Woman to Woman (7 page)

“Yahoo! I’m pregnant: officially! Just think, Rhona. This is a new life inside me!” She beamed, looking down at her still-slender waist.

“A whole new life in every sense, really. God, I can’t wait to tell Richard.” She sighed.

“He’s in Cork today and I know he has the mobile phone with him, but I just can’t tell him over the phone.”

“Probably not. Let’s go out to lunch, my treat. As you’re eating for two officially, you’ll need some help in choosing the right foods so you don’t end up with a couple of difficult pounds to shift.” Rhona grinned at her slim deputy.

“It must be awful to have to diet,” commiserated Jo.

“I have such a fast metabolism. I mean, I’ve always been able to eat what I wanted and I never put on weight.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s not fair to have someone like you on the staff. Able to stuff herself with chocolate and still not have so much as one love handle.” I Rhona picked up her handbag, stuck a pair of sunglasses on her head and held out her hand to haul Jo off the settee, “Come on, Mummy. Let’s toast your wonderful news with I some mineral water and something fattening, with cream and I chocolate sauce and ooh, I don’t know …” “Did I hear you mention food?” Tony, the magazine’s chief sub-editor, peered into the office.

“Does anybody ever do anything but talk about food around here any more?” he inquired.

“I was sort of hoping we might work on the magazine this afternoon … You know, that A4-sized thing that pays all our wages and currently has a couple of blank” pages in it waiting to be filled with gems of wisdom from your pen, Madame Editor?”

“OK.” Rhona took her sunglasses off her head and looked at Jo wryly.

“Back to work, I’m afraid. You and I,” she whispered conspiratorially, ‘will celebrate later.”

“Thanks.” Jo smiled as she walked to the door.

“But I just couldn’t do any more work today. I’ll get one of the girls to finish subbing that article and I’m going home, via the doctors she added with a huge grin. Actually, I’ve got that party at the News this evening but I’d love not to go. I want Richard all to myself when I give him the news.”

Rhona couldn’t help herself.

“Jo, have you thought about the fact that he mightn’t want a baby?”

she asked gently. For a moment Jo’s face was blank. Then a broad smile swept over her face, lighting up her eyes and curving her full mouth up in that warm and sexy smile which had been knocking men for six ever since she’d been fifteen.

“Of course he will she said confidently.

“He’ll be delighted, I promise!”

As she sat in her temperamental Volkswagen trying to exit the Stephen’s Green multi-storey car park, Jo was still thinking about what Rhona had

OK, so Richard had never been exactly wild about kids.

Last Christmas he had refused point blank to go to the all-day party Rhona gave every year where the Style staff lounged around their editor’s roomy Wicklow farmhouse with glasses of mulled wine, while their offspring watched videos and played on the tiny indoor bouncing castle. That didn’t mean he hated children; he just wasn’t mad about other people’s, that was all.

He told Jo to make his excuses.

Tell them I’m working, Jo, will you? There’s no way I’m going to spend an entire day at a bloody kids’ party. I know she’s your boss and you have to go, but I don’t. You don’t really mind, do you, darling?” he wheedled.

Once Richard had decided not to do something, nothing on earth could make him change his mind. Jo went on her own.

The party had been a huge success although somebody had accidentally turned the cooker off and the coq au vin was icy and virtually raw when the guests arrived.

Rhona’s husband Ted had returned from a booze-buying session at the local off-licence with five extra people and no diet tonic, but nothing could spoil the day.

After downing a super-strength cocktail Jo had mixed up for her with a bit of just about everything from the drinks cabinet, Rhona relaxed enough to serve beans and sausages.

Sick of eating every type of turkey dish possible during Christmas, everyone wolfed down their food and had a whale of a time.

Jo really wished that Richard had come after all. But there wasn’t much time for introspection with Style’s receptionist, Annette, perched tipsily on the arm of Jo’s chair and a hysterical conversation about the rumoured sexual tendencies of the most pious newscaster on the TV going on all around

He’d have loved it, Jo thought a little sadly as she gave a corner of cheesy Pringle to Mutt, Rhona’s slavering black and white spaniel whose main preoccupation in life was food.

For some reason, that picture stuck in her mind. Her friend and colleagues had let their hair down and enjoyed themselves with their husbands, wives, partners and children.

She’d hated being the only person there on her own although she wouldn’t have admitted it for the world. As she told Rhona, she’d enjoyed herself immensely and if the other woman suspected that Richard wasn’t actually working, but just hadn’t wanted to come, she didn’t say so.

The only squabbles were “You drank the last two times so it’s my turn and you have to drive’ arguments every time Ted came in with more booze. Everyone had a great time. Nobody complained about the noise coming from the converted garage as boisterous children did their level best to out bounce each other.

Who’d have guessed that Frederick, the marvellously camp make-up artist who worked on most of Style’s fashion shoots, would turn out to be the children’s favourite playmate.

“I like children, sweetie. I just don’t know if I could eat a whole one!” had been Frederick’s favourite phrase, borrowed from W. C. Fields. It never failed to raise a laugh. But after six vodkas and a lethal alcoholic concoction which included peach schnapps and Grand Marnier, Frederick was up on the bouncy castle with the five-year-olds, happily trying to demonstrate the double somersault he claimed to have been able to do in his youth.

How could you not like children, Jo wondered as the parking attendant handed her a fistful of coins and a receipt.

Richard didn’t hate children. How could he? He’d been an only child

who’d never had anyone to compete with at home. His besotted mother looked after him as if he was the crown prince of Brunei.

That’s it, she thought triumphantly. He’s never had to compete with a brother or sister for affection and he never learned to deal with children. All he needs is a little time to get used to the idea. We must have at least seven months left for that.

She roared off around the Green, whizzing past taxi-drivers and lumbering buses like a rally-driver. You’re not bad, Bessie, when you get going, she told her car. But I may have to trade you in for something more baby-friendly or at least something with a bit of suspension.

The surgery was full when she got there. Two harassed mothers tried to quieten cross toddlers and an elderly man with a hacking cough occupied two seats. One sulky adolescent mutinously insisted he go in to see the doctor by himself.

“I’m not a child any more,” he hissed at his mother.

“Stop acting like one, then,” she hissed back.

He turned pinker than the outbreak of spots on his hairless face when he noticed Jo looking at him.

Jo grabbed a dog-eared magazine off the centre table and squeezed in between the teenager and one of the mothers.

She was in for a long wait, she calculated, judging by the exhausted expressions on everyone’s faces. Still, it was only just after three and she had just had the most wonderful news in the world, so she couldn’t complain about waiting for the doctor. She couldn’t complain about anything.

She wanted to tell Richard so badly it was killing her. She wanted to tell everyone in the waiting room. Instead, she turned her attention to a year-old copy of Elle and flicked through the pages with a professional eye.

Jo could no longer look at any publication aimed at women without wondering whether Style would look good with a wrap-around calorie counter, three more pages on travel or whatever.

She was just reading an in-depth report about cervical cancer the sort

of article which would have once had her reaching for her edition of Everywoman in terror when a woman walked into the waiting room with a baby cradled papoose-like on her chest.

Jo stared at them, taking in every detail. The baby girl, dressed in pink which matched her soft rounded cheeks, had obviously been sleeping until the noisy surgery waiting room woke her up.

She blinked long dark eyelashes and stared drowsily up at her mother with enormous eyes, smiling a toothless grin when Mum murmured comforting words.

Jo held her breath as she looked at the mother and baby.

She had a million questions she wanted to ask, but she didn’t!

say a word. This was what she wanted, thought Jo as the mother gently kissed her baby’s downy head, this bond!

between a mother and her child, a love that was holier than!

anything she’d ever felt in a church. And now she was going!

to experience it. I Back to Elle. She discovered that shimmery pink was in black was out and anyone wearing last year’s opaque black!

tights would be arrested by the fashion police. She had just started reading an ancient edition of Hello! and was looking at pictures of Michael Jackson’s wedding when the doctor called her name. Thank God for that. One more page about Cindy Crawford’s workout wardrobe or her marvelous fashion sense, and she’d have gone mad.

The last time she’d been in the clinical-looking surgery, she was in the grip of a particularly virulent stomach bug and had nearly been sick all over the expensive cream floor tiles.

Today’s visit was definitely an improvement. “I’m pregnant.” Saying that brought a gleam to her eyes, she just knew it.

“I thought I needed a professional opinion, although I’ve done a test and it was positive. Are those tests accurate, Dr. Daly?” Jo asked in concern.

“Used properly, they’re excellent. But I’d prefer to make sure.” Ten minutes and another positive pregnancy test later, the doctor was

working out dates and talking about diet and folic acid supplements. By the time Jo turned her key in her front door lock, it was nearly six. She couldn’t wait to make herself a huge cup of sugary tea. She switched the kettle on and peered into the fridge.

Two weepy tomatoes, a soggy courgette, a jar with a scraping, of crumb-filled honey at the bottom, a half-full tin of beans and a tub of spreadable cheese covered with green fluff stared back at her dismally.

Only the milk, butter and two yogurt pots looked healthy enough for human consumption. This won’t do, she thought.

Time to get your act together, Ms Ryan, she told herself as she closed the fridge door. At least she had those potato waffles in the freezer. They were carbohydrates, weren’t they? She switched on the answering machine and listened to her messages while she poured boiling water over a tea bag.

Rhona had rung to see how she got on with the doctor. Her sister-in-law had been on to tell her about a surprise birthday party for Shane’s fortieth. Could she ring back during the day when he was out? asked Mary against a background noise of a washing machine about to lift into orbit.

Jo was chuckling at the idea of her older brother’s face when he realised he’d been duped when she heard Richard’s voice: “Hi, Jo. I’m in Naas on a job for the Independent. I’m going to drive straight to the party when I’m finished, OK?

William is coming with me and he’s bringing his sister along because she’s home from Paris. He can’t just leave her on her own in the flat. I’m covering the party for the Herald as a favour in case the Def Leppard guys or Dennis Hopper turn up. That’s it. Sorry I missed you but I’ll see you there. Bye.”

Oh no, Jo thought despondently. I wanted to go with you, Richard. Blast you. She plucked the tea bag from her cup and added the last dribble of milk and sugar. A few chocolate digestives, I think, she muttered miserably. She opened the junk cupboard where she kept a bag of mini-Mars bars, biscuits and several bottles of 7-Up for emergencies.

He said he was going to bring me to the bloody party, she muttered as

she carried her tea and biscuits into the bedroom. What the hell is he bringing Will and his stupid sister for? Are they more important to him than I am?

She took a bite of chocolate digestive and washed it down with hot, sweet tea. She turned on the radio and sat down heavily on the bed. How was she going to get the energy to change her clothes?

She looked at the pile of unironed clothes draped on her white cane chair. Last month’s ‘de-junk your life feature flashed before her eyes and she thanked God that nobody in the office could see the chaos that was her bedroom.

She was reasonably tidy at work. Losing a vital piece of paper there could prove disastrous so she forced herself to dump all the press releases, old newspaper cuttings and scrawled phone messages before they swamped her desk.

At home, however, she flung linen jackets onto the chair only to find them crumpled and requiring half an hour of ironing a week later.

A tangle of tights lay on the flowered blue quilt, silky beige and black skeins abandoned during her frantic attempts that morning to find a ladder less pair of sheer tights to go with her linen outfit.

It was a pretty room, decorated in the blue-sprigged Laura Ashley wallpaper she’d instantly adored when she spotted it in the shop. The white cane dressing table, bookcase and bedside table looked just right with the wallpaper, and matched the long white muslin curtain which hung elegantly from a brass pole.

It all would have been property-supplement-perfect if it hadn’t been for the piles of paperbacks and magazines stacked untidily on the bedside table, the sheaf of newspapers dropped casually onto the floor beside her bed and the heap of blouses, Tshirts and trousers on the chair.

The oval dressing table was like a chemist shop’s display with bottles of perfume, body lotion and endless old lipsticks she just couldn’t bear to throw out. A picture of her and Richard on their last holiday in New York had pride of place beside the walnut jewellery box he’d