19
It wasn't such a stupid question. It transpired that Fay had fallen head over heels in love with a hunky blond Australian she met on Paros. His name was Stu. He was an “internet entrepreneur” (at which point even Mark raised his eyebrows), and Fay decided that she was going to spend the rest of her life with him.
They did Paros, then decided to go to Santorini, where they'd heard of an Australian bar manager who was looking for a replacement. Everything was idyllic, she sobbed (for by this time the waterworks were starting), and they'd sit and watch the sunrise every morning, talking about their future.
They had a great team of young people working at the bar, and soon it became the place on the island. They worked hard and they played harder, and even though Fay knew they weren't going to manage this bar on this little Greek island forever, she thought she'd found her true love, and she'd go anywhere, do anything, for him.
Fay had decided to go back to Sydney after the summer. She would live with Stu and find a job out there. Waitressing. Nannying. Anything, just so she could stay there with him. Until she walked in and caught him in bed with Paola, one of the great team of young people.
That was on Wednesday afternoon.
“I'm so sorry,” she sobs, wiping her streaming nose and eyes with a crunched-up tissue. “I know I should have let you know but all I could think of was that I wanted to come home.”
“I understand,” I say soothingly. “But what are you going to do? Where are you going to live?”
“What do you mean?” She looks at me, uncomprehendingly, her tears already starting to dry up.
“You weren't thinking of moving straight back in here, were you?” I see that's exactly what she meant. “You can't just kick me out, Fay. I'm really sorry about your failed holiday romance”—she flinches but I ignore it—“but we agreed that I would stay here a year, and so far it's only six and a half months. Quite frankly,” I continue, “I haven't got anywhere else to go.”
“Well, neither have I,” she says, standing up and crossing her arms, staking her territory. “And it's my bloody flat. Show me your lease, then. Show me where you signed on the dotted line and said you were taking out a lease for one year.”
We didn't sign anything. We just liked each other . . . then . . . and took it on trust.
“I can't believe you're behaving like this. Can't you see I'm pregnant, for God's sake?” The hormones are once again threatening to hit, and I can feel a hot sting behind my eyes that means tears aren't far behind.
“And I can't believe you're behaving like this. Pregnancy has nothing to do with it. You're acting appallingly. It's my flat. And I'm the one who's been through hell and back.”
“Okay,” Mark says, taking control. “We don't seem to be getting anywhere, and we all need a bit of time to think about this. Why don't we sleep on it and discuss it in the morning?”
“Fine,” says Fay, turning to go into the bedroom.
“And where do you think you're bloody going?” I step sharply toward her, and block her way. Ha! At times like this a spectacularly large stomach definitely has its advantages.
Mark looks shocked. “Maeve!”
“Yes.” Fay tries to stare me down but I stand my ground. “Maeve!”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I look at Viv for some moral support and she nods.
“I think Maeve has a point.”
“Why don't you come and stay at mine?” Mark says, looking first at me, then at Viv. “Both of you.”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “There's no way I'm leaving all my stuff in the flat with her here. How do I know I won't come back tomorrow and find everything destroyed?”
“Oh, for God's sake.” Fay rolls her eyes to the ceiling but I'm not budging. “In that case,” she states, “I feel exactly the same way and I'm not going anywhere either.”
“Can we just behave like adults here, please?” Mark says, completely aghast at our immaturity, but I don't care. I'm not moving.
“I am an adult,” I say petulantly. “She's the one who's behaving irresponsibly.”
“Right. How about this, then? Fay can wait in the bedroom and we'll stay in the living room and talk about what we're going to do, and that way neither of you is in danger of having their belongings trashed by the other.” I know Mark thinks we're ridiculous, but I'm six months pregnant. How dare she just come back and throw me out onto the street?
I say this to Mark when Fay disappears into the bedroom and slams the door, and he says that while he agrees with me, he also understands why Fay has behaved the way she has, and that when you have a broken heart the only place you want to be is home, and this is her home.
“But you still think she's wrong?”
“Yes,” he says, after a long silence even though I know he probably doesn't agree and he's only saying it to make me happy, but I don't very much care. “Yes, I still think she's wrong. The point, however, is that you have to find somewhere else to live.”
“Why?” My lower lip sticks out petulantly. “Why should I be the one who has to leave?”
“Because it's her flat, and because even though you can sit here and try to fight it out, you're not going to win. Maeve,” he says more gently, “my grandpa always used to tell me to pick my battles wisely. You can't fight them just for the sake of fighting them. It's too much hard work, and this is one that isn't worth fighting.”
“I agree,” Viv says. I'd forgotten she was even here.
“So where am I supposed to go?” Now the tears really do start to roll, and both Viv and Mark crouch down, rubbing my back and trying to comfort me. “I'm six months pregnant,” I start to sob, “and this is my home and now I have to find a rental agent and it will take weeks and I just can't deal with this right now. I can't f*cking deal with this!” I shout to get it off my chest, and then I cry a bit, not really caring that Viv and Mark are shooting one another worried looks over my head.
“Maeve,” Mark says eventually. “I have five spare bedrooms, none of which is being used for anything other than to gather dust. It's ridiculous that we're not living together anyway, especially with all that room, and with the baby coming. I wanted to ask you before, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea, and I didn't know how you'd react.”
My tears start drying up.
“Maeve,” he continues, “as far as I'm concerned Fay turning up like this is incredibly fortuitous. You know my house almost as well as I do, and I know you're comfortable there.” He has a point. “It just makes sense for you to move in. What do you think?”
Of course it makes sense. It makes perfect sense. Except that I'd be giving up my independence. My freedom. Maybe Mark would expect me to start cooking for him, or scrubbing his bathtub out. It's already complicated, this situation. I'm pregnant by the man who's become my best friend, and if I were a different person I'd probably have fallen in love with him, but I'm not, and I haven't. But maybe that's what he'll expect if I move in with him? Maybe he'll come sneaking in to the spare room at night, and anyway, did he mean what he said about the spare room? He didn't exactly press the point and this probably isn't a good idea but then again I do love his house and I do feel at home there. Actually, I probably feel more at home there than here, but that really isn't the point. . . .
Christ. I'm exhausting myself.
“Look,” Mark says. “Even if it's only temporarily. Even if we just pack up your stuff and you spend a couple of weeks at my place while you look for something else. How does that sound?”
That sounds perfect.
“Okay,” I say. I look at Viv, who is grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “This doesn't mean anything,” I hiss, as Mark disappears into the kitchen to look for bin bags to put my stuff in. “We're just friends.”
“I know,” Viv whispers back. “But you have to admit he's pretty damn lovely.”
Well, yes. But tell me something else I didn't know.
“What might we do during first-stage labor?”
Mark and I have the best position in the room. Four other couples are sitting uncomfortably—everything's uncomfortable at seven months pregnant—on cushions around the edges of a bare living room, and Mark and I bagged the beanbags next to Trish, the antenatal teacher, which means we're the first in line for tea and biscuits during the break. (Once upon a time these things would not have mattered to me in the slightest. Is it desperately sad that a fig roll has now become the highlight of my evening? On second thought, don't answer that.)
Mark nudges me and signals for me to lean over so he can whisper in my ear. “Didn't she ask this last week?” I nod and shrug. I do seem to remember that she talked about first-stage labor last week, but who knows, maybe we'll find out something fantastically interesting this week that she withheld before.
“Deep breathing?” From one of the other mums-to-be.
“Yes, that's a good idea!” Trish nods enthusiastically.
“Go for a walk?”
“Another good idea!”
“A hot drink?”
“Ooh yes! Definitely a hot drink! Good one!” Trish smiles encouragingly.
“Watch television?”
“Yes. We might well watch television.”
“Read a book?”
“Absolutely! Good idea!”
“Um, excuse me?” I lean forward and Trish looks to me for my suggestion of the day, but I'm rather confused. “Are you asking what might we do during first-stage labor to alleviate the pain or distract ourselves, or are you just asking what might we do?”
“Just what might we do,” she says happily, at which point Mark snorts, indicating an impending fit of giggles, and I sit back in amazement. It's like asking what might we do on a Sunday morning. Quite frankly the list could go on forever. As this one does. In fact, it manages to take up the rest of the class.
The antenatal class is not quite what I expected. Not that I had huge expectations, but I certainly thought I'd learn what my choices were, be able to make decisions based on those choices, know what to expect. Thus far I've learned nothing I hadn't already picked up from books. Oh, and I've learned that, should I decide to have an epidural, or—God forbid—a cesarean, I am a very bad person indeed and will be sent straight to hell.
“There have been cases,” Trish said last week, in an ominous, hushed voice, “of the epidural going”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“wrong.” A sharp intake of breath from the other couples, as Trish looked at each of us in turn, making sure she had our full attention for the horror story she was doubtless about to impart. “I know of a woman who had an epidural, and it”—pause for dramatic effect—“went up.”
“What do you mean?” someone said.
“I mean that she had no feeling from the waist up, but felt everything from the waist down.”
Everybody gasped in horror, except for me. I rolled my eyes at Mark, and wondered whether I could seriously endure another few weeks of pretending I too was going for a natural birth with only humming and breathing to take away the pain, with possibly a tiny touch of gas and air if it got really bad.
Little do they know I've been considering an elective cesarean. Little are they ever going to know if I want to get out of here alive.
My main reason for coming was to meet other couples who were living locally and also having children at the same time. Although I was being very snobby. I tried desperately to get into the Hampstead class because I was a bit worried about the classes in Dartmouth Park, but the National Childbirth Trust wasn't having any of it.
“I know the computer says it's Gospel Oak,” I said on the phone, in my most imperious voice (which, incidentally, makes the Queen sound like an extra in EastEnders), “but actually we live just off Hampstead High Street.” It was worth a shot, but meanwhile I'm sitting in the living room of a large house in Dartmouth Park. And the people are fine. The other couples seem very sweet. But not my cup of tea. Not that it matters, as I'll be going straight back to work as soon as baby is born.
My idea of hell? Sitting around a table in a local coffee shop with four other women, all of us whipping our boobs out to soothe our screaming infants, sharing our birth stories and talking babies, because really we've got nothing else in common, but the loneliness is such that this is better than nothing.
I don't think so.
On the other hand I know how important it is to get to know other local mothers to find out about what's going on. I have no clue where baby groups are, or nurseries, or childminders. I need to build up a support network in the area, and that's why I'm here.
“Only another three weeks until the course is over,” I whisper to Mark, who finds the antenatal class as patronizing and ridiculous as I do. “Be nice.”
“I'm trying,” he whispers back, but when we've all put our shoes back on and said good-bye (every week we have to remove our shoes and line them up neatly in the hallway, and every week I curse myself for not putting on old no-name trainers, and I hide my DKNY trainers under the wooden bench because something tells me designer labels would not go down too well here), he breathes a sigh of relief.
“I don't think I can do it.” He shakes his head as we stroll up Mansfield Road on our way home. “I think you may have to do the rest of the course without me.”
“Absolutely not.” I link my arm through his. “You're going to keep coming whether you like it or not. Baby told me she wants you there.”
He looks at me affectionately. “Baby couldn't possibly have told you she wants you there because first, Baby doesn't yet speak, and second, Baby is a boy.”
“You wish,” I snort, because although Mark has said he doesn't care, as long as the baby is healthy, I know that he would secretly love a boy. Just as I say that I really don't mind, and I would secretly love a little girl. Not that I'd love a little boy any less, but a little girl would be something special.
“I don't care,” he says, smiling, as we turn into our street and Mark reaches for his key.
205 Estelle Road.
I love this house. I love everything about this house. I sit at work counting the minutes until I can leave and race back home, because yes, this is home. Now.
Mark said it would be temporary, and I moved in making a mental note to call the rental agents the following Monday. But somehow I never got around to it.
I love the smell of this house, even though I have no clue what it is. It's not beeswax, or lavender, or anything as romantic as lilies. It's not even something as prosaic as Shake 'n' Vac. Just the house's own smell. The smell of home.
I love puttering in the kitchen with Mark's cookbooks, licking my fingers sensuously as I scrape flour, butter, and sugar into the blender and pretend to be the quintessential Domestic Goddess.
Is this what they call nesting?
I love stopping off at the flower shop on the way back from work and coming home with armfuls of stargazers and creamy white roses, and arranging them as best I can in vases that I dot all over the house.
This must be what they call nesting.
I love sinking into the sofa with my legs up on the coffee table, tapping my Garfield-encased feet to Coldplay in an effort to give baby a headstart in the musical stakes. Mark keeps saying that the experts mean playing Mozart and Beethoven to your fetus, not Coldplay and Travis, but the last thing I'd want is a nerd, and the baby seems to like it just fine.
I love my bedroom, which is almost as big as Mark's and, thankfully, has a small ensuite bathroom, but most of all I love the room that's going to be the nursery.
We're about to start decorating, now that I'm over seven months. Mark tried to insist we wait until eight, but quite frankly even if the baby decided to come now, we'd have a damn good chance, and I can't wait anymore.
I love the pale pistachio paint we've chosen, and the lemon borders. I love the green gingham curtains we're going to order, and the huge teddy bear rug we saw in the West End last weekend and couldn't resist.
I love this house so much I don't think I ever want to leave. I have thought about it, naturally, but for now this is working. Mark seems to be as comfortable as I am. He loves that I'm so happy here. He loves that I do, on occasion, cook him supper, and it's out of the goodness of my heart. He loves that there are flowers in the house, and feminine smells. I think he even loves being pissed off at me for filling the washing machine with lacy knickers when he was just about to stick his T-shirts in.
“You know what it is?” he said one Friday night, when I'd made an effort and we'd just finished a home-cooked dinner of roast chicken and apricot crumble. “I don't think I ever realized before you moved in how lonely I've been. For years. And I'm not lonely anymore.”
I snorted. “How could you have been lonely for years? You lived with Julia for years.”
“That's the point. I never thought you could be lonely when you were living with someone, but now I think that there's nothing lonelier than being in an unhappy relationship.”
“So I'm your Lady in shining armor, sent to rescue you from years of M & S prepacked meals and holey socks.”
“Why, are you willing to darn my socks? Because I do actually have a couple upstairs that need—”
“F*ck off!” I grab the cushion I'm sitting on and whack him over the head.
“If you weren't pregnant I'd whack you back,” he says indignantly.
“If I weren't pregnant I wouldn't be here and you'd be having boring old pasta for dinner.”
“Are you trying to imply I can't cook?” he says, wounded. “Because you can f*ck off too,” and with that he pours my mango smoothie all over my head.
“I can't believe you did that.” I'm completely aghast, looking at my lap as the orange liquid drips off my hair and into my lap. “I can't believe you did that.”
Mark sits back, crosses his arms and waits, grinning. He's waiting for my counterattack, but I'm too stunned to do anything. I'm in shock.
I start to laugh.
“God, you look ridiculous.” Mark joins me in the laughter, laughing so hard he doesn't notice me grab a handful of spinach until it's too late and the spinach slides slowly down his nose.
With a combined giggle and scream, I turn and run out of the kitchen, because revenge will be his, and I know it's going to be bigger and better than a mango smoothie. I have a feeling it may have something to do with coffee ice cream, which, although back in the freezer, is still ominously runny due to me having forgotten that it was standing on the kitchen worktop for ages.
I can hear Mark running up the stairs behind me, and I shriek as I fumble my way into the nursery.
“No!” I say sternly, putting up my hand to warn him off. “Enough's enough, Mark. Not in the nursery. We've just decorated.”
“You can clean it up later,” he sings, advancing toward me slowly with two tubs of open ice cream and a large grin. Shit. I forgot about the other tub. “Revenge is mine.”
“No,” I shriek, but I'm giggling as he gets closer. “Mark, I'm serious. Think of the baby.”
“The baby loves coffee ice cream,” Mark says, which of course is what I've been telling him for the last two weeks to explain my sudden craving for a flavor of ice cream that I had, before my pregnancy, abhorred.
I'm backed into a corner and there's nowhere to go. With a final squeal, Mark's got me, and he's loving every minute of smearing ice cream all over my face and hair as I try to wriggle out, to no avail.
In the end I give up. Even as he smears the ice cream on I'm smearing it off and wiping it on him until we're both covered. We're both grinning hugely, when the strangest thing happens.
Mark's face is centimeters from mine, and suddenly I want to kiss him.
I'm looking at his lips, and all I can think about is licking them, feeling his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, and the smile wipes itself off my face as I feel myself transported with lust, and Mark must sense it, must feel what's going on because the next thing I know he's not smiling either, and the only noise you can hear is the sound of both of us panting, and he's looking deeply into my eyes.
“I think,” I whisper, as I tilt my head slightly and move my head fractionally closer to his, “I'm about to have a H?agen-Dazs moment.”
“That's the best idea you've had all week,” he whispers back, just as his lips touch mine.