Babyville (16 page)

“Because I'm pregnant.”

“Congratulations.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, I'm not sure what else I should be saying.”

“Neither am I, Mark, but some kind of emotion would be nice. Look, I'm not expecting you to take responsibility and I certainly don't want you to pay, but I just thought you ought to know, because you told me that night that you were infertile and—”

“What?” Mark whispers, as pale as a sheet.

“What do you mean, ‘What'?”

Mark shakes his head, clearly in shock. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm. Pregnant.” I enunciate as clearly as I can. “And. You're. The. Father.”

His eyes widen, his mouth opens and—Christ, I feel guilty about this—an expression of pure joy crosses his face. But only for a second.

He's back to looking wary. “Are you sure?”

“Mark, I haven't slept with anyone else in months. I'm sure.”

And then, before I even know what's happening, he's jumped up, come around the table and put his arms around me.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, putting his hand on my stomach as I start to feel sick for the very first time in my pregnancy. “Oh my God. That's my child. Growing in there is my child.”

And with those words his eyes well up, tears of joy threatening to roll down his cheeks as he blinks them back.

How on earth am I supposed to do this?

Gently I disentangle his arms from around my stomach, and as he goes to sit down again, his whole face beaming, I don't know how I can do this to a man who is so patently, so obviously, good.

But do this I must.

“How long have you known?” Mark cannot wipe the smile off his face. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I'm nine weeks pregnant,” I say, “and I'm telling you because you have a right to know you're not infertile. But.” I falter but I keep going. “Mark, I'm not ready to have a baby.”

A pause.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I can't have this baby. That it wouldn't have been fair to hide it from you, but that you need to know I'm planning an abortion.” He visibly flinches but I carry on. “I have a consultation tomorrow with a clinic, but I imagine the operation will be done within the next couple of weeks. I'd feel happier having it done before the twelve-week mark, at any rate.”

Mark is silent.

“Mark? Mark? Come on, Mark. Think about it. You and I hardly know each other, and it's not fair to bring a child into this world without two loving parents. This isn't right.”

“We could be together,” Mark says quickly. “I know we hardly know each other, but we could try. I know enough about you to know that I like you, that maybe we'd be in with a chance.”

“And what about Julia?”

“You're going to think I'm just saying this because of the baby”—already I'm uncomfortable with him referring to “the baby”—“but Julia leaving has been the best thing that's ever happened to me. I feel as if the cloud that's been following me round has gone. And it's not Julia's fault, it's both of us, together. We weren't happy, and we weren't right for each other, not anymore. Probably not ever.”

He sighs sadly, lost in memories for a while, then he continues. “We'd grown so far apart we couldn't find a way back, but neither of us was willing to accept it.”

“Does Julia know that it's over?”

“I imagine so. She's called me a couple of times, either leaving a message when I'm out, or ringing as she's rushing out to meet someone, do something. She sounded so much lighter. Happier. Like the Julia of old.” Mark looks at me. “But that's got nothing to do with us. We could try.”

“Mark.” My voice is gentle as I reach out and take his hand, squeezing it to impress the point, to make him understand. “I don't want a child. I don't like babies. Stores like Mothercare make me break out in hives and the thought of having a screaming infant in my house is enough to make my blood run cold. I can't do this. I'm a career woman, not a mother. I'm just not the type.”

“But this is my child too,” Mark says. “I've waited for this child for years.”

“And now you need to wait some more, to have a child with someone else.”

“You don't understand. My child is here. Our child. You're carrying our child. You can't just take the decision to destroy it because I may or may not create another child with someone else.”

“But it's my body.” I'm starting to get stressed, emotional, and I can already feel tears of frustration welling up. “It's my body and I'm not ready to give it up. Nor am I ready to deal with the responsibility of a child.”

“What if I take on the responsibility? What if I have the child, raise the child? You could carry on doing whatever you're doing. Christ, you could even be back at work a couple of weeks afterward.”

I'm so tired I haven't got the energy to argue with him anymore, and Mark sees the chink in my armor and dives in.

“Look, all I'm saying is think about it. At the very least cancel the appointment tomorrow to give us both a bit more time. Even a week. A couple of weeks. Let's take a bit of time so that when we make a final decision we know it's the right one. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life regretting your decision to have an abortion, when you didn't give yourself a chance to consider the other options.”

“I'm too tired to argue with you,” I sigh as our food arrives. “I'll cancel the appointment tomorrow, but I don't want to wait longer than a week. I just want my life to be back to normal again.”

Mark lifts his wineglass and shoots me a grin, and in his grin there is delight. Excitement, anticipation, and delight.

“Am I allowed to make a toast?” he says tentatively.

“Not if you're going to toast the baby,” I shoot back defensively.

“No. To us.”

“To us,” I echo warily, clinking his glass gently.

Mark is charming, funny, and protective. He treats me rather like an invalid throughout the lunch, and although, under normal circumstances, this would be enough to make me walk out in fury, right now, given my fragile state, this is exactly what I need.

And Viv would love him. Love him.

Jesus Christ. What the hell have I got myself into.

16

How did this happen?
It is three weeks since my first lunch with Mark, three weeks since I told him I was not prepared to wait longer than a week to have an abortion, and at an absolute push I would wait until the twelfth week, but that by week twelve I would be babyless.

And here I am. Twelve weeks pregnant. My resolve is weakening.

How did this happen?

I'll tell you how this happened.

Friday
afternoon, the day after I had told Mark the news, I was sitting at my desk, finalizing the schedules of
Loved Up
. The office was quiet as it so often is on a Friday afternoon, my researchers conjuring up recces and interviews, disappearing with a cheery wave at 3
P.M.
I know they're all heading off to the pub, but I have learned to be lenient in order to be popular, and God knows I need every ounce of popularity now.

I finished the schedules and tipped my chair back, closing my eyes for a few minutes because this tiredness sweeps over me in waves, and although all I can think of is sleep, I know that a few minutes of resting my eyes will enable me to make it through the rest of the day.

And no more sojourns to the company bar for me. The only thing that seems to float my boat after work these days is a large bowl of pasta, a chunky bar of chocolate, a hot bath, and bed. Last night I dragged the television into the doorway of the bedroom, and what a complete pleasure it was to climb into bed at ten past eight and snuggle up under the duvet to the dulcet tones of Jackie Corkhill.

So Friday afternoon there I was, in my office, eyes closed, and indulging in a fantasy involving Cookies 'n' Cream ice cream and an electric blanket, when my reverie was interrupted by a knock on my already open door. I opened my eyes to see Mark standing there with a bag from Books Etc.

“Hi.” He hovered awkwardly until I smiled and gestured to the chair, and he shut the door for privacy before sitting down.

“Hi yourself.” I was surprised at how pleased I was to see him. I found there was, is, something immensely calm and reassuring about his presence. Although I would never have said that the night of Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza. Calm and reassuring were not the words I would have used to describe him that night. The night of conception.

Christ. I hadn't thought of that. Imagine if I did have a baby. Imagine them asking where they were conceived and having to explain that no, it wasn't in the Cipriani in Venice, or the George V in Paris. It was in a dirty, seedy alleyway in Soho, and it lasted all of five minutes. A fantastic five minutes, but five minutes nevertheless.

All the more reason not to have this baby.

“I just wondered how you were feeling.” Mark laid the bag on the desk, and I eyed it curiously. “Although now I think you might actually be a bit pissed off.” He frowned, seeing me looking suspiciously at the bag. “In fact I think I've done something really stupid and maybe I should take the books back and leave right now.” He moved to take the bag but I grabbed it and pulled out two books.

The Pregnancy Question and Answer Book
and
What Does My Baby Look Like Today?

Oh.

“Shit. I'm sorry,” Mark said warily. “I thought that since we haven't made a decision, just in case you do decide to keep the baby you might want to know some stuff.”

“Like what kind of stuff?”

“Like the kind of stuff you shouldn't be eating.”

“Such as?” I don't even know why I bothered to ask.

“Sushi. Unpasteurized meat and cheese. Liver . . .”

“I see you've become quite the expert.”

“I knew I shouldn't have done it,” he sighed. “I'll take them back.”

“No. Wait. I want to show you something.” I flicked through
What Does My Baby Look Like Today?,
and found exactly what I was looking for. A picture of a baby at nine weeks. A blob. A nothing. “That”—I turned the book around and pushed it over the desk to Mark—“is what the baby looks like.”

It didn't have the desired effect. Mark shook his head. “Incredible,” he said in awe, while I sighed and wondered how he could think a shapeless blob that resembles nothing very much could be incredible.

“Would you look at the books?” he said finally. “Just the early stuff about keeping yourself healthy. Just in case.”

“Okay.” I nodded, knowing I'd drop them in the nearest dustbin outside the tube. “Sure. I can do that.”

“So what are you up to this weekend?” His tone was too fake-casual for my liking.

“A party tonight. The pub tomorrow afternoon with friends, then a club in the evening. I think Sunday I'll take it easy and stay at home with a few beers.”

He looked horrified. “You are joking?”

“Of course I'm bloody joking. I'm exhausted. My idea of a good night right now involves a bottle of bubble bath and bed by 10
P.M.
” I didn't tell him it was actually bed by 8
P.M.
I didn't want to sound too sad.

“Do you, um. Well, I thought maybe we could go out or something? I could take you for dinner tomorrow night.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.”

“What's wrong?”

“Mark, you don't have to patronize me by pretending to be interested in me because I'm carrying your child, and nor do you have to waste your time trying to be nice to me in the hope that you'll bring me round to your way of thinking. I don't want a relationship and I don't want a baby. And going out for dinner with you isn't going to bloody well change that. Do you understand?”

“Sure.” He stood up, his face hard. “I understand perfectly well.” And without saying another word he turned and left the office, leaving me feeling like shit. Once again.

That
afternoon Sam the post boy dropped off the internal mail.

“Feels like a big one,” he said with a cheeky grin, dropping a large, heavy envelope onto my desk.

I opened it up to find two bottles of Crabtree and Evelyn bubble bath with a note attached: “Maeve. I wasn't trying to patronize you. Enjoy your bath. (Not too hot and no gin . . . ) Mark.”

Good. No “Love.'' That I don't think I could have handled.

 “You
know people will start to talk,” I said to Mark two weeks after that, when I agreed to meet him for a drink in the bar at lunchtime. (Mark: half a lager. Me: Highland Spring.)

Mark laughed. “They'll be saying we're having an affair.”

“Better that than we're having a baby.”

He looked up sharply. “Are we? Are you ready to talk about it yet?”

“Not yet. But soon. We can talk about it soon,” and I stopped as Mark reached over and pulled something out of my hair. Just a piece of lint, but it unnerved me, this gesture that was too intimate for work colleagues, and I suddenly realized quite what a bizarre situation this was.

There I was, sitting with a man I barely knew, but who I had fucked, albeit briefly. I have no clue who he is. I know neither his likes nor his dislikes. I don't know if he's lazy or sporty or confident or shy.

Yet I am carrying his child.

I have always prided myself on being a good judge of character, and I would have said that Mark is your average nice guy, with nicer-than-average looks, for I know that he is really rather handsome, even though his looks have no effect on me.

I would have guessed that he lives in a large house (for I know what these lawyers earn), and that he loves art and books, and collects something, perhaps original newspaper cartoons, perhaps maps, but that everything in his life is ordered, tidy, beautifully presented.

I would have assumed that he went to a minor public school, and that while there he learned a musical instrument. Possibly violin. And that he went on to Bristol, or Durham, and that his first major buy after graduating was a classic sports car: a Triumph Stag or an MGB.

“Why are you smiling at me like that? Now people really will start to talk.” Mark's voice broke my train of thought, and I realized I was gazing at him with a half-smile on my face, trying to figure out who he was.

“Sorry. I just, I was just thinking what a ridiculous situation this is. That I'm pregnant with your child but I know nothing about you.”

“Tell you what,” he said, smiling, “I'm not patronizing you, but why don't you come over on Sunday? Come to my house and spend the day. Find out”—and he injected a Scooby-style spookiness into his voice that made me laugh—“who I really am.”

“Okay,” I said, surprising myself. “I will.”

“Okay.” Mark finished the last of his lager. “Good.”

That
night, as I walked into my flat, the phone was ringing. “How are you, love?” It was Viv.

“I'm fine. How are you?”

“Never mind about me. Have you made a decision yet?”

“Viv, I told you that I'd tell you as soon as I'd decided. We'd decided. Don't push me. Please.” But I was nearly twelve weeks, that deadline was looming, and yet all I could do was procrastinate. Why hadn't I just done it? Because I didn't want to think about it, that's why. Much less talk about it. To Viv or anyone else. I was still hoping it would all go away.

“I'm not pushing you. I just wanted to check you were okay. I thought maybe you'd like to come up and spend the day here on Sunday.”

“I can't. I'm busy.”

“Busy? You? On a Sunday? Really?”

Her tone was so incredulous I started to laugh. “If I tell you where I'm going, promise you won't get too excited.”

She caught her breath. “If you tell me you're going to interview Alan Bates, I may well have to kill myself.”

“Viv! I'm going to Mark's house. For lunch.”

She caught her breath again and this time I knew it was for real. “Mark as in the Father, Mark?”

“No, Viv. Mark as in the man who got me pregnant.” The Father personalized it. I couldn't think of him as the Father, and I certainly didn't want Viv thinking of him as the Father; I didn't want to cause Viv any more pain than I absolutely had to.

“That's what I meant.” She took a few breaths, trying to calm down, but I could hear in her voice that she was smiling. I could hear her hope, her expectations. “How lovely,” she said, attempting a brisk tone. “Can he cook, then?” By which she meant, will he be a good husband?

“I have no idea,” I said. “But I assume he won't be serving crisps and sandwiches.”

“Nothing wrong with crisps and sandwiches,” Viv said quickly. “A man who can cook is a bonus, not a necessity.”

“A man, period, is unnecessary,” I said firmly. “He's just trying to get me to keep the baby.”

“Do you think you might?”

“Viv! How many times do I have to tell you? I haven't made up my mind.” We said good-bye and I gazed into space for a few minutes, because two weeks ago I had made up my mind. Two weeks ago I was going to have an abortion and carry on with my life as if this had never happened. And now I didn't know.

When did a doubt creep in? How could I possibly think that I have any alternative? Why had I not been able to reschedule an appointment at the abortion clinic?

What am I thinking?

Sunday
is one of those fantastic cold, crisp days when the sun is shining brightly out of an ice-blue sky, and you look out your window and know that spring is very nearly here and you can't remember what was so depressing about winter after all.

Stella keeps asking me how I feel. Stella who has become frighteningly close in a frighteningly short space of time.

She was here yesterday afternoon. Just popping in on her way back from a shopping trip in the West End, just checking that I was okay. She brought with her half the contents of the M & S food department, and ended up staying most of the evening.

We dipped into dips and exchanged our stories. Shared our secrets. Laughed over linguine and bonded over banana-toffee pie.

“I miss this,” Stella said wistfully as we both scraped our fingers around our bowls, ensuring that not a scrap of banana or toffee would be left.

“What? Staying in on a Saturday night, eating like a pig, and feeling like a beached whale?”

“Well, yes, clearly I miss that too.” We both laughed. “But I'm talking about this kind of female friendship. I miss the ease of girlfriends. I miss the comfort of being able to come over to someone's house, like this, and not having to worry about what you look like or what you talk about. I'm not saying you're my best friend—”

“Careful,” I warned, but I was smiling, because I felt exactly the same way. “Stalker alert.”

“Now you're definitely not my best friend. Stalker indeed,” she huffed. “But I miss having a best friend. Do you know what I mean?”

“My best friend was always my mum.”

“God, you're joking. I hate my mum. We can hardly bear to stay in the same room together.”

“My mum's great. She really is my best friend. And I suppose my only real friend who's a woman. Close friend, that is, because I've got female friends,” I said quickly, knowing that it wasn't really true, “but I haven't got a confidante, not here in London, and I hadn't realized until tonight how much I'd missed it too.”

“It's good to be a woman,” Stella laughed, raising her glass. “To the Sisterhood.”

“To the Sisterhood. And to friendship.”

I went to bed with a smile on my face, enveloped in warmth and intimacy, feeling that being pregnant might not be the worst thing ever to have happened to me. Feeling that, in fact, my life really wasn't so bad after all.

And
now today, the sun is shining and I'm feeling good, looking forward to doing something different, even if I'm not sure about spending the day with Mark. What if we have nothing in common? What if we have nothing to talk about?

So what! I admonish myself. I'm not checking him out to see if he is suitable partner material. I'm just trying to get to know him a little before he and I make the most important decision of my life.

That's all.

 “Did
you find it okay?” Mark opened the door and I started to laugh because he was wearing an apron—he was actually wearing an apron!—but he refused to take it off and I rather liked the fact that he wasn't embarrassed by such a ridiculous item of clothing, even if it was a masculine navy and black stripe.