The Ice Marathon (8 page)

“I don’t own you!” I laughed. In all honesty, I was dreading
his ten-day excursion to the southern hemisphere. Nicky and Dave were great,
but at the end of the day, they weren’t the baby’s father and I didn’t feel
comfortable asking them for help with some of the bigger things on my mind.

What if, God forbid, our baby had a physical problem that
the ultrasound missed? What special treatment would he need? Would he even live
to see Simon return from Antarctica?

My fears weren’t limited to the baby’s health. If my mood
didn’t stabilise, how would I be able to raise even a healthy baby? What if I
couldn’t cope? What if I needed somebody to change him in the night, or give
him a bottle while I was sleeping?

Then I remembered that Simon wouldn’t be able to do those
things either. He had a job to go to and even though he’d helped me find a
house close to his, he was still a car drive away. I tried to smile.

“Obviously, if the baby’s late, I won’t go. I’m not missing
the birth for the world.”

“Wait, you want to be at the birth?”

He looked suddenly concerned. “Unless you don’t want me
there.”

I surprised myself by looking straight into his eyes and
saying, “No, actually, I think I do.”

* * *

The morning of the birth was nothing special – just an
ordinary cold November day with patchy cloud and a bracing breeze. No harp
playing, no glittering storks flying through the air, not even a full sun. How
could a day so bland deliver the most remarkable event of my life?

Likewise, how could that sex, that peculiar, aggressive,
careless sex, have resulted in something so profoundly beautiful, in every
single way? Somebody so well formed that it was hard to believe that any part
of his creation was down to chance. He seemed like the most intentional thing
in the world. How could any new human have happened by mistake, let alone one
so perfect?

The birth was as straightforward as pushing seven pounds
through your vagina could ever hope to be. The pain dragged on and on for what
felt like days. Towards the end, I actually felt I might pass out.

And then there was Joseph.

At first, he looked oily and slimy like a gremlin cocoon.
But then the doctor wrapped him in a cloth and put him in my arms. He had ten
perfect little fingers and ten perfect little toes. A cute horizontal line
indented his squashy nose. He opened his wet eyelids and there were his eyes –
shiny and blue like his father’s. When they looked up at me, so bright and
twinkling, I knew instinctively that there was nothing wrong with my son. He
was perfect.

Simon, who was still wearing the shirt and suit trousers
that he’d put on for work, shuffled forward and moved the swaddling cloth so
that he could get a proper look at his son’s face. Instinctively, Joseph
reached out and grabbed onto his father’s finger. I heard Simon gasp. His eyes
widened. He looked at me and laughed with delight then looked back at his son.
It was a moment that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

Simon choked on his words. He tried again, “Ah, he’s
rubbish,” he joked. “And so ugly.”

I smiled. “He takes after his father then.”

Simon chuckled. He grabbed his camera and was about to take
a picture, when suddenly he stopped smiling, and looked deep in thought. I was
worried for a moment. Eventually, he spat out, “You don’t want me to marry you,
do you?”

I laughed out loud, and then, just to check he knew I’d
noticed the joke, I said the words, “Ha ha.” Then, for good measure, I added,
“Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. Well, maybe I am about the marriage part.
But you don’t think … you don’t think that perhaps … You and me
should try and … well … you know … make a go of it?” Then he
quickly added, “I mean for Joseph’s sake, obviously.”

“But we hate each other!” I laughed.

“Do we?” he asked, studying me carefully.

Before I could make sense of what he was trying to say,
Nicky came rushing through the door, carrying at least five bags of shopping.
She dropped them all in an instant, creating a clatter that suggested
breakages.

“Oh my God!” she cried, rushing forward. I felt a brief pang
of guilt. I knew how much Nicky wanted a baby, and here I was popping one out
unplanned.

“We’re going to call him Joseph,” I told her.

“Oh!” she said, tapping him on his little nose. “It’s
perfect. Such a lovely gesture. Wait ‘til I tell Dave. He’ll be over the moon.”

“Sorry!” said Simon, holding up his phone. “Already texted
him, and Joe’s mum.”

“Aw!” sung Nicky, clutching her heart. “I bet she was
touched.”

“Delighted.”

I looked at my little boy and joked, “No pressure, but your
father and your namesake are both marathon runners.”

“So, how much does …” Suddenly, Nicky’s phone began to
ring. “Sorry! Sorry! I’ll be right back!” she whispered, and hurried out of the
room.

“I’m going to cancel my flight,” said Simon, quickly.

“No, you’re not. You’ve been training for this for months.
It means the world to you.”

“But …”

“Plus, it cost thousands of pounds.”

“Most of that was corporate sponsorship.”

“And they’re just going to hand over the money even if you
don’t do it, are they?”

“It’s too soon!”

“It’s in two weeks, and you’ll be back in no time,” I told
him, forcing myself to smile. I looked down at baby Joseph. Could I do this
beautiful boy justice by myself? Four months ago, I didn’t even know he existed
and now he was here in my arms needing food, love and continuous attention.

Above all, I worried about what I would do if I became
depressed or manic. At such times, I could barely look after myself. Still, at
least I had Simon’s parents now. Judy, particularly, seemed lovely and she’d
been so supportive when I’d had that relapse.

“Let’s see how things go,” Simon conceded. “There’s no need
to make a decision today.”

“All right,” I agreed. “Let’s see how things go.”

Simon started fiddling with his camera again. I hadn’t seen
it before.

“I didn’t know you were into photography?”

“Oh, I don’t know how to use it,
yet
…”

The next thing I knew, Simon’s mum had entered the room, she
hurried over at such speed that she only just managed to stop when she got to
the bed.

“Hello Judy,” I said with a smile.

“How is he?” she asked, bounding towards me with enthusiasm
and reaching towards him. For a moment, I thought she was going to lift him out
of my arms, but she just held his little hands in hers.

“He’s perfect,” I told her. “Would you like to hold him?”

Her eyes became glassy. “Yes please,” she squeaked.

I noticed that Simon’s father, Gerald, had entered too. He
watched from the side of the room, expressionless like a potato.

“There will be more tests, but so far the signs are
positive,” explained Simon.

Gerald frowned.

“He’s healthy!” I told him. “I just
know
.”

He continued to scowl.

Simon snapped away with his new camera, making very
professional-sounding shutter and clicking noises.

“Would you like one with you in?” Judy asked him.

He looked uneasy for a moment.

“Come on!” said Judy, “Of course you want to be pictured
with your new family.”

This was awkward. I’d never had my picture taken with Simon
before. We just weren’t that … close. Now here we were, being photographed
together for the first time, with our baby. It felt somewhat surreal.

“I do, yes,” said Simon. “It’s just that it’s a very
expensive camera.”

“I’ll be careful,” Judy assured him, shooting me an amused
glance. She practically had to prise the camera out of his hands.

Simon put an arm around me and we smiled for the photo. It
felt as though Joseph and I had intruded on somebody else’s family scene. Now
we would be immortalised in the Moran family album, and I hardly knew these
people.

Judy asked, “Have you chosen a name?”

I let Simon tell her. “Joseph.”

“Oh!” she said, clutching her heart as Nicky had done.
“That’s lovely.”

Then, she turned to me. “And how are you?”

“I feel … healthy,” I told her. And I did, I really
did.

Chapter 9

It may be hiding, but I knew it was there. A horrible, blood
curdling, face prickling, heart-rate-accelerating beast. A beast in my airing
cupboard. I had seen one before – lots of them in fact – but not one this bad.
Where was that big, black, hairy, frightening house spider?

My thoughts immediately turned to Joseph – what if the
hideous creature crawled onto my baby – my beautiful baby! I shuddered. I had
to call Simon.

Wait! What was I thinking? It was quarter past one in the
morning. You don’t call the father of your five-day-old child out in the middle
of the night because of a spider. No matter how much it made my skin crawl, it
was just a spider.

I decided to go back to bed. Joseph had settled and I should
be grateful for this chance to catch up on my sleep. I hurried back into the
bedroom, checking my footing as I went. That particular bastard spider may be
hiding in the airing cupboard but who knew how many might be lurking elsewhere
in the house?

I couldn’t settle. A wisp of my red hair tickled my face. I
leapt. My skin prickled all over. I had a nasty vision of creepy crawlies
scuttling all over me. Seconds later, I turned the light on.

Calling Simon would almost certainly be a mistake. It may be
a Saturday but he’d already lost enough sleep this week – there had been my
labour and then two nights staying over to help with Joseph.

Maybe I could just text – a text would be unlikely to wake
him if he were fast asleep, and it sounded less demanding than a call. Yes, a
text would be just fine.

But what could I say? ‘Help! Spider in the house’ sounded
insane. It might make him think I was in a dark place and although I was
jittery, I was far from clinically depressed.

Eventually, I decided upon ‘Can’t sleep. Don’t suppose you
want to evict a spider for me?’ That was to-the-point without being demanding.

As soon as I sent it, I felt stupid. It was just a silly
little spider and it was the middle of the night. I was a mother now. I had to
be mature.

I was stunned when, thirty seconds later, Simon replied to
say, ‘I’ll be right over.’

* * *

By the time he arrived, I felt even more ridiculous. The
energy saving light bulb had fully warmed up and my surroundings were now
bright, cheerful and felt entirely harmless.

“Where is it?” he asked, smiling. He appeared to be wearing
a pyjama top and jeans. His brown hair was scruffy, which I found I rather
liked – it looked much cuter than its ordinary orchestrated style.

“In the hall – airing cupboard,” I told him. “It’s fine.
It’s probably gone out of the window now.”

“What’s a spider doing in an airing cupboard? I thought they
liked damp.”

“It likes tormenting me, that’s what!”

“Would you like me to look for it?”

“Would you?”

Much scrambling and laundry churning later, we concluded
that the spider had moved on. This did disturb me – where had it moved to?
Still, at least if Simon were here, I’d have someone to call if it showed its
face and eye-stalks again.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Yes, in a way. But I don’t think I could sleep.” I was
going to add ‘my heart’s racing’ but thought it made me sound melodramatic.

“I’ve brought over a DVD if you fancy watching that?”

“What is it?”

“
Coupling
. The episode where Patrick visits Sally in
the middle of the night to save her from a spider,” he said with a mocking
chuckle.

I laughed. “Would that be with or without Peter
Serafinowicz?”

“Shut it!” he said, jabbing me in the ribs.

Five minutes later, we were sitting together on the sofa
with mugs of hot chocolate.

Simon flicked on the television. We were immediately greeted
by the orange tones of Larry the Lion. It appeared to be some form of premature
Christmas special. What was a kids’ show doing on at this time of night anyway?

“Change the channel,” I commanded. I certainly did not want
to be reminded of the night we met – at least, not
that
part …

“I want to watch it,” he said, defiantly.

“Really?”

“Okay, no, not really.”

Before Simon could change the channel, Darko the Duck
waddled onto the screen carrying a rose.

“That doesn’t mean he’s in love with him!” I cried.

“I love you Larry the Lion,” quacked Darko.

Oh crap, I’m never going to hear the end of this.

Simon started laughing and jabbed me in the ribs. “See, what
did I tell you?” He started to tickle me.

“All right, all right,” I conceded. “Maybe the duck is gay.”

We laughed for a few moments. How trivial that argument
seemed now, in light of everything that had happened between us. Simon suddenly
looked serious. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” I asked, immediately concerned.

“I’m not a Tory.”

“You’re not?” I asked, privately delighted.

“No. Never was, never will be.”

“Oh.” This was good news.

“So do you like me now?”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” I laughed.

I was surprised when Simon put an arm around me, and further
surprised when I fell back into his embrace. I told myself that I was too tired
to think straight. The
Coupling
episode began. As it happened, I
could
sleep. Before I knew it, I’d drifted off.

At five, I awoke confused about the arms that seemed to be
around me and the warmth of my back pressing against another person. I
recognised Simon’s cool cologne.
Oh heck! Did something happen?
I patted
my legs – definitely clothed.
Thank goodness!
I could think of nothing
more twisted than sleeping with the father of my child.