the pavement. The cameras kept clicking, the reporters firing questions at me, but they let me pass.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said. ‘When are you going to leave me alone?’

‘When the story has an ending,’ one of them replied. I wished that I could give them an ending. But I couldn’t.

I had been a hostage in my flat for what felt like years. I wasn’t feeling stir crazy exactly but I was very aware of the freedom we all take for granted. Want to go to the shops, easy. Want to get a pint of milk, go for a walk, got to a pub, a restaurant, easy. Go to work. Everything taken for granted. There were so many things I needed to re-evaluate, the list was growing longer by the minute, and freedom of movement was up there near the top along with friends, family, my health, being slim, and my work. That was an upside, there were upsides.

‘Aren’t you the marriage-pact girl?’ the taxi driver asked. Oh, and there were downsides too.

On the way to the hospital we got the taxi to stop at a newsagent’s and Imogen ran out to get a copy of
Aloha!
She came back, slightly breathless, and jumped into the cab.

‘Shall we?’ she asked, ready to open the magazine. I shook my head, gestured to the taxi driver. I don’t know why I didn’t want to do this in front of him but I suspected it was something to do with his lively conversation with the next passenger: ‘Yeah I had the marriage-pact girl in my cab today and she read this magazine article, some interview by her intended and you should have heard her language, it turned the air blue.’ I certainly didn’t want to be a part of that. I took the magazine from Imogen and looked at the cover. Spreadeagled on a zebra-print rug was a well-known soap star actress.
My
joy
at
baby
news
, ran the headline. There was an item on Kylie, something about a few minor TV stars and then were was a mention of George.
My
marriage
pact
hell
, the header screamed, and although it wasn’t a huge headline it had made the cover, which was bad news. I rolled up the magazine and determined I would deal with it when I was back home.

We pulled up outside the hospital entrance and I paid the taxi driver who I am sure looked at me disapprovingly. I gave him a curt goodbye and then led Imogen to the gynaecology department. We pushed open the big glass doors and walked into reception. The waiting room was quite full of pregnant women, some who looked about to burst. Most had men with them—husbands or boyfriends. I felt a pang. This was the sort of thing that I know Joe would have wanted to be a part of, were things different. And maybe even though he couldn’t forgive me, or didn’t want to be with me, he could still be a part of it. If it were his baby I was depriving him of this whole experience which was unfair. If the baby were George’s then I didn’t give a shit.

‘I’ve got an appointment with Dr Langton,’ I said to the receptionist.

‘Your name,’ she smiled, kindly.

‘Holly Miller,’ I whispered.

‘Pardon?’

‘Holly Miller,’ I said slightly louder.

‘I really can’t hear you,’ she said again.

‘Holly Miller,’ Imogen boomed. I scowled at her, as the woman behind the desk went a bit pink and the waiting room became very quiet. Everyone was staring at me and all I wanted to do was to cry. The silence gave way to whispers and I knew they were talking about me. The receptionist, who still looked embarrassed, told me to go right through. The perks of celebrity status perhaps?

I could feel the eyes following me as I made my way along the hospital corridors; boring into my back. Why did people have to recognise me? Or my name. I hadn’t asked for any of the exposure but people knew who I was. Even hiding from the press on my doorstep hadn’t made too much difference. I was a household face and a household name, although I don’t think anyone liked me and I certainly hadn’t received any fan mail.

I knocked on the door and waited to be admitted. Imogen was still with me and I felt it would be better to let her come in with me rather than leave her with the starers in the waiting room. She looked mortified, she really did, poor thing. It was hard for her having a sister who was the object of such derision. We walked into the room and sat down.

‘How are we?’ Dr Langton asked. I assumed he meant me and the baby.

‘Fine, it kicked today.’ I smiled and patted my stomach. ‘This is Imogen, my sister, she’s been taking care of me.’

‘Right, well I need to examine you and make sure that you’re on track. Then the nurse will weigh you. I notice from your records that you haven’t been to any birthing lessons yet.’ He spoke quickly as if he didn’t really have much time. He probably didn’t because this was the NHS after all.

‘I’m going later this week. I want to give birth in a hospital with drugs. Lots of drugs. Maybe an epidural, can I order one right now?’

‘I’m not sure that’s necessary, but a hospital birth is sensible. Don’t worry. You should talk through the options with the teacher in the birthing lessons if you have any doubts.’

I didn’t. ‘Fine. There is something else though,’ I said as he carried on with his examination.

‘Yes?’

‘When can I have a paternity test?’

‘As soon as you want, after the birth. We can only do it if we get a sample from one of the prospective fathers. Will that be possible?’

‘I hope so.’ I knew that it was time to talk to Joe. Although we had no way of knowing until the baby was born, I wanted him to be part of this. I knew then that I had to do what it took to get him back into my life.

After the doctor we saw the nurse who weighed me, said I was in good shape, and was really lovely. Then I went to sign up for a birthing lesson the following week. Being pregnant was really quite time-consuming. Imogen maintained a dignified silence all the time this was going on, only because there were other people around. As soon as we stepped outside the hospital door she started.

‘Are you sure that a test is such a good idea?’

‘I have to know at some stage. Look at the facts. The newspapers have no story when they know the identity of the father. It’s the guessing that is keeping the story alive. Once we know, it’ll be dead, uninteresting. It’ll run for a bit longer but not much. Now if I am truly cursed and George is the father of the child then I might keep quiet a bit longer, but if I am lucky and Joe is the father, then that is the end of George. How can he expect me to marry him when I have someone else’s baby? Besides, George has started doing stuff which is totally unrelated to the story anyway. Although I’m not sure appearing on
Ready
Steady
Cook
is going to make his career, it’s still nothing to do with me. I don’t care if he becomes a TV star as long as it has nothing to do with me. And if the baby isn’t his maybe he’ll piss off back to New York. The other thing is Joe. If it is his baby he has a right to know. He could have been involved in the pregnancy already.’

‘I suppose you’re right, I’m just scared for you Hol.’

‘I’m scared for me too.’

We took a cab home (the driver didn’t recognise me thank God), and the press numbers had seriously depleted by the time we drew up. I smiled at them while they took some more photos and asked some more questions then Imogen opened the door and pulled me inside.

‘Bye,’ I said as I walked in the door and waved to them.

‘Have you gone mad?’ Imogen asked.

‘If I’d known how easy it would be I’d have gone out a week ago.’ It was a lie, because it hadn’t been easy, and all I wanted to do was scream.

‘Holly, that isn’t the point, the point is that they are going to print stuff, and it might not be nice.’

‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten. They’ll probably choose the photos that make me look the fattest as well.’

‘They probably will. I’ll make tea.’ I called Freddie and told him about the press. Then he asked me if I had read the
Aloha!
interview and I remembered the rolled-up magazine I’d been carrying around. I came off the phone and opened it to the correct page.

My heart fell into my shoes. There was a huge photo of George looking dashing, I have to admit, sitting on a sofa, with his arm draped over the back. It looked like it should have been a picture of George with someone next to him. It implied it should have been a picture of George and me. I read the interview feeling my earlier euphoria disappear.

Life
for
gorgeous
lawyer
George
Conway
gets
stranger
and
stranger
—
a
statement
the
effervescent
man
would
agree
with
of
his
own
free
will
.
A
successful
lawyer
in
New
York
,
his
life
lacked
only
one
thing
:
Holly
Miller,
his
childhood
sweetheart
.
Betrothed
by
a
marriage
pact
,
George
returned
home
to
claim
his
bride
.
Passion
was
reignited
immediately
but
then
the
shock
came
.
She
already
had
a
boyfriend
and
had
no
intention
of
marrying
him
.
Grief
stricken
,
George
tried
to
take
her
to
court
but
was
halted
at
the
first
hurdle
.
So
he
turned
to
the
media
to
appeal
to
Holly
to
see
sense
and
admit
her
love
for
him
.
If
that
wasn’t
enough
for
him
to
cope
with
,
Holly
then
announced
that
she
was
pregnant
and
George
may
or
may
not
be
the
father
.
We
met
George
at
the
Hanman
Hotel
and
Country
Club
to
ask
him
how
he
was
coping
.

Tell us why you came home?

For
love
.
Pure
and
simple
.
I
realised
that
I
was
still
in
love
with
Holly
even
though
we’d
been
apart
for
five
years
.
We
always
said
that
we’d
get
together
when
we
were
thirty
,
and
as
I’d
just
turned
thirty
I
knew
that
it
was
the
right
time
.