Happy Endings (21 page)

The surgery was on a quiet tree-lined street near Regent’s Park. We got out of the car and stood outside the building, holding hands before we took deep breaths and walked inside. I checked in and we sat down in the waiting room. Jack held my hand and I looked around at the other women. One of them was heavily pregnant and looked like she was going to drop at any minute. Her huge belly sat in front of her making her grimace in discomfort. The other two women were in different stages of pregnancy and then there were two very young-looking girls. I didn’t dare ask if they were having check-ups or were actually pregnant. One couldn’t have been more than fourteen and both were alone, trying not to look too nervous, but they weren’t fooling anyone.

I idly rifled through the stack of magazines on the table in front of us but I wasn’t really looking, just trying to stop my brain from cycling through the hundred or so petrifying thoughts that were clouding my mind.

‘Emma Fogle?’

I looked up and a nurse was standing smiling at me. I smiled back and Jack helped me up. I wasn’t sick, but I think he just wanted to support me and it was the only way he knew how. It was only then I realised that Jack was the only man in the waiting room and I suddenly felt a deep pang of love for him.

‘Miss Fogle, let’s have a look at you shall we,’ said Doctor Simpson as I lay down on the table; Jack was by my side holding my hand. Doctor Simpson squeezed a pea-sized ball of cold jelly onto my stomach and started the ultrasound. It was easily the tensest thirty seconds of my life. I squeezed Jack’s hand so hard I could see him grimacing with pain.

Before all of this happened I’d thought about having children. ‘One day’ seemed to be the common theme that ran through most of my thoughts. But lying on the table, waiting to hear the indescribable heartbeat of my baby, one day became now and I’d never wanted anything so badly in my entire life. Doctor Simpson moved the ultrasound probe around but the only noise we could hear was static, until eventually we heard it.

‘There’s the heartbeat,’ she said. ‘Sounds perfectly healthy.’

Suddenly both Jack and I were in floods of tears. It was really happening. We still had a long way to go, but I definitely had a baby, our baby, and it had a healthy heartbeat. The relief washed over me faster than any wave, catching me quickly and dragging me along with it. I was finally able to relax. The rest of the examination went smoothly and we made an appointment for our next check-up. Afterwards we went out for an early dinner.

We were at Pizza Express in Notting Hill, just a short walk from our flat so Jack could have a few drinks. My drinking days were over, for nine months at least, which made me realise I had so much to learn before the baby came. I would need books and to find classes, but above all, we needed a bigger place to live.

‘You know we can’t raise a baby in our flat,’ said Jack.

‘I was just thinking the same thing.’

‘And I know your parents will probably want to help, but I want us to do this on our own, Em. This is our baby, our life, and it’s time I supported us.’

I’d always known Jack hated living in a flat paid for by my parents. He needed to be the man and he wanted us to be self-sufficient, but it was easier said than done. I didn’t earn much from acting and Jack’s wages from To Bean or Not to Bean would barely be enough for a studio flat in a far worse part of London. As much as I knew it killed him, we needed my parents. I felt awful for him because I knew how much it hurt him, ripped him apart, but what good were words and good intentions without anything to back them up.

‘I know, love, and we do have to move, but with me not working at the moment and you at the coffee shop, I don’t know what we’re going to do. I’ll try and get something quick like a commercial and maybe my parents could help us initially,’ I started but Jack leapt in, his face more determined than I’d ever seen him before.

‘I’m going to sort this out,’ he said. ‘One way or another, I’m going to support us and give us the life we need. We don’t need your parents. I’m going to be your husband soon and a father and I’m going to do this,’ he said and all I could do was smile and play uneasily with my cutlery.

‘Emma?’ said a voice suddenly. I looked up and there was a waiter dressed in the restaurant’s black and white stripes. He was handsome, probably in his early twenties, and had striking cheekbones and piercing deep blue eyes. He looked vaguely familiar. ‘Sorry, Stephen Croft. I’m in
The Hen Weekend
, just a lowly old friend of a friend, but we had a line together. Shit, you don’t remember me, so embarrassing, I’m sorry . . .’

I did remember him. Suddenly his face came back to me. We’d gone over our line at the mansion the day before I left. Young Stephen Croft, fresh out of university, desperate to be an actor and exactly like me ten years before. He had the world at his feet and nothing was going to stand in his way.

‘Of course I remember you, how’s things? How’s the film?’

Suddenly Stephen was going on about the film and who was in line to replace me and script changes and rehearsals. As he was talking and I could see how completely wrapped up in it he was something fell over me: a blanket of calm, because I realised I didn’t care anymore. The film was my past and even though I’d moved on, a part of me had still been worried that somewhere along the line, I’d regret giving up my big chance and having a baby. Stephen went on for ten minutes before his manager gave him the evil eye.

‘Must go, great seeing you again, Em. See you around,’ he said, but as soon as he said it, I thought to myself that he probably wouldn’t.

‘You OK?’ said Jack, reaching across and placing a hand over mine.

‘Yeah, I am,’ I said with a smile, but it wasn’t forced and I meant it. I really was going to be OK. ‘You do realise what this pregnancy means?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m going to be an absolute whale at our wedding.’

To: Kate Jones

From: Emma Fogle

Subject: Re: Oz

K,

I was just reading back the first email you sent me – shit that feels like a lifetime ago now – and you were right, this is strange. I also read the last one and then I started thinking about how everything is changing and it’s scary, Kate. Don’t get me wrong, things are changing for the better. I’m super excited to be a mummy (I know Jack will call me a yummy mummy!) and you’re off travelling the world. I guess I was just thinking how as you get older changes become scarier because they mean so much more. It’s like you said, when we were kids, having fun, kissing boys, none of it felt like a big deal. But now everything seems so important and that’s terrifying.

I’m sorry to hear about you and Ed. I can send Jack on a scouting mission if you want. Check out the lie of the land? I’m sure you’ll work it out though. I mean the man proposed to you not that long ago. Surely that means something, right? It must be hard being so far apart. I can’t imagine being that far away from Jack. The important thing though is that you enjoy yourself and worry about Ed when you get back. Remember what you used to always tell me whenever I didn’t get an acting part? Only worry about the things you can control and let everything else go. You were right then, Kate, so take your own advice!

I feel so boring now. Just a pregnant woman. I sit at home watching daytime television and reading pregnancy books – such a cliché! I haven’t managed to get any acting jobs yet. My agent is trying, apparently – I think he’s still quite pissed off about me getting pregnant. Oh well. I hope the world’s largest sand island was fun. I look forward to seeing some more photos and hearing about the rest of your A-mazing adventure soon!

Love Em X

April

Kate

‘I feel like death,’ said Orla.

She had on her big sunglasses, a hoodie top and definitely looked a lot like death. I didn’t feel much better myself. Not quite death, but maybe a severe cardiac arrest, still in critical condition. We were sitting at a café across the street from our hostel in Cairns. Our east coast trip was almost up. After Byron Bay we’d visited Brisbane, camped on Fraser Island, spent a few relaxing days on lovely Magnetic Island, sailed around the Whitsunday Islands on a catamaran and rented a car and driven to Cape Tribulation. Cairns was our final stop. Our last hurrah. We checked into Gilligan’s backpacker resort and last night, even for us, had been a big one.

‘I know what you mean. I don’t know if I can eat this,’ I said, looking down at a plate of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns and toast. I was already on my second coffee and itching for a third.

‘Get it down you; you’ll feel much better.’

I grunted back. I wasn’t so sure.

We only had one more night together and that was it. One more night and then Orla was staying in Cairns to find a job and I was flying to Melbourne. I’d been with Orla for just over two months in total. In backpacker terms we’d been friends forever. We’d been drunk so many times, shared every facet and side street of our lives and now we were about to go our separate ways. Maybe we’d never see each other ever again. The strange transitory nature of backpacker relationships never failed to surprise, delight and depress me.

‘Before we go, I have to ask you something,’ said Orla as we neared the end of our breakfasts. I was faring better than expected, but still couldn’t stomach the mushrooms, which had a sickly brown look about them and a snail-like juice that ran and mixed with the tomatoes.

‘Anything as long as it doesn’t involve alcohol. I don’t think I’m ever going to drink again.’

‘How many times have you said that during the last few months?’

‘Not enough, apparently.’

We giggled and then Orla looked at me with a solemn, thoughtful face.

‘Why is it you love Ed so much?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why do you still love him? Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like you’re travelling on your own, falling for hunky, young traveller guys in Thailand . . .’

‘Guy,’ I corrected her.

‘All right, guy. It sounds to me like he’s holding you back, making you feel guilty and miserable and yet you still claim you love him. Why?’

I felt a dull pain in my stomach every time I thought of Ed. I didn’t know what it was. Guilt, perhaps, or sadness? It felt like I had a football sitting in my stomach. Did I still love Ed? It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times since Byron Bay. Of course, after I got off the phone with Ed, I spent the rest of the day crying with Orla, telling her every last detail of my relationship with Ed and my feelings for Jez. Orla listened and then we went out and got hammered – her idea, not mine. I’d spent every day since going over and over in my mind the conversation with Ed, trying to fathom how we’d arrived at that point and what it meant to my future. To our future.

So when Orla asked why I still loved him, the truth was, I wasn’t entirely sure. I did though. I loved him. We’d been through too much together and shared too much to just stop. Relationships and love didn’t come with brakes, brakes that worked anyway.

‘It’s complicated,’ is all I could say.

‘No offence, Kate, but people only say it’s complicated when what they really mean is, I don’t know how to finish it.’

Was she right? Was Ed just a habit I didn’t know how to quit? Was Ed just like smoking and all I needed were some Ed patches and then everything would be all right?

‘Well, that isn’t the case with us, I can assure you. If I wanted to finish it, I would,’ I said, not sure whether my performance was that convincing or if I even believed it myself. ‘Like I said, it’s complicated.’

‘As long as you’re sure,’ said Orla with a supportive smile. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Now how about a hair of the dog?’

‘I thought you weren’t drinking ever again?’

‘And how many times have I said that during the last few months?’

‘Not enough, apparently,’ said Orla with a huge grin.

As we got up, the stomach-football sank down and disappeared for a moment, but I knew it would be back. I really didn’t want to drink again, but it was the only distraction I could think of. Maybe alcohol would help uncomplicate things or at the very least take my mind of it for a few hours.

‘He isn’t your usual type,’ said Emma.

‘What do you mean? I don’t have a type,’ I replied.

‘Oh, come on, Kate. You definitely have a type. Slackers, bohemians, arty types. Tall, good-looking and usually dangerous. They’re always a bit alternative, but he is just very . . .’

‘Very what?’

‘Straight. If your history of boyfriends was Take That, you’ve finally landed Gary Barlow.’

I looked at Emma and we giggled, but inside the mechanisms started to turn and my usual doubts and worries started to grind away. I really liked him, but I also knew Em was right: he definitely wasn’t my usual type.

‘Well, maybe I’m ready for Gary Barlow.’

‘After Dan, you mean?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, looking down briefly at the table, feeling that same mixture of regret, embarrassment and anger I’d felt every day since we’d broken up.

‘He was definitely a Robbie.’

‘But the worst version of Robbie. Post-Take-That-break-up Glastonbury Robbie.’