Babyville (19 page)

“Because he's fifty-six and he still loves me,” she says simply, with a smile. “And because it's never felt right with anyone the way it did with Michael. The way it still feels now.”

“Are you going to marry him?” I ask suddenly.

She smiles. “He hasn't proposed. But we've talked about it. Maeve, are you okay?” She takes my hands in hers. “You need to know that I love him, Maeve. I've always loved him, and he's changed. We both have, but there's still something so strong between us.”

“What? Describe it?”

“He was always dangerous,” she giggles. “We always had the best times when we were together, and I always felt he understood me better than anyone. I understood him too, even the danger, even though it made me nervous in those days. Rightly, I discovered. But now he's mellowed. He's steady. Stable. That element of danger has gone and he's become my rock. My best friend.”

“And you'd be ready to compromise again? To live with someone? To make concessions to their way of life?”

She shrugs. “My way of life isn't so good on my own. I've had a wonderful time bringing you up, and meeting different men, but I've also had that life for nearly thirty years. It's too long. I'm tired of doing everything on my own. I want someone else to deal with things. I want someone who can stand up to people who try to rip me off. I want someone to ring the bank when they've cocked up my statement again. I just want someone to share it all with. Can you understand that?”

I nod. Surprised.

I can.

The
doorbell rings.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Viv puts down her glass of wine and goes to the door to answer the intercom, pressing the buzzer a few moments after she's asked who it is.

We're lolling about, trying to muster up the energy to go out for supper, because there's less than no food in the house (the midwife would kill me if she saw my ketones today), and neither of us is in the mood for takeaway.

“Quick, quick,” Viv hisses, slipping her shoes on and digging her lip gloss out of her bag. “Put some makeup on. Do your hair.”

“What? What are you talking about?” It's a Friday evening and I've taken the day off work to spend with Viv, and to be honest I'm extremely happy with a makeup-free face and scraped-back hair. “Who on earth is it?”

“It's Mark,” she says, with delight, and anticipation. “Come on,” she whispers, “you don't want him to see you like that,” and Mark knocks on the door.

Viv shoots me a look of alarm as I slide over to the door in my fluffy Garfield slippers, and I grin at her as I open the door because Mark has seen me in pretty much every state imaginable, except . . . ah. Sorry. I repeat. Every state imaginable. And he doesn't care.

“It's only Mark,” I say, grinning evilly at Viv, leaning up and kissing Mark on the cheek. “What a lovely surprise. Can it be coincidence that I happened to mention on the phone today that Viv was down for the weekend?”

“Ah,” Mark says. “Funny you should say that, but I was beginning to think you were keeping me away from your mother for a reason. Hello.” He grins at her and shakes her hand. “I'm Mark. And I would say you're far too young to be Maeve's mother but that would sound terribly cheesy so I won't, even though it's true.”

Viv simpers. I make a vomiting noise. All three of us go to Pizza Express.

 “He's
wonderful!” I swear, if I didn't know better I would say my mother was floating on cloud nine. I, on the other hand, am floating on cloud seven or eight, thrilled, delighted, amazed, that my mother and Mark hit it off so well.

“Hurry up.” I wash my hands and wait for Viv to reapply her lip gloss, snatching it out of her hand when she's done and giving my own lips a quick slick.

“Changed your mind, have you?” Viv gives me a knowing smile, digging out a mascara and handing it over.

“There's no harm in trying to make a bit of an effort,” I say defensively. “Come on, Mark will think we've fallen in the toilet.”

“But he's such a good man,” Viv sighs, as we walk back up the stairs into the restaurant. “He's so warm, and solid, and lovely. And he clearly adores you.”

“And I adore him,” I say sternly, threading my way through the tables, which is not easy, given my belly. “And we're best friends and that's it. Okay?”

Viv just smiles to herself.

“Viv? Okay? Okay?”

“The lady,” she whispers under her breath as she approaches the table and pulls out her chair, tilting her head and speaking just loudly enough for me to hear, which I know was her intention, “doth protest too much, methinks.” Flashing a smile at Mark, who didn't hear a thing, or if he did, didn't know what she was talking about, she picks up a menu. “Dessert, anyone?”

The
three of us go back to the flat, and as I put my key in the lock, my heart does a huge flipflop and I turn to Viv in alarm, feeling the color drain from my face. “I locked the door, didn't I? I could have sworn I locked the door.”

Mark pushes me gently aside and takes my key. “You two stay here. Let me just check everything's okay.” He pushes open the door and goes inside, as Viv and I huddle together, terrified I've been burgled. The door slams shut and a couple of minutes later Mark opens the door, frowning.

“I think you'd better come in,” he says, and as we follow him into the living room my heart thumps so hard against my chest I think I may very well be sick. I know what to expect. Overturned chairs; emptied-out drawers; all my belongings strewn all over the floor. Oh shit. My grandmother's pearls. I kept meaning to hide them, but they were in the drawer of my bedside table. An inventory of my things flashes through my mind, and I pray they didn't find the earrings Viv gave me for my twenty-first birthday. Not that they're diamonds or anything, but the sentimental value is enormous.

Oh shit. I'm not sure I can handle this.

We walk into the living room and I stop with a gasp. Sitting on the sofa, with her head in her hands, looking absolutely terrible, is Fay. The owner of the flat. Who isn't supposed to be here for another six months.

“I thought you were in Greece?” I hear myself saying. “I know this might sound like a stupid question, but what on earth are you doing here?”

19

It wasn't such a stupid question.
It transpired that Fay had fallen head over heels in love with a hunky blond Australian she met on Paros. His name was Stu. He was an “internet entrepreneur” (at which point even Mark raised his eyebrows), and Fay decided that she was going to spend the rest of her life with him.

They did Paros, then decided to go to Santorini, where they'd heard of an Australian bar manager who was looking for a replacement. Everything was idyllic, she sobbed (for by this time the waterworks were starting), and they'd sit and watch the sunrise every morning, talking about their future.

They had a great team of young people working at the bar, and soon it became the place on the island. They worked hard and they played harder, and even though Fay knew they weren't going to manage this bar on this little Greek island forever, she thought she'd found her true love, and she'd go anywhere, do anything, for him.

Fay had decided to go back to Sydney after the summer. She would live with Stu and find a job out there. Waitressing. Nannying. Anything, just so she could stay there with him. Until she walked in and caught him in bed with Paola, one of the great team of young people.

That was on Wednesday afternoon.

“I'm so sorry,” she sobs, wiping her streaming nose and eyes with a crunched-up tissue. “I know I should have let you know but all I could think of was that I wanted to come home.”

“I understand,” I say soothingly. “But what are you going to do? Where are you going to live?”

“What do you mean?” She looks at me, uncomprehendingly, her tears already starting to dry up.

“You weren't thinking of moving straight back in here, were you?” I see that's exactly what she meant. “You can't just kick me out, Fay. I'm really sorry about your failed holiday romance”—she flinches but I ignore it—“but we agreed that I would stay here a year, and so far it's only six and a half months. Quite frankly,” I continue, “I haven't got anywhere else to go.”

“Well, neither have I,” she says, standing up and crossing her arms, staking her territory. “And it's my bloody flat. Show me your lease, then. Show me where you signed on the dotted line and said you were taking out a lease for one year.”

We didn't sign anything. We just liked each other . . . then . . . and took it on trust.

“I can't believe you're behaving like this. Can't you see I'm pregnant, for God's sake?” The hormones are once again threatening to hit, and I can feel a hot sting behind my eyes that means tears aren't far behind.

“And I can't believe you're behaving like this. Pregnancy has nothing to do with it. You're acting appallingly. It's my flat. And I'm the one who's been through hell and back.”

“Okay,” Mark says, taking control. “We don't seem to be getting anywhere, and we all need a bit of time to think about this. Why don't we sleep on it and discuss it in the morning?”

“Fine,” says Fay, turning to go into the bedroom.

“And where do you think you're bloody going?” I step sharply toward her, and block her way. Ha! At times like this a spectacularly large stomach definitely has its advantages.

Mark looks shocked. “Maeve!”

“Yes.” Fay tries to stare me down but I stand my ground. “Maeve!”

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I look at Viv for some moral support and she nods.

“I think Maeve has a point.”

“Why don't you come and stay at mine?” Mark says, looking first at me, then at Viv. “Both of you.”

“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “There's no way I'm leaving all my stuff in the flat with her here. How do I know I won't come back tomorrow and find everything destroyed?”

“Oh, for God's sake.” Fay rolls her eyes to the ceiling but I'm not budging. “In that case,” she states, “I feel exactly the same way and I'm not going anywhere either.”

“Can we just behave like adults here, please?” Mark says, completely aghast at our immaturity, but I don't care. I'm not moving.

“I am an adult,” I say petulantly. “She's the one who's behaving irresponsibly.”

“Right. How about this, then? Fay can wait in the bedroom and we'll stay in the living room and talk about what we're going to do, and that way neither of you is in danger of having their belongings trashed by the other.” I know Mark thinks we're ridiculous, but I'm six months pregnant. How dare she just come back and throw me out onto the street?

I say this to Mark when Fay disappears into the bedroom and slams the door, and he says that while he agrees with me, he also understands why Fay has behaved the way she has, and that when you have a broken heart the only place you want to be is home, and this is her home.

“But you still think she's wrong?”

“Yes,” he says, after a long silence even though I know he probably doesn't agree and he's only saying it to make me happy, but I don't very much care. “Yes, I still think she's wrong. The point, however, is that you have to find somewhere else to live.”

“Why?” My lower lip sticks out petulantly. “Why should I be the one who has to leave?”

“Because it's her flat, and because even though you can sit here and try to fight it out, you're not going to win. Maeve,” he says more gently, “my grandpa always used to tell me to pick my battles wisely. You can't fight them just for the sake of fighting them. It's too much hard work, and this is one that isn't worth fighting.”

“I agree,” Viv says. I'd forgotten she was even here.

“So where am I supposed to go?” Now the tears really do start to roll, and both Viv and Mark crouch down, rubbing my back and trying to comfort me. “I'm six months pregnant,” I start to sob, “and this is my home and now I have to find a rental agent and it will take weeks and I just can't deal with this right now. I can't fucking deal with this!” I shout to get it off my chest, and then I cry a bit, not really caring that Viv and Mark are shooting one another worried looks over my head.

“Maeve,” Mark says eventually. “I have five spare bedrooms, none of which is being used for anything other than to gather dust. It's ridiculous that we're not living together anyway, especially with all that room, and with the baby coming. I wanted to ask you before, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea, and I didn't know how you'd react.”

My tears start drying up.

“Maeve,” he continues, “as far as I'm concerned Fay turning up like this is incredibly fortuitous. You know my house almost as well as I do, and I know you're comfortable there.” He has a point. “It just makes sense for you to move in. What do you think?”

Of course it makes sense. It makes perfect sense. Except that I'd be giving up my independence. My freedom. Maybe Mark would expect me to start cooking for him, or scrubbing his bathtub out. It's already complicated, this situation. I'm pregnant by the man who's become my best friend, and if I were a different person I'd probably have fallen in love with him, but I'm not, and I haven't. But maybe that's what he'll expect if I move in with him? Maybe he'll come sneaking in to the spare room at night, and anyway, did he mean what he said about the spare room? He didn't exactly press the point and this probably isn't a good idea but then again I do love his house and I do feel at home there. Actually, I probably feel more at home there than here, but that really isn't the point. . . .

Christ. I'm exhausting myself.

“Look,” Mark says. “Even if it's only temporarily. Even if we just pack up your stuff and you spend a couple of weeks at my place while you look for something else. How does that sound?”

That sounds perfect.

“Okay,” I say. I look at Viv, who is grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “This doesn't mean anything,” I hiss, as Mark disappears into the kitchen to look for bin bags to put my stuff in. “We're just friends.”

“I know,” Viv whispers back. “But you have to admit he's pretty damn lovely.”

Well, yes. But tell me something else I didn't know.

 “What
might we do during first-stage labor?”

Mark and I have the best position in the room. Four other couples are sitting uncomfortably—everything's uncomfortable at seven months pregnant—on cushions around the edges of a bare living room, and Mark and I bagged the beanbags next to Trish, the antenatal teacher, which means we're the first in line for tea and biscuits during the break. (Once upon a time these things would not have mattered to me in the slightest. Is it desperately sad that a fig roll has now become the highlight of my evening? On second thought, don't answer that.)

Mark nudges me and signals for me to lean over so he can whisper in my ear. “Didn't she ask this last week?” I nod and shrug. I do seem to remember that she talked about first-stage labor last week, but who knows, maybe we'll find out something fantastically interesting this week that she withheld before.

“Deep breathing?” From one of the other mums-to-be.

“Yes, that's a good idea!” Trish nods enthusiastically.

“Go for a walk?”

“Another good idea!”

“A hot drink?”

“Ooh yes! Definitely a hot drink! Good one!” Trish smiles encouragingly.

“Watch television?”

“Yes. We might well watch television.”

“Read a book?”

“Absolutely! Good idea!”

“Um, excuse me?” I lean forward and Trish looks to me for my suggestion of the day, but I'm rather confused. “Are you asking what might we do during first-stage labor to alleviate the pain or distract ourselves, or are you just asking what might we do?”

“Just what might we do,” she says happily, at which point Mark snorts, indicating an impending fit of giggles, and I sit back in amazement. It's like asking what might we do on a Sunday morning. Quite frankly the list could go on forever. As this one does. In fact, it manages to take up the rest of the class.

The antenatal class is not quite what I expected. Not that I had huge expectations, but I certainly thought I'd learn what my choices were, be able to make decisions based on those choices, know what to expect. Thus far I've learned nothing I hadn't already picked up from books. Oh, and I've learned that, should I decide to have an epidural, or—God forbid—a cesarean, I am a very bad person indeed and will be sent straight to hell.

“There have been cases,” Trish said last week, in an ominous, hushed voice, “of the epidural going”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“wrong.” A sharp intake of breath from the other couples, as Trish looked at each of us in turn, making sure she had our full attention for the horror story she was doubtless about to impart. “I know of a woman who had an epidural, and it”—pause for dramatic effect—“went up.”

“What do you mean?” someone said.

“I mean that she had no feeling from the waist up, but felt everything from the waist down.”

Everybody gasped in horror, except for me. I rolled my eyes at Mark, and wondered whether I could seriously endure another few weeks of pretending I too was going for a natural birth with only humming and breathing to take away the pain, with possibly a tiny touch of gas and air if it got really bad.

Little do they know I've been considering an elective cesarean. Little are they ever going to know if I want to get out of here alive.

My main reason for coming was to meet other couples who were living locally and also having children at the same time. Although I was being very snobby. I tried desperately to get into the Hampstead class because I was a bit worried about the classes in Dartmouth Park, but the National Childbirth Trust wasn't having any of it.

“I know the computer says it's Gospel Oak,” I said on the phone, in my most imperious voice (which, incidentally, makes the Queen sound like an extra in
EastEnders
), “but actually we live just off Hampstead High Street.” It was worth a shot, but meanwhile I'm sitting in the living room of a large house in Dartmouth Park. And the people are fine. The other couples seem very sweet. But not my cup of tea. Not that it matters, as I'll be going straight back to work as soon as baby is born.

My idea of hell? Sitting around a table in a local coffee shop with four other women, all of us whipping our boobs out to soothe our screaming infants, sharing our birth stories and talking babies, because really we've got nothing else in common, but the loneliness is such that this is better than nothing.

I don't think so.

On the other hand I know how important it is to get to know other local mothers to find out about what's going on. I have no clue where baby groups are, or nurseries, or childminders. I need to build up a support network in the area, and that's why I'm here.

“Only another three weeks until the course is over,” I whisper to Mark, who finds the antenatal class as patronizing and ridiculous as I do. “Be nice.”

“I'm trying,” he whispers back, but when we've all put our shoes back on and said good-bye (every week we have to remove our shoes and line them up neatly in the hallway, and every week I curse myself for not putting on old no-name trainers, and I hide my DKNY trainers under the wooden bench because something tells me designer labels would not go down too well here), he breathes a sigh of relief.

“I don't think I can do it.” He shakes his head as we stroll up Mansfield Road on our way home. “I think you may have to do the rest of the course without me.”

“Absolutely not.” I link my arm through his. “You're going to keep coming whether you like it or not. Baby told me she wants you there.”

He looks at me affectionately. “Baby couldn't possibly have told you she wants you there because first, Baby doesn't yet speak, and second, Baby is a boy.”

“You wish,” I snort, because although Mark has said he doesn't care, as long as the baby is healthy, I know that he would secretly love a boy. Just as I say that I really don't mind, and I would secretly love a little girl. Not that I'd love a little boy any less, but a little girl would be something special.

“I don't care,” he says, smiling, as we turn into our street and Mark reaches for his key.

205
Estelle Road.

I love this house. I love everything about this house. I sit at work counting the minutes until I can leave and race back home, because yes, this is home. Now.

Mark said it would be temporary, and I moved in making a mental note to call the rental agents the following Monday. But somehow I never got around to it.