I say, ‘My daughter, er, my other daughter, Neeve, the one in the waiting room, will come with Sofie tomorrow and stay to take her home.’ But I’m losing my nerve. Surely this is too frightening to burden Neeve with.
I know that other young women do this without the likes of me being involved. I know that when I was twenty-two I had a lot more responsibility than Neeve will have tomorrow. And yet I feel as if I’m abdicating my parental duties.
Should I ring Alastair and ask him to come to London tomorrow and cover Tabitha Wilton’s launch?
Before we leave the clinic, it’s time to cough up. Jackson’s parents said they’ll pay half the costs but we’re waiting until I have a final figure. Meanwhile, I very much regret all the pointless dresses I’ve been buying and hope that my credit card doesn’t explode.
But the amount is less than I’d expected. ‘Is this only part of the cost?’
The woman says, ‘We have a lower rate for those coming from Ireland. Because it’s already costing you so much.’
‘Thank you.’ It’s decent of them, extremely so. And yet I feel ashamed that a foreign country is helping us because our own country won’t.
En route to Druzie’s, Sofie perks up considerably.
‘Please will you eat something this evening?’ I ask her.
‘Yes!’ Then, ‘You don’t think that if I eat something I’m tempting Fate and something will go horribly wrong and –’
‘Nothing will go wrong.’
We stop off at Tesco and buy doughnuts, fresh pineapple and other delicacies, and once the girls are installed in front of Netflix, I call Alastair.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good, fine, okay. I think. Just, I’m sort of losing my nerve about tomorrow. About leaving Neeve to deal with it all.’
Without even a breath, he says, ‘I’ll get the first flight to London in the morning. I can work just as easily from there as here.’
‘Really? But where will you stay tomorrow night? We’ll be here in Druzie’s.’
‘I’ll get a hotel.’
‘You could sleep on the couch?’
‘I’ll get a hotel.’ Then, ‘It’s no problem, Amy. None. And it’ll give you the choice about what to do.’
‘You’re a good man, Alastair Donovan.’
Sofie shares my bed and I skim the surface of sleep all night, never fully under in case something goes wrong and she needs me. But morning comes and all seems fine.
‘No cramps?’ I ask.
‘No. I guess now they won’t start until the second pills.’
I’m still undecided about what to do today. The notion of abandoning Tabitha Wilton and the charity to Alastair feels wrong, even though Alastair would have everyone charmed in four seconds flat.
However, I’m not sure how Sofie would feel about a man picking her up from the clinic. She knows Alastair vaguely, and seems well disposed to him, but she’s at her most vulnerable. The best thing is to have him as back-up.
But now I’m anxious about undermining Neeve so I grab her while Sofie is in the shower. ‘Neeve, you know Alastair I work with? He’s in London today. If anything goes … happens, you’re to call him.’
‘Okay. You know, this … it’s a bit scary.’ Quickly she adds, ‘Like, it’s cool, I can do it, I’m totally down with it. But good to know that if anything … Yeah. Thanks, Mum.’
Grand. I ring Alastair and ask him to be standing by. It’s a huge relief to know that Neeve and Sofie aren’t doing this alone.
82
Tuesday, 6 December, day eighty-five
At twelve o’clock, the taxi arrives for Neeve and Sofie. Then I catch a tube to the Jade, a small, pretty, slightly shabby hotel near Goodge Street, more expensive than it looks. Finding the right venue for this event has been, frankly, a bloody nightmare. As it’s being thrown by a charity, it can’t look ostentatious, but because I need the media onside, it can’t be too mingy either. This means there’s wine but no Prosecco, Gruyère bites but no kobe mini-burgers.
The set-up has just begun when I arrive. Over the weekend, I had the brainwave of having a pick ’n’ mix sweet stand – I thought it might send the subliminal message that Tabitha was sweet (which she so isn’t). But now, looking at the big clear plastic bags of foamy bananas and fizzy cola bottles, I’m wondering if it looks frivolous, if everything has been disastrously misjudged.
The cloakroom is geared up for a hundred people – Tabitha Wilton is such a controversial figure, the media turnout will be high.
But the most important thing is that the food and drink comes thick and fast. ‘Don’t pace things,’ I tell the staff. ‘This isn’t a civilized crowd. This is the press.’
The official start time is five o’clock, but at seventeen minutes to the hour, the first hack shows. Followed by three more right behind her.
‘It’s showtime,’ I mutter in Tabitha’s ear, and start steering her around the fast-filling function room, introducing her to journalist after journalist, keeping her on message, even as she’s asked questions likely to rile.
For a while I actually forget about Sofie. Then I see a text from Neeve: All good. On our way back now. And I feel such a wave of emotion – relief and an odd sorrow – that I almost miss Tabitha giving an arsey answer to a man from the Telegraph.
At six thirty, when the event is meant to finish, the place is heaving and everyone is jarred. The waiters have stopped serving wine, which normally gets rid of people sharpish.
But we have a problem: the pick ’n’ mix is a massive hit. There are crowds around the stand, stretching over each other, red-faced and happy, filling blue-and-white-striped paper bags with wine gums and jelly fried eggs. I wish to God they’d all just feck off home, instead of standing there, joyously recalling childhood memories.
‘Cherry lips!’
‘Apple rings!’
‘How much are the penny sweets?’
‘Ha-ha-ha-ha! We used to say that to the man in the shop! Did you say it too? Ha-ha-ha-ha!’
It’s almost eight o’clock by the time I get rid of the last guest and haul myself into a taxi. I’m leaden with tiredness, my face hurts from smiling politely, and as I get closer to Druzie’s, my stomach begins to burn with anxiety. Will everything be okay? Will Sofie ever recover from this?
Neeve lets me into the flat.
‘Well?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘She’s good.’
Sofie is in bed, curled into a ball. She’s paler than I’ve ever seen her and it seems a struggle for her to sit up. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘Relieved.’ She bursts into tears. ‘Oh, Amy, I’m so relieved. I’m not afraid any more. Thank you, Amy, thank you.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s like bad period pains, but I don’t care.’ She sobs and sobs and sobs. ‘I’m so glad, I’m so thankful. Now I’m just me again and I’m so happy, I’m so happy, I feel like I’ll never be sad again. The relief, Amy. I couldn’t bring another person like me into the world. And I’m never, ever having sex again.’
We’ll see how long that lasts.
We lie on the bed and I wrap myself around her, holding the hot-water bottle to her stomach, drifting towards sleep.
Just before I tumble down into the delicious nothing, Sofie murmurs, ‘I wish Dad was here.’
83
Wednesday, 7 December, day eighty-six
At Heathrow, we round the corner to queue for security – and oh, no! There are dozens and dozens of people, corralled into long, snaking lines, travelling off into the distance, then doubling back on themselves.
‘Sofie?’ I ask faintly.
She’s so pale, she’s almost green. She’s doubled over with cramps and people are looking. Is there anywhere she can sit? A place I could stash her until I reach the security conveyor-belt? But there’s nowhere.
What if she faints? What if she collapses? What if they don’t let her on the plane?
‘Mum,’ Neeve mutters, ‘give her more painkillers.’
It’s too soon. I’m afraid that if I give her too many they’ll thin her blood and increase the risk of her haemorrhaging. ‘Can you hang on?’ I ask Sofie. ‘As soon as we’re through here, we’ll go to a lounge and you can lie down before we get on the plane.’
‘Okay.’