Joe does a disgracefully bad job of hiding his relief that I’m in control. ‘Thanks, Amy. Appreciate it.’
I give him a look. I can’t help it – and it’s a mistake because then he feels he has to come the heavy. He glares at Sofie. ‘Aren’t you a bit young? You’re only –’
‘She’s seventeen,’ I jump in because there’s a chance he’s forgotten her age.
‘Oh, are you? Well, that’s grand, so.’
‘Who’s going to tell Urzula?’ I ask.
‘Does she have to know?’ Sofie says.
I’ve back-and-forthed about this and part of me wants to punish Urzula – and Joe – for their neglect of Sofie. But Urzula is her biological mother.
‘What if she says I must have the baby?’ Sofie asks.
I can’t see it.
‘I can’t tell her,’ Joe says. ‘I don’t have a relationship with her.’
Well, neither do I. She’s not right in the head, and maybe I should have more compassion, but there you are, I don’t.
‘You’ll speak to her.’ I’m firm with Joe. ‘So, Joe, do you know anyone with medical skills? Who might, you know, be with Sofie while it’s happening?’
He frowns. ‘What do you mean? Won’t it happen in a clinic?’
For eff’s sake! ‘Not in this country. It’s illegal.’
‘Even the pills?’
He is such a fool! ‘Even the pills. Listen, don’t tell Maura about this.’
‘When would I be talking to Maura?’ His scorn is withering.
‘Good. Okay, Sofie, let’s go.’
‘Where now?’ Joe asks.
‘Jackson’s parents.’ At his clueless face, I say, ‘Jackson’s her boyfriend. He has been for the past year. Call Urzula. Bye.’
Jackson has already told his parents and they’re suitably concerned. They’re very nice people – it’s obvious where Jackson gets his sweet, mannerly nature from.
Their relief that Sofie won’t proceed with the pregnancy comes as no real surprise.
‘We love Sofie,’ Jackson’s mum says over and over, ‘but, you know …’
His dad keeps staring at Jackson as if he simply can’t believe this wispy boy has impregnated a girl.
‘Are you going to the UK?’ Jackson’s mother asks.
‘We’ve ordered the pills.’
She nods. ‘We’ll share the costs.’
Which is more than Joe has offered to do. But I’d expected nothing from Joe – a long time ago, he’d absolved himself from any responsibility for Sofie. If I let myself, I could burn with fury at his – and Urzula’s – neglect. But the only person who matters in this is Sofie, and so long as she doesn’t mind, and she doesn’t seem to, I can put up with it.
There’s no point in my trying to make the world the way I’d ideally like it to be. It’s better just to get on with things as they are.
76
Friday, 25 November, day seventy-four
None of the girls show up at Mum and Pop’s for the Friday dinner. They didn’t say they’d definitely be here, because no one ever does, but for all three to be missing is a sign of the cloud we’re living under.
I leave half an hour earlier than usual, and at home, sitting on the stairs, looking like refugees, are the girls.
‘Mum, when are the pills coming?’ Kiara says. ‘She’s in bits.’
‘If I have to have this baby, I’ll kill myself,’ Sofie whispers.
‘Sssh, sssh, sssh, no one’s having a baby, it’ll be okay.’ With my bum, I shunt Neeve and Kiara out of the way and wrap myself around Sofie. ‘I’ve been tracking them,’ I say, and show her the delivery details on my iPad.
‘They arrived in the country this morning,’ I say. ‘They’ll be here on Monday.’ Hopefully.
‘So we do it then?’ Sofie asks faintly.
‘After you’ve had the scan and seen the counsellor.’ I’m adamant about this.
‘What if the pills don’t come?’ Sofie asks. ‘What if the Customs people won’t let them through?’
This genuine possibility has been turning a flame-thrower on my stomach walls.
‘Of course they’ll come,’ I say heartily, because we all need hope.
77
Monday, 28 November, day seventy-seven
On Monday morning I knock on Neeve’s door. Usually I’d be treated to a torrent of abuse for such a liberty but we’ve passed a sombre weekend.
‘Neevey? Any chance you can stay home today?’
‘Why – oh! In case the pills arrive? Sure.’
‘Have you stuff on?’
‘This is more important. I’ll text you when they come.’
Sofie trips down sleepily from her attic room, still in her PJs.
‘Sweetie,’ I say. ‘Clothes.’
‘I can’t go to school.’
I take her face between my two hands and plant kisses all over it. ‘You must go to school. I promise you, everything will be okay.’
‘Oh, Aaaaa-meee.’
‘Dressed! Get! I’m going to make breakfast.’
‘You are?’ Kiara’s bedroom door flies open. ‘Wow.’
‘Don’t,’ Sofie says. ‘I’m not eating.’
‘You have to eat, Sofie.’
‘I won’t eat until this is over.’
What should I do? If I cook food she won’t eat it. But to do nothing feels irresponsible. Although I’m already late for work … Then I spot Kiara’s hopeful little face. ‘Hash browns?’ she says.
And I can’t help but laugh.
All morning I keep checking my phone, awaiting a joyous They’re here! from Neeve. But nothing. And there’s no notification on the courier site.
At lunchtime I ring. ‘Neevey?’
‘Not yet, Mum. I’ve a bad feeling about this.’
So do I.
She says, ‘Maybe they’ll come tomorrow.’
But I suspect they won’t.
‘I don’t –’ Alastair chokes – ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
Tim and I whip around to look at him. ‘What?!’
Alastair, still staring at his screen, swallows hard. ‘Amy. It’s Lilian O’Connell, mother of five. Again!’
It’s Mum’s second vlog, about her getting extensions and highlights. She’s talking about her new look. ‘I’d like to think I look like Mary Berry. Except …’ she drops her eyes modestly, then raises them again in a flash of devilment ‘… younger!’
Tim gasps. ‘Did she just diss Mary Berry?’
‘Yeah.’ Alastair shakes his head in admiration. ‘And yet she didn’t. There’s respect in there, charm, a bit of pretender-to-the-throne. It’s all going on with Lilian O’Connell, mother of five.’
‘What’s this on?’ I ask Alastair, thinking he’ll say Facebook or Twitter.
But he says, ‘The Independent. They’ve done a link to it.’
The Independent is the biggest paper in Ireland.
‘Serious shiz!’ Thamy has materialized from Reception.
Neeve is the one I should ring, this is all her work, but Mum gets the call.
‘Mum? Do you know about your vlog?’
‘Yes! Neeve says I’m gaining traction. Amy, can I ask you a question – which is a stupid thing to say, because I’m already asking you one. Anyway, what exactly is traction? Neeve keeps saying I’m gaining it, but if I ask her to explain, she’ll bite the head off me. Is it anything to do with weight?’
‘Not weight. Listen, the Independent have done a link to your vlog!’
‘The paper?’ Her voice is hushed with awe. ‘I’m in the paper?’
‘Um, Neeve will explain it to you.’
‘Amy, as I have you …’
Shite. I know what’s coming.
‘… any chance you’d do a couple of hours tonight? I’d love to have a few celebratory G-and-Ts.’
I’d rather set myself on fire, but then again, I’m feeling that way already.
‘Nine weeks,’ the ultrasound technician says to Sofie. ‘You’re nine weeks pregnant.’
‘Do you mean nine weeks since her last period?’ I ask. This is important.
‘Yes.’
Okay, that’s a relief.
78
Tuesday, 29 November, day seventy-eight
Tuesday morning, I’ve landed at Heathrow, switched my phone back on and there’s a text from Neeve: Call me.
My heart plummets but there’s an odd relief. Now I know the worst.
‘Neevey?’
‘No pills, Mum. But a scary letter from the …’ a rustle of paper ‘… the Customs people. Something about the Customs Consolidation Act. They say they’ve seized the pills. Someone from the Enforcement Unit at the Health Products Regulatory Authority will be in touch shortly. Will you be sent to prison, Mum?’
‘Ah, no.’
‘Isn’t that fucking decent of them?’ Then, ‘I don’t know why they have to be so fucking scary!’ Her voice is trembling and she sounds tearful.