“I have other options,” I say, brushing my hands over my belly. “My sister had a home birth and swears by them.”
“It can be a very positive experience if you’re healthy with no complications,” she says, leading me along the corridor in her sensible rubber-soled shoes. “Is this your first?”
“Yes.”
I make a note of how she’s secured her ponytail with a simple black hairband and the small watch pinned to her breast pocket. A cheap ballpoint pen is tucked behind her right ear.
“If we can’t accommodate you, I can recommend some community and hospital clinics. Will you be going private?”
“Possibly.”
“Who is your obstetrician?”
“Dr. Phillips.”
She stops at a door and glances through a small glass viewing window. “I might not be able to show you all the birthing suites. Some of them are occupied. You can take a virtual tour on our website.”
The corridors are white and clean and bright. Pastel-colored. Calming. We pass a woman wearing slippers and a hospital gown being supported by her husband.
“We deliver five thousand babies a year at the Churchill. Visiting hours are at set times for friends and family, but partners can come and go,” says the nurse, who shows me a delivery suite with a water-birthing pool.
“This is the postnatal ward. We have a limited number of private rooms, but it’s first in, best dressed.”
The tour finishes at the reception desk, where I’m given a self-referral form. “Your doctor can also submit an application,” she says, “but don’t leave it too long.”
I thank her and take a seat in the patient lounge, looking over the form as I watch the passing parade of expectant mothers and nervous fathers emerging from the lifts. Others are going home—the babies in infant car seats or carriers; the mothers holding bunches of flowers and soft toys.
When I’m ready to leave, I follow the exit signs, making a note of the corridors and stairwells. People nod and smile as they pass because pregnant women are cute and glowing and we waddle like penguins. What isn’t there to like!
*
There’s a note under my door when I get home: Come upstairs!
I knock on Jules’s door. She answers, swinging it open with a flourish. I see Hayden’s mother standing behind her in a tweed twinset, beaming like she’s won the lottery.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, giving me a hug. She smells exactly like her house—fabric softener and lemon cake. I have to stop myself stiffening in her arms.
“How did you know where I live?” I ask nervously.
“Hayden told me. Have you spoken to him?”
“Not since Saturday.”
“He has big news.”
She breaks the clinch. Jules must know already because she’s grinning at me like a court jester. I look from face to face, wondering if I’m supposed to guess.
“Hayden is coming home for the birth,” Mrs. Cole announces.
I stare at her openmouthed.
“He spoke to the family liaison department and explained the situation. The navy don’t normally allow personnel to interrupt a tour of duty, but they gave him permission. Isn’t that wonderful?”
My legs wobble. Jules takes hold of my arm and makes me sit.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” says Mrs. Cole. “It’s the shock. I should have realized.”
“When?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“When is he coming home?”
“He docks in Cape Town two weeks from today. Then he’ll catch a flight to Heathrow and should be home just in time.”
My stomach lurches and I taste vomit in my mouth before swallowing hard. Jules suggests a cup of tea and goes to put the kettle on. Her little boy, Leo, is watching TV with the sound turned down, occasionally looking at us as though we’re invading his territory.
“Hayden is over the moon,” says Mrs. Cole, all fluttering hands and smiles. “I know it took him a while to come around but he’s fully on board. He wants to be with you, if that’s OK.”
I feel like Alice in Wonderland sliding down the rabbit hole, trying to stop myself falling into a parallel world.
“He can’t,” I say.
Mrs. Cole stops in midsentence. Jules looks from the teapot. They’re waiting for me to explain.
“I mean, he’s doing important work . . . catching pirates. What if the pirates seize another ship? I saw that movie—you know—the one with Tom Hanks where the captain was taken hostage.”
Mrs. Cole laughs. “They can stop pirates without Hayden.” She points to her shopping bags. “I’ve brought you a few things. We’ll look at them later.” I don’t want there to be a later. “I hope you don’t mind me coming over. I didn’t know Hayden had proposed.”
“Who told you?”
“Your friend Julie—she’s so lovely. It’s nice that you have each other.”
“Each other?”
“Being pregnant together.”
I nod, still trying to come to terms with her news.
Jules carries a tray to the sitting room. She hands me a mug of tea. “Two sugars.” I sip and take a deep breath. I must stop this. I can’t have Hayden coming home for the birth.
“Are you sure it’s OK? I don’t want to put the navy to any trouble.”
“It’s perfectly fine.”
“My mother is going to be with me.”
“I understand,” says Mrs. Cole. “But now you have two birth partners. I don’t expect Hayden will be much use, but I’ve never seen him so excited about anything.”
She doesn’t understand. I can’t explain. I want to be Hayden’s wife and I want him to take care of me. A month from now he can sail into Portsmouth like a Viking warrior home from sacking cities, but not now, not yet.
“Are you all right, Aggy?” asks Jules. “You look very pale.”
“It’s the shock,” says Mrs. Cole. “You should lie down.”
Mrs. Cole follows me downstairs to my flat, waiting as I unlock the door. The place is a mess. I apologize.
“Nonsense. You’ve been on your own.”
She makes me sit down and put my feet up as she begins cleaning. The dishwasher is unpacked and repacked. Worktops are wiped. Bins are emptied. Out-of-date food is discarded. She asks if I have a bucket and mop.
“Please don’t clean the floor.”
“Just the kitchen.”
I watch her from the sofa.
“You should eat more fresh fruit and vegetables,” she says, commenting on the contents of the fridge. “Are you a good cook?”
“Not really.”
“I can show you how to make some of Hayden’s favorites.”
“Great.”
She tackles the bathroom next, yelling questions, asking about my family—where I’m from and where I went to school. I try to remember what I told her the last time.
“Is your mother excited about being a grandmother?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I think the label ‘granny’ rather bothers her.”