16
How did this happen? It is three weeks since my first lunch with Mark, three weeks since I told him I was not prepared to wait longer than a week to have an abortion, and at an absolute push I would wait until the twelfth week, but that by week twelve I would be babyless.
And here I am. Twelve weeks pregnant. My resolve is weakening.
How did this happen?
I'll tell you how this happened.
Friday afternoon, the day after I had told Mark the news, I was sitting at my desk, finalizing the schedules of Loved Up. The office was quiet as it so often is on a Friday afternoon, my researchers conjuring up recces and interviews, disappearing with a cheery wave at 3 P.M. I know they're all heading off to the pub, but I have learned to be lenient in order to be popular, and God knows I need every ounce of popularity now.
I finished the schedules and tipped my chair back, closing my eyes for a few minutes because this tiredness sweeps over me in waves, and although all I can think of is sleep, I know that a few minutes of resting my eyes will enable me to make it through the rest of the day.
And no more sojourns to the company bar for me. The only thing that seems to float my boat after work these days is a large bowl of pasta, a chunky bar of chocolate, a hot bath, and bed. Last night I dragged the television into the doorway of the bedroom, and what a complete pleasure it was to climb into bed at ten past eight and snuggle up under the duvet to the dulcet tones of Jackie Corkhill.
So Friday afternoon there I was, in my office, eyes closed, and indulging in a fantasy involving Cookies 'n' Cream ice cream and an electric blanket, when my reverie was interrupted by a knock on my already open door. I opened my eyes to see Mark standing there with a bag from Books Etc.
“Hi.” He hovered awkwardly until I smiled and gestured to the chair, and he shut the door for privacy before sitting down.
“Hi yourself.” I was surprised at how pleased I was to see him. I found there was, is, something immensely calm and reassuring about his presence. Although I would never have said that the night of Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza. Calm and reassuring were not the words I would have used to describe him that night. The night of conception.
Christ. I hadn't thought of that. Imagine if I did have a baby. Imagine them asking where they were conceived and having to explain that no, it wasn't in the Cipriani in Venice, or the George V in Paris. It was in a dirty, seedy alleyway in Soho, and it lasted all of five minutes. A fantastic five minutes, but five minutes nevertheless.
All the more reason not to have this baby.
“I just wondered how you were feeling.” Mark laid the bag on the desk, and I eyed it curiously. “Although now I think you might actually be a bit pissed off.” He frowned, seeing me looking suspiciously at the bag. “In fact I think I've done something really stupid and maybe I should take the books back and leave right now.” He moved to take the bag but I grabbed it and pulled out two books.
The Pregnancy Question and Answer Book and What Does My Baby Look Like Today?
Oh.
“Shit. I'm sorry,” Mark said warily. “I thought that since we haven't made a decision, just in case you do decide to keep the baby you might want to know some stuff.”
“Like what kind of stuff?”
“Like the kind of stuff you shouldn't be eating.”
“Such as?” I don't even know why I bothered to ask.
“Sushi. Unpasteurized meat and cheese. Liver . . .”
“I see you've become quite the expert.”
“I knew I shouldn't have done it,” he sighed. “I'll take them back.”
“No. Wait. I want to show you something.” I flicked through What Does My Baby Look Like Today?, and found exactly what I was looking for. A picture of a baby at nine weeks. A blob. A nothing. “That”—I turned the book around and pushed it over the desk to Mark—“is what the baby looks like.”
It didn't have the desired effect. Mark shook his head. “Incredible,” he said in awe, while I sighed and wondered how he could think a shapeless blob that resembles nothing very much could be incredible.
“Would you look at the books?” he said finally. “Just the early stuff about keeping yourself healthy. Just in case.”
“Okay.” I nodded, knowing I'd drop them in the nearest dustbin outside the tube. “Sure. I can do that.”
“So what are you up to this weekend?” His tone was too fake-casual for my liking.
“A party tonight. The pub tomorrow afternoon with friends, then a club in the evening. I think Sunday I'll take it easy and stay at home with a few beers.”
He looked horrified. “You are joking?”
“Of course I'm bloody joking. I'm exhausted. My idea of a good night right now involves a bottle of bubble bath and bed by 10 P.M.” I didn't tell him it was actually bed by 8 P.M. I didn't want to sound too sad.
“Do you, um. Well, I thought maybe we could go out or something? I could take you for dinner tomorrow night.”
Oh, for f*ck's sake.
“Oh, for f*ck's sake.”
“What's wrong?”
“Mark, you don't have to patronize me by pretending to be interested in me because I'm carrying your child, and nor do you have to waste your time trying to be nice to me in the hope that you'll bring me round to your way of thinking. I don't want a relationship and I don't want a baby. And going out for dinner with you isn't going to bloody well change that. Do you understand?”
“Sure.” He stood up, his face hard. “I understand perfectly well.” And without saying another word he turned and left the office, leaving me feeling like shit. Once again.
That afternoon Sam the post boy dropped off the internal mail.
“Feels like a big one,” he said with a cheeky grin, dropping a large, heavy envelope onto my desk.
I opened it up to find two bottles of Crabtree and Evelyn bubble bath with a note attached: “Maeve. I wasn't trying to patronize you. Enjoy your bath. (Not too hot and no gin . . . ) Mark.”
Good. No “Love.'' That I don't think I could have handled.
“You know people will start to talk,” I said to Mark two weeks after that, when I agreed to meet him for a drink in the bar at lunchtime. (Mark: half a lager. Me: Highland Spring.)
Mark laughed. “They'll be saying we're having an affair.”
“Better that than we're having a baby.”
He looked up sharply. “Are we? Are you ready to talk about it yet?”
“Not yet. But soon. We can talk about it soon,” and I stopped as Mark reached over and pulled something out of my hair. Just a piece of lint, but it unnerved me, this gesture that was too intimate for work colleagues, and I suddenly realized quite what a bizarre situation this was.
There I was, sitting with a man I barely knew, but who I had f*cked, albeit briefly. I have no clue who he is. I know neither his likes nor his dislikes. I don't know if he's lazy or sporty or confident or shy.
Yet I am carrying his child.
I have always prided myself on being a good judge of character, and I would have said that Mark is your average nice guy, with nicer-than-average looks, for I know that he is really rather handsome, even though his looks have no effect on me.
I would have guessed that he lives in a large house (for I know what these lawyers earn), and that he loves art and books, and collects something, perhaps original newspaper cartoons, perhaps maps, but that everything in his life is ordered, tidy, beautifully presented.
I would have assumed that he went to a minor public school, and that while there he learned a musical instrument. Possibly violin. And that he went on to Bristol, or Durham, and that his first major buy after graduating was a classic sports car: a Triumph Stag or an MGB.
“Why are you smiling at me like that? Now people really will start to talk.” Mark's voice broke my train of thought, and I realized I was gazing at him with a half-smile on my face, trying to figure out who he was.
“Sorry. I just, I was just thinking what a ridiculous situation this is. That I'm pregnant with your child but I know nothing about you.”
“Tell you what,” he said, smiling, “I'm not patronizing you, but why don't you come over on Sunday? Come to my house and spend the day. Find out”—and he injected a Scooby-style spookiness into his voice that made me laugh—“who I really am.”
“Okay,” I said, surprising myself. “I will.”
“Okay.” Mark finished the last of his lager. “Good.”
That night, as I walked into my flat, the phone was ringing. “How are you, love?” It was Viv.
“I'm fine. How are you?”
“Never mind about me. Have you made a decision yet?”
“Viv, I told you that I'd tell you as soon as I'd decided. We'd decided. Don't push me. Please.” But I was nearly twelve weeks, that deadline was looming, and yet all I could do was procrastinate. Why hadn't I just done it? Because I didn't want to think about it, that's why. Much less talk about it. To Viv or anyone else. I was still hoping it would all go away.
“I'm not pushing you. I just wanted to check you were okay. I thought maybe you'd like to come up and spend the day here on Sunday.”
“I can't. I'm busy.”
“Busy? You? On a Sunday? Really?”
Her tone was so incredulous I started to laugh. “If I tell you where I'm going, promise you won't get too excited.”
She caught her breath. “If you tell me you're going to interview Alan Bates, I may well have to kill myself.”
“Viv! I'm going to Mark's house. For lunch.”
She caught her breath again and this time I knew it was for real. “Mark as in the Father, Mark?”
“No, Viv. Mark as in the man who got me pregnant.” The Father personalized it. I couldn't think of him as the Father, and I certainly didn't want Viv thinking of him as the Father; I didn't want to cause Viv any more pain than I absolutely had to.
“That's what I meant.” She took a few breaths, trying to calm down, but I could hear in her voice that she was smiling. I could hear her hope, her expectations. “How lovely,” she said, attempting a brisk tone. “Can he cook, then?” By which she meant, will he be a good husband?
“I have no idea,” I said. “But I assume he won't be serving crisps and sandwiches.”
“Nothing wrong with crisps and sandwiches,” Viv said quickly. “A man who can cook is a bonus, not a necessity.”
“A man, period, is unnecessary,” I said firmly. “He's just trying to get me to keep the baby.”
“Do you think you might?”
“Viv! How many times do I have to tell you? I haven't made up my mind.” We said good-bye and I gazed into space for a few minutes, because two weeks ago I had made up my mind. Two weeks ago I was going to have an abortion and carry on with my life as if this had never happened. And now I didn't know.
When did a doubt creep in? How could I possibly think that I have any alternative? Why had I not been able to reschedule an appointment at the abortion clinic?
What am I thinking?
Sunday is one of those fantastic cold, crisp days when the sun is shining brightly out of an ice-blue sky, and you look out your window and know that spring is very nearly here and you can't remember what was so depressing about winter after all.
Stella keeps asking me how I feel. Stella who has become frighteningly close in a frighteningly short space of time.
She was here yesterday afternoon. Just popping in on her way back from a shopping trip in the West End, just checking that I was okay. She brought with her half the contents of the M & S food department, and ended up staying most of the evening.
We dipped into dips and exchanged our stories. Shared our secrets. Laughed over linguine and bonded over banana-toffee pie.
“I miss this,” Stella said wistfully as we both scraped our fingers around our bowls, ensuring that not a scrap of banana or toffee would be left.
“What? Staying in on a Saturday night, eating like a pig, and feeling like a beached whale?”
“Well, yes, clearly I miss that too.” We both laughed. “But I'm talking about this kind of female friendship. I miss the ease of girlfriends. I miss the comfort of being able to come over to someone's house, like this, and not having to worry about what you look like or what you talk about. I'm not saying you're my best friend—”
“Careful,” I warned, but I was smiling, because I felt exactly the same way. “Stalker alert.”
“Now you're definitely not my best friend. Stalker indeed,” she huffed. “But I miss having a best friend. Do you know what I mean?”
“My best friend was always my mum.”
“God, you're joking. I hate my mum. We can hardly bear to stay in the same room together.”
“My mum's great. She really is my best friend. And I suppose my only real friend who's a woman. Close friend, that is, because I've got female friends,” I said quickly, knowing that it wasn't really true, “but I haven't got a confidante, not here in London, and I hadn't realized until tonight how much I'd missed it too.”
“It's good to be a woman,” Stella laughed, raising her glass. “To the Sisterhood.”
“To the Sisterhood. And to friendship.”
I went to bed with a smile on my face, enveloped in warmth and intimacy, feeling that being pregnant might not be the worst thing ever to have happened to me. Feeling that, in fact, my life really wasn't so bad after all.
And now today, the sun is shining and I'm feeling good, looking forward to doing something different, even if I'm not sure about spending the day with Mark. What if we have nothing in common? What if we have nothing to talk about?
So what! I admonish myself. I'm not checking him out to see if he is suitable partner material. I'm just trying to get to know him a little before he and I make the most important decision of my life.
That's all.
“Did you find it okay?” Mark opened the door and I started to laugh because he was wearing an apron—he was actually wearing an apron!—but he refused to take it off and I rather liked the fact that he wasn't embarrassed by such a ridiculous item of clothing, even if it was a masculine navy and black stripe.
“Your house is lovely,” I said, pretending not to have noticed that it's probably one of the biggest houses I'd ever been into. Pretending not to be impressed by the large square entrance hall and steps down into a bright, airy kitchen. Pretending that I, too, lived in a house much like this one. Only smaller. Much, much, much smaller.
“Drink?” he said, pouring what looked suspiciously like carrot juice into a glass.
“That looks disgusting. I think I'll pass.” I sniffed it gingerly.
“It's not disgusting. It's delicious. And it matches your hair. It's a homemade mango and banana smoothie. Delicious and nutritious. Try it.”
I tried it. It was delicious (and nutritious). “Mmm. Something smells completely amazing.” I eyed the various saucepans on the stove and noted that the smell was definitely coming from the oven. “Who'd have thought the London Daytime lawyer would be a cook.”
“There's only one thing I enjoy more than a bloody good litigation, and that's slaving over a hot stove. Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and I sat, grateful for his kindness.
“See how solicitous I am?” He took my coat and left the room to hang it up.
“Not bad for a solicitor,” I grinned, as he offered me a choice of snacks.
“What? No nuts?” I couldn't help it. I'd peeked into the books he'd bought me, and I knew that pregnant women who binge on nuts often end up giving birth to children with severe peanut allergies. And I knew he'd know this too.
“Er, haven't got any, I'm afraid. You're not, um, craving nuts, are you?” Mark looked so worried, he was so transparent, that I started to laugh.
“Relax.” I slurped my smoothie. “I haven't had a single peanut in at least three months.”
His sigh of relief was audible.
I stood up and wandered into the living room, looking at the few photos dotted around, examining his bookshelves, idly picking up CDs and putting them back, when I realized that, were it not for the fact that I knew Julia had left only a few weeks ago, I would have thought that Mark had never shared this house with anyone. There wasn't a single sign of a woman living there. Nothing.
The photos were all of people I didn't know. None, incidentally, of Julia. The books were mostly legal tomes, or biographies, or nonfiction stuff that I would assume was typically male, and there seemed to be nothing that would belong to a woman.
“How come there isn't anything of Julia's around?” I asked, wondering whether it was still too painful for him, whether he had already had a chance to remove everything.
Mark came into the living room and topped up my smoothie. “I know this sounds completely weird but last week I was thinking exactly the same thing. And then I realized that there never was. She never felt at home here. She always felt the house was mine. That it was too big for her. And I never noticed that she never had anything here, any stuff.”
“So why did you buy it?”
“I loved it here. Still do, and I suppose I was selfish. I knew Julia loved her small house, loved small, cozy rooms, but I thought she'd get used to it. I thought that it was inevitable she'd fall in love with it. But now I know she always felt overwhelmed by the size.
“Can you believe I didn't even realize until she'd gone that there was nothing of hers around? That's how selfish I was.”
“I don't think that sounds selfish. I think it just sounds as if you were two very different people.”
“So tell me something else I didn't know.” He smiles sadly.
“Maybe I shouldn't ask this, and if it's none of my business that's fine, but what's going to happen when she comes back from New York?”
“She's not coming back.”
“What?”
“She called two days ago. She's been offered a job with BCA, and she's going to take it.”
“Jesus. Has she told anyone at work?”
“No, so do you mind not saying anything?”
“No! Not at all.” I looked at him closely, “So how do you feel?”
“Sad at the loss of our relationship, but relieved at the same time. I think more than anything else I feel an enormous sense of relief. I'm sure what I'll miss most is being in a relationship, but even that's ridiculous because we barely spent any time together. Anyway, enough about me.” I could see he was growing uncomfortable talking about it. “Are you hungry? I think it should be just about ready.”
We went into the kitchen and sat down to carrot and coriander soup, with hot, crusty French bread.
I slurped it up, starving, then sat back, eagerly awaiting the main course.
“This is so delicious,” I moaned, three mouthfuls into roast lamb with crispy roast potatoes and homemade mint sauce. “I haven't eaten like this since I lived at home.”
“That's what Julia used to say when we first met. But then I think she got bored.”
“Bored with roasts? Is she mad?”
“Bored with living with someone who loves being at home.”
“Oh please. Home is the best possible place to be.”
“Now you're surprising me.” Mark raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You're a party girl. A career woman. Home life isn't your thing, surely.”
“It's precisely because I work so hard that home is so important to me. The last thing I want to do after work is go out and live it up. But ssshhh,” I whispered, “don't let my secret out. Meanwhile,” I continued, “I love being at home, by myself, being totally selfish and not having to compromise for anybody. Whereas you, on the other hand, are a completely different kettle of fish.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someday, Mark, you'll make someone a wonderful wife.”
“Only if ironing isn't written into the marriage contract.”
“Oh, so you mean there is something you're not good at?”
“I didn't say I wasn't good at it. I, naturally, am God's gift to ironing,” he said, grinning, “but it's the one thing I can't stand, the one thing I pay someone else to do.”
“Together with a cleaner, a gardener, and God knows how many others it takes to help you look after this palace.”
“A cleaner, yes. I'll grant you Lizzy, who comes in twice a week, but gardener? Absolutely not. See these fingers?” He extended his hands and they were really very nice. Big hands. Strong hands. Oooh. Imagine what those hands could do (for I had forgotten what those hands had already done). A shiver ran through me. No, Maeve. This was the very last thing I needed.
I nodded, still staring at his fingers.
“Alan Titchmarsh has nothing on these fingers. My fingers are so green they're practically in bud.”
I started to laugh.
After lunch I collapsed onto the fabulously squishy sofa in the living room, while Mark tried to froth some milk for my decaf cappuccino.
And then I woke up.
The lights were dim. It was dark outside, and for a moment I was completely disoriented. And then I saw Mark, sitting on the sofa opposite me, reading the Sunday Times. A fire was crackling and I sat up quickly, embarrassed by having fallen asleep, horrified at the rudeness, at the thought of having dribbled all over his cushions in my unconscious state. Or worse.
Mark glanced over the top of his paper at me and smiled.
“Hello, Sleepy. Or should I say Grumpy?”
I was in no mood to smile back. I know what my hair looks like after I've fallen asleep on a sofa. “Tea?” he said, and I nodded gratefully, watching him as he walked out of the room and wondering idly why on earth a man like him hadn't been snapped up years ago.
Not that I was interested. I didn't feel anything more that afternoon than I did that morning. I'd had a lovely day, and he was everything I thought he was (except he didn't learn violin at school, it was the clarinet, and his first car was neither an MGB nor a Triumph Stag but an E-type Jaguar); however, I wasn't interested in him in that way.
But the one thing I did have to concede, as I fought off the tiredness driving home later that evening, was that it had been lovely being looked after all day. I hadn't ever been looked after before. Only by Viv, and I wasn't sure that really counted.
Oh and one other thing. I agreed to go for a scan.
Just to be on the safe side.