‘I just can’t help but ask myself,’ Lucy said, ‘where did I go wrong? Did I choose wrong? But you don’t choose, do you? Not really. You fall for someone who fits, and sometimes they fit in bad ways as well as good ways.’
‘But what happened was not your fault,’ Tina said. ‘I think you’ve been amazing! I mean, my God, you let him come round all the time to see the children . . . and somehow, you’re still talking to Hannah – how do you do it? I think you’re a saint. A slightly tipsy saint, maybe, but definitely possessed of superhuman powers of forgiveness. How can you stand it?
If anybody deserves to find internet-dating happiness, it’s you.’
‘I’m just window-shopping, really. I don’t want to get involved with anybody . . . ever again,’ Lucy said.
‘Don’t say that,’ Natalie said. ‘You’ve got so much ahead of you. And you’ve done so much already – look at us, playing catch-up.’
‘Remember how, at the millennium, we all talked about what we wanted out of the next decade?’ Lucy said. ‘I wanted my dream house. Do you remember? Well, I got it – and look how that turned out.’
‘But you’ve still got it,’ Tina said. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘You wanted to have a column,’ Lucy said. ‘You got that.’
‘Starting to think it’s been more trouble than it was worth,’ Tina said.
‘What did you wish for?’ Lucy said to Natalie.
Natalie’s arm was still round Lucy’s back. She cautiously withdrew it.
‘I wanted to get married to Richard and have a baby,’ she said.
‘The millennium wish fairy strikes again,’ Tina said.
And then Tina reminded them about the mad flatmate Lucy had lodged with while they were doing their journalism course, who had maintained that she believed in fairies – or was it angels? – and claimed she could see people’s auras: Tina’s had been lilac, Natalie’s was indigo and Lucy’s, apparently, was green, but with a tinge of yellow. The conversation moved on to other reminiscence: how, when they were in Cardiff, Tina had enjoyed the luxury of living alone, even if in a poky
bedsit that looked straight out on to a brick wall, while Natalie was stuck with the smallest room in a large house filled with other students.
By and by Tina talked more about the Grandee, and Lucy explained how she had slowly come to re-establish contact with her sister, and make a kind of peace with her. The time ticked by towards midnight, and Natalie realized that for both her friends the mood had lightened, as if something had been lanced, or purged . . . as if a crisis had passed. But it wasn’t over yet; it wasn’t nearly over. How could they not see that? How could they be so oblivious? She had the oddest feeling, almost an out-of-body experience, as if she was slipping away from the room, leaving them there, talking and laughing and feeling, while she was no one . . . nowhere . . . vanishing.
Tina said, ‘Do you remember the first time we met? The game of pool?’
‘Oh yes. I thrashed you, I seem to recall,’ Lucy said.
‘I’d noticed both of you before,’ Natalie said.
The other two looked at her in mild surprise. Most of their stories of the past were well rehearsed, but neither of them had heard this one.
Natalie said to Lucy, ‘I saw you smoking outside the front of the journalism institute. I was a bit surprised, because you looked so wholesome and kind of clean-living. And I remember you’ – she turned to Tina – ‘in the canteen one lunchtime. You were talking to Terry the anarchist, the one with all the hair, but actually quite a lot of people were listening to you, especially the men, though they were trying not to show it, not
that you would have cared anyway. You were describing your school. You said that if you went to a school like yours, there wasn’t much option but to have crushes on the other girls. Unless you were into nuns. I’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget the way you said it. You sounded so . . . free.’
For the first time that evening she found herself the centre of attention.
‘I met this woman . . . in my antenatal group,’ she went on. We had this . . . this encounter. It was just a one-off. But it made me sad. It made me sad because I wanted it. And because I can’t have that . . . and have Richard and Matilda. Which means I can’t have it at all.’
‘My God – Natalie,’ Tina said. ‘Are you telling us you think you might be gay?’
‘I’m telling you I’ve decided I can never find out,’ Natalie said.
‘But you love Richard,’ Lucy said. ‘Don’t you?’
And suddenly Natalie was rooted back in the room, in her body. She could even feel an itch behind her eyeballs, as if of tears.
‘I haven’t told him,’ she said. ‘I mean, he knows – he knows I had doubts, once. Something else happened, a long time ago – when I went travelling. After the millennium. That’s why we broke up. I told him it was a mistake. I promised him. I can’t tell him about this.’
‘But . . .’ Tina said. ‘You’ve been . . . happy with Richard?’
‘In bed, you mean?’ Natalie said. ‘We were . . . I don’t know how to say it, really. We were never the kind of lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other. I
wasn’t with him for that. It was . . . reassuring. But now it’s gone. It went pretty much as soon as I got pregnant. We’ve just completely dried up.’
‘But lots of couples go through dry spells,’ Lucy said. ‘Long dry spells, too. Natalie, I know you will have thought about this, but how about speaking to a counsellor? You don’t have to tell Richard. You could just go on your own. I could mind Matilda for you if you liked.’
‘Or I could,’ Tina said.
‘But what would be the point?’ Natalie said. ‘I’ve made up my mind. Now I just have to get on with it.’
‘But you make it sound like a punishment,’ Tina said.
‘Whatever I do, I’m going to struggle to live with it,’ Natalie said. ‘So I might as well do what’s right. Don’t you think?’
‘Oh, who says what’s right?’ Lucy said. ‘Who decides? Natalie, you’ve always been a dark horse – but if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you always try to do the right thing. But that shouldn’t mean that you have to sacrifice yourself.’
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece began to chime midnight.
Tina said, ‘It’s time! We have to make a toast. Right now.’ She leaned forward to get her glass from the coffee table.
‘I rather think I’ve had enough,’ Lucy said, but she picked up her glass too, and Natalie followed suit.
‘To old times,’ Tina said.
‘And to new times,’ Natalie said.
They clinked glasses, and the clock fell silent.
Natalie’s phone beeped, and she got it out of her bag and saw the message was from Richard:
Happy New Year my dear. Give the others my best. R xxx
Tina winced, and said, ‘I’m sorry, he just kicked me,’ and then, ‘Oh God – I think I just felt something go pop. Oh my God, I’m just going to go to the bathroom. No, don’t come with me. I have to be on my own for a minute.’
She went out to the stairs and disappeared from view.
Lucy reached out and took Natalie’s hand.
‘Everything will be all right in the end,’ she said, ‘whatever happens.’
Tina was gone for just long enough for them to ask each other whether they ought to go and check on her. Then she came back upstairs and told them yes, her waters really had broken. Would they mind sticking around while she rang the hospital, and if she had to go in tonight, would it be possible for Natalie to give her a lift?
By the time they set off, Tina, who was sitting next to Lucy in the back, had stopped timing her contractions; they were so close together that it was not reassuring. Lucy had sobered up enough to help Natalie with directions, although Natalie would have much preferred it if Lucy had been in a position to do the driving herself.
It was a fraught journey, given Natalie’s fear of negotiating central London, but also an otherworldly one. She remembered what it had been like in the early stages of labour, walking with Richard alongside the Thames – how their surroundings had been both
vivid and remote, imbued with the fleeting clarity of a memory or dream. Now she could see the familiar London nightscape through Tina’s eyes, and take it in with the sad affection of an émigrée who is on the way somewhere completely different and unknown, and has no idea when she may be able to return. The dark wet streets, the glowing windows of pubs and bars, the drunk, short-skirted girls staggering companionably, would all carry on, magical and oblivious, while Tina was drawn into a fast-narrowing tunnel, with no way out other than onward, and Lucy and Natalie stood by and waited for it to be over.
Tina hadn’t asked them to stay, but Lucy had insisted that they would, assuming that Natalie would be equally gung-ho at the prospect of providing moral support to the bitter end . . . and Tina hadn’t put up much resistance, had seemed glad to have the offer of help. Matilda would be fine with Richard, and Lucy had Hannah at home, so there was no need to rush back. And things seemed to be moving along pretty fast, judging by the regularity of Tina’s contractions. If it did turn out to be a protracted labour, Tina would need them there all the more. Perhaps they could do shifts – though Natalie was actually very relieved to have Lucy there.
She couldn’t really admit to it, but she wasn’t sure she was cut out for this. Her own experience had been so passive. She’d contributed a bit, but other people had mostly made it happen for her. She hadn’t given birth; birth had been taken out of her, like gallstones, or a perforated appendix, or cancer. It was difficult for her
to conceive of the moment of delivery as miraculous or special; it was all about the patter of gushing blood. So how could she possibly cheerlead someone else to the crisis point? And besides, she was rather squeamish. Gore, horror movies, scenes of torture weren’t her thing. It had been bad enough going through it all herself; given half a chance, she’d never have opted to witness someone else’s suffering.
They stopped at the entrance to the car park and Natalie wound down her window and took a ticket. The barrier rose. The maternity wing loomed up in front of them, ghostly white concrete striped with the shine of glass, the futuristic vision of yesterday’s men.
Natalie did a careful circuit, found a space and nosed into it. She killed the engine and exhaled.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I think your upholstery is going to be spared,’ Tina said.
Natalie got out and took Tina’s bag from the boot. Lucy took Tina’s baby car seat. This was one of the items she had insisted Tina should buy when they met up back in the autumn to make sure Tina was properly kitted out. Seeing it reminded Natalie of the question Tina had asked her that day, which Natalie had failed to answer:
What was it like?
Tina got out of the car and shut the door, then stopped and leaned against it. Natalie waited. She offered Tina her arm, but Tina shook her head. She straightened and made her way towards the bright sliding doors. Lucy quickened her pace to walk alongside her, and Natalie followed.
Inside they found a reception desk with an empty chair. There was a buzzer on the desk, and a small notice: ‘Please ring for assistance’.
Lucy rang. They waited.
Nobody came.
‘I actually don’t know where we’re meant to go,’ Tina said.
‘You sit down,’ Lucy said.
She steered Tina towards a row of seats bolted to the wall and went off. Natalie settled down next to Tina.
‘She seems to have sobered up nicely,’ Tina commented. ‘Must be the mother instinct. Ability to snap out of a drama when confronted by a crisis.’ Then she stiffened and fell silent, and Natalie found herself wincing in sympathy.
Lucy reappeared and led them to a midwife who took the brown folder with Tina’s medical notes, asked a couple of desultory questions, and sent them all through to the waiting room.
It was empty. So this was what it looked like! It was so much more innocuous than Natalie remembered. She thought of it as drenched in fear and bodily fluids, but actually it was a banal, dull sort of place, with worn, institutional flooring and plastic chairs.
They sat in strained sympathy while Tina suffered and drew breath, and suffered and drew breath. Tina had been told that all the delivery suites were full, and it was possible that she’d come in too early, and would be sent home. In the lapses of time between bouts of pain Lucy kept up an encouraging patter, affirming that Tina was doing brilliantly, everything was going just
fine, and all was going to be well, and Natalie, listening to her, almost felt reassured herself.
Then Tina was taken off to be examined, and Lucy said to Natalie, ‘Don’t look so scared. She’ll be OK. Just stick up the head end, and if she ends up having a caesarean I guess they’ll chuck us out anyway.’
‘I just don’t know how I’m going to cope with the gruesome bits,’ Natalie said. ‘When I had Matilda, I couldn’t help but be aware that it was pretty grisly for Richard. He just sort of withdrew. He was horrified. I don’t want to be Tina’s Richard.’
‘So don’t be,’ Lucy said.
Then they fell to swapping birth stories – Lucy’s two caesareans to Natalie’s one ventouse-and-forceps-and-episiotomy – and Natalie was reminded of the conversations she’d had along similar lines with her antenatal group. Such exchanges had a compulsive quality; you could see, when a woman talked about the experience of having a baby, that she was remembering a time when she had not been herself, and trying to reclaim it.
Tina came back in, accompanied by a midwife.
‘Guess what, it’s a miracle!’ Tina announced with a rather forced smile. ‘They’ve found room at the inn!’
The midwife confirmed the good news: Tina could stay, and so could both her friends.
Lucy said, ‘Oh, thank God for that!’ and Natalie, who had been secretly hoping that only one companion would be permitted – in which case she would have been off the hook – agreed that it was a great relief.
They all went up to a tiny room on the fifth floor, with a narrow bed, a bedside cabinet and a window
looking out on to the black sweep of the Thames and the lights of the city beyond.
‘Bathroom’s down the corridor,’ the midwife said. ‘This is the postnatal floor, so don’t be surprised if you bump into someone who’s already had her baby.’