The Family Trap (11 page)

OK, the real reason is that I’m planning to keep the baby a secret at work just a little while longer. Which might get tricky if I’m living with a colleague.

Which really leaves only option five: find myself somewhere else to live. Alone. At least for a little while. For the summer, say. When the baby’s due – whenever that is – I’ll move back home and Lipsy and Robert can be the ones to move out. But at least my conscience will be clear.

Right now, I don’t need anything else to weigh heavy on my conscience. If I have to sacrifice some short-term comfort for my daughter’s happiness, so be it. At least I’ll be making someone happy.

At least I’ll have someone’s approval.

*

Church Street, Derby

Friday 9th March

Dear Stella,

I’ve sat down to write this letter at least twenty times but each time I find I don’t know where to start. I still can’t believe what happened
– I can’t believe you’d throw away our future just because of a silly misunderstanding. I’ve wracked my brains to come up with the real reason, and I can only assume that you had cold feet because deep down you just don’t want to marry me. Everything else, all your worries – Lipsy and her baby, moving away – we could have sorted out. I know we could. I’d have driven you back there myself every Friday, or at the very least every other weekend. Now what am I supposed to do? Could you tell me that? Am I supposed to just carry on with our plans, our future, all that we’d talked about, on my own? Is that what you really want?

It’s not too late, Stella. If you don’t want to be married, fine. I wish you’d said something earlier – do you have any idea how embarrassing it was, standing there like a lemon waiting for you to follow me in? And when your dad walked in and said what he said ... I didn’t believe him. I thought it was a joke.

Anyway, like I said, it’s not too late. We can sort something out, salvage something. Can’t we? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been through our fair share of troubles. It was hard enough just getting together in the first place! You know how much I love you, you’ve always known that deep down. Surely you can’t just walk away and carry on with your life? I phoned Lipsy this morning and she said you were at work, and when I asked when you’d be home she said you’d moved out! She said you were working back at Twilight – I’m wondering if you ever did really leave at all. And a new place to live? Are you really on your own, I wonder? Is that what this is all about? Please tell me it’s not that.

Lipsy said not to phone her again, but I’m not going to apologise for getting angry. It’s always the same with you, isn’t it, Stella? You just breeze through life doing exactly as you like, being a complete flake and messing things up – the fire last year? Who in their right mind lets their house insurance lapse? – and then for some crazy reason everyone sticks by you, stands up for you, tries to protect you. Well, you don’t need protecting from me. Lipsy spoke to me like I was the one in the wrong, like I’d hurt you in some way. Is it because of all that baby business? It was the last thing you said to me, and I’ve been going over and over it, but it can’t be that because you are thirty-eight years old – you are too old to have any more children, Stella. We are too old. It wouldn’t be fair on the baby. Tell me how having parents old enough to be grandparents could be good for a baby? And I don’t believe you were serious. I truly believe that if you were just honest with yourself for five minutes you’d see that the idea of you having another baby at your age is just another of your wild, crazy ideas.

I won’t write to you again, Stella. I’ll wait to hear from you, and then we can start to sort this mess out. But I’m not going to have another stupid conversation about babies, OK? If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know, won’t I?

Never forget how much I love you. But life is for living, Stella, and if you don’t want to live your life with me the way we’d planned, then there’s nothing more I can do.

Love always, Paul

*

Déjà vu. What does it remind me of, this place? The bedsit I had during my brief time as a student? The grotty studio flat in the YMCA where I lost my virginity in a cider-induced haze?
It’s not until I wake up on Saturday morning
– my second Saturday as a jilter and my second full day in my new home – that it hits me. This place reminds me of my own house last year. After the fire, but before the vast renovation project I carried out with my own two hands. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not living in a burnt-out hovel or anything; 4B Turnmill Street is not as bad as some of the places I might have ended up. But it does have that same air of disrepair and neglect, a kind of shrinking away the moment you put your key in the door, as though the very fabric of the building is ashamed of what it’s become.

Which might be why it was the only bedsit available at short notice. The only one within my budget, anyway. I get the feeling it’s been empty for some time.

Stephan, who lives downstairs in 4A, calls the building Termite Towers. Really, that should tell you everything you need to know about the place.

But I’m determined to make the best of it. Today is an eight-till-eight shift at Twilight, and I’ve got a birthday cake in my bag for Rosa, who is eighty-something today. She won’t tell anyone her actual age, and frankly I don’t blame her. When you reach that stage in life, you have to take your mysteries where you can.

The morning sickness has come back with a vengeance. Since I haven’t experienced any nausea since the day after Phoenix was born, I’d figured that was some kind of anomaly and I was going to escape unscathed. Boy, did I ever have that wrong! I think this little guy inside me – or girl, of course – was just holding back until I got the wedding out of the way. Good to know he’s so sensitive. But it’s vomit city every morning now; this is really not the time in my life to be sharing a bathroom with total strangers.

This morning’s vomiting has left me shaken and feeling a little worn around the edges, so when I get to the ground floor and see Stephan’s door opening I let out a groan. I really do not want to see anyone right now, least of all an aging hippie with multiple piercings and a permanent aroma of petunia oil.

‘Hiya,’ he grunts. ‘Doing all right or what?’

I tell him I’m fine, but very late, and he shakes his head as if he thinks working at all, let alone on a Saturday, is the devil’s doing.

‘This you, is it?’ He holds out a white envelope. I look at it suspiciously. Then I notice the handwriting on the front. It’s as much as I can do not to fall against the grubby walls and sink to the floor.

‘Picked it up by mistake, all right?’ Stephan says defensively, clearly mistaking my discomfort for annoyance.

‘Right. Fine.’ I take the letter and offer a weak smile. Satisfied, he slips back inside his own bedsit and closes the door.

The communal hallway in Termite Towers is carpeted in muddy brown hessian; the stairs in an older version of the same. The fibres scratch my hands as I lower myself onto the second stair up. I look at the envelope in my lap.

Why is he writing to me? And here – if he’s writing to me here that means he must have spoken to someone in my family and found out where I am. Oh. My. God.

I scramble back up the stairs, half imagining him walking up the short path to the door and banging on it. What if he comes to see me to demand an explanation? God knows, he deserves one.

I do plan to tell him the reason why. It’s just a matter of working up to it. I truly hadn’t expected him to go away like that. Not so soon. I thought there would be phone calls and conversations, arguments and crisis meetings. Goodness knows I’ve had enough imaginary conversations with him in my head these last two weeks. But I didn’t expect this vacuum, this strange kind of limbo. Lipsy and Robert are playing happy families with Phoenix in my house; my mum and dad are more loved-up than ever; my brother is still travelling, and as far as I know completely oblivious to all the drama he’s missing out on. Bonnie is in America planning her own dream wedding, and I haven’t plucked up the courage to call her yet and tell her the news. She’ll be picturing me setting off into the sunset with the love of my life, and I want to let her think well of me for just a little longer. My life here, and at Twilight, feels unreal. Temporary. Like I’m waiting for my real life to continue. Once I get over this little hump in the road.

Trouble is, I have no idea anymore what my real life is.

And Paul? What is Paul doing? Open the letter, Stella, and find out, says that patient-but-persistent voice in my head. I ignore it, and shove the letter inside my bag instead. I’m already fifteen minutes late for work, and right now work and routine are all I have. Besides, it was that same voice that told me not to marry Paul. I figure it’s done enough damage for one lifetime. I may never trust it again.

Chapter 11

‘You know, she actually jilted him at the altar.’

‘No, really? I heard she just called it off. Cold feet or something.’

‘No. He was there waiting for her, the poor chap. All done up in his morning suit, everyone was there, the music was playing, the vicar was ready to start the vows …’

‘I thought it was at the register office, not at church.’

‘Well, same difference. And I heard that afterwards, when he tried to call her, she turned off her phone. Can you believe it? The nerve. Just ditch your fiancé at the altar and don’t even answer your phone? It’s beyond me.’

‘Well, yes. And me.’

‘And I heard he went on honeymoon alone! Bet he won’t be alone for long, good-looking fella like that.’

‘No, there wasn’t going to be a honeymoon. They were just moving up north somewhere. Leicester, I think.’

‘No honeymoon? Well, no wonder it didn’t work out. Young people just don’t seem to know how to do things properly anymore.’

I take a deep breath, pull back my shoulders, and march out of the supplies cupboard with as much dignity as I can muster. Jean and Velma jump apart; Jean at least has the decency to look embarrassed. Not Velma. She smirks at me and then looks at her watch.

‘Martha tells me you didn’t come in until half eight this morning, Stella. You’ll have to stay late to make it up.’

‘Could I just work through my break?’ I ask a little desperately. I’m bone-tired at the moment; the emotional strain coupled with early pregnancy is not conducive to working late.

‘You could,’ she says as though considering it. ‘Or I could look for someone else to do your job, if you like. After all, how committed can you really be? You’ve already left us once …’

I sigh and walk away. I’ve barely reached the end of the corridor before Jean catches me up.

‘I’m sorry you overheard that, Stella. Velma, she just started talking about you, and I was trying to put her right, was all.’

‘I know.’ I give Jean a half-hearted hug. I need all the friends I can get in this place; there’s no need to make the woman feel bad about a bit of gossip. I guess I’ll have to get used to it
– I’ve already come across at least five of the residents talking about me. Why should the staff be any different?

‘By the way,’ Jean says, ‘Martha didn’t tell on you. Velma was watching from the window when you came in. She’s just trying to cause trouble.’

I say thank you and allow my shoulders to relax a bit. They’re not all out to get me after all. They’re not judging me, just gossiping and curious, and I can’t blame them for that. But when I stop by for my morning visit with Edie, I can’t help but tell her about the conversation I just overheard in the corridor.

‘It’s to be expected, Stella my dear,’ she says. She sits away from me while I strip her sheets, keeping her eyes averted. Some might mistake this for embarrassment – many of the residents here need their sheets changing daily due to incontinence or skin conditions – but in Edie’s case I know different. She’s acutely aware of the inequity of having someone wait on her, serve her almost, and this is what makes her feel uncomfortable. By not looking at me while I remove her soiled sheets and replace them with fresh ones, or cut her toenails or help her off the toilet, she is sparing me, not herself.

I shake out a sheet, causing a waft of air that knocks two petals off the bunch of lilies by her bed.

‘I wish they would just ask me,’ I grumble, ‘instead of discussing all these rumours.’

‘Do you really want them to ask you? Wouldn’t that be an imposition?’

‘It would be better than making stuff up. I heard Frances on the top floor yesterday saying I’d jilted Paul because I found out he was gay!’

‘Stella, why didn’t you go through with the wedding?’

I stop and look up. It’s disconcerting to see Edie’s pale eyes fixed on me. I drop the sheets, walk over to her chair and sit on the footstool, low to the ground.

‘Well,’ she says, shrugging, ‘you wanted someone to ask you.’

I can’t stop the tears that come now; they are flowing from some well of emotion I didn’t know I had until this moment. I’ve kept a lid on it, the way I always do: not rationalising my behaviour, more ignoring it. Burying it. It’s always worked for me before. But looking into Edie’s fading eyes, feeling her warm, dry hand on mine, the emotions finally work their way up to the surface and find a crack.

Eventually, the flood dries up. She calmly hands me a tissue from the covered box on her dresser, and then repeats her question.

‘Why didn’t you go through with the wedding, Stella?’

‘Because,’ I say, my voice still shaky, ‘because I’m pregnant.’

‘Is it Paul’s?’ Edie asks.

I don’t quite fall off my chair, but I am shocked that she feels it necessary to ask.

‘Of course it’s Paul’s. Who else’s baby would it be?’

She purses her lips, already treated with the strawberry lip balm she swears by. It occurs to me that I know absolutely nothing about Edie other than her age and that she’s lived in the Twilight Retirement Home for five years and has no family. Suddenly this seems unforgivable, and I resolve to do something about it. Right after she’s finished her inquisition.