“I’ve been at sea for seven months.”
“I’m eight months pregnant. It happened when you were here in London. We were going at it like rabbits.”
“You said you were on the pill.”
“I also asked you to use a condom because I’d missed a few days. You said you didn’t like them.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t answer my messages. I sent emails and letters. I posted Facebook messages. You didn’t answer.”
“You said nothing about a baby.”
“I wasn’t going to just blurt it out. It’s a private thing. I have the ultrasound pictures. Do you want to see them?”
Hayden takes a deep breath and sighs, staring at the ceiling as though looking for a celestial sign or hoping for heavenly intervention.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“I’m not expecting you to marry me or anything daft like that.”
“Why tell me at all?”
“I thought you should know. If you don’t want anything to do with me, I’ll accept that, but this is your baby as much as mine.”
He looks at the screen and shakes his head. “I don’t want a baby.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for that now.” I stand up and turn sideways, running my hands over my tummy. “This is really happening.”
He looks away again.
“I know you think I’m springing this on you,” I say, “but I did try to tell you. I wrote almost every day, but you were angry with me and wanted a break.”
“We weren’t on a break! We broke up!”
“I did a foolish thing, going through your emails, but don’t you see— I must have been pregnant when I did that. My hormones were all over the place.”
“And that’s your excuse.”
“It’s the truth.”
Hayden pushes away from the screen. “Christ to hell, I can’t deal with this!”
“We can talk when you get home.”
“No! I want you to stay away from me.”
“What about the baby?”
“You want it—you have it!”
“Please, Hayden, don’t be cruel.”
“I didn’t sign up for this. You should have got rid of it.”
“What?”
“Had an abortion.”
“No!”
“Don’t contact me again. Understand?”
The screen goes blank. I tap the keyboard but can’t bring him back.
Refusing to cry, I tell myself that Hayden can change his mind. Right now, he thinks I’m a “battalion bike” or “base bunny” who hangs around navy barracks hoping to snare a man in uniform. He’s wrong. I love him. I’m going to show him what a great mother I can be. And before long he’ll be down on one knee, begging to marry me, and thirty years from now we’ll laugh about this and be talking about our grandkids.
*
Jules knocks. She’s probably been waiting outside, busting to know what Hayden said. I let her in. She looks at me hopefully, ready to commiserate.
“So? What happened? Was he excited?”
“Over the moon.”
“I told you he would be.” She laughs and dances around the room, shaking her curves.
“He asked me to marry him,” I say.
“Get away!”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he answer your messages?”
“He said he was scared of falling in love with me.”
“That’s so sweet. So what did you tell him?”
“I said I’d have to think about it.”
“You’re a daft cow! Why didn’t you say yes?”
“He made me wait. Now I’ll make him wait.”
Jules wants to hear all the details—what I said, what he said. I have to make up the conversation, but she doesn’t question any of my explanations.
“Where is Hayden now?”
“They’re sailing to Cape Town.”
“Maybe he’ll buy you an engagement ring in South Africa. They have the best diamonds.”
“I don’t want a diamond ring.”
“Yes you do. All girls love diamonds. Is he coming home for the birth?”
“No.”
“But he should be with you.”
“That’s OK. I’m going to have the baby in Leeds.”
“You hate your mother.”
I shrug. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but I need a birth partner and she’s offering.”
“Shame I can’t do it,” says Jules, “but I have one small problem.” She points to her bump.
I give her a hug. “I could always borrow Kevin.”
“He’s useless—believe me. When will you go up north?”
“Closer to the time.”
Jules knows about my family. Not the whole story, but enough for her to understand my love/hate relationship with my mother. She says I should reach out and build bridges, but I think certain bridges are meant to burn and it’s a shame some people can’t be on them when it happens.
MEGHAN
* * *
The house is quiet. The kids are asleep. I have spent the past hour doing the ironing in front of the TV, producing a pile of neatly folded linen and a collection of sweet-smelling shirts hanging from the doorknob. I like the regimen and skill involved with ironing, which makes me feel in some small, domestic way that I am keeping the chaos at bay.
Occasionally, I glance up the stairs and listen for a cry or a summons. Lucy sleeps with the light on. She doesn’t have nightmares or fear the dark, but she likes to know where she is in the world when she wakes at night.
Jack still isn’t home. He normally calls if he’s running late. I’ve tried his mobile and his office said he left hours ago. The new show has been preying on his mind. They have a name: Shoot! but he still hasn’t heard who is going to be the host. Other presenters are being auditioned—not just anyone: Simon Kidd, the man I slept with, the one I’m desperately trying to forget. Jack and Simon have always been competitive, but that hardly matters when they’re on a tennis court or golf course or playing Trivial Pursuit. This is important. If Simon were to get the nod, I don’t know how Jack would react.
I try his mobile again. It goes straight to messages. I leave another one: “Jack. It’s me. Where are you? I’m worried. Please call.”
I’m in bed when he arrives home. I hear the car keys hitting the side table and his shoes being kicked off. The fridge door opens. He’s getting himself a beer. A part of me wants to turn off the light and pretend to be asleep.
Instead I go downstairs. He is in the garden, sitting on Lucy’s swing, nursing the beer. I take the swing next to him, rocking back and forth in my slippers.
“Did you drive home?”
“No.” He has loosened his tie and half pulled out his shirt. “I didn’t get the job.”
“Did they give it to Simon?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Becky Kellerman—she works on one of the lifestyle channels.”
“Does she know anything about sports?”
“She looks good on camera.”
“That’s so unfair.”
His forehead creases. “The whole show was my bloody idea. I came up with the concept, the name. I even came up with the promo line: ‘Straight from the lip.’?”
“At least it wasn’t Simon,” I say.
“Why do you say that?”
“I know how competitive you two are.”
“What makes you think we’re competitive?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”