I’ve resumed my weekly driving lessons, and twice now I’ve been up to the Hall and driven the Mini all over the estate on my own. This is quite legal as long as I don’t leave Fergal’s land.
There isn’t much temptation to go anywhere else – wherever I go I seem to see enormously pregnant women. Where have they all come from? Are we all going to pop our pods at once like in some sci-fi film?
There’s less than two months to go now (if the Incubus arrives on time), and I’ve had enough of it. To add to my happiness the hospital have sent for me again, so I suppose I may as well accept their pressing invitation to attend an antenatal class afterwards with a tour of the labour ward thrown in.
Maria drove me to the hospital, and she does drive like a maniac – Fergal was right. When she illustrates what she’s saying with her hands, which is often, she strays across to the other side of the road.
Fergal has gone to London to make a video promoting the single from the new album,
Out of the Dark
. I wonder if he’ll be drawn back by the bright lights. It must seem awfully tame here after all that globe-trotting, though he says it isn’t.
Maria left me at the hospital and went shopping, promising to return in a couple of hours.
I was poked, prodded and tested, and it was all horrible, but everything was going well.
Then I was directed across to the hut where the antenatal classes take place and found it full of grossly pregnant teenagers lying about on rubber mats like so many beached whales.
I felt huge, awkward and old.
The small whiskered Scot in charge informed me severely that I was very late for the classes, and should have been attending them for weeks, but I told her I’d only come for the tour of the labour ward.
However, she insisted on me joining in first, and I had to lie down, do funny exercises and breathe (though I do that all the time), which would help with the Pain.
How can breathing help with pain? And if it does, why aren’t we taught it at school so we don’t need aspirin for headaches?
After this she passed round a rubber mask for us all to try. It smelled of dentists. You get gas and air from it, which also helps with the Pain.
There was too much mention of the Pain and I was glad I hadn’t been to any of the other classes, especially the one where they show a film of an actual birth.
Finally we got a brisk tour of a very antiseptic ward full of new mothers with babies in fish tanks by each bed, and a peep into an unoccupied, sterile and very hot labour room, which gave me the shivers.
Afterwards the class instructor said severely that she expected to see me the following week.
Dream on.
I’m not going near that hospital again now until the birth.
Maria, who was sitting in the car reading a magazine, said I should have the baby at home and she would help me, but I think I’ve left it a bit late for that, and what if something went wrong?
I wonder if Fergal and Maria would look after Toby and Bess while I’m in hospital.
If
Fergal comes back …
Fergal: February 2000
‘It’s new! It’s wicked! The new single from Goneril – and the video you’ve all been waiting for – on screen now!’
Top of the Pops
Surrounded with beautiful, half-naked women (and a lot of dry ice to cover our modesty, though none of us were as near-naked as we looked), all I wanted to do was escape back to Nutthill.
Not that I’ve any objection to being surrounded by pretty girls, and nor have the rest of the band, though Carlo went all self-conscious because Sara came to keep an eye on him.
I didn’t need anyone to keep an eye on me, because all the time I was staring at the camera I was imagining Tish watching me, wearing her best militant disapproving angel expression.
Fergal called in on his way home from London and said it was twice as dirty and tedious as it ever was, and he resented every minute he spent away from Greatness. The only good thing was that he’d found a buyer for his London house.
He went to a party with Carlo and Sara where he saw Nerissa, with James in tow! I suppose he’s simply filling in an idle moment for her – these are certainly not the sort of circles he usually moves in. Fergal said Nerissa pointedly ignored him, though he didn’t seem bothered by it at all.
Perhaps he met someone else there; probably hordes of sophisticated, beautiful, thin young girls positively threw themselves at him, though he didn’t mention them.
He left the CDs Carlo promised me, and I’ve listened to them all. I think some of the lyrics are beautiful but sad – and some are just plain angry! Perhaps a few of the early ones may be about me, but I’m sure the later ones aren’t, because I wouldn’t have stuck in his memory that long.
Fergal’s current album is called
Out of the Dark
, and he said I wouldn’t like the promotional video because he’s surrounded by about sixty ash-blonde girls.
I don’t know why he thinks that.
‘Just bear in mind,’ he said gravely, ‘that I only look as if I’ve got no clothes on.’
I’m not sure if he was joking or not.
Since he came back Maria reports that he spends hours in the studio painting, and leaves coloured tacky fingerprints on the doors. But that’s better, she says, than having wild parties with drugs and Goings-On. She often pops down for a little chat in the afternoons, and so does Margaret, and since they first met they’ve got on well together.
Toby, who’s been eavesdropping on our conversations, suddenly startled me one day by exclaiming, ‘
Mamma mia!
’ He’s done it several times since, but it’s preferable to several of his other utterances.
On my last lesson with Mrs Blacklock she said she was just putting the final gloss on my driving technique, and then described how her puppy ate her bright green and magenta mittens (sounds like they were of Mrs Deakin’s making) and then spent ten embarrassing minutes getting rid of them in the vet’s waiting room.
It hurts me to laugh like that.
Fergal was right – I don’t like the promotional video for his new album, and it’s just all plain old jealousy.
Dark, gorgeous, and apparently naked, he’s rising up from a positive sea of writhing (and also near-nude) ash-blonde girls, with his hands resting on the pommel of a strategically placed sword. Around the edge reclined the rest of the band, similarly devoid of clothing, like so many satiated Roman Emperors. They didn’t have swords, but the camera angles were artful and there were clouds of dry ice.
Carlo looked pretty good, actually …
All done in the best possible taste.
Wonder if any of these thin, young blondes were at the party where Fergal saw James.
My birthday – and I almost forgot. Thirty-one seems ancient, though it did make me reflect on how very young Glenda was when she had me – and Mother, when she assumed the role (whether voluntarily or not).
She phoned to wish me Happy Birthday, sounding preoccupied: perhaps her boyfriend is showing signs of making an honest woman of her at last? I wish he would, then I wouldn’t have to worry about her so much.
I thanked her for her present – a book called
Beautiful Thoughts for Mothers-To-Be
– though, actually, morning sickness would have been preferable.
My back aches, my legs ache, and I have perpetual heartburn. Apart from that, I’m fine.
Granny sent me the most wonderful old-rose-coloured velvet house-gown, the entire works of Beatrix Potter in a tiny wooden bookcase, and a small, multicoloured pot like a mad sea urchin from Rose Durwin (who
is
potting, not potty – such a relief).
Her letter ignored my last one in which I told her what I’d discovered from Mr Rooney, except for a brief postscript: ‘I knew there was something! Typical! Love, Granny.’
I thought that was it for the birthday revels, though as it happened Fergal has invited me to dinner and to keep him company tonight, while Maria’s at the WI. The first words he spoke when he picked me up were, ‘Happy Birthday!’
So I was glad I’d put on The Dress and taken the trouble to make myself look nice (or as nice as possible under the circumstances). I don’t know how he remembered.
We ate by candlelight in the library (which now has bookshelves and some books) and afterwards he brought in a birthday cake Maria had made, shaped like a book with the title iced on the cover:
Love Goes West
.
‘It’s lovely, Fergal! Maria is so clever – and kind. But I wonder why she chose that book?’
‘I chose it. It was the first one I read, and when I realised the hero was me, I knew you’d never quite got me out of your system.’
He was standing right next to me and I looked indignantly up at him. ‘Fergal Rocco! Just because the hero is dark and—’
‘I especially like the bit where the hero suddenly pulls the heroine into his arms.’ He suited the action to the words. ‘Snarls: “You’re mine – don’t you know that!” and kisses her … like this.’
As soon as his lips touched mine it was like stepping into a time warp: my eyes closed, my arms went round him, and all sorts of feelings I didn’t think pregnant women had any more surged about.
When he finally lifted his head I tried to pull away, embarrassed by my reaction, but he didn’t release me, just looked down at me with one of his more unnerving smiles.
‘Will you marry me?’ he said huskily.
‘What?’
For a minute my mind reeled; then, soberingly, came the realisation that my all-too-eager response to his kiss had made him think I was taking it seriously, and he was trying not to hurt my feelings.
‘Don’t be silly, Fergal!’ I scolded shakily. ‘You shouldn’t joke about things like that – what if I thought you meant it?’
‘I’m not joking. I didn’t mean to say it, but—’
‘Of course you are! You can’t possibly be in love with me – especially when I’m in this condition!’
‘Can’t I?’
‘No! And anyway,’ I added irrelevantly, ‘I’m still married.’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘No, and I’m really looking forward to being single again!’ I assured him brightly, just in case he had any lingering doubts. ‘I do value our friendship, though. You know that, don’t you, Fergal?’
‘What are you upset about, then?’ he said softly.
I brushed my eyes with the back of my hand and wished he’d release me: close proximity was numbing my thought processes. (Nothing else, just the thought processes.)
‘I’m not upset: it’s j-just that you have b-been so kind and thoughtful. But you really don’t have to worry about me, or feel responsible.’
‘I do feel responsible – I want to look after you.’ His beautiful mouth curved into the sort of smile that would melt a Gorgon. It certainly liquefied me.
Then his eyes narrowed and his arms tightened round me: ‘I’d like—’
The front door slammed and the brisk clatter of Maria’s high heels sounded on the hall floor.
‘Damn!’ he said, and let me go. I sank rather limply back into the nearest chair.
Now I’ll never know what he’d like! Still, it’s unlikely to be the same thing as I would. I’m quite ashamed of myself.
It’s as well Maria came in just then. If she noticed anything amiss she was too polite to show it, and when Fergal said he’d take me home she pressed me to take a piece of the birthday cake with me.
My bit of icing said ‘
GOES
’, which was appropriate.
Fergal was very quiet on the short drive, probably from sheer relief that I hadn’t taken him up on his impulsive offer, but when he’d helped me out of the car he handed me a small package.
‘Just a little something from an old friend,’ he said rather ironically. ‘Happy Birthday, Angel!’ and he kissed me quickly before I could thank him for the present – or the evening. (Or the kiss, come to that, which I could still be wearing indelibly imprinted on my lips tomorrow, like a stigma.)
I’m now the owner of a pair of Renaissance-style earrings to match my dress, with baroque pearls and green stones that look suspiciously like emeralds.
They also look extremely expensive, but it would take a braver woman than me to toss Fergal Rocco’s presents back in his face.
After an almost sleepless night I got up vowing to put the events of the previous evening out of my head. My hormones are obviously in a state of turmoil at the moment. All right, I admit it – they’ve been in a state of turmoil ever since Fergal re-entered my orbit. I still have strong feelings for him, and I expect I always will, but that doesn’t mean I can’t live a perfectly happy and fulfilled life on my own … does it?
Anyway, I’ve got my new driving test date to distract me: 2 March. I hope I can fit behind the steering wheel.
I was still sitting about after reading this (why does pregnancy affect your mind? I feel as if I’ve been hit on the head by a brick half the time!) when my soon-to-be ex-spouse called and abruptly informed me that his father was on the way over from South Africa on a business trip.
‘I’m sure that’s absolutely riveting, James, but what’s it got to do with me?’
‘He doesn’t know we’ve split up.’
‘Tell him, then! He’s your father, after all. And you can also inform him about your impending second marriage to dear Wendy.’
‘That’s just it – I can’t tell him. He’s set off, and I don’t know where to get hold of him. All I know is, he’s arriving on the second.’
‘Arriving where?’ I asked with a sense of foreboding.
‘The cottage,’ he said sulkily.
‘That’s all I need! If he does arrive he’ll find himself sitting on the doorstep, because I’ve a driving test that day.’
‘Can’t you postpone it?’
‘No, I can’t postpone it! If you’ve been stupid enough not to tell him you can hang around in your Shack all day and head him off. And you’d better check with Margaret that it’s all right for him to stay in the flat while he’s here.’
‘I’m too busy to spend the day hanging around waiting!’ he said indignantly.
‘So am I – and he’s not
my
father!’
‘Perhaps your Fancy Man can wait in for him, then,’ he said nastily. ‘He seems to come and go as he pleases now.’