OMG Baby! (18 page)

T
hat evening I visit Lucy
. She’s home alone until Reuben returns from his business trip and has been told to rest in bed for a couple of days. On the way, I buy flowers, cartons of fresh soup, chocolate and trashy magazines.

She looks wan sitting up in her big white bed. Everything in Lucy’s flat is pristine and white; that’s what made the blood seem so shocking. I glance in the bathroom. I did the best clean-up job I could in the time I had, but I’m worried there might be a spot I missed. I don’t see anything except shiny white tiles.

She looks crossly at the magazines, tapping the front-cover caption above the photo of some beautiful A-list film star.

‘What I don’t understand is, why does she always have to have “Unlucky in love” plastered across her head? Isn’t she a frigging billionaire?’

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

‘Been listening to a lot of Portishead.’

‘That bad.’ I take her hand, arranging the engagement and wedding bands so that the beautiful diamonds are at the front.

‘The hospital were very good, very reassuring. Dr Morgan said these things happen for the best!’ She smiles wistfully. ‘He said there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be pregnant again in a couple of months, if I want to be.’

‘Do you?’

‘Reuben will want to. I do. God, I want to get pregnant straight away. I can’t believe I have to wait a whole month until I even ovulate. I want this over with.’

‘I know you do—’ I begin, preparing to say something about grief taking time.

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Viv,’ she snaps.

‘No. You just need time to—’

‘So don’t mention this to me ever again, OK?’

‘OK.’ I nod decisively.

We sit and think about that for a while. The radiator in her bedroom ticks. The maternity clothes are gone from the chair. I look at her and she glares back like a wounded cat.

‘When’s Reuben back?’

‘Tonight. He cut his trip short because of . . . this.’

‘He’ll look after you, then?’

‘I thought I was OK, but I need him here. I do.’ She looks at me for a moment before shaking her head and dissolving into tears. I pull her into my arms. ‘Am I a failure as a woman?’ she sobs.

I squeeze her tight. I gaze at the ceiling while she cries, with my heart breaking for her.

‘Of course not,’ I say, smoothing down her hair. ‘Of course not. This happens all the time, babe.’

‘I’m old. I’m too old,’ she wails, desolate.

I pull away so I can see her face. ‘Hey, hold on, you and I are the same age!’

She gives a snotty laugh. I find her a tissue. She blows her nose and takes a long, shuddering breath.

‘It just happens sometimes, at any age.’

‘You’re right.’ She nods. ‘I know.’

I pat her leg. ‘Want some soup? I have cream of mushroom or pea and ham?’ I ask, showing her the cartons. She points at the pea and ham. ‘I’ll just go and warm it through for you, pet,’ I say in a nana voice.

I heat the soup in the microwave, where Lucy does most of her cooking. Her hob is showroom clean, and I don’t know if she even has any pans. I take in a tray with a bowl of soup and a slice of bread and butter. She slurps the soup bent over the tray, and then she wipes round the bowl with the bread.

‘Look at you, the Cheltenham princess, eating in bed, mopping up with bread – what would your mother say?’

‘My mother,’ Lucy sighs. ‘She’s never forgiven herself for having a daughter who refuses to be interested in ramekins.’

‘But
why
aren’t you interested in ramekins, Lucy? They’re so great.’

‘I wanted to go home pregnant when I introduce Reubs to Mum.’ She adds sadly, ‘A double whammy.’

‘You still can,’ I say, and her shiny eyes flick to mine, then to my bump and away. I feel bad for still being pregnant.

‘What about
your
mother? Tell me she’s not still with you?’ she turns on me.

‘Yep, still with me, and before you say anything, you should know I’ve told her to stay as long as she needs because she’s in a bit of a situation and I want you as my friend to understand and support my decision.’

Lucy pulls back her head, looking puzzled. ‘God, that’s a bit of a prepared speech. What situation is she in?’

‘One that requires my help.’

‘Another Rainey guilt trap, I bet,’ she sighs. ‘How is Max liking it?’

‘They hate each other.’

‘I bet he’s pleased about her staying as long as she likes, then.’

‘He doesn’t know that bit.’

‘Viv!’

‘I’m going to tell him. I’m telling him today.’

‘I thought you two were madly in love. How can you keep secrets from him? I mean, what in God’s name possessed you to say she can stay, anyway?’ She shakes her head.

‘It’s complicated,’ I look away. Sometimes I wonder when Lucy assumed this big-sister role. It irritates me because I’ve always tried not to judge her or offer unsolicited advice. ‘Yeah, I’ve dithered, left it too long without telling him already, and the longer I leave it, the madder he’s going to be.’

‘Dude, this is going to end badly.’

‘No, it won’t.’

‘Yes, it will,’ she insists, raising her eyebrows.

‘It won’t, because I have a plan I think might just work.’

‘Let’s hear it,’ she says in a bored voice, pushing away the tray. I put it on the floor.

‘Well, it’s a skeleton plan at the moment . . .’ I pause for effect. ‘If Max and Rainey start to like each other, he won’t mind that she’s staying longer, will he? What I want is a family. If we can all get on, she’ll be around when the baby is born. In my mind’s eye, I see us all at Nana’s chatting over some shared task like shelling peas or peeling potatoes, or some other food preparation. Perhaps we’d even dust off the waffle-maker . . . Anyway, then Reg pops in with a Pimm’s for us all, and how we laugh . . .’

‘What would you be laughing at?’

‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know . . . at life, love and the universe . . .’

‘That is not a plan; it’s a bloody fantasy,’ says Lucy, and my vision disappears into thin air along with my dreamy smile. ‘Viv, you can’t sort this out using your usual misplaced optimism.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, and fiddle with the edge of her bedspread, ‘I shouldn’t discuss it with you – you’re blinded by rage at the moment.’

She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘OK, just for argument’s sake, if you do want them to get on, how are you going to make them like each other?’

‘Well, I thought I might organise some sort of shared experience, like that team-building thing you went on at work.’

‘You’re going to take them paintballing?’

‘Ice-skating, pottery-painting, something like that.’

‘It won’t work.’

‘I know,’ I say gloomily, and turn to look at Lucy. Her eyes move over my face.

‘If you want to make them behave, you need to use emotional blackmail. You need to use the baby. They’re both emotionally invested in the baby,’ she says, and I immediately love her completely, for being so clever and manipulative.

‘That kind of thinking is why you’re where you are today, Lucy Bond.’ I shake my head in awe.

And right there and then the plan to get Rainey and Max to at least tolerate each other is hatched, and it starts with taking them both with me to my very first National Childbirth Trust class.

I
t could work
. To prevent either Max or Rainey backing out, I didn’t tell them the other was coming. I’m not the kind of person who goes around manipulating situations, but in this case I’m willing to give it a go. Rainey is meeting us at the doctor’s surgery at six.

When Max and I arrive, she’s standing outside. They clock each other, eyes glittering with hostility like warring street cats.

‘Oh, he’s here,’ Rainey says, and visibly sinks into her yellow felt coat. She’s wearing a floor-length skirt of many colours.

‘Father,’ sneers Max, pointing to his chest. He guides me towards the main entrance of the surgery.

‘Given up smoking, have you?’ she fires at his back.

I turn and give her a stern look while reaching for her arm; the three of us cannon through the door together.

In the little waiting room, a semi-circle of about four pregnant women and their partners look up at us mildly. The leader of the group pops up from behind the receptionist’s counter with refreshments. She’s about fifty, tanned and blonde in a 1960s way. She smiles at us.

‘Hello. Welcome. I’m Margaret,’ she says to each of us as she shakes our hands.

‘Max Kelly. I’m the father,’ says Max formally and a bit too loudly.

Some of the seated group break up from their conversations to watch.

‘I’m Vivienne,’ I gush. ‘I emailed you. I hope you don’t mind I brought my mother along.’

‘Not at all,’ says Margaret. ‘We welcome the perspective of those who have done this before.’ She smiles at Rainey. who squints in a knowledgeable way. ‘Please take a seat.’

We turn to the group. There are two free chairs beside each other and one on the edge of the line. I make for the pair of chairs and Rainey quickly sits beside me before Max has even moved away from the counter. He takes off his battered leather jacket and hat, smooths his hair back and quietly takes the spare chair. I wait for him to look at me so I can smile encouragingly, but he concentrates on the class, briefly acknowledging the man to his left, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and hands cupped.

Margaret brings her chair to the front and begins by saying that this week we are concentrating on the birth and working on our own individual birth plans, but before we do that, she asks if anyone has any questions that have arisen since last week. A woman across from me raises her hand. She and her partner are super-sized in bottle-green tracksuits, dwarfing the rabbity couple beside them. Together they represent a heavy wall of flesh. She is only marginally smaller than him, and her head is the size of a bucket, with features seemingly drawn on. Her oiled black hair is slicked back into a thin plait that snakes over her shoulder and ends curled in her lap like an adder.

‘Yes, Kitty?’ asks Margaret.

‘Yeah, I’ve been getting a lot of pelvic pain and I was wondering if I should stop hand-shunting the steam engines now I’m seven months.’

What the hell did she just say? I smirk at Max, but he ignores me, turning his hat round in his hands, looking up under his brows.

‘Me and Paul work on the miniature steam railway,’ Kitty says to the group by way of explanation.

Margaret thinks Kitty should stop hand-shunting, but adds that exercise is good for pregnant women, that we need to be fit for the birth. Then she asks Rainey if she agrees. There’s a pause. I turn slightly to see what Rainey’s doing and see she’s thinking.

‘Having travelled extensively around South America,’ she begins with her eyes closed, ‘I’ve had the privilege of witnessing many births. Often the women were literally toiling in the fields when they went into labour. Some gave birth and carried on.’

Oh no. Please not another fricking ‘birth in the fields’ story. Not here. The girl from the rabbity couple scrutinises me as if I’m an odd specimen. She and her husband are wearing power suits. I feel inadequate and inappropriately casual in my maternity leggings and smock.

‘Yes, it’s good to remember, ladies, how incredibly privileged we are to be having a baby in this country at this time,’ nods Margaret, and Rainey nods too and is about to open her mouth again when a tiny-boned, frightened Indian girl asks if a person can be too small to give birth.

I glance across at Max, wishing I was sitting with him. He doesn’t make eye contact. He’s chewing a matchstick and watching Margaret, who answers that our bodies are designed to cope with birth, and then she tells us to couple up with our birth partners and take a birth planner. Rainey gets up and snatches a sheet from the pile. I feel a small thrill that she’s here and involved. I’ve dreamt of something like this for years, of her caring for me, helping me. She returns to her seat and begins reading out the questions. I lean forward and motion for Max to come over.

‘OK, Vivienne, what are your plans for pain relief in the first stage of labour?’ she asks.

‘Paracetamol, lavender bath, bit of relaxing music,’ I say confidently. I’ve been reading
Forty Weeks and Counting Down
. I know what I’m doing.

‘Already discounting a TENS machine? O-K,’ says Rainey.

What’s a TENS machine? I have no clue. Luckily Max has appeared. He hovers uncomfortably for a bit before bending down to the man in the seat beside me.

‘Hi, there,’ he says in his polite voice. ‘Would you mind moving up one place so’s I can sit next to my partner?’ he asks.

The man looks around, surveying the seating arrangement, then refuses to move because the birth video is on in a minute and he and his wife – Jane, I think he said her name was – chose these exact seats so they could get a direct view of the television. Max gives a small nod, then turns towards the television and moves it slightly so that the seat to the left of the man now has the most direct view.

‘Can I sit down next to my partner now?’ he asks, and the couple move up, muttering something about punctuality and seating allocation.

I put a hand happily on Max’s knee. You see, this is exactly what I wanted. The three of us together, concentrating on our baby. I feel very special. I’m a sacred vessel again.

‘Are you considering a water birth? If so, have you booked in at a birth suite where these are provided?’ continues Rainey, reading in a staccato voice.

‘No, not considering one,’ I answer.

‘Vivienne, I think you should – water is Nature’s anaesthetic.’

I don’t want a water birth. I don’t like water; my hair goes funny even in a slight misting of the stuff and I want to look good in the photos.

‘Are you sure?’ asks Rainey.

‘Positive.’

‘I’ll put yes down and you can decide nearer the time,’ says Rainey.

‘She said no,’ says Max.

Rainey closes her eyes, holding the pencil in mid-air. ‘One of us here has actually experienced birth. Am I right?’ Her eyes snap open and she gazes into space waiting for an answer.

I glance at Max.

‘So what?’ he says. ‘She said no – put no.’

‘Vivienne, I’d urge you to keep your options open,’ says Rainey, ignoring him.

‘All right, put yes,’ I mutter, resigning myself to frizz-ball hair. I look at Max and press my lips together. ‘We don’t know what it’s going to be like, do we?’ I say with a shrug. I feel his thigh muscle tense under my palm.

Next up is the birth video. A naked sweating woman is squatting and holding on to a rope with both hands. She’s rocking and moaning, deeply concentrating. I look across at the innocent faces of Kitty and Jane and Rabbity Woman. I can see the wide eyes of the Indian woman shining in the flickering light. We’re all going to have to do this: these babies are going to have to come out of us somehow.

On screen, the woman is kneeling now and leaning on a chair. Her thighs are streaked with blood. Then suddenly there’s a shocking close-up as she opens like some sort of seed pod and a tiny furry head appears. Twinkly music is playing. A man steps up and wipes the woman’s brow. She whispers, ‘Thanks,’ and smiles. Come on, if she’s smiling, how bad can the pain be? I mean, you don’t smile if you’re in agony, do you, unless you have some weird fetish? The midwife speaks low and calm. It all seems quite peaceful, but then the woman lurches forward and cries out a long ‘Huuuuh’ before slumping onto the chair. She doesn’t rest for long. Suddenly she’s crying, ‘Ah, ah, ah, ahhh!’ She heaves and something slippery shoots into the arms of the midwife, the umbilical cord unfurling like a blue aniseed twist. Then the woman smiles; she laughs and cries as she cradles a crumpled purple baby in her arms.

I realise my mouth has been hanging open. I gulp as I look back at the faces of the women in the room with a spike of terror in my heart. Soon something similarly wild and brutal is about to happen and it’s going to involve us. This is serious shit. I sit wide-eyed and motionless as Margaret snaps on the lights. She explains in a grave voice that the woman giving birth in that video had absolutely no pain relief at all.

There’s a long silence as we take this in. Margaret then changes her tone to bright and breezy, and asks us to each think of a concern, something that may have been niggling us, anything at all. Rainey raises a hand.

‘Yes, I’ve been worried about how stress levels of the mother affect the unborn baby,’ she says, head on one side.

Margaret invites her to expand.

‘I’m worried that my daughter, Vivienne, is under too much pressure to earn money because her partner is unable to keep them.’

‘What?’ I begin to interrupt. ‘No—’

‘He’s an artist, you see, and his recent exhibition failed,’ explains Rainey.

‘I’m not under pressure!’

Max snorts and throws back his head.

‘What? It did fail, Max. Surely you can’t deny that? I went to the gallery. I spoke to Guy!’

‘Shut up, Rainey!’ I say, shocked. What the hell is she doing?

Max turns to look at Rainey. His eyes are blazing. I press my hand down on his knee. Please don’t let there be a fight. I glance around. Everyone is watching, fascinated.

Max slumps down in his chair, lets his head fall back and stares up at the ceiling.

Margaret begins a spiel about avoiding stress in pregnancy. I glare at Rainey and shout-whisper, ‘Stressed? I’m stressed all right.’ I mouth, ‘Because of you,’ pointing at her. She’s deliberately trying to undermine Max and I just do not understand it. I can’t see why.

Max leans forward again, elbows on knees. He smiles nastily at Rainey but doesn’t speak. I take his fingers and squeeze.

Just then the Indian woman raises her hand and asks if it’s possible to just pay up front for an epidural on your due date before you ever feel a contraction and then keep topping it up until the baby is born. We all strain forward to hear the answer to that one. (The answer is no. It’s a cruel world and women bear the brunt.)

Later, as we make our way home in the dark, Max and I link arms. Rainey walks ahead, scarves billowing and swirling with autumn leaves.

‘She’s been a total witch,’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No. I’m fucking furious.’

‘I bet. Thank you, though.’

‘For what?’

‘Being supportive, not rising to her.’

He looks at Rainey’s retreating yellow back. ‘If she was a man, I’d give her a smack in the mouth,’ he says loudly enough so that she turns round.

‘Do you have something to say to me?’ she asks.

‘Ha, do I have something to say? Er, yeah, I have quite a lot to say to you.’

‘Well, come on, better out than in.’ She smiles. She looks like she’s enjoying this.

‘What did you think you were doing in there, Rainey?’ I ask.

‘Does the truth hurt? Would you prefer to sit about pretending you’re a successful artist?’ Rainey goads.

‘That’s enough!’ I shout.

‘I don’t have to pretend anything!’ he spits.

‘OK. Well, how many landscapes have you sold?’

‘None of your business.’

‘One! And that makes you successful, does it? Don’t forget I know the art business!’

‘Ah, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He waves her away dismissively, but then spins back to her. ‘And another thing, what the hell were you doing talking to Guy? Stay the fuck out of my business.’

‘It’s an open gallery. I went to find out if you could support my daughter, and frankly the answer is no! Your work has no edge, and your problem is, you can’t handle the truth,’ she calls.

Max hesitates and then he turns and walks away, raising a hand.

I glare at Rainey. ‘Why are you being like this?’ I ask.

‘For you, Vivienne,’ she says.

‘For me? Well, don’t bother!’ I shout, running to catch up with Max.

‘I’ll help her find somewhere to live. I’ll hurry her up,’ I tell him, and I will bloody well tackle Rainey. She’ll have to go if this is how she’s planning on behaving. She’s humiliated Max. I can’t bear it.

‘I can’t live with her up my arse. I’m moving into the studio.’

‘Please don’t. I don’t know why she’s being like this. She’s got to go.’ He walks on, shaking his head. ‘I’ll tell her,’ I call after him.

‘When, Viv?’ he shouts over his shoulder.

‘Soon, really soon. I promise.’ I run to catch him up. ‘Will you trust me to sort it out?’ We stand in the residential street looking at each other. He breathes in clouds of silver under a streetlamp. He turns and kicks a wheelie bin, setting a dog off barking inside a house.