The Family Trap (9 page)

What kind of dad will Paul be to our baby, I wonder? Will he regret what he said once he realises the truth. Once I take his advice and stop hiding from the truth.

But when I open my mouth the words refuse to come out. What can I say? I’m not sure I want to get married, Dad. I’m don’t think I should go through with it because I’m pregnant and Paul doesn’t want children and I’m so confused right now that I can’t just go ahead and get married and move away and change everything. I need time. I need space. I need … I need ...

I need to pee.

‘Dad, can you stop somewhere?’

‘Stop?’ He looks across at me, eyebrows raised.

‘I need to use the ladies.’

‘Well, we’re on the A5, Stella. There aren’t any ladies here.’ He laughs and rolls his eyes as if I’m about four years old.

‘I really, really need to pee,’ I tell him gravely, sounding, I’m sure, exactly like a four-year-old.

He pulls off at the next exit, heading for the huge supermarket in a nearby retail park.

As soon as he stops the car I’m out of the door and running for the entrance. People stare at me, and for a minute I’m confused
– have I wet myself? Do I have something funny on my head? – but then I realise. Duh! Women in wedding dresses running through Tesco can’t be an everyday occurrence.

By the time I’m back in the car we really are in danger of being late. I pull out my phone. There’s something I need to do.

‘Paul?’

‘Stella?’

‘How are you?’ I say stupidly.

‘Well, I’m fine. And you?’ His voice is amused – I can read his mind even over the phone. He’s thinking: She’s probably got lost, or held up for some wacky reason (increased urination due to pregnancy, anyone?), or got a ladder in her tights and wants to go home and change. His thoughts will be benevolent, if a bit miffed.

Or at least, I hope they will.

‘Paul, do you remember the conversation we had on Monday? When you came back from your trip?’

He sighs. I can hear voices in the background – is that Lipsy? Are they there already?

‘Stella, please can we talk about this later? Like, maybe, after we’ve got married? You know, that marriage ceremony we’re having in about ten minutes’ time. And you are where, exactly?’

‘But that’s just the point, isn’t it? This is the kind of conversation a couple should have
before
they get married, not after.’ I’m trying to keep my voice low but I can sense my dad’s ears twisting my way. We’ve reached the edge of the car park now and he’s indicating to pull out into traffic.

‘And we did have this conversation, Stella. We had it on Monday, and I’m pretty sure we had it again on Thursday. Or at least, you did. I haven’t changed my mind, and I still think a fresh start is the best way forward for us, and I can’t see what else there is to discuss.’

‘Look, Paul, the thing is … I do still want to marry you, OK, you’ve no idea how much, but there are some things you need to know. Things that will affect everything, and … well, maybe you won’t want to marry me when I tell you.’

My dad looks across at me, then turns back to face the road. His foot presses down on the accelerator. We speed past industrial buildings and take a roundabout practically on two wheels.

Paul is talking again – he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. ‘You’re bound to have cold feet, sweetheart. It’s totally natural. Why, I’ve been nervous about it too.’ His laugh is confident, assured. It just about breaks my heart to hear it.

I end the call and stow my phone in the little white bag by my feet. My dad puts his hand on my knee, then takes it away without speaking. We reach the register office in record time; I keep my face averted the whole while.

There is a light drizzle falling when I step out of the car. Well, who plans their wedding for February and expects good weather? We’re lucky it’s not snowing. There’s a man on the roof of the house next door to the register office and he whistles and waves to me. I smile and raise my hand, then dash for the foyer while Dad parks. Once I’m under cover I peer through the double glass doors. My mum and Lipsy are there, but I can’t see Robert. I can’t see Paul, either. Susan and Joe, former employees of Smart Homes, and two of Paul’s friends make up the rest of the wedding party; from Twilight I invited Martha and Jean, and Sally who manages the kitchen, but none of them could get the time off. Velma, of course. Doing her thing again.

I wish Bonnie were here. She’d know exactly what to do. I even wish Billy were here – my brother could at least make up the numbers.

And then Paul appears. I shrink back, out of his direct line of sight. He’s wearing the light grey suit we picked out together, with a sharp white shirt and a white rose in his lapel. My heart starts to beat a little faster; Paul in a suit always has this effect on me, but right now it’s more than that.

‘Stella?’

My dad bursts in, smelling of outdoors and brushing the rain off his arms. He stands next to me with an uncertain smile on his face. ‘Shall we go on in?’ he says.

‘Dad, do you think you could ask Paul to step out here for a minute? There’s something I need to ask him.’

‘No problem.’

I watch through the glass. Dad approaches Paul, who turns and smiles. Then a frown creases his brow and he looks out to the foyer. Sees me. He pauses, the briefest hesitation, then steps forward. Do I see him square his shoulders as if going into battle, or is that my imagination? My jaw is aching with tension. My palms are sweating.

‘Just as well we’re not superstitious,’ he says, giving me a peck on the cheek.

I laugh, a slightly hysterical sound in the spacious, echoing foyer. ‘Isn’t it just!’ I gush. As if we need any more bad luck.

‘You look amazing, Stella. I can’t believe this day is finally here, can you? But listen, we’ll be going in any minute now. The wedding before ours is running late, thank goodness, but as soon as they come out, we’re it.’

I’m nodding but not really hearing his words. Running through my head is: Tell him. Tell him. Tell him right now that you are expecting his baby.

‘Will you change your mind, Paul?’ I hear myself saying. Out of options, no more oblique routes left open, I have to know. ‘Will you change your mind about you and me having a family together?’

Into Paul’s silence I could read many things, but for once my mind is blank. He shakes his head; his mouth is set, angry that I’ve brought it up again, disappointed that I’m ruining yet another perfect moment with all this baby nonsense.

I open my mouth, hoping that the words will come tumbling out of their own accord, for this is the time to tell him, right now, right here. I can’t marry a man who doesn’t want a family with me, not when I’m carrying the makings of that family in my womb at this very moment. But just then my attention is caught by movement inside the reception area behind Paul’s back. The door to the ceremony room opens and out spills a laughing bride and groom, holding hands, eyes locked together. My family are pushed to one side as the wedding party follows; but my eyes are trained solely on the bride’s dress. I swallow and rest my hands on my stomach. Paul is talking again but he fades into the background as the bride moves towards me. Her groom holds open the foyer door; she smiles at me as she passes. But I can’t take my eyes off the bulge that pushes against the cream satin of her floor-length skirt. It’s huge, rounded and proudly displayed. She must be at least seven months gone, if not more. She walks with her back swayed against gravity, the tent of her dress gliding forward as if on sliders.

She looks blissfully and unashamedly happy.

Her new husband, following close behind, catches sight of my horrified expression and glares at me. Protective, as if I were judging her. As if I would. I’m envious, if anything. Something is pressing against my chest and I’m finding it hard to think straight. I force myself to smile at the man, but it’s too late. The door to the foyer swings shut behind him.

Paul tuts under his breath, and his disparaging huff brings him back into focus.

‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘No wonder they were running late. Stable door. Horse, bolted.’

I turn away from him, hiding my face. The woman is being helped into a waiting car; her guests are still streaming out of the building. Paul takes my hand and makes to lead me inside.

‘I’ll follow you in,’ I tell him, without looking up. ‘Just give me a minute, OK?’

‘Right. Well, I’ll go in and get things started, shall I?’

I nod furiously and feel the warmth of his hand on my back. ‘I love you,’ he says, and then he’s gone.

My eyes are blurry with tears, but I can make out the silver car outside, and I can see the radiant face of the pregnant bride as she’s driven away. I lift up the top layer of my skirt – white silk with tiny sewn-on beads – and wipe my eyes. When I smooth it down again there are two black smears of mascara just above my knees.

‘Stella,’ someone calls from inside.

‘Stella, it’s time.’

‘Mum, come on for God’s sake. What are you standing out there for?’

‘Stella?’

My dad lays his hand on my shoulder. It feels unbearably heavy.

‘Dad,’ I say, looking straight ahead, surprised at how clear my voice sounds. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan.’

There is no way on earth I can march merrily down the aisle knowing that Paul and I have such wildly different ideas of our futures. He’d never forgive me for marrying him without telling him I was pregnant, and it really does seem as though I’ve stuffed up all my chances of letting him know ahead of time. I’m a coward: a feeble, pathetic coward. I’m the failure, not Paul. But he doesn’t deserve to be trapped into a future that he’s made it perfectly clear he wants no part of.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell my dad, turning around to give him a pleading look. ‘I can’t do it. Tell Paul that I ... that I ...’

It’s the look on his face that finishes me off. Not disappointment – I could cope with that, I expect that – but pity. And so much love and understanding. He has no idea what’s going on, but he’s not judging me. He just wants me to be happy.

He nods, just the smallest movement of his head, and turns on his heel. Throws open the double doors and strides away, a man with a purpose. And then, without a single coherent thought in my head, I burst out of the foyer and escape out into the car park.

Traffic is trundling down Aylesbury Street, a constant stream of lorries and cars and buses, and the blare of a horn makes me jump. A whistle pierces the air; the man on the roof is leering down at me, laughing. It’s raining now, heavy fat drops of rain, and my hair is soaked in no time. On the pavement, I turn and head for the centre of town, half running, half staggering in my brand new, uncomfortable shoes.

It’s only when I reach the crossing at the other end of the street that I realise I’m still clutching my posy of pink and white roses. I stop and stare at it; for some inexplicable reason I hold it up to my nose. There are petals on the floor all around me, and one sharp thorn has embedded itself in the thumb of my left glove.

This is how my dad finds me, who knows how many minutes later. A sodden failure of a woman, standing on a street corner with her silk and satin wedding dress plastered to her trembling body. I throw myself into his car, sobbing and dripping. I’m too cold to speak; but my shivering doesn’t stop even when Dad throws a blanket over me and turns up the heating.

On the dual carriageway, I lower my window and hold out the bedraggled posy. I let it go, and in the mirror I watch it fly up into the wind, then land on the road behind us. The green trim flaps hopefully on the tarmac. But even as I watch, a lorry drives over it and the flowers disappear under its gargantuan wheels.

I’ve just jilted the man I love.

Something new.

Chapter 9

I’m having one of those days when everything touches me too deeply. An old man sitting patiently alone in the back of a car outside the Co-op creates a lump in my throat. He’s clutching a small suitcase to his chest, and his watery eyes look full of hope. By the time I’ve finished my shopping I’ve convinced myself he’s waiting to be taken by his family to an old people’s home. It won’t be somewhere lovely like Twilight either; it’ll be one of those green-corridored institutions with a permanent smell of cabbage and staff who’d rob you as soon as look at you.

I stride out of the store full of determination, fully intending to spring open his car door and rescue him. ‘Come with me instead,’ I’ll say, offering my hand, and he’ll look at me gratefully, approvingly.

The lengths I’d go to right now to get some approval.

‘I know of a place where they’ll take good care of you,’ I’ll tell the old man, or perhaps, ‘Why not come and live with me?’

Mind you, that’s not a great idea. There isn’t even room for me at home anymore, as Lipsy and Robert keep telling me.

But when I reach the car park, he’s gone. Now I’ll never know what happened to him, and for a moment I find this unbearably sad.

I am aware all this is crazy. There’s just no explaining the way my emotions are messing with my head right now. Take last night, for example: out of the blue came a memory of a book my mother bought for me when I first started university. It was poetry, Emily Dickinson, but I wasn’t studying literature. Evidently she figured this was the kind of book a student would need by her side.

I’ve never read a poem, not from that book or any other. At some point I must have thrown it away, carelessly discarding a precious gift with no knowledge of how I might regret it one day. Last night, when I thought about the book’s faded yellow cover and old-fashioned typeface, the memory caused me real physical pain. And it seemed an insult to my mother, the likes of which I could never hope to make amends for.

Of course, she knows nothing about it. She’s far too busy being furious with me for ruining her day as mother of the bride to care about some old tome of poetry. In fact, if I did still have it, she’d probably take great pleasure in hitting me over the head with it.