Suzy P and the Trouble with Three (17 page)

Isabella and I
are eating cornflakes the next morning when the doorbell goes.

I open the front door and there’s an impossibly groomed woman standing in front of me. She’s wearing tight jeans, the highest heels I’ve ever seen in real life, and sunglasses so enormous they practically obscure her whole face. Her blonde hair is immaculate, swishing around her cheekbones as she smiles.

“Suzy? Gosh, look at you. You’ve grown so much!”

A waft of expensive perfume shoots up my nostrils as the woman sweeps me into a crushing hug. I yelp as my arm gets squished against her.

“Mum?” Isabella says, emerging from the kitchen.

“Darling!” The woman (who I’ve deduced is Caro – just
call me Sherlock), sweeps inside and gives Isabella an enormous hug too.

“What are you doing here? I thought I was meeting you at Paddington,” Isabella says. She returns the hug, but warily. She’s not exactly looking overjoyed to see her mum rock up out of the blue.

“We need to talk, sweetie,” Caro says, pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head.

“What about?” Isabella says suspiciously. “What have you done now?”

“Nothing!” Caro says. “Is there somewhere we can sit down? Have a proper chat?”

“In there,” I say, pointing through the doorway towards the lounge. “I’ll get you guys some drinks?”

“Coffee for me, please,” Caro says. “Filter, if you’ve got it?”

Filter? She’ll be lucky. Value instant is what she’s getting. She’ll never know the difference.

“Nothing for me, thanks, Suzy,” Isabella says.

As I wait for the kettle to boil, the temptation to go and listen at the door to what Caro’s saying is overwhelming. But I resist. Although, I do maybe carry the drink through a smidgen slower than I should have done.

When I enter the room it’s pretty obvious they’ve
both been crying – they have red eyes and their make-up’s not as perfect as it was a few minutes ago.

“Erm, is everything all right?” I ask, carefully putting the mug down on the coffee table.

“Fine,” Caro says, pulling a tissue out of her (designer) handbag. She smiles. “We just have a lot of things to sort out, don’t we, darling? But we’ll get there.”

Isabella nods. “Yeah.”

“I’ll just go and tell Mum you’re here,” I say. “She’ll be so excited to see you.”

“Caro!” Mum says, as she rushes into the room a few moments later. They embrace. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Needed to see my baby girl,” Caro says. “I missed her. We’re going to get the train back to London together. Sorry we can’t stay longer this time, but we’ll be back soon for a proper visit, promise. We want to get unpacked in our new house, don’t we, Is?”

Isabella nods. She looks the happiest I’ve seen her since she arrived.

“Why don’t you go and get your bits and pieces and we can make a move?” Caro says.

“I’ll give you a hand,” I say, following Isabella upstairs.

“Everything okay?” I ask cautiously, once we’re safely away from adult earshot. This Isabella-and-me-as-friends
thing is taking some getting used to.

“I think so,” Isabella says, slumping down onto my bed. “She apologised, which she’s never really done before, and said she’s done her best to make things better with Luca. She said she doesn’t have a problem with me and him keeping in touch, and she’s paying for me to go back to Italy before the end of the holidays, so, y’know, all good.”

Isabella says the words nonchalantly, but I can see how pleased she is.

I guess they’ve still got a long way to go, but it’s a start.

“Right, we need to take Isabella and Caro to the train station,” Mum says, after we’ve finally dragged Isabella’s luggage downstairs.

“Hmm?” I say. I’m distracted fiddling with my phone. I’ve been trying to get hold of Danny since we got back, but he’s not answering texts. Or calls. And when I rang his house last night, his dad answered and got all kinds of weird saying he didn’t know where he was.

I’m starting to get suspicious.

“Suzy, are you listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Mum says.

“Um, no. Sorry,” I say.

“We’re leaving to take Isabella and Caro to the station,” Mum says, with exaggerated patience. “Harry’s coming with us, but there’s no room for you as well in the car. Amber, I want you to go and put your feet up.”

“Stop telling me what to do,” Amber says, her eyes flashing fiercely. “I’m not a child.”

Since we got home, Amber’s been in a major, major grump. I have never seen her like this. My happy, fluffy sister has been replaced by someone so crotchety it’s like she sat naked in a wasp’s nest.

“I’m only trying to make sure you’re all right,” Mum says.

“Well, don’t. Leave me alone,” she says, storming off. Which would be much more impressive if she wasn’t waddling like John Wayne.

“It’s like living with a stroppy teenager,” Mum sighs at Dad. “Two stroppy teenagers,” she says, casting a pointed look in my direction.

“Bye, Isabella,” I say, deciding to ignore my mother. I give her a hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the parentals giving each other a look of surprise. Mum shrugs at Dad.

They are SO obvious. Honestly.

“That rat’s not coming with us, is he?” Isabella asks as Harry skulks into view.

Okay. I have to know. “Are you really allergic to rats?” I ask curiously.

Isabella pauses for a moment, then grins and lets out a snort. “Hah. No.”

“I knew it! So what’s the deal, then?”

“Honestly? I’m terrified. Completely and utterly terrified.”

The thought is so ridiculous, I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Then Isabella starts laughing too, and soon we’re howling like a pair of complete loons.

Now the parentals are completely baffled.

“I’m worried about leaving Amber,” Mum says, as Isabella gives me another goodbye hug and makes me promise for the zillionth time I’ll visit. “She said she wasn’t feeling all that well…”

“She’ll be fine,” Dad says, ushering Mum towards the door after Isabella and Caro. “You’re only going to be gone half an hour. She’ll survive until then.”

As the house falls quiet, I sit and watch some TV for a bit, still moping about Millie and keeping an ear out for Amber. She went ape at me earlier when I moved her biscuits, and I don’t want to get my head bitten off again. It’s like she’s got PMT on overdrive or something. Definitely best avoided. It doesn’t help that Mark’s not around. He’s usually the one that helps
calm her down, but he left for a meeting first thing.

I try to ring Danny, but there’s no answer. Gnargh!

Hmmm. Maybe I will feed my misery. I tiptoe towards the kitchen, and then jump out of my skin as Amber appears in the doorway in front of me. At least I manage not to shriek. I do
not
think that would have gone down well.

Uh oh. Time for a sharp exit.

“I was, um, going to my bedroom… Took a wrong turning,” I say, laughing nervously as I step backwards.

“Don’t go, Suzy, I’m not feeling well,” Amber says. She grasps my shoulders and shuts her eyes as she winces.

“What’s wrong?” I say, not too concerned, given all the false alarms we’ve had over the last few weeks. Although now she’s so close, I notice she’s gone very pale.

“I’ve got tummy ache,” Amber says through gritted teeth. She exhales slowly and her grip on my shoulder intensifies.

Ouch. She has got serious clampage going on.

“My bump keeps getting really squeezy,” Amber says. “I think you can get these pretend contraction things. Maybe it’s those.”

You
what
?

“You’re having contractions?” I shriek.

“Not real ones,” Amber says.

Phew. Thank goodness for that.

“Ow, ow, here’s another one…” Amber says, then she yelps in agony and clutches her tummy again. There’s the sound of water hitting floor and all of a sudden my socks are soaking.

“Uh oh, I think I wet myself,” Amber says. “I can’t believe I did that. How embarrassing.”

“Um, are you sure that’s what it is, Amber?” I say. That can’t be her waters breaking, can it? I have no idea what to do!

“Owwww,” Amber says, doubling over again. “It really hurts.”

“Um, do you think you might be in labour?” I say.

“Noooo,” Amber wails. “It’s too early. And Mark’s not here.”

Think, Suzy. Think. And think fast, before a couple of babies come shooting out of your sister and skid across the kitchen floor.

“I’ll give Mum a ring,” I say. “She’ll know what to do.”

I speed-dial Mum’s number with trembling fingers, but get the tinny voice telling me her phone is currently unavailable.

“Can’t get through. I’ll try Dad,” I say. But when I ring Dad’s phone, I can hear his Metallica ringtone echoing through from the lounge. He’s forgotten his phone. Okay. Mark.

His phone’s switched off. I leave a garbled message telling him to call me as soon as he can, and then try Isabella. She’s my last hope.

She answers.

“Hey, Suzy, what’s up?”

“I need to speak to Mum,” I say.

“Sorry, we’re already at the platform. The traffic was terrible so they dropped us off and left straightaway. There’s been some burst water main or something. The roads are shut and the traffic’s all backed up.”

Nooooooooooooooo!

“Is everything okay?” Isabella asks.

“Really not. Tell you later, gotta go,” I say, and hang up the phone.

This cannot be happening.

“Ooooooh,” Amber says. “Do something. It really hurts!”

“Um, maybe I should ring the hospital?” I say.

“Okay,” Amber says, staggering over to a kitchen chair. “The number’s on the front of my maternity notes.”

She shrieks the last bit, and I can see the realisation of what’s about to happen is finally sinking in.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

Her voice is getting more high-pitched by the word and I can tell she’s heading for a proper freak-out.

As am I.

But one of us has to stay calm. And as I’m not the one about to deliver two people out of my you-know-what, I guess that has to be me.

“Just chill,” I say. “I’m going to ring the hospital, and I’m sure they’ll tell us it’s something that always happens.”

“You think?” says Amber.

“Yep,” I say, lying through my teeth. “Stay there and take it easy, and I’ll call the hospital and see what they say. Deep breaths, okay?”

My hands are shaking so hard and my brain is so frantic with panic that it takes four attempts to dial.

When I finally get through, the midwife tells me Amber needs to come in immediately, as she needs examining.

Oh God. How am I supposed to get my sister there without any form of transport? Mum, where are youuuuuuuuu?

I try her phone again. And again. And again. Still no answer.

Deep breath. I can’t let Amber know how much I’m freaking.

“Um, well, nothing to worry about, but we need to get you to the hospital.” I force a smile as I break the news to Amber.

“I can’t go there,” Amber replies. “Mark’s not here. I’m not ready. I’ve not packed my hospital bag or anything.”

“I can pack it for you,” I say. “What do you need?”

“Um, my make-up bag? A towel? I don’t know, Suzy, I can’t think!”

“Okay, okay, you stay here and I’ll go and sort it out,” I say. “Um, and I’ll call a taxi…”

“What? Why?” Amber asks. “What do we need a taxi for? Where’s Mum? Ooooooh owowowowow.”

“Please calm down,” I beg. “I can’t get hold of Mum, so I think we should get a taxi in and meet her there, okay? I’ll keep trying her, though.”

Amber’s leaning back on the chair, hands on her stomach, panting weirdly. I take her silence as consent, so quickly ring the taxi, then run around like crazy grabbing stuff for her hospital bag. I’d be going so much faster without this stupid sling.

Um, what might she need? She said she wanted make-up and a towel. What else? Clean pants! I add a couple of thongs. Shower cap. Negligée. Anything else…? Maybe some lipstick…

“Suuuuuzy, hurry uuuuuuuuup,” Amber bellows from downstairs.

I try Mum again from the upstairs phone.

There’s still no answer.

“The taxi’s here!”
Amber shouts, while I’m still rushing about in a mad panic trying to put a bag together.

“Coming,” I shout back.

I grab a random selection of clothes, and decide that whatever I’ve got will have to do. My brain seems to have stopped working.

I race down, risking life and limb on our shiny wooden stairs in my socks, and help Amber along the path to the waiting taxi.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, running back upstairs and into the bathroom, where I grab all the towels I can get my hands on, throw on some shoes, then dash back outside.

I’ve no idea what we’ll need them for, but in hospital
dramas, they always seem to demand piles of towels at a birth.

“You all right, love?” the taxi driver says warily as I clamber in and pad the seat with towels. Amber’s standing outside, swaying and taking deep breaths, wincing in pain every so often.

“We need to get to the hospital,” I tell him.

“What’s the rush, she’s not about to give birth or anything, is she?” He laughs, then sees the expressions on our faces. “Oh God. I don’t know about this. I don’t want any babies born in my cab. I’ve only just had it cleaned and—”

“She’s pregnant with twins,” I tell him. “You have to help us, please, please, take us to the hospital – my mum’s not here.”

“Ooooowwwwwwww,” Amber wails again.

The taxi driver stares at her for a minute, then opens the back door. “Oh all right, get in,” he says decisively.

“My missus is pregnant at the moment,” the taxi driver continues, as he sets off at breakneck speed. As soon as he pulls out into the main street, I see Isabella wasn’t wrong about the traffic. It’s moving ridiculously slowly. The problem with where we live is that loads of the roads are one way, so if one bit goes wrong, it all gets backed-up super quickly.

“Keep breathing,” I urge Amber, reaching over awkwardly
to pat her arm. Amber’s got her head tilted back against the seat and swats me away.

“Is the panting helping?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Amber huffs. “I saw it on TV. It still really huurrrrtsssss, owowowow… and what about my make-up? I haven’t got any make-up on. I can’t give birth without my mascara, Conni G said it’s important to look beautiful when you’re bringing life into the world…”

Honestly, right now my sister’s eyelashes are the last thing on my mind.

“Where’s Markymoo? I want my Markymoo,” Amber says. “Try him again!”

Obediently, I try Mark’s mobile. It’s still switched off, so I leave an updated message telling him we’re on our way to the hospital and he needs to get there as soon as he can.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Amber says. All of a sudden she looks like she’s going to cry.

“You can. You’re going to be fine,” I say.

“But… but… what if I’m a rubbish mum? What if something happens to the babies? What if I drop one?”

“You’re going to be great,” I say, twisting awkwardly past my cast to pat her knee. “You’re amazing. You won’t drop them.”

Amber still looks worried, but then another contraction kicks in.

It feels like forever before we arrive. We stagger up to the door of the maternity ward and wait to be buzzed in.

“If you could take a seat,” a frazzled midwife says, after we get inside.

“Um, I think she needs someone to look at her now,” I say nervously.

“We’ve got quite a few ladies waiting,” the woman says patronisingly, then Amber lets out a hideous yowl, and crumples to her knees.

“Make it stop,” Amber screams. “Please, please, make it stop.”

I second that sentiment wholeheartedly. I don’t want to be here for this. I’m supposed to be at home right now, watching a DVD and figuring out how to fix the mess that is my life. Where’s my mother when I need her?

“I feel like I want to push,” Amber says.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. No pushing. Pushing means the babies are coming, doesn’t it?

“Maybe we should get you looked at,” the midwife says. “Sally, can you give me a hand with… what’s your name, love?”

“Amber,” I tell them as they help my sister to her feet and lead her into a ward. “And it’s twins. I’ll wait out here.”

There’s no way I can be there during that. The thought of watching babies come out of my sister’s undercarriage makes me feel all kinds of peculiar.

“Suzy, don’t leave me by myself,” says Amber, twisting around and bursting into tears. “I’m scared and it huuuuuurrrrrts.”

“Come on, love,” Sally says, urging me to catch them up as she helps Amber onto a bed. There are six curtained-off rooms, and I can hear some seriously weird noises. Someone actually sounds like they’re
mooing
.

Lalalalala, I can’t hear you
, I think, as I surreptitiously try to stick my fingers in my ears.

“Mark’s not here, the babies can’t come,” Amber says, grabbing my hand. Her eyes are wild with fear. “I’m not ready. I forgot to sign up for the birthing classes and I haven’t read any of the books. I spent the whole holiday reading magazines. I haven’t even got their names picked!”

“All right, love, I’m going to examine you,” says the midwife, and as she gets busy, I thank the Lord for modesty-protecting sheets.

“Talk to me, Suzy. Distract me,” Amber says.

“Um…” My brain goes blank. What am I supposed to say?

“Anything,” Amber says. “Tell me anything.”

“Um, I had a huge fight with Millie,” I blurt out.

“You did?” puffs Amber, wincing again and then a stream of four letter words come flying out of her mouth. Crikey. I have never heard my sister curse like that before. “Ooooooooooohf! What did you fight about?”

“Um, well, she was spending all her time with Isabella and I was feeling left out,” I say. “It seems silly now, I guess. I talked to Isabella and she’s had a really hard time moving about and stuff so she wanted someone to talk to. But there’s something going on with Millie, I know there is. I’m not sure she wants us to be mates any more.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Amber says.

“I dunno,” I say. “Isabella said there was something going on with Millie, but she won’t tell me what it is.”

“Do you really not know?” Amber asks. “It was kind of obvious on holiday.”

It was? How did my crazy older sister notice and I didn’t?

“Look, you need to talk to – nnnnggggghhhh!” Amber winces and grits her teeth.

“Right,” says the midwife, emerging. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but it looks like we’re quite close. Your babies are coming, Amber. We’re going to move you up to the birthing suite and get you hooked up to a monitor.”

All of a sudden I feel faint. There are black spots before my eyes and I grab onto the bed for support.

“Are you okay?” the midwife says.

“Yep,” I lie. “I’ll, um, just try my parents again.”

But there’s still no answer. In desperation, I try Mark’s phone for a third time and leave another long, garbled message.

Up in the birthing suite, Amber’s been attached to a monitor with all these belts wrapped around her tummy. She seems to be getting the contractions more often now.

The midwives give me the task of making sure Amber’s got water to drink if she needs it and holding her hand. She squeezes my good hand so tightly I think I can actually feel my bones crunching together. It would be just my luck to end up with two broken hands, but as I’m not really in any position to complain, given what Amber’s going through, I keep quiet. It feels like hours have passed, though I’ve got no idea how long it’s actually been. I’m too busy praying that the babies stay in until Mum or Mark gets here.

Then, during a contraction, a terrifying alarm goes off from the monitor and half the hospital seems to be piling in our room.

“What’s going on?” Amber pants, leaning back on the pillows. Her face is pale and worried.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, leaping to my feet.

One of the doctors examines the machine and turns around. “The heart rate of baby two dropped, and
although it’s fine again now, we’re going to need to get you prepped for a Caesarean section, Amber. Probably best to get your babies out sooner rather than later.”

This goes from bad to worse.

Am I really going to have to see a double whammy of an operation plus babies coming out?
Really?

They should show
this
in biology class. That’d stop the teen pregnancy problem in an instant.

“Um, I’m really not sure I’m the right person to go in with Amber,” I say.

“If you’re the only one here, I’d get the scrubs on,” the midwife says briskly. “She needs you.”

I’m shown into a room where I quickly wriggle into some weird blue trousers and matching top. They’re absolutely massive. I force the hat down onto my hair, and as I reach out for the door handle, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Huh, check me out. I’d make an excellent doctor.

Then I remember why I’m wearing these clothes, and the fear returns.

I step outside the room and am about to join Amber, when I hear a shout from the end of the corridor.

“Suzy!”

Oh, thank the Lord and all that is holy.

It’s Mark.