You bet they are, buster!
At first I thought he might be too young for me. He still had pimples on his chin and looked a little scrawny, but he had lovely dark wavy hair, which I always think is wasted on a boy.
I brought him home and he shagged me like a man who thought he might not get laid for another eight months, which was probably right, although I don’t know what sailors get up to on shore leave.
Like a lot of my boyfriends, he preferred me on top so my boobs hung down around his face while I bucked and moaned. Afterwards I cleaned myself up in the bathroom and half expected Hayden to get dressed and leave. Instead he snuggled deep under the covers and wrapped his arms around me.
In the morning he was still there. I cooked him breakfast. We went back to bed. We had lunch and went back to bed. That was pretty much the story for the next two weeks. Eventually we ventured out and he treated me like his girlfriend. On our first proper date he took me to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. We caught the River Bus from Bankside Pier and Hayden pointed out landmarks along the way, like HMS Belfast, a museum ship near Tower Bridge. Hayden knew the whole history—how she’d been damaged by a German mine in World War II and later took part in the Normandy landings.
At the Maritime Museum he continued my education, telling me about Lord Nelson and his battles against Napoleon.
One particular painting caught my eye. Called Tahiti Revisited, it showed an island in the South Pacific with rocky peaks, lush forests, palm trees, and voluptuous women bathing in a river. As I stared at the scene, I could feel the warmth of the sand beneath my toes and smell the frangipani blossoms and feel the salt water drying on my skin.
“Have you ever been to Tahiti?” I asked Hayden.
“Not yet,” he said, “but I’ll go one day.”
“Will you take me?”
He laughed and said that I looked seasick on the River Bus.
On another date we went to the Imperial War Museum in South London and I learned that more than fifty thousand sailors died in World War II. It made me frightened for Hayden, but he said the last British warship to be lost at sea was the HMS Coventry during the Falklands War, which was before Hayden was even born.
We had three months together before Hayden had to rejoin his ship. I know that doesn’t seem like long, but I felt married during that time, like I was part of something bigger than both of us. I know that he loves me. He told me so. And even though he’s nine years younger than me, he’s old enough to settle down. We’re good together. I make him laugh and the sex is great.
Hayden doesn’t know that I’m pregnant. The silly boy thinks we broke up before he left. He caught me going through his emails and text messages and completely overreacted, calling me paranoid and crazy. Things were said that I’m sure both of us regret. Hayden stormed out of my flat and didn’t come back until after midnight. Drunk. I pretended to be asleep. He fumbled with his clothes, pulling off his jeans, falling on his arse. I could tell he was still angry.
In the morning I let him sleep and went out to the shops to buy bacon and eggs for breakfast. I left him a note. Love. Kisses. When I returned, he was already gone. My note was balled up on the floor.
I tried to call him. He didn’t answer. I went to the bus stop and to the train station but I knew he’d gone. I left messages saying I was sorry, begging him to call me, but he hasn’t answered any of my emails or texts and he unfriended me on Facebook.
Hayden doesn’t realize that I was trying to protect us. I know lots of women who will happily steal someone’s boyfriend or husband. You take his ex, Bronte Flynn, a right slag, notorious for “doing a Britney” (going commando). Hayden still follows her on Facebook and Instagram, posting comments on her slutty selfies. She’s the reason I looked at his phone—out of love, not jealousy.
Anyway, we’re pregnant now and I don’t want to break the news to Hayden in an email. It has to be face-to-face, but that can’t happen unless he agrees to talk to me. Navy personnel are allowed twenty minutes of satellite calls a week when they’re away at sea, but recipients must be on a list. Hayden needs to register me as his girlfriend or partner and give the navy my number.
Last week I talked to the Royal Navy welfare office and told them I was pregnant. A nice woman took down my details and was very sympathetic. They’ll make Hayden call me now. The captain will give him a direct order. That’s why I’ve been home every evening, waiting by the phone.
MEGHAN
* * *
My father is turning sixty-five and retiring this month after forty-two years with the same finance company. Tonight is his birthday dinner and Jack is running late. He promised to be home at five thirty and it’s after six. I won’t call him because he’ll accuse me of nagging.
He finally arrives and blames the traffic. We have an argument in the car, conducted in whispers while Lucy and Lachlan are strapped into their seats listening to the soundtrack from Frozen.
Jack accelerates through a changing light.
“You’re driving too fast.”
“You said we were late.”
“So now you’re going to kill us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You should have left earlier.”
“You’re right. I should have come home at midday. We could have painted our nails together.”
“Fuck you!”
The words just slip out. Lucy’s head shoots up. Jack gives me a look that says, Really? In front of the children?
“You said a bad word,” says Lucy.
“No, I didn’t. I said ‘duck soup.’ We might be having that for dinner.”
She screws up her face.
“I don’t like duck soup. It’s yucky,” says Lachlan, who shouts rather than talks.
“You’ve never had it before.”
“Yucky, yucky, duck soup,” he sings, louder than before.
“OK, we’ll have something else,” I say.
We drive in silence, edging through traffic towards Chiswick Bridge. Quietly fuming, I think of all the meals that have been spoiled by Jack turning up late. I hate him when he derides and belittles what I do. We reach my parents’ house at seven. The kids run inside.
“You can be such a shit sometimes,” I say as I grab the salads and Jack picks up the traveling cot.
My sister comes out to help. Grace is six years younger than me, happily single but always accompanied by an attractive, successful man who seems to worship the ground she walks upon, even when she’s walking all over him.
“How’s Daddy?” I ask.
“Holding court.” We hug. “He’s fired up the barbecue. We’re going to be eating charred sausages and kebabs again.”