OMG Baby! (9 page)

‘Hmm, that might be tricky . . .’

‘The rituals are essential. Some of the mantras will help to ensure the safe arrival of a new life.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I say, thinking about giving up my bed. I suppose the sofa bed could be more convenient for us at the moment, as I do keep needing the toilet in the middle of the night and I’d be nearer the bathroom and wouldn’t disturb Rainey.

Max returns, now wearing a soft cotton shirt and carrying two glasses of cava but nothing for me, I notice.

‘I’ll have juice,’ I tell him, and he turns on his heels back to the kitchen.

‘What line of work is your lover involved in?’ asks Rainey.

‘Oh, call him Max,’ I laugh. ‘He’s an artist.’

‘A successful one, mind,’ Max adds, as he returns with orange juice. ‘I’ve an exhibition coming up next week.’

‘I’m deeply interested in native South American art myself. I was a collector for a short while.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘The painter Hernán was a favourite of mine, and I sold many of his works to interior designers in the US.’

‘I don’t know his work. What kind of artist is he?’

‘A dead one. He was shot in Bogotá, Colombia, in 1989. A great shame. His work was easy to sell since he tailored it to suit the interior trends of the time.’

I know Max will hate that idea, because art is a kind of communication with the soul; it’s about provoking an emotional response and not to do with interior design. Something like that, anyway. I shoot him a look, but he’s listening politely to Rainey’s impromptu art class, nodding and smiling along. After a while I have to pee, so I leave them just as Rainey accepts a top-up of cava. I hear her giggling. What a relief they’re getting on so well. I nip to the bedroom and pick up clothes, shoes and books. I strip the bed and open the window. I gather up my make-up bag and a pot of hair bobbles and earrings from the dressing table. I empty the condoms from the bedside table, and the book of sexual positions – a joke present from Max. We only tried one, a kind of human knot that made us both fart a lot. I look around. The room looks pleasant enough. Certainly nicer than any hostel could have been. I wonder how much room Rainey will need for her rituals . . . Will she have to jump around or swing stuff? I hope she will stay. I hope she’ll be impressed with me, proud even, but I’ll settle for just being able to say I know who she is. I dump the sheets into the laundry basket and go back to join them.

‘And you’re going to be a father,’ Rainey is saying. The empty bottle of cava is on the table.

‘Yeah.’ Max nods, opens his arm out for me and I flop next to him, folding up my legs.

‘I’m really feeling you’re not prepared for the birth. Do you know what to expect?’ she asks, glancing at us.

‘Oh, I’m only just getting used to the fact that I’m pregnant!’ I glance at Max and laugh. ‘Nope, I am not at all prepared for the birth. Are you, Max?’

‘Well, from what I’ve been told, it hurts,’ he says, and he smiles and pats my arm.

‘Not necessarily,’ says Rainey, gazing into the middle distance as if seeing a vision. ‘I met a woman in the Australian outback who birthed a baby just walking along, and she’d never had sex.’

‘Immaculate conception?’ asks Max.

‘Artificial insemination,’ says Rainey.

‘Oh!’ I snigger.

‘Yes, she was walking to the shop to get those . . . What do you call those brown biscuits you only get in Oz . . . ? No matter. She was going to buy some when she felt something dribbling down her leg, and then whoosh! The baby just washed out. It just surfed right out on its own waters.’

‘I’ve heard of those painless labours,’ I say, fascinated.

‘And the child – Cody she named him – went on to be the Cottesloe Surf Champion of 1999 and 2000.’

I shake my head with a look on my face like ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Well, I hope I have a labour like that! Painless, I mean, not on the way to the shops.’

Rainey picks up the empty bottle of cava and puts it down again.

‘Will I get you another drink?’ asks Max.

‘In a moment. When I gave birth, aged sixteen, to Vivienne, it was the worst ordeal of my entire life.’

I glance around uncertainly.

‘An awkward, bony thing she was.’

Max turns to smile at me.

‘I laboured for hours, but she was hooked in like a coat hanger.’

I gulp uncomfortably. ‘Oh, I remember Nana saying I was a difficult birth,’ I shrug. What does she want from me? Should I apologise?

‘What would she know? She wasn’t there.’

‘She told me she was with you.’

‘You were anterior, had to be ripped from me in the end. I was in post-traumatic shock, of course, but nobody had heard of it then, so I was discharged after a week, alone with a child and just a child myself . . .’

‘You went home, though? To Nana’s?’

‘They were ashamed of us, Vivienne – kept us in that back bedroom.’

‘I thought you shut yourself away and left me with them.’

‘I struggled to feed you even though I had infected milk ducts.’

‘Nana always talked about how she bottle-fed me.’

‘She can’t remember, Vivienne. She makes it up.’

I think of Nana carefully answering my childish questions, always making Rainey seem good, better than the truth.

‘Sorry for your pain,’ I say stupidly, and Rainey stares at the coffee table as if in a trance. ‘Shall we make lunch?’

‘Yes!’ says Max, standing quickly, and we scuttle off to the kitchen.

‘Jesus, your mother is a fucking lunatic!’ Max whispers, eyes wide, shoulders hunched.

‘I know, but think of her as kooky. She’s . . . you know, alternative.’ I take a pepper out of the fridge, thinking about soup or maybe ratatouille. I remember buying a courgette. ‘Anyway, you gave her the cava. She’s probably hammered!’

‘She nearly bit my hand off when I offered booze! Oh, she can handle it, all right.’

‘Yeah. Can you, though?’

I start chopping an onion, feeling ever so slightly irritated with him.

‘Hernán the interior-design artist,’ he scoffs, leaning with both elbows over the draining board.

‘I knew that would annoy you.’

‘Why do people talk to me about art when they don’t know what they’re talking about?’

‘I think it’s something about you. Maybe it’s your open face, your questioning expression?’

‘Yeah . . .’ he says, missing the sarcasm.

‘Look, I want you to like her,’ I say, pouring some oil into a pan and banging it on the gas ring, as the stove ticks and a crown of blue flame springs. I fry the onions. ‘So will you please try?’

‘I’m trying,’ he says, turning down the gas. ‘Did you not notice?’ He kisses my shoulder. ‘And I’ll keep trying.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I say, pressing my head back into his chest.

‘I am not calling her Rainey, though.’

Next thing, we’re shocked by a terrifying wail. We turn and run towards it. Max gets to the doorway of the kitchen first, holding the doorframe to swing himself round. I follow, pushing him in the back, straining to see.

Rainey is on the sofa holding her ankle where three thin red lines are beginning to pinprick with blood.

‘That thing attacked me!’ she gasps over her shoulder, glowering towards the coffee table where the tip of Dave’s tail swishes.

Max drops to his knees and fishes under the table. He drags Dave out by the scruff of his neck; he’s puffed up to twice his normal size and is hissing as if Rainey is Beelzebub.

‘Dave! What the hell’s wrong with you?’ says Max, grabbing Dave and carrying the growling furball to the bedroom.

I get a tissue and Rainey dabs at the scratch.

A moment later we hear the door close and Max returns, shaking his head. ‘He’s never done anything like that before.’

‘Are you OK?’ I ask Rainey.

‘I can’t stay here with that brute.’

‘Well, he’s never like that normally . . .’ I look at Max, appealing for back-up.

‘You know, he’s quite playful. He might have been going after one of your bobbles there.’ Max waves a finger at the bottom of Rainey’s sarong, at the edging of tiny orange pompoms.

‘It went for me. It made sure you were gone and then it pounced. You can’t have that animal near a pregnant woman, never mind a baby. It’s clearly gone mad. You’ll have to put it down.’ Rainey speaks to her wound, dabbing at the skin and wincing.

I look at Max. He pulls back his head, disgusted.

‘We’ll . . . we’ll talk about it later, Rainey. We’ll sort something out, don’t worry . . . Shall we have another drink?’ I look at Max and widen my eyes.

‘I’ll get us some wine,’ says Max.

‘Do you have any brandy?’ asks Rainey, ‘for the shock.’

T
hat night Max
, Dave and I are jammed within the narrow metal frame of the sofa bed, Dave purring like a lawnmower. We’ve . . . Well, actually, I’ve decided that he’s going back to Max’s studio in the morning. It’s for the best. He was only here by accident. I mean, I never planned to have a cat, and the way he behaved today whenever Rainey came near was an embarrassment, yowling and hissing like that.

Max is starting to snore. I lie looking up at the glass ball light-fitting above our heads. It turns anticlockwise in the draught and back again. I can make out our window reflected in the weak lemon glow from the street. I wonder who it would hit if it fell. I comfort myself, thinking it would be Max, and with his big, tough Irish head, the damage would be minimal. He took it quite well when I broke the news about Rainey staying. He said he’s happy if I’m happy, and then he didn’t say much, just drank and listened to her. She has a lot of stories, but of course she’s spent her life travelling: she knows a lot of things.

I look towards the bedroom, at the strip of light between the floor and door. My mother is in there. She’s in my flat. I smile. I’m pleased, like I have a secret precious thing, wrapped in special paper, inside a pretty box – something I’ve always wanted. She’s here, finally, and I will make her fall in love with us. The strip of light disappears. I imagine her settling down to sleep.

Max turns over; his hand rests on my belly. I look at the tanned hand, the raised veins, and then I close my eyes. Vivienne Summers, you are becoming a mother, a wife and a daughter. Wow.

I
gaze
at the lined-up traffic from the office kitchen window as the kettle boils. Some guy in a silver Audi unwraps a stick of gum and drops the crumpled wrapper onto the road. It’s a still, grey day, but the wind cartwheels his litter the length of three cars.

Why is it permanently windy here? I make three teas, squeezing the tea bags in each cup. Damon hasn’t turned up yet, but it’s only a matter of time before his heartbeat sensor kicks in and he realises there are life forms in the building and locates us. I pour milk into the tea. Across the front of Damon’s mug it says, ‘Not just a pretty face.’

When I get to the office door, he’s already hovering by Christie’s desk. I hand him the tea wordlessly and he takes a sip as I check through emails. I can hardly concentrate on the screen I’m so tired. I didn’t really sleep on that tiny bumpy bloody sofa bed with Dave purring and Max snoring in my earhole all night like a whistling rasp. Max left early with Dave in a box and I was able to tell Rainey that Dave was gone, offer it to her like a gift to show how accommodating we can be and make her stay longer. Also without the cat, she might move onto the sofa bed and I can get my bed back. It was great to see her first thing in the morning, though. We’ve never stayed together in the same house since she left. I sort of hung around her door until she called out asking for warm water with lemon. I had one as well and we sat sipping like any other mother and daughter facing a new day. Except weirder.

‘I like your look today, Christie,’ Damon is saying. ‘Very Autumn/Winter 2012.’

I glance across at Christie. She looks like a cat burglar, all in black – velvet dungarees, Doc Marten boots and a Smurf-like knitted hat; her hair falls in a plaited rope of platinum blonde.

‘Are you not a bit warm, though?’ I ask, patting my head.

She ignores me, continuing to bat her heavily mascaraed lashes at Damon, who’s talking her language.

‘It’s all about black leather this season, ain’t it?’ he’s saying.

‘I know. I’m saving up for a trouser suit.’

‘Hello! If we don’t get some work done here, there’ll be nothing to save up,’ I say, widening my eyes at the screen and chuckling sarcastically to myself. I delete a few messages. Then I find one from Michael. He’s free this morning and can call in if we like. I quickly reply, saying yes, please. I hope it’s not too late. I want him to help me with my internet research and talk through ideas with him about selling our crackers online. Actually, I want him to build us a website for free. Damon is on the move.

‘All right, look, girls, I got to go – I got work to do. Catch you later, all right?’

‘OK,’ I smile.

‘What time?’

‘What time what?’

‘Shall I catch you later?’

‘Er, probably we won’t be available for catching later.’ I grimace.

‘Oh, you have the look of Lady Di when you do that face.’

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t she? When she looks up like that?’ he appeals to Christie, who wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. ‘OK, see ya, Lady Di.’ He waves a palm the size of a spade and closes the door slowly.

‘Jesus, we’re going to have to factor in at least ten minutes every morning for this fuckery!’ I slam a drawer closed for effect. I’m overtired, nauseous and I’m the boss around here, no matter what I’m wearing.

‘Awww, you know, that’s the first time I’ve felt all right with him. I think you’re right, Viv – he is just lonely.’

‘Look, Christie, shall we get the pictures of the wedding crackers PhotoShopped for our website, do you think? Michael is coming in today and we have that big Tease meeting coming up. Actually, can you please put a menu together – you know, with all the different cracker contents – and work out the costs?’

‘All right,’ she says, sulkily tilting her head and then disappearing behind her screen.

I yawn and stretch. God, I’m tired. My eyes feel like two dry marbles rolling in sand. I Google ‘tiredness in pregnancy’: something about a comfy bed, a milky drink, a calm home. I scroll down. Aha! What’s this? ‘Ask your boss if you can install a camp bed at work for cat naps, play music at regular times throughout the day and dance with your bump to re-energise.’ I imagine mentioning camp beds and cat naps to my old boss, Snotty. That would be hilarious. But now I’m the boss, so it’s camp beds and musical interludes a go-go, starting now. I click on Spotify and blast out ‘If You Wanna Come Back’ by the Vaccines. Christie frowns over her laptop.

‘Dance time, Christie!’

She gets up, comes round her desk into the space where I’m throwing shapes and joins in with slow jerking movements, her face deadpan. When the track ends, we go back to our desks.

‘Ohhh!’ I sigh, as I sit down, pink-cheeked and a bit out of breath. ‘That’s better.’

Just then I hear a noise like a bluebottle made of metal is trapped under a board. Christie and I look at each other. It starts up again, in three bursts, a really horrible, unbearable sound.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘Is it a fire alarm?’

‘That would be a continuous ring . . .’

‘Someone’s buzzing us, Viv,’ she says.

We look at the wall where the plastic intercom box vibrates.

‘Of course! It must be Michael.’ I rush to lift the receiver. ‘Dream Team PR. How can I help you?’

‘Hi. I’m looking for Vivienne Summers.’

‘Speaking?’

‘Hey, doll face, it’s Mike.’

‘Michael, Mike . . . Come up to the third-floor corner office.’ I press every button on the plastic box and hang up nonchalantly. I wipe my palms down the front of my trousers, smile and open the door. The lift clanks and groans. I hear the cage door crash open. ‘Mike? This way,’ I call, already getting a whiff of patchouli, and then there he is, wearing his shiny grey suit and synthetic shoes. His hair is slicked off his thin white face, giving him a widow’s peak Dracula would be proud of. He’s kept the strange facial hair, I notice, complete with rat-tail beard. He stops when he sees me, then breaks into a kind of robotic dance ending in a handshake.

‘Great to see you, Mike!’ I say overenthusiastically.

He points a finger gun at Christie and fires. ‘Baby doll, hiya,’ he says, and she smiles from her desk.

‘You look great! How are you?’ I ask.

‘I’m well, Viv.’ He nods knowingly. The last time we saw each other was his disastrous engagement party in Soho, when his fiancé (my other boss, Mole) didn’t turn up and I had to get him home. He cried and propositioned me, but it’s all in the past.

‘So would you like tea, coffee?’

‘No . . . I think we can get straight to the coalface.’

‘OK.’ I motion for him to sit at my desk and I take one of the non-swivel chairs. He bounces his legs, leaning back. ‘Well, Michael, there’re a couple of things I want to pass by you,’ I begin, and then I tell him about the sex-themed crackers, while he takes notes, draws arrows, exclamation marks and what looks like a bum on a pad.

At the end he double-thumps a fist over his heart and says, ‘I’m on board.’

‘Well, just to be clear it’s a piece of freelance work we’re offering here, not a job.’ I smile.

‘Look, you need me. I need a job. Let’s put our skills on the table and make a party.’

‘We do need you, but there isn’t a party or really a job.’

‘You’re looking at a highly skilled web designer and talented programmer here. Guys like me don’t rock up every day.’ He jiggles in the chair.

‘We don’t have any money, though,’ I say, ‘or customers.’ God, when I put it as baldly as that, it’s actually terrifying.

‘I’ll tell you what you do have, though, po-ten-tial. With me on board, you will fly, guaranteed.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure, and don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have you, but I was talking about a piece of work for us. We just can’t pay you for more, or really pay you. At all.’

He raises his arms, making a cradle for the back of his head with his hands, and smiles. I look at him and he raises his eyebrows. His little black eyes flick from my face to the door.

‘Why aren’t you at Barnes and Worth anymore?’

‘Personal reasons.’ His knees begin to tap together.

‘Because of Mole?’

He sighs. ‘Marion, yes, she who threw my heart down like a scrap of offal for the wolves.’ Christie pulls a face over the top of the laptop. I adopt what I hope is a concerned/interested face. ‘And now she’s all like “I want to see you” and I’m like “The relationship is dead and buried, sister, after that engagement humiliation” and she’s like “I have to have you. I must have you”, popping up at the office and bawling her eyes out. Following me, sending love notes with bodily hair Sellotaped in. So I left. I’m nobody’s sex toy, Vivienne. I’m not into sexual harassment. That’s just not how I roll.’

‘No, that’s understandable. The thing is, Mike, unless you can work for free until we get some clients—’

‘I’m in.’

‘In what?’

‘I’ll work for you for a month for free, and if you get a client, you pay me, but if you don’t, I’m gone.’

‘Why would you do that? A talented guy such as yourself could have a top job like that.’ I snap my fingers.

‘I like you, Vivienne. I never forget a good turn. I remember what you did that night in Soho. I was in bits at my own engagement party and you were the one who got me home.’ He narrows his eyes and I swear I can hear spaghetti-western music.

‘It was nothing . . .’

‘The way you put me in the taxi and your thoughtful engagement gift – I still use that spice donkey, by the way, for my fish food. Well, I’ll always remember what you did that night.’

‘Ha, ha. Really, it was nothing . . .’

‘I know, but I’m down on my luck and I need something to do. Just one thing, though?’

‘What?’

‘When you pay me, it’s twenty pounds an hour, and if you don’t pay and I go, I take down any sites I’ve built and all my design property.’

‘Done,’ I say, offering my hand. In a month if we have no clients, we won’t be needing any sites or design property. The craziness of this situation is strangely liberating.

‘Well then, let’s ride this thing until the wheels fall off!’ he says, and we high-five to seal it.