Babyville (14 page)

“Of course I had a period. Didn't I?” I suddenly realize what she's saying and I sit down on the stool with a thump. “Didn't I? Oh fuck. Viv. I don't know. I can't remember whether I had a period or not.”

“Look, if you remember what you did around then, you might remember whether you had a period or not, okay?”

“Okay.” I nod my head, trying to ignore the fact that my heart is now thumping like a mad person's.

“On the ninth of March you had a meeting with Mike Jones at three
P.M.
” She looks at me expectantly but I shake my head. I have a million meetings with Mike Jones and they're all indistinguishable. “You had a drink with someone called Johnny in the evening.”

“Oh, I remember that!” We went to a bar in Gabriel's Wharf. “But I don't remember having my period.”

“On the tenth you were in an edit suite.”

“Nope.”

“Evening you had a meeting with Stella?”

“Nope.” It's all blank. And I don't remember if I was having a period.

“I think, my darling,” my mother says, gritting her teeth, and unable to hide the pained expression, “that after this we ought to go and get a pregnancy test.”

My heart threatens to jump right out of my mouth.

We
don't say very much on the way back. Viv's being incredibly sweet and sympathetic, and keeps rubbing my arm and looking at me with this huge concern. At home she sends me off to the bathroom while she bustles around the kitchen making tea and talking nineteen to the dozen about rubbish to try to retain a sense of normality. I, meanwhile, feel as if I have woken up in the middle of a particularly surreal dream. Not nightmare, because nothing has happened yet, but I feel as if I am an observer, as if this is happening to someone other than me, and I am only vaguely curious at the outcome, to see what this person, who looks like me, sounds like me, and talks like me, will do.

I have locked the bathroom door and tipped the test out of the Boots bag, and I note that my hands are shaking, but even then I note it only with vague interest. I have never done a pregnancy test before. I have never needed to. And although I am shaking, I also know as an absolute certainty that I will not be pregnant. How could I possibly fall pregnant on the one time, the first time, that I actually allowed myself to get carried away in the heat of the moment and didn't use a condom?

Plus of course there is Mark, because did he not say that Julia hates him because he is infertile? Did he not sit on my sofa, after the unfortunate event that I no longer wish to think about, and say that his relationship is shit because Julia blames him? That they have been trying for months and she has been pregnant and the problem is definitely, undoubtedly, his.

I pull the package out of the box and look at it for a while, then I pull out all the notes and instructions and read them from cover to cover. Not that I'm putting it off or anything. Because I am not pregnant.

“With the tip pointing downward, hold the absorbent sampler . . .”

 “Maeve?
Are you okay? Do you need me?” Viv's standing outside the door.

“It's okay, Mum.” Funny how I revert back to calling her “Mum” at times of need. Not that I need her, but it really is comforting to know that she's here right now. Just in case.

In case of what?

Because there's just no way I'm pregnant. No way. No fucking way.

Eventually I feel the urge to pee again, which isn't surprising because I have been running back and forth to the loo amazingly often these days, but then that could well be because of the water I'm drinking. The
Daily Mail
Detox Diet said at least two liters a day, so I've been swigging it back like there's no tomorrow, and spending half the day sitting on the loo.

I take a deep breath, unwrap the test, and undo my trousers.

It's showtime.

Viv
looks at my smiling face and immediately breaks into a huge smile. “Oh, thank God,” she laughs, walking over to put her arms round me and give me a hug. “For one long horrible hour there I really thought you were pregnant.”

I let her go, the smile never leaving my face, and I hold up the test to show her. Two windows. Two thick blue lines. Viv looks at me in confusion. “This does mean it's negative? Doesn't it?”

And that's when I start to cry.

14

Shock.

Complete and utter shock.

This is not supposed to happen. This is not in my game plan. I don't want children. I never wanted children, and the thought that there is something growing inside of me makes me feel ill.

But maybe there's not. Maybe it's a mistake. If there are false negatives, and God knows there are, then surely there are false positives as well?

Viv goes out to buy another test, and I know, I can see in her eyes that she is as shocked as I am, and that the only way for her to stay calm is to keep busy. She first makes me a cup of tea, then insists on doing all the washing up, and practically leaps at the opportunity of going out to the chemist's when I mention the false positive stuff.

Except I've got a horrible feeling there is no such thing as a false positive. I know that I've read somewhere that the hormone that turns the test blue is only present in your body when you are pregnant, and that there is absolutely no way the test can turn blue without it.

Nevertheless Viv comes back with one pregnancy test and one bag of Maltesers (always my favorite when young), and—even more worrying—as soon as I see the Maltesers I'm far more concerned with eating the Maltesers than with doing another pregnancy test, and I really don't do chocolate anymore.

“Maeve, love,” Viv says, shooting me a concerned glance as I stuff the Maltesers in my mouth. “I think you probably ought to do another test.”

And so I trundle off into the bathroom and emerge a few minutes later with a shrug. “Yup.” I collapse onto the sofa. “Still pregnant.”

“Maeve, we need to talk about this. We need to talk about what you're going to do.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” and I realize I don't. I just want the whole thing to go away, I want to pretend it never happened.

“It's not going to go away,” Viv says gently, squeezing my hand. “You're pregnant, and now we have to decide what the next step is.”

“What do you mean what the next step is? There's only one thing to do, for God's sake.” My voice is hard, and I see Viv flinch, but really. As if I have a choice.

“Mum,” I sit down next to her and watch her brace herself. “I love you, and I know that you'll support me whatever my decision is, but I also know how much you love children and how much you want a grandchild.” I shudder. “Now isn't the right time,” I say, as gently as I can. Her eyes well up and I feel like such a bitch, but I have to make her understand. “I'm not ready to be a mother. I'm not you. I know you brought me up by yourself, and I know that even when it felt like the hardest thing in the world you wouldn't have changed it, but we're very different people. I have my career, Mum, and that's the most important thing to me, and I don't want a baby. A baby would ruin everything.”

The tears brim over Viv's eyes and trickle down her cheeks, and I put my arms around her to comfort her, and all I can think is that this is so weird. Here I am, comforting my mother, when I'm the one who's pregnant. I'm the one who will be having an abortion.

Viv looks up at me eventually. “Oh Maeve,” she sighs. “I do love you, and you're right, I'll always be there for you, but you can't just make a snap decision like this. This isn't just about you anymore. Love, you have a new life growing inside of you, a baby, my grandchild. . . .” And she starts crying again.

“It's not a baby.” My voice is harsh. Harsher than I thought, and I stand up and walk to the window, where I watch the cars for a while, wondering how everyone else's life can carry on as if nothing terrible has happened, when mine has just been turned upside down.

Although really, it's only an abortion, for God's sake. Practically everyone I know has had an abortion at one time or another. To be honest it's a bloody miracle that it's never happened to me before now. And everybody else gets over it. It's no big deal.

“It's no big deal,” I say, my back still turned to Viv, my gaze now fixed on the lit-up window of a flat over the road. Thanks to the huge Georgian sash windows, I can see clearly into their living room, and of course the irony is that I am looking at a young couple, both lying on the floor playing adoringly with a baby who's attempting to crawl. I watch the baby, on hands and knees swaying from side to side before belly-flopping to the floor as his parents lean down and cover him with kisses.

And I feel absolutely nothing.

The mother looks up and sees me watching, and I pull the shutters across so I can no longer see.

And I feel absolutely nothing.

“It's not a baby, Mum.” I walk back to the sofa and sit down, wondering why I don't feel sick. Wondering why I don't feel anything except tired and a bit numb. “It's a . . . nothing. It's nothing. It's not a baby, it's not my child, and it's not your grandchild. You have to stop thinking like that or I won't be able to get through this.”

I hear Viv pulling herself together, and eventually she sniffs and says she understands.

We pretend to have a normal evening. We make supper and eat it in front of the television, feet resting on the coffee table as we tuck into pasta primavera. We don't say anything about the pregnancy for the rest of the evening, and every time an ad comes on that features a baby, Viv or I quickly flick the remote control to another channel. It's exhausting, but it's what we need to do. Pretend it's not happening.

 “What
about the father?” I pause halfway into my toast and look up to see Viv framed in the doorway, eyes still blurry with sleep.

Viv always likes a lie-in on a Sunday, so when I woke up this morning I tiptoed past her, fast asleep on the sofa bed, and snuck into the kitchen to make tea and toast. And another slice of toast. And then another. Christ, I'm hungry.

“What about the father?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought, but no. I don't suppose he needs to know.”

Viv sighs as she comes in, makes herself some coffee, then perches on the stool on the other side of the breakfast bar in my teeny tiny kitchen.

“Maeve”—I steel myself because I can tell from her tone that I'm not about to like what she's going to say—“I'm not going to tell you anything trite like he has a right to know, or you owe it to him or anything like that, because I don't believe that's necessarily true, particularly given that it was a brief fling.”

I sigh with relief.

“But,” she continues, “this man, what was his name again?”

“Mark.”

“Mark. Didn't you tell me he thought he was infertile? Didn't you say that he was desperately unhappy in his relationship because his girlfriend blamed him for not being able to get pregnant?”

“How on earth do you remember that?” I'm amazed and somewhat horrified. I understand the point she's making, and I also know she's right. How could I possibly deny him this knowledge? Not that I want him to be involved in any way, size, shape, or form, but how can I let this man carry on thinking he's firing blanks when he's quite patently not?

“I lay in bed for hours last night,” Viv says. “I couldn't sleep and I wanted to wake you up and ask you about him, but you needed to sleep. You know what I'm going to say, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“He has a right to know that he's capable of having children. That's all. If you don't want him to do anything else, fair enough, but you can't let that poor man carry on thinking he's the one at fault with his girlfriend. He is still with his girlfriend, isn't he?” Viv's voice is suddenly hopeful, and I start to feel incredibly tearful. Christ. This isn't like me at all.

Oh Mum. She is so transparent. I can see that she's trying her best, but I know what she's thinking. She's praying and hoping that Mark and Julia will have split up, and that Mark will somehow persuade me to change my mind, and that the three of us, baby, Mark, and I, will live happily ever after.

I could give her false hope, because rumor has it that Julia has indeed flown the coop, as it were, and is currently having a high old time in New York, but who knows whether it's true. And until yesterday afternoon I will admit I had entertained the odd fantasy of getting it together again with Mark. After all, it was the most astonishingly sexy quickie I think I've ever had. But it's just a fantasy. A relationship is the last thing I need.

But
I have seen Mark in the bar a few times. And the canteen. We've exchanged polite, curt nods, although a couple of times we've held one another's eyes for slightly longer than was altogether necessary, and I have to say I felt a small charge pass through me.

But Mark really isn't the type for a few quick fucks. I know, already, that Mark is a long-termer. He's husband material. A keeper. And that's not what I want. I've been involved with men like Mark before. You go in thinking you both want exactly the same thing. The sex is great, and it's great fun.

Then before you know it they're offering to cook you dinner, then they take it for granted that every time you see them you'll be staying the night, and act hurt and wounded as they sit in bed and watch you pull on your underwear at one o'clock in the morning. But you know it's really over when you find yourself pushing a trolley together in Sainsbury's on a Saturday morning. That's what men like Mark crave. That togetherness. That coziness. That coupledom that is pure anathema to me.

Yeuch.

I don't think so.

So I'd heard the rumors about Julia leaving, and I'd decided that it was none of my business and that I wouldn't pursue it anyway. Not my type. Nat, Niccy, and Stella are, of course, delighted. Many's the time I've walked in on a shared fantasy involving Mark Simpson.

I've got a feeling Stella knows something happened that night. She's my kind of woman, Stella. Cool and clever. If I wasn't so confident in my capabilities as a producer, Stella is exactly the sort of woman who would be a threat. And she's a woman. Nat and Niccy, though bright and determined, are still little girls. But Stella has been around the block a few times. You can tell.

Rather like myself.

Nat and Niccy teased me the week after the evening at Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza, but I laughed it off and pulled it off.

Stella didn't say anything until one night in the bar. The night that Mark and I exchanged glances for rather more than a split second. I had been in the middle of talking to Johnny and Stella, and I had caught Mark's eye over Stella's shoulder, and had faltered in the middle of what I was saying. Had stopped still, unsure of where I was, who I was with, or what I was saying. I shook my head, said, “What was I saying?” and Johnny laughed and reminded me that I had been telling them about the latest ratings war. I caught myself and carried on talking, but Stella swiveled her head slowly to see what, or who, had caught me off guard, and when she turned back to me, I knew she knew.

She didn't say anything until later that evening. Quite a few drinks later. Although that's the thing with Stella. You think she's drinking, but at the end of the evening she always seems to be sober. She always seems to remember everything.

In other words she does exactly the same as me.

We were both leaning over the bar when she smiled at me. “So,” she drawled, eyebrow raised. “Mark Simpson, eh?”

“Mark Simpson what?” I was calm.

“Shag or Die? You never said.” She knows, I thought. Fuck. She knows, she knows, she knows.

“Hmm.” I pretended to think, before affecting what I hoped was a natural smile. “I think I'd have to say shag.”

“Funny. Now why does that not surprise me?” And instead of coming up with a quick, clever answer, I stood there flummoxed, and she smiled, raised her glass in a silent toast, and walked away, leaving me feeling ever so slightly humiliated.

But I liked Stella. Like her. She reminds me of me, and even though I know she knows, I also know she wouldn't indulge in idle gossip about it. Or at least I hope I know. She doesn't seem the type. Too cool. And although she joins Nat and Niccy in the elaborate fantasies involving Mark, I know she's backed off now, and that she's only doing it to bond with the girls.

And now I see Stella watching me when Mark's around, watching him to see if there's anything else she ought to know, I am so careful not to give anything away. It was one fuck, I feel like saying to her. One night. It won't be repeated. He's. Not. My. Type. And that, my friends, is why I won't be giving my mother false hope. Because I am not ready to settle down.

 “I don't
know what's happening with his girlfriend,” I say to Viv, my tone of voice gentle. “But Mum, you know how hard I've worked to get where I am. You know me better than anyone, and my career comes first. It always has done. I know it's hard for you to accept, but marriage and babies and all of that just isn't for me.

“Maybe one day,” I add to soften the blow. “But I know I'm doing the right thing for now.”

Viv manages a smile and then wraps her arms around me tightly. “I love you, darling,” she says. “And I'll always support you, whatever your decision.”

“I know, Viv. And I love you too.”

I know
I ought to have called a clinic, or a doctor, or something, but part of me hopes that this will just go away by itself. I'm sure I read somewhere that a ridiculous proportion of women miscarry without ever knowing they were even pregnant, and every time I go to the loo I pray that I'm going to see blood, that nature will somehow intervene.

And I'm only, what? Six weeks? I've still got time. Masses of time. Plus I'm feeling completely fine. Just a little tired but thank Christ not a hint of morning sickness. That I really couldn't cope with.

 “Where
the fuck have you been?” We're having our regular Monday morning team meeting, and Johnny is late. Fifteen minutes late. He has strolled in fifteen fucking minutes late, carrying a cappuccino as if he hasn't a care in the world, and hasn't even got the good sense to apologize.

His face falls, and I really don't know why I'm so angry but all of a sudden I'm furious with him. How dare he be so late. How dare he walk in so breezily when the rest of us had the courtesy to be on time.