The Time of Our Lives (31 page)

My pen hesitates over the page as the words ‘with another man last night’ tumble through my mind.

I pause and put down my pen as I pad over to the mini-bar to open a small bottle of water, then fill up a glass. I take a sip of it before returning to the desk. I pick up the pen again and
scrub out ‘despite what happened’.

‘So, do you want to see Harry tonight or not?’ Meredith asks on the way to the bar later that night. ‘Because, I’ve got to be honest, I’m
confused.’

‘Try being me for a day then. You’d be in therapy by 8.30.’

The lift reaches the lobby and the doors open as my phone springs into life. My mum’s number flashes up.

I answer. ‘Hi, Mum. Is Florence okay?’

‘YOU’RE IN THE
EXPRESS
!’

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’d heard,’ I say, hoping this is the end of the matter.

‘I didn’t believe it until Carol next door came round with a copy. I assured her that they must’ve made most of it up, because you’re on holiday and would
never
use some of the language they’ve quoted you as saying.’

My palpitations start to augment dangerously.

‘Honestly, I hope you’re having a relaxing time over there because it sounds like ALL HELL is breaking loose while you’re away. I dread to think what you’re going to
return to.’

‘Can I speak to Florence now?’

‘It reminds me of when I was in Tokyo, an—’

‘Mum, I need to go to dinner soon. Is Florence there, please?’

She sniffs and reluctantly hands over the phone.

‘Hello, Mummy.’ Her little voice makes my heart contract.

‘Hello, darling. I love you.’

She doesn’t answer.

‘I love you,’ I repeat.

‘Hi, Mummy.’

‘What have you been up to today?’

‘Grandma’s been teaching me how to put on liquid eyeliner.’

I sigh. ‘And how was that?’

‘Good. Are you coming back soon?’

‘I am, sweetheart. And I can’t wait to see you.’ For a split second, I long for the moment when I will have her small arms around me and feel her soft hair against my cheek.
This is followed swiftly by the realisation that it’s currently in doubt how I’m going to feed her and keep a roof over her head.

‘Mummy, is Benjamin Hewitt going to be at my school?’

Despite her reluctance to declare her love for me, Florence has told me on several occasions that she is in love with Benjamin Hewitt, a boy at her nursery. Given that I’m very hopeful of
her remaining a virgin until the age of at least twenty-four, it’s not something I’m trying to encourage.

‘I think he might be,’ I tell her. ‘Are you looking forward to school?’

She hesitates. ‘Yes, but only if you’re going to take me on my first day.’

I swallow, trying to hold it together. This is the one benefit of my current circumstances, I suppose. ‘Okay, Florence. I’ll be there.’ Nothing can stop me now I’m
unemployed.

She hesitates, as if she hasn’t heard me right. ‘Really?’ She’s virtually breathless with happiness and disbelief.

‘Yes,’ I whimper, hating myself for how overjoyed this has made her.

‘You’re the best mummy in the whole wide history.’

Now I want to cry. Mum grabs the phone after instructing Florence to say goodbye, and proceeds to tell me about how she bought some arnica for her bruises and it’s done a magnificent job
and she’s bought some for me, too. Despite the fact that – broken arm and black eye notwithstanding (which she doesn’t know about anyway) – I haven’t actually
got
any bruises.

This is followed by the fact that she saw something on TV about a big carnival in Barcelona this week, meaning it will be overrun with people and pickpocketers and I mustn’t take off my
special bag, even when dining, sunbathing or indeed enjoying a vigorous session of butterfly stroke in the swimming pool.

I’m so exhausted by this conversation that by the time I manage to persuade her I
really
am going, I end the call with the words: ‘Mum, you might not be able to get hold of me
for the next twenty-four hours – my phone’s been playing up. So try not to phone unless it’s a REAL EMERGENCY.’

‘I only
ever
phone in emergencies,’ she objects. ‘Besides, it worked fine this time.’

‘Just text me, okay,’ I say, which I think is a reasonable compromise.

When I finish the call I find my way to the bar, where Nicola has ordered me a drink. Never has something cold and fizzy looked so enticing.

I sit on a stool next to Meredith and glance in the mirror behind the bar to see if I can see Harry. Then I decide I’m being far too subtle, so spin round to engage in a full-scale scan of
the area.

‘He’s not here yet,’ Nicola says.

I take a sip of cava to avoid answering her. Part of me would be relieved about the idea of him standing me up. Although I do recognise that, if it was that simple, I probably wouldn’t
have put on the nicest of my new tops, attempted to recreate the hairdo Meredith created a few days ago and basically put in more effort to my appearance than I have in the last five years.

‘Why didn’t you set a time to meet him?’ Meredith asks.

‘I’m not sure exactly.’

‘That’s a cardinal dating error, Imogen.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I point out, taking another uneasy sip of my drink.

It becomes evident over the course of the next two drinks that my friends are convinced Harry will arrive at some point, because they’re making their cava last about six times longer than
mine to play for time. I, on the other hand, am torn in two over the issue.

One minute I convince myself I don’t want to see him here; then I start wondering why he’s not. Which puts an entirely different perspective on things.

And, after an hour of sitting, drinking and working myself up into a neurotic wreck, eventually I just want to get out of here.

Reluctantly, my friends finish their drinks, telling me that we’ll come back after dinner because he’s
bound
to have meant then instead, or perhaps I misheard or . . .
something.

As we’re about to head through the double doors to the beach, I spot Delfina marching through the lobby. She’s chatting to the guy with curly hair, who I now know is a trainee with
the
Daily Mirror
.

The other members of the group are behind. There is, however, one person missing. And now I’m really wondering why.

We spend our penultimate night at a harbourside restaurant devouring a paella that looks capable of catering for a modest wedding party.

It’s a beautiful spot, with the scent of warm pimento and saffron in the air as the sun makes a leisurely descent behind dozens of blindingly white super-yachts. And they really are super.
Huge and glitzy, the sort of thing on which Kate Moss would sunbathe with a glass of Cristal in her hand.

‘Our VIP holiday doesn’t look all that VIP next to those, does it?’ I muse. I’ve been studiously avoiding the issue of Harry in any conversation. This is despite the fact
that every second I’m away from the hotel, I’m wondering if he’s there in the bar, wondering where I am. Then I tell myself that if I sat here all night pining after him,
I’d look like a complete saddo – and therefore this, really, is the only option.

‘There’s always
someone
richer and flashier.’ Nicola shrugs. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve loved being away with both of you, but I’d have been just as
happy on a campsite.’

Meredith looks appalled. ‘A campsite? Are you serious?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean I’m not incredibly grateful to you for sharing your competition prize, Meredith,’ Nic adds hastily. ‘That was unbelievably good of you.’

Meredith shakes her head in despair, then pauses as if an idea has just popped into her head. ‘I think I need to show you two a
seriously
good time tonight.’

Pregnant or not, Meredith has a nose for nightlife. She’s like a wild boar hunting truffles, only her speciality is bars with opulent VIP sections, cool tunes and a nice line in
outlandishly named cocktails.

After jumping in a taxi and heading to God-Knows-Wheresville, we have found ourselves in a club where the sound system has been unleashed to its full, techno potential and my breastbone is
vibrating like something you’d buy at Ann Summers. It is packed, the atmosphere is electric and it’s clear that Meredith feels instantly at home.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere you can find a seat?’ I ask.

‘No way! I’m going to dance,’ she insists, dragging Nic away by the hand as I head to the bar.

I spend twenty minutes waiting to be served two G&Ts, and a cranberry juice for Meredith. Having got them, I weave back through people far cooler than I am, towards the spot where I left my
friends.

I see Nicola first, and then I realise that Meredith is deep in conversation with another woman. Although ‘conversation’ isn’t quite the word: Meredith appears to be getting a
mouthful from her. I arrive with the drinks only to catch the end of it.

‘Diz is not a place for a woman carrying a baby,’ the woman is saying, anger etched on her face.

‘That’s enough,’ interrupts Nicola furiously. ‘She was only dancing.’

The woman throws her a look of disdain as Meredith gazes at her hands silently. ‘You don’t deserve to be a mother,’ the woman adds venomously, before spinning on her heel and
leaving.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

When Meredith looks up, her eyes are clouded by a film of tears. ‘Do you mind if we just go?’

‘Of course not.’ I follow her through the crowd until we step into the fresh air outside. We pick up a taxi with merciful ease.

‘What an absolute bitch,’ Nicola spits, as we head back to the hotel. ‘Does she think pregnant women are supposed to sit at home all day knitting booties and counting their
varicose veins? Meredith was only dancing. It’s not as if she’d popped a couple of Es and started lap-dancing on the tables.’

Meredith looks out of the window.

‘I should’ve told her to sling her hook at the beginning.
How
ignorant. I’m fuming.’ Nicola has always had a defiantly protective streak when it comes to her
friends. ‘I mean, God Almighty, you’ve been drinking orange juice all week, Meredith. I know you haven’t been studying every line of
What To Expect When You’re
Expecting
, but so what? This is one of your last big nights out for a long time and that bloody woman’s gone and ruined it.’

I add nothing to this conversation, partly because I agree with everything Nicola’s saying, but also because, as I reach over and clutch Meredith’s hand, I can’t help studying
her expression.

She’s trying to pretend she’s not upset. And she’s failing miserably.

When we arrive back at the B Hotel, I ask her if she’d like a cranberry juice now instead, as Nicola heads for the Ladies.

‘One for the road, eh?’ Meredith shrugs as I find a sofa to sink in to.

‘Are you okay, Meredith?’

‘Yeah,’ she says too insistently. ‘Of course.’

I frown. ‘Only . . . you don’t look it, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

She sighs and looks up. ‘Do you want the honest answer?’

‘Only if you want to tell me.’

Her jaw clenches and she hesitates, before confessing something that’s obviously been on her mind for some time. ‘I’m not ready to be a mother, Imogen.’

I shake my head. ‘All pregnant women have moments when they doubt themselves, Meredith. Especially the first time, and especially when it’s been a surprise.’

She looks at me with blazing eyes. ‘This is not just last-minute cold feet, Imogen. This is a
mistake
. It was from the beginning. I never,
ever
felt broody. I never even
wanted kids.’

I swallow. ‘Well, you know what . . . me neither. I’d never wanted them before I found out I was pregnant with Florence.’

‘Seriously?’ Meredith’s eyes now search mine.

I nod. ‘I suppose I never knew how much I wanted a daughter until I had her.’

‘But you were over the moon when you found out you were pregnant – I remember it. It was totally different from the meltdown I went into.’

I’m suddenly unable to deny it.

‘I felt . . .
feel
terrified,’ she continues. ‘That’s literally the only word I can use to describe it.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘I’ve
never told you this, but I was booked in for an abortion. Not once, but twice.’

Shock grips my throat. ‘You’re kidding?’ I whisper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I planned to tell everyone that I’d miscarried. It was early days, before twelve weeks the first time and then at sixteen weeks the second time.’

‘So what happened?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I got in there and, for some utterly unfathomable reason, I couldn’t do it. I have no idea why, but I couldn’t. And, the fact is, Imogen, I
should
have done it. But now it’s too late.’

‘Why do you think that?’

She looks at me as if it’s obvious, as if there’s simply no need for her to spell this out. ‘Because I know I don’t have it in me to be a good mother to this child.
I’m the least organised person I know. My passions in life have been’ – her voice takes on a sarcastic tone – ‘hmm, let me think . . . going out and getting off my
face a lot. Nothing I do or have done has equipped me for this. And, worse than all that is this – I keep hearing about how women fall in love with their babies every time they feel a kick in
their tummy, or the second they’ve given birth and are in their arms. But I’m not the falling-instantly-in-love kind, Imogen. Nathan is the only man I’ve ever felt anything for,
and a lot of the time I’d happily throttle him.’