It’s hard to focus on the paperwork today. Thoughts of Lisa constantly creep in my mind. I rattle off yet another text, asking if she is okay when what I really mean is does she think she’s pregnant, although she’s assured me countless times she’ll let me know as soon as there is news. Good or bad.
Lisa replies to say she’ll call later. She’s busy at work. Again.
‘You need to slow down,’ I had said the last time we spoke. ‘You do so many hours. Can’t you stop your overtime, for now?’
‘That’s what the relaxation coach says but I can’t meet the rent without the extra cash.’
‘But you have our first payment now. The ￡3,000. Isn’t that enough? Do you need more?’
‘No, you’re already being generous, and you’re right. That will cover the shortfall in rent. It’s not just about money, I suppose. I enjoy keeping busy.’
‘I know but it’s not just about you now, is it?’ I felt horrible, almost as though I was bullying her, but she sighed and agreed to turn down extra shifts.
Later, I’m jotting down a list of things we need from town, when my mobile rings. Lisa. My stomach flip-flops. I’m torn between wanting to hear what she has to say and being utterly terrified she’ll tell me her period has started.
‘Hello.’ I am cautious as I answer.
‘Hi. Sorry for the radio silence. I’m having a nightmare.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Hang on a sec,’ she says. I hear her speaking in hushed tones to someone else, and I want to scream down the handset ‘are you pregnant or not’, but at least this way I can have a few more minutes of pretending before she comes on the line again.
‘Sorry, Kat. I’m really busy. You know what this time of year is like, and my car’s broken down and garage says it will be ￡2k to fix. I can’t afford it without my overtime so I’ve been taking the bus to work.’
‘That must be inconvenient,’ I say my mind racing to find a solution.
‘I don’t mind the bus usually, but—’
‘But what?’ While I wait for her to speak, I scribble tangerines onto my shopping list.
‘I’ve been feeling a little queasy lately.’
The pen slips from my grasp and I watch it roll off the kitchen table and onto the floor. Everything is moving in slow motion. ‘Do you think?’ I trail off.
‘Perhaps. I’ll do a test if my period doesn’t start on time but I just wanted to touch base. Explain why I haven’t been in touch. The extra travelling time, you know.’
‘You can’t get the bus,’ I blurt out.
‘I don’t have a choice.’ Lisa’s tone has cooled, and I am worried I have offended her.
‘I just meant if you are pregnant. There’ll be appointments, won’t there? You have to be mobile. I’ll transfer some money across.’ Even as I speak, I have crossed the kitchen and am logging onto internet banking on the iPad.
‘I can’t let you—’
‘Don’t be silly. If you’re pregnant, we will be starting the monthly payments anyway, won’t we?’ I brush aside her concerns. Lisa’s account details have been stored from Nick transferring money before. ‘There. Two thousand. It should be with you this afternoon.’
‘Thanks so much, Kat. You’re a star. I’ve got to fly.’
She hangs up before I can say ‘you’re welcome’.
The streets are crowded, everyone in a rush, bumping carrier bags and jagged elbows, but I’m in such a daze I barely notice. Lisa feels sick. This really could be it. I don’t have much to buy. There will just be me and Nick on Christmas Day. I squeeze through M&S to buy Nick’s favourite red onion chutney. I round a corner, bumping straight into a pram, jolting the handle, waking the baby snuggled in a navy padded snowsuit with Rudolph on the chest. Instantly, I look for the mother, to apologise, but there are so many people crowding around the shelves I don’t know who she is. Despite ‘Santa Baby’ blaring out of the speakers, and the hum of voices, the baby’s cry cuts through to my very core and, ever so gently, I start pushing the pram back and forth trying to soothe the infant back to sleep. His mouth is in a perfect ‘O’, beet red, chubby legs kicking angrily. Unsure, I look around before picking him up and making soft shushing noises in his ear. His wisps of hair are plastered to his damp scalp. It is unbearably warm. Too warm. After a moment of hesitation, I ease down the zipper on his snowsuit.
An angry voice shouts. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my baby?’
A woman snatches him from my arms, her ponytail swinging as she backs away from me as though I might try to grab him back.
‘He was crying. And hot. I’m sorry.’ I stutter my apologies while she glares at me.
‘You’re a fucking lunatic.’ She spins the pram around and pushes her way down the aisle. My legs are boneless and I have to cling onto my trolley to support my weight but it isn’t the woman’s words that have upset me so. It is the shame in knowing that just for a split second I had been tempted to take the baby that was too hot. Too distressed. Too alone. Sometimes it scares me how far I’ll go to have a baby to call my own. Sometimes I think there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.
It is nine when we wake on Christmas morning, and Nick lies spread-eagled in the bed while I pad downstairs to make tea. I can’t wait for the day I’m woken up at 6 a.m., bleary-eyed from staying up late, filling stockings and dusting the patio with icing sugar reindeer prints.
‘We said no presents!’ I say as I return with our drinks to see a large gift, wrapped in sparkling purple paper, resting on my pillow. We’re okay for money, for now, but we need to be careful. If Lisa falls pregnant, her expenses will wipe out the majority of our savings. Shaking my head as though I am cross I pull open the wardrobe and lift out a box that I hand to Nick. As usual when we both have something to open we count to three before simultaneously tearing off the paper.
‘It’s great!’ In my peripheral vision I can see Nick wind the scarf I bought him around his neck. It’s cashmere but it only came from TK Maxx and didn’t cost the earth. The blue should match his eyes perfectly but I can’t look at him. Can’t stop staring at the framed poster of West Side Story in my hands.
‘Thank you! Is it?…’
‘Original, yes. All the autographs from the cast are real too.’
‘It’s incredible. I love you.’ Finally, my eyes find his.
‘I love you too.’ Nick rests the picture on the floor, tugs at the belt of my dressing gown and it is another hour before we make it downstairs.
We play a logo quiz on the iPad while we wait for our M&S turkey to cook, and after lunch, Nick and I cuddle on the sofa, the fairy lights on the tree glowing muted cream, the scent of pine heavy in the air. Our mobiles rest on the coffee table along with a bottle of Baileys and two empty glasses. I am just scanning through the Radio Times deciding what we can watch next when Nick’s phone flashes. It’s a text message from Natasha.
‘What does she want?’ I ask, my words as sharp as the pine needles that lie scattered over the carpet. ‘I didn’t know you were still in touch?’
Before he can answer there’s another beep for an incoming message but this time it comes from my phone. I crane my neck to peer at the screen, snatching at my handset when I see Lisa’s name flash up.
The sofa seems to shift and sway as I read the message. I am floating towards the ceiling.
‘What is it?’ Nick asks but I cannot answer.
I cannot speak. I want to pass him the handset to show him, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the message that reads:
Happy Christmas Mummy
Along with a photo of a positive pregnancy testing kit. All thoughts of Natasha vanish. I’m going to be a mum.
11
Now
Usually I dread playing the hostess – perfect smile and perfect canapés – but I’m actually looking forward to our New Year’s Eve party. This time next year, it will be a much quieter affair, night feeds and nappy changes, but tonight, I’m going to let my hair down. I wriggle into my bottle green sequinned dress.