I laugh nervously. “My life is boring.”
“People who say that always have the best stories.”
“Not me.”
I try to deflect her again. Meg notices. I don’t want her thinking I’m secretive.
“I was married once,” I say, and begin telling her about Nicky. “It lasted five years but didn’t work out.”
“Are you still friends?”
“He sends me a Christmas card every year.”
“And you didn’t have children?”
My eyes swim and the café blurs. I lower my head, unable to get the words out.
“I’ve upset you,” says Meg. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault,” I say. “I thought after all this time . . .” I don’t finish. Start again. “We lost a baby—a little girl—I miscarried at five months.”
“That’s awful.”
“It shouldn’t still affect me, but it does.”
“You didn’t try again?” she asks. Something instantly comes alert inside me. I’ve revealed too much. Shared truths that will make it harder.
Meg seems to sense my disquiet. “Well, that’s all in the past. Now you have a fiancé and a baby on the way.” She smiles. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”
“Not yet. Maybe next summer.”
“Perfect.”
“We’re thinking of honeymooning in Tahiti,” I add, hoping to impress her.
“I hear the South Pacific is beautiful.”
“We’re going to get a bungalow on the beach and live like natives.”
“How romantic,” says Meg. “Lucky you.” Her face suddenly lights up as though she’s had a brilliant idea. “What are you doing now?”
“What?”
“Right now.”
“Nothing.”
“You should come home with me. I have boxes and boxes of baby clothes to sort through—far more than I need. Please take some.”
“I don’t need clothes.”
“At least have a look. Some of them are brand new. I get free samples because of my blog.”
“What blog?”
“I write a little mummy blog about being pregnant and bringing up kids. Come back to the house. I’ll make lunch. You can help me decide what to keep.”
Outside the sky has darkened and the wind picked up, snapping at the canvas awnings and rattling windows. Fat drops begin dotting the pavement.
“I don’t have an umbrella,” says Meg.
“Neither do I.”
“We’ll have to run for it.”
I laugh. “Are you serious? We’re in no condition to run.”
“Waddle, then.”
Meg runs ahead of me, holding her gym bag over her head as the rain gets heavier, falling in sheets. Shoppers are sheltering in doorways and unfurling umbrellas.
Laughing and splashing through puddles, she yells, “The house isn’t far.”
If I run too quickly I’m worried my belly will slip or the elastic backing will stretch.
By the time I arrive at the house, Meg has unlocked the front door and kicked off her shoes. She gets two large towels from the linen cupboard. Giggling like schoolgirls, we dry our hair. Meg looks like a fair-haired Andie MacDowell in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I look like Janet Leigh in Psycho before the knife starts shredding the shower curtain.
I pull off my sodden sweater and notice my long-sleeved top is clinging to me like a second skin, revealing the outline of the prosthetic belly where it wraps around my back. A breath catches in my throat. I hold the towel against me.
“Do you have any dry clothes I could borrow?”
“You bet. Come upstairs.”
I let Meg go first. I don’t want her seeing me from behind. I know the layout of the house. The main bedroom is on the second floor, overlooking Cleveland Gardens. Meg opens her wardrobe and collects leggings and sweaters. Without a moment’s hesitation she peels off her gym top. Her swollen belly is silhouetted in the light from the window. She unhooks her sports bra and turns towards me. I notice her linea nigra, the slight discoloration of her skin that runs from above her navel to her pubic bone. Her nipples are the same color.
“Get changed before you die of cold,” she says.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
She points to the bathroom. I scoop up the dry clothes and shut the door behind me.
Meg calls out. “I’m sorry, Agatha, I should have asked. I’m always getting my kit off in front of other women at the gym.”
“That’s all right,” I reply.
“It’s almost like I want to show off,” she says. “God knows why.”
“I’m the opposite,” I say, yelling through the closed door. I take off my wet clothes, trying not to look at myself in the mirror. I quickly get dressed, making sure the prosthetic is fitted properly. I’m taking too long.
“Is everything OK?” asks Meg.
“Fine.”
“Do you need a hairdryer?” she yells.
“No. I’m OK.”
“Well, I’m just going up to the attic to get the baby clothes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Once she’s gone, I open the bathroom cabinet and look through Meg’s moisturizer and night creams, making a mental note of the brands. She and Jack have matching electric toothbrushes. Back in the main bedroom, I open drawers, looking at Meg’s lingerie and underclothes. Tucked at the very back of her knicker drawer, I discover a small pink vibrator in a velvet pouch. Cute. Sexy. Modern.
Wandering along the landing, I come to the nursery, which smells of fresh paint. Admiring the furnishings and stencils, I sit in the rocking chair and pivot back and forth, imagining that I’m nursing my baby.
Meg calls me to come downstairs. She is warming a quiche in the oven and has made a salad. Once we’ve eaten, we spend two hours sorting through boxes of clothes, styling baby outfits and mentally playing dress-up. Meg talks about making friends and choosing the right day nursery and primary school.
“Does Lucy like St. Osmund’s?” I ask.
“How do you know she’s going there?”
“I’ve seen her school uniform.”
“You’ve seen Lucy.” Meg frowns.
“I’ve been working at the supermarket, remember? I’ve seen you coming and going with Lucy and Lachlan. I didn’t know their names, of course. But if I’m right, Lachlan has a brightly colored scooter and Lucy likes her hair in space buns.”
“She wants to be Princess Leia.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t you ever watch Star Wars?”
“A long while ago.”
Meg looks at her mobile. “Speak of the little devils—I have to pick them up.”
The rain has stopped. My wet clothes have been tumble-dried. Baby clothes are neatly folded in polished paper bags. Meg walks me to the front door.
“When are you going up north?”
“Next week.”
“Will I see you before then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have my phone number. Here’s my email.” She writes her address on a scrap of paper.
We hug. Our bellies bump.
“If I don’t see you—best of luck,” Meg says.
“You too.”
“Send me pictures.”
“OK.”
She stands at the door and waves good-bye. I walk along the road, not looking back but wanting to. I knew Meg and I would be friends. I kept picturing us together, playing tennis and organizing picnics and discussing what schools the kids should attend.
At the same time, I have to be careful because nothing is sewn up, or surefire, or open and shut. It’s not over until the fat lady has a baby.
MEGHAN
* * *