20
“No!” Stella gasps, when I tell her that Mark and I finally got it together. “You're not serious! That's like something out of a film!”
It's the day of my leaving do, and I'm briefing Stella on taking over my job. We've popped up to the canteen to grab some tea. She asks how come I'm looking so pleased with myself, and I nonchalantly tell her it must be all the sex.
She asks with whom, and is practically hugging herself with excitement when I tell her.
“I knew it!” she squeals, when she manages to get over her shock. “I knew you two would get together. I'm so excited! How do you feel?”
How do I feel?
I feel quite unlike I've ever felt before, if the truth be known. I feel settled; comfortable; happy. I feel excited about the baby, about the future, and I feel relieved and grateful that I'm not doing all of this by myself.
I feel absolutely, one hundred percent feminine. I lie in bed at night as Mark sleeps, stroking my burgeoning belly, knowing that this is exactly what my body was designed for. Knowing that whatever heights I may reach in my career, this is the greatest thing I will ever do.
I watch Mark while he's sleeping. Often. I watch him snuffle into the pillow and I feel huge affection for him, because while I never wanted commitment, never wanted a relationship, now that I—albeit unwittingly—have one, I can see why people seek out their “other halves.” I can see what it's all about.
Rather like Mark, I never thought I was lonely. I probably wasn't, but life is so much easier, so much more enjoyable now that I have someone to share it with. I have relaxed with that security, and although I don't for a second believe that Mark is my “other half” (as I have no belief in that concept at all), I do believe that he is enriching my life, and that's all that matters right now.
“I feel great,” I say, smiling at Stella. “On top of the world.” I look down at my belly. “Except I'm thirty-five weeks and I've had enough. I've bloody had enough.”
I bumped into someone I knew last week who said that everyone who thought pregnancy lasted nine months was wrong. In actual fact, she laughed, pregnancy lasts eight months and two years, as the last month is so interminably long.
I remember seeing an interview with Caroline Quentin who, at thirty weeks, spontaneously went into labor and out popped a perfectly healthy baby. If it's good enough for Caroline Quentin, how come it's not good enough for me?
“Do you think tonight's the night?” I've started asking Mark every night as we lie in bed, usually after sex, because my hormones have thankfully started working in welcome ways, and my libido appears to have gone through the roof.
“I don't think so,” Mark always sighs.
“Why not?” I plead, standing up to show him how much the baby's dropped. “Look how low it is. I swear the baby's head is engaged.” Mark just smiles and goes back to his book.
Even the midwife laughed when I saw her this week. “Wanting it to happen early doesn't mean it will happen early,” she said.
“But the baby's definitely dropped?” I asked hopefully.
“Hmm. It's definitely slightly lower than last week.”
“But my indigestion's much better and I can breathe more easily again. It must have dropped. Partly engaged? Even a centimeter?”
She smiled. “Don't worry. Your time will come.”
I didn't bother telling her that my time, at least as far as I am concerned, is definitely here.
“I'd like to say”—Mike Jones raises his glass and shouts above the heads of everyone in the room, eventually climbing on to a chair to be better heard—“a few words about Maeve before she leaves.” A general cheer goes around the room, for which I am hugely grateful, because I don't quite believe I deserve a leaving do at all, having worked here for less than a year.
“She did a great job stepping in at the last minute and taking over the reins from her predecessor, but when we said, ‘Take over where Julia left off,' we meant professionally.” Another cheer from the crowd at large as I groan inwardly, covering it with a benign smile. “When we said step into her shoes, we didn't mean jump her boyfriend and get pregnant.” More cheering, louder this time, and I'm wondering quite how politically incorrect Mike is planning to become.
“Sssh, ssssh.” He calms the crowd. “Seriously, though, we're all very happy with the job Maeve's done here, and we're even more happy that the rumors about Mark were unfounded after all.” I look at Mark, who gives a short, tight smile, Mike Jones never having been his favorite colleague in the first place. I know this speech is killing him.
“We wanted to say good luck with the baby, and hurry back soon before Stella . . . where are you, Stella?” Stella gives a shout and raises a pint glass from the back of the room. “Before Stella gets too comfortable in the pregnancy chair. Oi, Stella?”
“What?” She's grinning and I know that whatever Mike comes out with next, Stella is more than equipped to handle it.
“You're not planning on telling me you're expecting anytime soon, are you?”
“F*ck off, Mike!” she shouts, which gets the loudest cheer of the night.
With the inappropriate speech over, they bring out the presents: a basket containing two Petit Bateau stretchsuits and a yellow gingham matching comb and brush, a sexy pair of red lacy knickers that I doubt I'll ever manage to fit into, and a bottle of Antiseptic Nipple spray from Boots.
Just what I always wanted.
“Are you sure you don't want anything?” Mark shouts from the kitchen, where he's busy preparing dinner. “Tea? Biscuit? Baby?”
“Nothing,” I shout back, repositioning the vase in the living room, then standing back to get a second look. “Actually, can I have the baby? Now? Please?” I hear Mark laugh, and move the vase back to the coffee table.
Everything needs to be perfect tonight. Viv and Michael have come up to London for the weekend, and tonight they are coming here for dinner. And I feel ever so slightly sick.
Thankfully they didn't ask to stay here. It's not something I could handle right now. They've booked into a guesthouse up the road, and I can't quite grasp the fact that I'm going to be meeting my mother's serious boyfriend this evening, who also happens to be my father.
“You've become the quintessential Jerry Springer family,” quips Mark, unamusingly I think. “All you need now is to discover I'm your brother and we'd be guaranteed a slot on the show.”
“Oh ha bloody ha. Because of that, you can now do the cooking.”
“It's your family. Why should I do the cooking?”
“Because (a) I'll accept it by way of apology for what you've just said, and (b) you're better at it than I am.”
“You only needed to say (b),” Mark laughs, and I smile as I watch him open cupboard doors, checking for cardamom pods and cumin seeds, knowing how much he loves cooking for other people.
I go upstairs to change, again. So far this afternoon I've tried on five outfits, which is quite a feat considering the only things I'm wearing right now are a pair of black stretchy leggings from Mothercare and three men's sweaters from Marks and Spencer. All those sexy little numbers that were supposed to see me through? The men's shirts? The tight sweaters that were supposed to stretch to accommodate the belly? Forget it. They fitted me perfectly until six months, and then overnight nothing fitted at all.
But I manage to find five variations. Do I wear the black leggings and high heels in a bid to look slimmer, or will I just look horribly eighties? Do I wear the gray sweater with the black leggings or is that dull? Should I squeeze into the brown stretchy trousers from M & S, which, although not maternity, were supposed to have seen me through to the end, and really, what does it matter if they're a bit tight and I can't actually do them up anyway? One of my sweaters will cover that in an instant.
Why does it matter so much what my father thinks? But of course I know why it matters so much. It matters because the little girl in me still wants his approval. It may have been my decision to walk away from him completely ten years ago, but I want him to look at me now and be proud. I want him to think I'm successful, beautiful, everything he would want his daughter to be.
And I'd rather not have him think I'm fat, hence the clothing dilemma, although, as Mark said earlier, at thirty-eight and a half weeks pregnant I think I'm allowed to err on the side of large.
I do feel enormous. I've developed the pregnant woman's waddle, belly pushed out and hand resting in the small of my back for support. I feel like a caricature of myself, even as I do it, but it's the only way I feel balanced.
As for how much weight I've put on, God knows. As do the nurses, midwives, and obstetricians, but thankfully that's as far as it goes. Every week they weigh me, and every week, just before I stand on the scales, I announce loudly, “Don't tell me what I weigh.” I figure that since there's nothing I can do about it, there's no point in knowing, because even though pregnancy's the greatest excuse there is, I know that I'll still feel horrific if I've put on more than the twenty-five to twenty-eight pounds the books advise. Also, I'm pretty damn certain I've put on about twice that, but I don't really care.
Oh God. I can't believe that Viv's coming with my father.
“Viv, you look wonderful!” Mark has already opened the front door while I am still struggling to get up off the sofa. “You must be Michael,” I hear him say, and my heart starts beating very fast as I step into the hallway.
My father—Michael—stops still and looks at me, and neither of us says anything for a while. I had a speech planned. I was going to be cool but polite. I was going to call him Michael and pretend that he was merely my mother's new boyfriend. If the opportunity arose, I was going to dismiss his pleas to be my father again. I was going to tell him that, thanks to his abandoning us, I had become used to not having a father, and certainly didn't need one now. I would say that while I was willing to accept his relationship with Viv, if he thought we were going to have a father/daughter relationship, then he had another thing coming.
But that was before I saw him.
Standing in the hallway, eyes filling with tears, is a middle-aged man who is so familiar my heart is threatening to break. And it's not Viv's boyfriend, not to me. It's Dad. My dad.
“Dad!” A sob breaks out, and the next thing you know he's opening his arms wide and I'm running into them, clinging onto him, and never wanting to break free of his embrace.
I'm sobbing so hard I don't realize he's crying too, and when we finally break away both Viv and Mark have disappeared into the kitchen, and I'm left with my dad.
“Look at you!” he laughs through the tears, holding me at arm's length. “Look at my little girl.”
“I'm hardly your little girl anymore.” I gesture to my stomach, and we both smile, but I am his little girl! I'm still his little girl!
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, the smile gone now. “All these years have gone by and I've never stopped thinking of you and I wanted to write, or phone but—”
“Sssh. It's okay.” I put my arms around him to comfort him, because suddenly it is okay. Suddenly I know that I don't have to carry the past around with me any longer. That it's okay to let it go, to move on, and that the only important thing is that we're together again.
We go into the kitchen to see what the others are doing, and I see that Viv's sitting at the kitchen table, also wiping tears from her eyes. But she's smiling broadly, and I know that in her wildest dreams she didn't expect this to happen.
And, looking at her face, I know exactly what she's thinking, for I have had the same thought myself.
We're a family again.
Dinner is delicious. Mark is funny and charming; Viv is positively blooming in Dad's presence, and Dad is, well. Dad is exactly what I always wanted my dad to be. He's both interesting and interested. He's sharp, and funny, and loving, and warm. He teases me gently about his first grandchild, and makes me feel treasured and safe.
“See what happens?” He turns to Viv. “I leave you alone with her for twenty-two years and she goes and gets herself pregnant. Honestly. I can't trust you for a second.” There is warmth and humor in his voice, and Viv is head over heels in love.
But I can see he loves her too. He watches her tenderly as she gets up to help clear the table, and, if I didn't know the history, I would think that they were newlyweds. Except they are too comfortable with one another. So comfortable they look as if they've been together forever. As if there could never have been anyone else.
“Maeve, I have your blessing, don't I?” Viv's scraping leftover Moroccan lamb stew into the bin.
“What? So you are getting married?” I thought I'd dread this. But I'm delighted.
“I didn't mean that.” She colors, and I'm sure it's in the cards soon, and that knowing Viv she will wait for the arrival of their first grandchild, wait for all the excitement to die down before making any announcements of their own. “I just meant, you're happy about this, aren't you? Michael, your father, coming back into our lives. You can see how much he's changed?”
I put the dishcloth down and give Viv a hug. “Viv,” I say, “he's exactly what I always hoped my dad would be, and he's exactly what I always hoped you'd find. I'm just still in shock that it's him.” And we both laugh as a sharp pain stabs me in the stomach and I gasp.
“What?” Viv holds my arm in alarm. “Maeve? What is it?”
“I don't know. Nothing.” I breathe out, the pain gone. “Probably just indigestion. I knew I ate too much.”
“You're sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine.” I smile at her but I'm worried. Strange pains when you're pregnant are no laughing matter and I potter around the kitchen for a while, making coffee, moving slowly and carefully in case the pain comes back.
Viv looks at me with concern when I come back to the dining room and sit down, but I smile reassuringly and stand up to pour the coffee.
And then I wet myself.
“Shit!” I sit down hard, and immediately blush. And then I think I'm going to start to cry. How can this happen? I'm thirty-three years old, and this may well be the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me in my whole life.
“What is it? What's the matter?” All three of them are leaning over me and all I can think of is I want my mum.
Thank God she's here.
“Mum!” I wail at her, and she can tell from my face that I need to speak to her alone. The others leave and I look at her, mortified.
“I think I've just wet myself,” I whisper in shame, and she starts to laugh.
“Love, I think that's your waters breaking.” She smiles knowingly, forcing me to stand up so she can check.
“That's definitely your waters,” she says, grinning, gesturing to the chair. “Completely clear and odorless. My darling girl, your time has come.” And literally, as she says it, I feel something I haven't felt for nine months.
A period pain.
Mark pokes his head round the doorway. “Is everything okay?” Viv grins and I smile back. “Mark, it's time.” Although this doesn't feel real at all, it feels as if I'm saying these words and tonight I'll go upstairs and climb into bed next to Mark, and tomorrow will carry on as normal.
“Time for what?” Mark is being obtuse, and Viv laughs.
“The baby's on its way.”
And suddenly Mark goes into overdrive. “Oh God. Are you okay? Contractions, when are they coming. Shit, I can't remember, is it eight minutes or five minutes? Don't move, no actually, let's walk around and try some deep breathing,” and when he eventually stops to take a breath, I start to laugh.
“Mark, relax! I'm fine. These contractions are nothing, just like vague period pains, but we'd better phone the hospital because didn't Trish warn in the class of the danger of infection?”
“Yes, yes, phone the hospital. I'll phone them.”
“Mark.” Viv gently takes the phone from him. “I think I'd better phone.”
“Everything all right?” Dad walks back in, and Viv tells him. I'm surprised and delighted to see his ear-to-ear grin. “We're going to be grandparents!” he says, nudging Viv. “Who would have thought it?”
“What are they saying, what are they saying?” Mark's flapping like an old woman, and I'm tempted to tell him to shut the f*ck up because it's starting to really irritate me, particularly when he's normally so calm, but I know I have to wait until transition to get away with screaming at him.
“Sssh,” Viv's trying to listen to the midwife. “Okay. Okay. So in about an hour? Fine. See you then.”
“Well? Well?”
“They said that you ought to come in because of the risk of infection, but not to worry too much, and if you wanted to turn up in about an hour, that would be fine.”
“So let me just make this very clear.” I'm lying on a hospital bed, attached to a fetal monitor unit that is showing contractions are coming every two minutes. I've had the ghastly internal (I swear, the midwife's fingers were thicker than a bloody salami) and it appears I'm two centimeters dilated and could have hours left to go.
“Go home if you want,” she says. “You probably won't be ready until the morning and the best thing you can do is get a decent night's sleep, and you'll sleep far better at home.”
“Could I stay here?” I say doubtfully, knowing that after a nine-month wait nothing short of the army could get me out of this hospital bed now that I'm actually here. “What about the risk of infection?”
“Hardly any if you're sensible,” she says. “It's up to you, but I'd suggest home.”
“I think I'll stay here,” I say, explaining to the others, when they come back in, that she'd said it was probably a better idea to stay at hospital.
I look at Mark and Dad. “I want to make it clear that when the time comes for me to push, I don't want anyone in here, except maybe Viv. Okay?”
“What about me?” Mark says, his hurt already apparent.
“Don't know yet,” I grumble. “I'll see.”
“Nnnnnnnnnnnnrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh.” The sweat drips off my forehead as I push as hard as I can, lying back exhausted as the contraction, finally, starts to wane.
And I start to cry. “I can't do this,” I sob. “I can't do this.”
And I truly don't think I can. I don't think I'm going to get out of this one alive, the pain is so completely overwhelming and horrific. I feel as if my body is about to split open, and, at this moment in time, death seems like a pretty good alternative.
Oh no. Oh f*ck. Here it comes again.
“Come on, Maeve, come on, Maeve. Good girl, good girl. You're doing brilliantly. Big big push. Big big push. Just one more push.” The midwife is about twelve years old. Fresh-faced, no wedding ring and skinny as you like. There's no way in hell she's ever had a baby and I wonder what the hell she thinks she's doing, rubbing my shoulder, encouraging me when she's clearly got absolutely no idea that I am about to die, that this pain is the most horrific thing imaginable, that I am not giving birth to a baby, but to a sack of large King Edward potatoes.
“Don't touch me,” I hiss at her, as the contraction subsides again and Mark leans over to wipe the sweat from my brow.
“You can do it,” Mark says, from his position next to the bed, all sense of dignity I might once have had now forgotten as he watches me strain until I'm the color of a freshly boiled lobster. “One more push.”
“NNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh. F*ck OFF!” I scream, and then I squeeze his hand even tighter. “Viv!” I sob. “Where's Viv? I can't do this.”
“Yes, you can.” She runs in from the hallway, straight over to the bed, where she brushes the damp hair off my face and strokes my forehead as I try to muster some energy from somewhere. “I'm here now,” she soothes.
“I can't.” I look at my mum, and there are two of her. I'm so tired I've got double vision, and I know I can't do this anymore. I've changed my mind. I want to go home. I want this pain to go away. I don't want this baby.
The midwife suddenly looks at the fetal monitor machine, and I think I might be imagining it but her eyes seem to widen slightly. A second later an older woman appears in the doorway—the senior midwife—who comes straight over to the bed and starts moving the belt around my stomach up. The belt that's monitoring the baby's heartbeat.
“Come on, Maeve love,” she says kindly as she moves the belt up and down, looking at the machine with measured glances. I try to see what she's looking at, but I'm too tired and I just lie back. “Right,” she says, placing her hands on my hips as she attempts to gently roll me over. “Baby doesn't like this position so we'll have to roll you onto your side.” Like an elephant I start rolling, and then another contraction comes.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo,” I scream, vaguely aware that the room, in what feels like a few seconds, has filled with people: the midwife; the senior midwife; an obstetrician; a pediatrician. It is completely surreal, as if a party is going on around my bed. I hear them whisper that they can't find the baby's heartbeat, and I see the panic in Mark's eyes, but I don't care any more. The obstetrician sits between my legs and I watch him through glazed exhausted eyes as he delicately pulls on a pair of latex gloves, looking exactly as if he's about to perform a major piano concerto at the Wigmore Hall.
He smiles up at me. “Just a little episiotomy,” he says. “Won't hurt a bit.” I no longer care. I just want this over with. I don't care about scalpels, or stitches. I don't even care if my deepest fears are realized and I end up doing something I once thought would be horribly humiliating like pooing on his hand. I don't care. I don't have a shred of dignity left, and the fact that a strange man is sitting between my naked spreadeagled legs means nothing. Nothing could be worse than the pain of these contractions.
As another contraction hits, I know I really have reached the end of the line. This is the last one. I know I can't do any more than this.
The senior midwife has now replaced the obstetrician between my legs. “Come on, Maeve, that's it. Good girl. Big big push. Big big push. One more. The baby's coming. I can see the head. Here comes the head.
“Come on, Maeve. Just one more.”
“You can do it, Maeve,” Mark echoes and I bear down, pushing with all my might, screaming with the agony, knowing that it is now do or die.
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNRRRRRRHHHHHHHH.”