Lover in Law (24 page)

“Has she had too much to drink? Do you think she’s eaten something.”

That sounds like Anthony.

“No, no,” says Adam. Panic’s rising in his voice. “She hasn’t drunk anything. Oh Christ, I don’t think she’s eaten anything either.”

“I’m a Doctor, can everyone move back,” says a male voice I don’t recognise. A finger is laid on the side of my neck. “She’s not been suffering from any illnesses of late has she?”

“Oh no, oh fuck, oh God,” says Adam. “She’s not ill, well, not exactly. I think I know what it is. Oh God, oh fuck. She’s pregnant. Oh Christ, she’s five months pregnant. Do you think she’s alright?”

SEPTEMBER

Chapter 27

I’m lying on the sofa, pretending to watch TV. Adam’s back early, hands me a steaming mug of hot water with a slice of lemon. I take it, with a grunt but without a word. I’ve been in my own introspective zombie world since he let the entire gathering at the party in on the truth, barely speaking, except for the odd ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ and to give my drink order.

“Why didn’t you go into work?” he asks, all jittery in the doorway.

I’d dressed to go, but after Adam left I decided against it, feeling too awkward and embarrassed to face the music. So I’d called in sick, and have had all day to mull it over, to wonder what Anthony would make of the revelation. I’d been lying prostrate on the manicured lawn, slowly coming round, when I heard Adam utter ‘she’s five months pregnant’. I’d opened my eyes sharp, well, as sharp as a woman who’s just fainted can muster, to see who might have heard those fateful words. When I did, I wanted to shut them straight away and slip back off into my unconscious, because there, hovering above, were three sets of eyes. I panned across. Adam’s, all big, blue and worried were to my left. The man I presumed to be the Doctor’s, piggy, hazel and professional were in the middle. And there, on the right, were Anthony’s, wide, chocolate and alert. The imp in me had wanted to jump up with arms outstretched and yell ‘surprise!’ I didn’t though. I just smiled weakly, let the three men pull me to my feet and then two of them, Adam and the Doctor, had led me to a cooler room, indoors.

The Doctor had diagnosed dehydration and overheating, so I’d drunk a litre of water, eaten a couple of chicken drumsticks and soon afterwards Adam and I had left. In the car on the way back I’d said, “I wish you hadn’t said that,” to which Adam had apologised and explained that he’d thought it best to give the Doctor the whole picture. He’d added that he couldn’t really see what the big fuss was about, seeing as I’d been going to tell everyone in a few days anyway, after the 20 weeks scan. Objectively, of course he was right. He wasn’t aware of the implications, that I’d been planning to skew the dates for Anthony. I just stared out the car window for the duration of the journey. Adam probably thought I was still feeling iffy from the fainting episode.

“Oh,” I say vacantly. “Not much on.”

I can hardly give the real reason. I feel bad about not going into work. They’ve been so lovely. They’d told me not to worry, to take all the time off that I need, especially in this Indian Summer we’re experiencing. Then, late morning an enormous bouquet of lilies and wild orchids had been delivered, with a Congratulations card from all at chambers. In fact, it had been so big and so beautiful that I’d told the driver to hang on whilst I fetched some change for a tip. “When’s it due?” he’d asked, nodding towards my stomach, once I’d handed over a couple of quid. Surprised by the question, that he could tell, I’d looked down and realized that it was true. Suddenly, overnight, the bump had exploded. Now that the secret was out, now that everyone knew, there wasn’t a need to hold it in any more. Subconsciously, the baby and I must have let it go. “The beginning of January,” I’d answered, before dashing in to answer the phone. It had been Neeta, desperate for a chat, telling me I was a dark horse, that she couldn’t believe it, that she couldn’t believe I hadn’t told her, that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed and that Adam and I must be besides ourselves with excitement.  

“Are you going to be this much fun all night?” snaps Adam.

It must be trying, living with a tri-syllabic to mute, hormonally charged woman. 

I shrug in response. 

“Because if you are,” his tone gives away his frustration, “I’ve got better things to do with my time. Other places to be, people to see.”

I grunt again. He digs for his keys in his pocket, jangles them in a half-clenched fist to show me he means business.

“Where are you going?”

I at last show some interest.

“Oh,” he says absently, walking out the room. “I’m, err, I’m popping round to Paul’s. He, err, wanted to talk to me about (pause) something.”

***

I decide to make a nice dinner, because I’m certain Adam will be back in time and he deserves it. He’s not put a foot wrong. The only part he’s played is the caring, sharing father-to-be. So I’m elbow deep in a whole raw chicken, wearing the bird round my fist like some freak glove puppet, washing the skin in preparation for roasting, only I can’t remember exactly how Adam shortcuts Jamie Oliver’s recipe. I shake the carcass off my arm, landing it mercilessly in the basting tray with a cold flesh thud. I wash my hands, pick up the phone and dial Paul’s. After asking for a quick word with Adam, there’s dead air for a couple of seconds, then I’m told I could speak to him if he was there, but he’s not. It’s unlikely, apparently, that I’ll even be called back by my boyfriend because, I’m informed, a smidgen awkwardly, he isn’t actually expected. Paul hopes against hope that he hasn’t stuck his foot in it. I reassure him that it’s clearly just some misunderstanding, crossed wires. I hang up, with more charm and chirp than a trained parrot, but it’s all an act. I know exactly what Adam’s up to and he’s gone too far. I calmly walk to the front door, lock it with the chain.  Adam may not have taken his golf clubs to the driving range this time, but the Paul line was equally as transparent. I mean, Christ, if you’re going to give a false alibi, at least make it watertight. He might as well have told me straight up that he was going round to Charlotte Buchanan.

***

I’m mid clothes-cull when I hear a key going into the lock, the door fighting the chain. In light of what I myself have done I clearly can’t reprimand Adam with as much ferocity as I might, but I can still make life awkward for him, teach him a lesson, make him realise I won’t take this lying down. I’d reacted to his antics by going into a strop. To calm down, take my mind off things, I’d thrown myself fists first into my cupboard, sifting through the hangers, exercising the three year rule, chucking onto the floor anything that hasn’t been worn for that long. Trousers, jackets, entire skirt suits, two pairs of jeans, some beige cords, ancient pale blue pedal pushers from way back when, they’re all lying in a heap on the carpet. The only garments that have lived to see another day, despite not being worn since my teens, are two sack-like grunge dresses. They’re outrageously hideous, rather like old-fashioned housecoats, but they’ll do perfectly for pregnancy. I can’t believe I’d forgotten them. Cupboard culled, I’d moved on to shelves. I’m now sitting, legs crossed, surrounded by a mess of rolled-up socks, knickers, bras, bodices, tights and whatnots, but I’m not actually doing anything. My body’s still, head tilted, tuning in. Adam’s bashed the door against the chain at least ten times now.

“Ali,” he yells through the letterbox. “Let me in.”

He rat-a-tats, hitting the brass knocker three times.

Silence.

He knocks again.

Silence.

“Ali,” he shouts again. “What are you playing at?”

I try to distract myself with the socks, undoing a couple of pairs, to check the heels and toes for wear and tear. I’m heavy on my feet. There are lots of little holes.

Adam bashes his palm on the door.

“Ali, what’s going on? I can’t get in?”

I sigh, put down the socks and pick myself up off the floor. As I pad downstairs, I can make out the frame of his sandy hair through our stain glass window adjacent to the front door. He deserves to be told why I’ve locked him out.

“I know you’re having an affair,” I tell him from the other side of the door, ignoring the hypocrisy of what I’m saying, what I’m doing.

He laughs. What kind of a response is that?

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” he says.

Silence.

He clears his throat, less certain.

“Are you being serious?” he asks. 

I slide the ball of the chain up and down the lock.

“I know you didn’t go to Paul’s,” I say.

I shift to the window, to measure his response. He’s sideways on. I can’t see his face, but his body is restless, nervous, weight transferring from one foot to the other.

Silence.

“What are you going on about?” he says.

“I rang him, you weren’t there. You weren’t even expected.”

 There, that’s got him!

Silence. He raises his right thumb to his mouth, to chew the nail. It’s the only one that he bites, out of habit, when he’s anxious. I take his silence as admission of guilt.

“You’ve been to see Charlotte Buchanan, haven’t you?”

My tone is even and quiet.

Silence.

My Detective work has given me the upper hand. Will I get an explanation, a denial, or an alibi? 

“I’ve no idea how you know who she is and yes, I did go to see her,” his voice shows irritation, “but it’s not how you’re putting it.”

“Alright then,” I say patiently, “tell me how it is?”

He lifts up the letterbox, peers through.

“Ali, look at me please,” he says.

I take a step to the door and crouch. My gaze meets his through the rectangular hole. This is all too bizarre. 

“You know I would never do that.”

His eyes, soft and honest, confuse me, but we know too well that people who have affairs are good at lying. It’s my turn to stay quiet.

“You’ve got to ask no questions. Just trust me on this one,” he says.

My legs start to hurt, so I stand. He mirrors me, releasing the metal flap of the letterbox with a ping. My life is one big question, how can I ask none?

“If you’ve nothing to hide, why don’t you tell me why you went to her?”

He doesn’t need to tell me the truth. He’s doesn’t know that he owes me nothing. If the roles were reversed, if I’d come clean, would Adam have locked me out or stood by me?

“Ali,” he sounds disappointed. “If we don’t have trust, what do we have?”

We’re interminably silent, waiting for the other to speak, but neither gives way. It’s Adam who breaks first. Through the stain glass window I see him shake his head, put his hands in his pockets. Lesson over, I slide the ball of the chain, releasing it, open the door. Adam’s already at the end of the garden path. “It’s alright,” I speak loudly. “It’s ok. You can come back. I forgive you.” I’m pretty sure Adam can hear me, but he doesn’t turn around. 

Chapter 28

It’s with much regret that the pink panties didn’t make the grade. They didn’t deserve to be culled. They’re still in spanking new condition, worn just the once. I thought long and hard about it, nostalgically, because I was wearing them the night I conceived. I’d wavered slightly. I’d wondered if this was the type of memorabilia you stick in a baby book, but then decided it might be a little bit too much information.  They’re sitting at the top of a plastic bag headed for Oxfam, full of threadbare socks, T-shirts with logos, bras skewed out of shape by the washing machine and white briefs that have gone grey. The only items that have lived to see another day, despite being ripe for the dumping, are a few pairs of what I call grandma knickers. You know the kind, the big, roomy, stretchy sort that come up to the waist.  The kind you wear for comfort when you’ve got your period, or you’re bloated or feeling out of sorts. Or, as I’ve just discovered, the kind you wear when you’re pregnant.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to my grandma of late, my mother’s mother, an ardent campaigner for the right to wear knickers that reach your armpits. When my parents went to Canada, they left her behind. Responsibility for her welfare was handed down to Kayla and I, which at first felt a heavy burden. It didn’t by the end though. I grew to love this lady like a daughter, enjoying our daily chats and Sunday lunches. She was also always very good to Adam, embracing him as her own. When she died, aged 85, out of the blue, from a heart attack, it fell on me to tell my mother the news and that she was too late. I was the last person my grandma saw, sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, in hospital. “Ali darling,” she’d said, before slipping away, “always be careful what you wish for, because it might come true.”

I’ve pondered often since then on that comment. If you wish for something, how could you possibly not want it to come true? Isn’t that the whole point? I’d found it hard to believe that your prayers being answered could count as a negative, but now I understand what she meant. I wished to be pregnant. My wish was granted, but it hasn’t turned out the way I expected. My grandma was right. I should have been more careful.