13
I love my mum. I mean, I really, really love my mum. She's my best friend in the whole world and I've never understood how my friends can have so many problems with their mothers, because isn't it the most important relationship a girl should have?
Maybe it's because my parents divorced, because my mum and I only had each other, but throughout my teenage years, when my friends would turn up huffing and puffing about how much they hated their mothers and how stupid their parents were and would it be okay if they came and lived at our house, I thought my mum was fantastic.
She truly was the big sister I never had. It helped that she looked just like me, and that she didn't look very old, but then again she actually wasn't very old, as she had me when she was twenty, so when I was a teenager she was, Christ, she was pretty much the age I am now.
God, that's spooky. I could have a twelve-year-old daughter. I see women like that all the time. Women my age with that constantly harassed and tired look on their faces, pushing buggies, explaining things to toddlers, accompanied by pissed-off twelve-year-olds desperate to grow up and get away.
Children have never been part of my scheme of things. Should I spot a Mothercare looming on the particular street on which I'm walking, I will make sure I avert my eyes. So-called cute adverts featuring babies and their bottoms have never done it for me, it's just a cynical manipulation of emotions, and luckily I was born without the baby gene.
I'm not interested in babies, and I'm not interested in talking about babies. I could say they're not a part of my life, but unfortunately they have affected my life, as every time a friend rings me up to tell me excitedly she's pregnant, I'm expected to jump up and down with joy, when in fact my heart plummets to the floor.
And another one crossed off the Christmas card list, for I know exactly what will happen. The more sensitive friends will still see me when pregnant, and will manage to carry on a normal conversation. We will talk about work, friends, life, and men, although not necessarily in that order. I might ask how they are feeling, and they will say fine, and we will leave it at that. The less sensitive will sit there all evening and presume I am desperate to hear about their scans. They will presume I am fascinated by tales of their morning sickness, by amusing anecdotes they have built around their swollen feet to make their tales more palatable. They will bang on and on about pregnancy and babies, and nursery decoration, and I will be mentally checking off the minutes, and wondering how soon I can leave without seeming rude.
Although by that stage I'm not even sure I care.
However sensitive the friend, the final outcome is always the same. You send the obligatory card and flowers when the baby is born, and are then expected to pay a visit. You sit there, bored to tears as they cuddle a screaming infant, and try to look interested as you listen to them recounting their birth story for the hundredth time that week.
You go home filled with sadness, because however close you are, you know that's another friend you won't be seeing anymore. You won't have anything in common anymore, since you are not interested in babies, and they are no longer interested in life.
I shudder even thinking about it.
My amateur psychologist friends (the ones without babies) claim that I'm protecting myself from being hurt. I associate commitment, children, with my parents, and my parents with the pain I felt when my father left. They say I don't want to get married or have children because I'm scared.
I say it's because I have more important things to do.
And it's not as if I had a horrible upbringing, terrible parenting, and don't want to inflict that on any children of mine. Sure, the first year was tough. My mother was, to put it mildly, devastated. I'd bring her cups of tea when she was crying, and curl up next to her on the sofa, stroking her hair because that was what she used to do to me when I was upset, and I didn't know what else to do.
Eventually she cried less and less, and soon there was a series of friends passing in and out the door, none of whom was permanent, but all of whom helped to keep a smile on her face most of the time.
“Not ‘uncles,'” she'd say to me, when I questioned why friends of mine were allowed to call their mum's friends “uncle,” and why her friends were just Bob. Or Michael. Or Richard. I understand now, of course. She didn't want to be married. She didn't want commitment. Been there, done that, she'd laugh merrily. She wanted fun. She wanted to feel beautiful, and she wanted to be treated well. Naturally there was sex involved, but it was far more about the attention. And when she felt their attention waning, she'd move on.
So “uncles” implied a familiarity and a permanence that she neither wanted nor needed. A familiarity and a permanence that were never going to occur, even though some of them were really very nice. I remember being particularly fond of Bob. He clearly thought the way to my mother's heart was through her daughter, and, thanks to Bob, my Girl's World had more makeup than any of my friends'. Not only that, my makeup was real makeup and could be used on us as well.
The older I grew, the closer my mother and I became. Some said it was unhealthy, that there ought to be boundaries between a parent and a child, but I loved the fact that I could call her Viv and she didn't mind; that she'd borrow my ra-ra skirts and I'd borrow her jodhpurs; that when I decided to go on the pill at fifteen (not because I was actually doing anything but because I was hopeful), the person who accompanied me to the family planning clinic was my mother.
I loved the fact that after our respective dates had gone home, be it that night or the morning after, we would sit together on the sofa and recount every detail, giggle together, drink vodka and tonics when we were happy, and eat giant-sized Cadbury Dairy Milk bars when we were sad.
She lives in Lewes now. Still single. There are times when I think she ought to settle down. Not because she's unhappy, but because the older you get, the harder it is on your own, and because I think she deserves someone to take care of her. But she has her friends, her dog, and now her bridge, and she says that's all she needs in life. Oh, and me of course, which is why she's coming to see me this weekend.
“So come on, cagey.” Viv's had the guided tour of the Belsize Park flat (which took all of five minutes), and has whisked me up to town to do some shopping. We hopped on the bus at Swiss Cottage and are heading up Wellington Road toward Selfridges, also known, to my mother at least, as Mecca.
“Come on what?”
“I've seen the flat, I've seen how well London suits you, I've heard all about your work, but I haven't heard a murmur about your love life.”
“What love life?” I mutter darkly, because that's the one area that hasn't been going too smoothly. In fact, since that one episode in the alleyway with Mark, there's been nothing. And really, I can't count that. Yes, I found him incredibly sexy that night, but it was a true one-night stand if ever there was one, and not something either of us will be repeating.
“Didn't you mention something about a man at work? The, what was it . . . accountant? No! The lawyer. Didn't you have a bit of a fling with the lawyer at work? What happened to him? He sounded pretty nice.”
Bugger. I forgot I had spoken to her the next day, and had told her all about it.
“Nothing's going on,” I sigh, looking out the window. “Lovely guy, but he's got a girlfriend and he's at work so it would be complicated even if he didn't, and he probably isn't for me anyway.”
“Funny isn't it.” She turns to me. “I always thought if I moved to London I'd definitely find a man. I thought the streets were paved with men. I suppose, though, wherever you go, your life is still your life and you're still you. But I always thought things would be different in London. More glamorous. More exciting.”
“What do you mean, you thought you'd find a man? You never wanted a man, remember?”
She smiles. “Ah, is that what I said? I suppose I never found a man who matched my requirements.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “The more time I spent on my own, just you and me together, the more expectations I had. It wasn't enough that someone should be loving, or loyal, or good to you. I thought that he also had to be handsome and funny and clever and creative, and in those days I thought money was important too.”
“But those things are important,” I say, confused.
“They can be, but they're not crucial. I had relationships with wonderful men, but I expected too much from them, and always moved on thinking I'd find the perfect man out there. Someone with whom I would fall passionately in love, who was my soulmate. My other half.”
“You might still find him.”
“I think I found him many times,” she says sadly. “Except I wasn't prepared to compromise. Do you remember Bob?” I nod. “I see him sometimes at the Bridge Club. Lovely man. He was a lovely, lovely man, but do you know what? I thought he wasn't good enough for me because he was a builder. He loved you, he treated me like a queen, and we had fun together, but I was young, and arrogant, and I threw away a chance of real happiness.”
“Is he married now?”
“Oh yes. He married Hilary Stewart.” I draw a blank. “Remember Josephine Stewart? You were at school with her? A few years after Rodney died, Bob and Hilary started courting. And I hear they're very happy.”
“Jesus.” It comes out in a whistle, because Josie Stewart was the richest girl in the class. They lived in a huge white detached house and she was driven to school in a dark green Rolls-Royce. Jesus.
“So Hilary didn't have quite the same expectations, then?”
“Easier when you're not used to being on your own.”
“I can't believe you're saying all this. I always thought you were on your own because you wanted to be, because you were happiest on your own.”
“I'd be lying if I said I was unhappy. I had you, and we built a lovely life together, but would I have been happier with a man in our lives?” She shrugs sadly. “I suppose I'll never know.”
“But you're my role model.” I feel confused and I'm not altogether sure why. “You're the reason I give as to why I don't want to get married. I tell everyone about you, and about how you didn't need anyone, and about being happy as long as you have a support structure of friends and family around you.”
There's a pause before my mother answers. “Maeve, love,” she says, “do you have a good social life here in London? Do you have friends? Are you happy? I'm not saying you have to have a man to be happy, but I know how lonely life can be on your own, and I worry about you when I'm not living round the corner. I know how self-sufficient you are, and I know you think you're fine without a man, but don't do what I did. Don't sacrifice a wonderful man because of your principles, whatever they are.”
“Pfff,” I snort. “Chance would be a fine thing. London, as you can see”—I gesture outside to Baker Street—“is most definitely not paved with eligible men. Not even when you work in television.”
I love that my mother doesn't even bother looking at Jaeger. We head straight up to the second floor at Selfridges, via the loo because I'm bursting, and hit the funkier, younger stuff. Within minutes I've got a tight green cardigan to try on, a hot pink stretchy top, and a pair of navy straight-legged narrow trousers. My mother's holding a black lace shirt that should be far too young for her but will definitely look fantastic, and a tight black skirt.
We share a changing room, and decide to take it in turns to try on, as it really isn't big enough for the both of us, but it's much more fun doing everything in pairs, so she perches on a stool while I try on the tops.
“Well, that's weird,” I say, because the cardigan, my normal size 8, is gaping in between each button, showing large expanses of white flesh.
“Have you put on some weight?”
“I didn't think so, although . . .” As I think about it, I realize that my clothes have definitely been feeling tighter. Just the other day, after lunch, I actually had to unbutton the waistband of my trousers to get comfortable. And strange only because my weight has barely fluctuated since I was a teenager. I'm a size 8, no more, no less.
Except clearly I am not. Anymore.
I try the trousers on and turn to look at my mother in confusion, because these aren't even meeting. Not even close enough to shout hello.
“They must be the wrong size. They must have labeled them wrongly.” I swivel to see the label, which is tucked inside at the back.
“Bugger. They are an 8. What do you think, Viv? Have I put on weight?” I feel a panic that I've never felt before, because I've never put on weight, never had to think about it, and this is an entirely new problem for me.
“Well, you are looking a tiny bit bigger. But tiny. Hardly noticeable.”
We both look at the clothes and look at my body. “Your boobs are rather large, though,” Viv says, peering closely. “You're not by any chance premenstrual, are you?”
I start to laugh. “That's why I love you, Mum.” I give her a hug, the buttons now almost popping off the cardigan. “I completely forgot about my bloody period.” I lean down and pull my diary out of my bag, and flick through as I am so completely crap about remembering my periods, I have to write down a large PD—Period Due—on the due date, except most of the time I even forget to do that.
“Shit.”
“What's the matter?”
“I must have forgotten again.” I flick back to the last period I wrote down, which was six weeks ago. Which would mean I'm due in two weeks' time. No, that can't be right.
“No, that can't be right.” I flick back and try to work it out again.
“So when are you due?”
“I don't know.” I hand the diary to my mother. “You work it out. Look, my period was on the twelfth of February, so I would have had another on the ninth of March, which means it's due on the third of April, so why have I got all the PMS symptoms now?”
Viv looks at the diary, then looks into space as she checks off her fingers, then back at the diary. “You did have a period on the ninth of March?” she says slowly.
“Of course I had a period. Didn't I?” I suddenly realize what she's saying and I sit down on the stool with a thump. “Didn't I? Oh f*ck. Viv. I don't know. I can't remember whether I had a period or not.”
“Look, if you remember what you did around then, you might remember whether you had a period or not, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod my head, trying to ignore the fact that my heart is now thumping like a mad person's.
“On the ninth of March you had a meeting with Mike Jones at three P.M.” She looks at me expectantly but I shake my head. I have a million meetings with Mike Jones and they're all indistinguishable. “You had a drink with someone called Johnny in the evening.”
“Oh, I remember that!” We went to a bar in Gabriel's Wharf. “But I don't remember having my period.”
“On the tenth you were in an edit suite.”
“Nope.”
“Evening you had a meeting with Stella?”
“Nope.” It's all blank. And I don't remember if I was having a period.
“I think, my darling,” my mother says, gritting her teeth, and unable to hide the pained expression, “that after this we ought to go and get a pregnancy test.”
My heart threatens to jump right out of my mouth.
We don't say very much on the way back. Viv's being incredibly sweet and sympathetic, and keeps rubbing my arm and looking at me with this huge concern. At home she sends me off to the bathroom while she bustles around the kitchen making tea and talking nineteen to the dozen about rubbish to try to retain a sense of normality. I, meanwhile, feel as if I have woken up in the middle of a particularly surreal dream. Not nightmare, because nothing has happened yet, but I feel as if I am an observer, as if this is happening to someone other than me, and I am only vaguely curious at the outcome, to see what this person, who looks like me, sounds like me, and talks like me, will do.
I have locked the bathroom door and tipped the test out of the Boots bag, and I note that my hands are shaking, but even then I note it only with vague interest. I have never done a pregnancy test before. I have never needed to. And although I am shaking, I also know as an absolute certainty that I will not be pregnant. How could I possibly fall pregnant on the one time, the first time, that I actually allowed myself to get carried away in the heat of the moment and didn't use a condom?
Plus of course there is Mark, because did he not say that Julia hates him because he is infertile? Did he not sit on my sofa, after the unfortunate event that I no longer wish to think about, and say that his relationship is shit because Julia blames him? That they have been trying for months and she has been pregnant and the problem is definitely, undoubtedly, his.
I pull the package out of the box and look at it for a while, then I pull out all the notes and instructions and read them from cover to cover. Not that I'm putting it off or anything. Because I am not pregnant.
“With the tip pointing downward, hold the absorbent sampler . . .”
“Maeve? Are you okay? Do you need me?” Viv's standing outside the door.
“It's okay, Mum.” Funny how I revert back to calling her “Mum” at times of need. Not that I need her, but it really is comforting to know that she's here right now. Just in case.
In case of what?
Because there's just no way I'm pregnant. No way. No f*cking way.
Eventually I feel the urge to pee again, which isn't surprising because I have been running back and forth to the loo amazingly often these days, but then that could well be because of the water I'm drinking. The Daily Mail Detox Diet said at least two liters a day, so I've been swigging it back like there's no tomorrow, and spending half the day sitting on the loo.
I take a deep breath, unwrap the test, and undo my trousers.
It's showtime.
Viv looks at my smiling face and immediately breaks into a huge smile. “Oh, thank God,” she laughs, walking over to put her arms round me and give me a hug. “For one long horrible hour there I really thought you were pregnant.”
I let her go, the smile never leaving my face, and I hold up the test to show her. Two windows. Two thick blue lines. Viv looks at me in confusion. “This does mean it's negative? Doesn't it?”
And that's when I start to cry.