The Family Trap Page 10

  Maybe he’s regretting the way he hotfooted it out of town; new job or no new job, he could have stayed around for a few days, tried to contact me. Probably he just needed time to think, and now he’s calmed down and thought about it, he sees that starting a family together is not such a crazy idea after all.

  I put the envelope back in my bag, unopened.

  The afternoon passes in a flurry of paperwork, and with Velma off duty at six, I spend the last two hours drinking tea with the residents in the lounge. Edie smiles and pats my arm, but keeps our discussion to herself. At least there’s someone I can definitely trust around here.

  At the end of my shift I hang around until Martha says, ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ to which I respond with a grimace and a pointed, ‘No, actually. Not really.’

  I make the short journey back to Termite Towers with a heavy heart. When I pull up outside, I check my phone for missed calls or messages. No calls, but there is a text from Lipsy: Hope UR OK. Call me 2nite xx. I sigh, put the phone away, and trudge up the broken concrete path to the place I now call home.

  I open Paul’s letter the minute I’ve closed the door to my bedsit.

  When I finish reading it, I read it over. And then I read it again. In a minute, when my heart has stopped pounding, I plan to take the sheet of paper – white, A4 business paper, folded carefully into thirds and placed in a business-style envelope – and rip it to pieces. And then I plan to walk calmly down the corridor to the bathroom and flush the pieces down the toilet. And then, most likely, throw up on top of it. But this time it won’t be the baby’s fault.

  Chapter 12

  First thing Monday morning I call Bonnie. There’s no point putting it off any longer. Telling Edie yesterday broke my silence; if my family aren’t judging me – if an eighty-four-year-old woman who barely knows me isn’t judging me – then there’s no need to keep it to myself anymore.

  When she answers the phone, Bonnie sounds far away – which she is, of course, but her voice sounds as though it’s been shrunk.

  ‘Bonnie? Is that you?’

  ‘Stella!’ she squeaks. ‘It’s so good to hear your voice.’

  ‘Well, it would be kinda good to hear yours too. What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, I’m having a peel. I can’t put the phone to my ear because my entire face is covered in bandages.’

  I look at the phone in bewilderment, then pop it back to my ear. ‘You’re having a facial peel? You?’

  ‘It’s for the wedding,’ she explains. As if that, in fact, explains anything.

  ‘So the plans are going well?’ I’m shouting now, which is something I don’t like doing indoors; the walls in Termite Towers are paper-thin and I’m sure Stephan can hear every word.

  ‘Yes, spiffing.’

  Spiffing?

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, smiling in spite of myself, ‘can you please put my real friend on the phone? The one you’ve abducted and replaced with this odd creature who talks like a nineteenth century gent and is having her skin surgically removed.’

  God, it feels so good to talk to Bonnie. Crazier than I am, always off on some adventure, keeping it light. If she was here in the room with me right now I might well hug her to death.

  ‘It’s so competitive over here, Stella,’ she squeaks. ‘All the women are TV show perfect. I’ve got to keep up somehow.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, sorry, I really want to talk to Bonnie. You don’t even sound like her. She’s Scottish, you know. Oh,’ I slap my head with my palm, ‘I get it! You’re having a face transplant. It’s worse than I thought – give me back my friend!’

  Bonnie starts to laugh then lets out a piercing shriek. ‘Oh my God, don’t do that, Stella. I cannot laugh, it’s agony.’ At least some of her accent is creeping back in, I’m gratified to hear.

  ‘I’d better go, Stella, they’re signalling that it’s time to have this rubbed off.’

  Ouch!

  ‘I’ll call you in half an hour, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say gloomily, and end the call.

  I spend the enforced half an hour sitting on my bed staring at the wall. There is nothing to do in this room. I don’t even have a TV. Lipsy said I should take the one out of her and Robert’s room, but I declined. Filling this place with home comforts would make it feel too permanent. I really do hope Lipsy and Robert get on their feet soon and decide to rent their own place. Maybe I figure if I slouch around looking pathetic enough, they’ll take pity on me and move out. Give me my real life back. But there is a certain poetic justice to this situation: if I needed a way to punish myself for the mess I’ve made of everything, living in this grotty bedsit certainly fits the bill.

  By the time Bonnie calls back I’m glum again, and when I tell her the reason why, she responds with typical Bonnie bluntness.

  ‘Stella, you are a right stupid cow, do you know that?’

  Sometimes you need to hear it, sometimes you don’t. This is a don’t occasion.

  ‘And you’re living where? Are you insane?’

  I tell Bonnie about the baby, which shuts her up for a few seconds.

  ‘But Stella,’ she says, thankfully now talking directly into the phone like a normal person, ‘if you’d just come out and told the guy, he would never have said all that horrible stuff.’

  Which is almost word for word what Edie said. Maybe Edie could be the new Bonnie in my life. I imagine going clubbing with Edie, her wearing one of Bonnie’s sequinned outfits, standing against the bar of Oceana with a cocktail in her hand.

  Maybe not.

  ‘That is exactly the point,’ I repeat, wearily.

  And then Bonnie surprises me. She says, ‘It’s all that Sharon’s fault.’

  I sit up, interested.

  ‘Sharon? What’s she got to do with it?’

  Bonnie’s voice from across the Atlantic is clear and authoritative. ‘Think about it, Stella. If it hadn’t been for Sharon getting pregnant and then Paul and her splitting up over it, you would never have been worried about his reaction to your fantastic news.’

  ‘You really think it’s fantastic news?’ I ask, touched. So far most people have reacted to the news of the baby as a problem to be overcome, a burden to be endured. Tears spring into my eyes as I think of how joyous the news of a new baby usually is, and how my baby has missed out on all this.

  But then, if I’d just come out and told everyone on that very first day, would it have all been so very different? Somehow, I don’t think so.

  ‘My best mate’s having another baby? Sure it’s fantastic news! Can I be godmother, can I, can I?’

  I nod, then realise Bonnie can’t see me down the phone. Which is just as well – the tears are flowing now, and I’m pretty ugly when I’m crying.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘how exactly is it Sharon’s fault?’

  ‘Are you crying, Stella Hill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar. OK, well, maybe not Sharon’s fault specifically – she couldn’t help getting pregnant, I guess, and she sure couldn’t help it that Paul dumped her when she found out she was. But he was pretty much a confirmed bachelor, wasn’t he, huh? Until last year, when Sharon comes back into his life and says, “Hey, fella, meet your daughter”. Must have been a shock to a guy like him.’

  I think about what she’s saying. ‘When I first found out I was pregnant, I did think about that, you know. I thought about how they split up, and how I hoped it wouldn’t happen to us. But I just pushed the thought out of my mind. I’m not Sharon. I mean, Paul and I were meant to be together.’

  Silence extends out between us as we both consider my use of the past tense.

  ‘I’m thinking that you didn’t push it that far out of your mind at all,’ Bonnie says. ‘And that maybe you figured you’d jump before you were pushed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How long did you have between finding out you were pregnant and the wedding, Stella?’

  I think for a minute. ‘Just under two w
eeks. But I couldn’t just announce it, Bonnie. Lipsy had just had her baby. I didn’t want to steal her thunder. And then Paul was going on about Hannah and their blasted holiday. He actually let Sharon go with them, you know. In a caravan. It was weird.’

  ‘It’s all getting clearer, don’t you think? He was away, leaving you to fret about his reaction, thinking about the whole Sharon thing – will history repeat itself?’

  ‘I wasn’t fretting.’

  ‘Oh, I think you were. Subconsciously.’

  Bonnie is a committed amateur psychologist. The annoying thing is, she’s usually bang on.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, reluctantly.

  ‘So, you leave it till the very last minute to tell him, and then you have to sound him out first, and then when that doesn’t go as well as you’d hoped, you jump ship.’

  I wait, knowing exactly what she’s about to say next.

  ‘Because, just maybe, you thought deep down that if you did tell him the truth, it would be him jilting you.’

  Sometimes the truth is hard to hear. And sometimes it takes a crazy Scottish lass on the other side of the world to tell it like it is.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘is your skin like really sore now?’

  Bonnie laughs. ‘Fine. Point taken. Counselling session over for today. And yes, it hurts like hell. But I look twenty years younger.’

  That would mean she looks about thirteen years old. We laugh together, as if the distance between us is no barrier at all.

  ‘I’ll fly over for the birth, Stella,’ Bonnie tells me before she hangs up.

  ‘And I’ll fly over for the wedding,’ I promise. With my three-month-old baby. The thought stops me in my tracks.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she says. ‘We’ll see.’

  *

  ‘It’s due when?’

  ‘Mid August is my best guess. Of course, without knowing the exact date of your last period, it is only a guess. They’ll be able to give you a more accurate date at your scan.’

  Which will also be sooner than I’d thought. According to my doctor, I’ve missed my twelve week appointment, and the one she’s just this moment booking will probably be nearer to the scheduled twenty week scan. By her reckoning, and based on the very embarrassing measurement of my belly a few minutes ago, I’m at least four months’ pregnant. Maybe more.

  No wonder the morning sickness has been so bad. No wonder I’m putting on so much weight.

  Seems I can’t get anything right these days.

  ‘But everything’s OK, right? With the baby? I mean, missing the scan and not seeing a midwife until now ... It’s not a problem, right?’

  My GP is a kind and sensitive woman in her late fifties. She doesn’t know me very well – I’m rarely ill – but she picks up on the anxiety in my voice.

  ‘You are perfectly healthy, Miss Hill,’ she says reassuringly. ‘Your blood pressure is fine, the baby’s heart rate sounds just right. Do you feel well? Have you had any problems?’

  I almost burst out laughing. Any problems? Where should I start?

  I tell her about the sickness and the tiredness, which she confirms is completely normal. I’m surprised to hear my blood pressure is normal, though. Who’d have thought I could sail through all this relatively unscathed.

  Health-wise, at least.

  ‘Will the father be able to attend the scan with you?’ the doctor asks, typing fast into her computer.

  Not likely. Unless some miracle occurs in the next seven days …

  I think my miracle days are over.

  ‘He might be able to,’ I tell her vaguely. ‘Depends on other commitments.’

  She prints out the appointment slip and hands it to me, smiling gently but not meeting my eyes. ‘I see by your notes you have another child, a teenage daughter?’

  I nod. I’m guessing her notes tell her a lot more besides. For instance, that the teenage daughter in question has also just become a new mum herself.

  ‘Well.’ She stands and brushes invisible specks off her tweed skirt. ‘I wish you the best of luck with everything. And if you need anything else, you know where we are.’

  Out in the reception area I’m struck momentarily by a familiar lurching of my stomach. The sickness will pass soon, she said. I’m almost at the end of that phase. Well, I’ll believe that when I see it. With Lipsy I was sick until the very last month. But I’ve come prepared: I have mints in my bag and lipstick and blusher to repair the damage to my face and my breath. By the time I emerge from the doctor’s surgery, I’m minty-fresh and ready to go.

  Which is just as well, because waiting right there on the pavement outside the surgery is my mother.

  ‘I thought we were meeting in town?’ I say, after I’ve given her a hug hello and told her how well she’s looking. Which is not a word of a lie. My mother is positively glowing.

  ‘I saw your car parked outside and thought I’d wait for you,’ she says.

  ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just passing by,’ she tells me airily.

  ‘But ... now we have two cars,’ I point out lamely. I’m thrown, finding her here. Just passing by doesn’t cut it, but I’m not sure how far I want to pry.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Stella. We can go in yours and then you drop me back here later.’ She tucks her arm through mine and guides me towards my beaten up old wreck of a car.

  ‘Well, OK. If you’re sure. Your car’s a bit more luxurious, though. Maybe we should take yours. As it’s here and all.’

  ‘But I’m rubbish at parking,’ she points out, and I laugh, noticing that her late-model Corsa is indeed parked at a very odd angle. I wouldn’t like to be parked next to it, that’s for sure.

  Her invitation to meet for lunch totally caught me off guard. She’s hardly spoken to me since the non-wedding; apart from bumping into her when I’m looking after Phoenix she might as well have left the country. I saw the invitation as an olive branch. It might just mean she’s forgiven me for ruining her big day as the mother of the bride. Because it was, of course, all about her.

  I was tempted to say no. I hardly get any time to myself these days, and I’m completely run off my feet. When I’m not working I’m looking after Phoenix – in effect I have two full-time jobs. Lipsy went back to work earlier than any of us expected, claiming it was her right ‘as a woman’ to return to her job the way any man would. I can’t argue with her logic, but I can – and do – argue with her expectation that I will work as an unpaid childminder for the foreseeable future.

  ‘It’s good practice for you, Mum,’ she tells me whenever I complain, wafting perfume around her head or plastering on her lipstick. Then, with a kiss for Phoenix and another for me, she skips out of the door, the very epitome of the twenty-first century, have-it-all woman.

  As my mother straps herself in and checks her hair in the passenger mirror, I take a deep breath and say, ‘So, you were at the doctors too, were you?’ and brace myself for the response. I’m not good at personal conversations with my mother. I’m trying to be better, but there’s some kind of knowledge barrier going on there. That is, I’d rather not delve too deeply into her problems because they always seem to have a way of turning into my problems. It sounds selfish. It is selfish. It’s also completely and unfortunately true.

  She’s been better since Dad came home, though. And the two of them seem happier than ever before, so I can’t complain, can I? Even if they are almost too happy, like a pair of lovebirds on heat.

  ‘No,’ she says, clearly lying through her teeth. ‘I was just passing. Like I said.’

  I give her a kiss on the cheek – a reward for having the decency to lie to me and keep me out of whatever it is she’s up to. With my mum and dad it’s best to operate on a need-to-know basis, and most of the time I really don’t need to know.

  Lunch is pancakes in John Lewis’s cafe, sitting on the glass-fronted balcony watching Milton Keynes’ dedicated shoppers file past underneath.

  ‘You want to go easy,’ my mot
her says, watching me pour sugar on top of my pancake. ‘All that eating for two stuff isn’t true, you know. With your build, not to mention your age, you’ll have a hell of a job getting the extra weight off when the baby’s born.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else, shall we?’ I answer through gritted teeth. ‘How are you and Dad getting on?’

  ‘You’re really interested?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ I’m hurt that she’s so surprised. ‘Of course I’m interested, Mum. I want you both to be happy. You know that.’

  She smiles radiantly and pats my hand. ‘Oh, we are. We are. Very happy. You know,’ she says, her eyes going all dreamy and unfocused, ‘he’s a different man since he came out of prison.’

  ‘Shh,’ I tell her, looking around the cafe.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of him, Stella, and neither should you be.’

  I glare at her across the table. ‘I’m not ashamed. But neither do I want to discuss prison in the middle of John Lewis.’

  She shrugs, and carries on. ‘Well, he’s a changed man. More attentive. More loving. And in the bedroom department–’

  ‘So, how’s your pancake?’ I blurt out. Anything but the bedroom department, please!

  ‘You’re such a prude,’ she laughs. ‘We’re not ancient, Stella. We do still have sex, you know.’

  ‘OK, then. This is just getting weird now. I’m not having this conversation, so either change the subject or I’m leaving.’

  ‘Oh, Stella,’ my mum sighs, but at least she’s stopped talking about sex. Oh no, I spoke too soon.

  ‘Well, if you must know, that was why I was at the doctor’s this morning.’

  I’m groaning now. A great, long groan, with my legs stretched out under the table and my head thrown back in the uncomfortable chair. Why, oh why do I fall into this situation every time? I try to block out her voice but it isn’t easy. Certain words get through. ‘Drying up’ are two that I can’t escape from, and ‘lubricant’ is another. ‘There’s lots you can do about it, according to the nurse,’ she says defensively, as though I’ve implied there isn’t.