Lessons in Laughing Out Loud (12 page)

“Don’t you see I’ve thrown away all the opportunities that you’ve given me? I’m nothing like Mum, you always said I was just like her, but I’m not. I got myself knocked up at fifteen. I disgust you. You hate me, admit it!”

For the first time, Sam stopped talking and looked at Chloe, who was staring up at him with burning eyes.

“I don’t hate you.” He looked utterly lost, so bewildered that for a second Willow wanted to reach out to him, reassure him. “I love you. I’ll always love you, Chloe, no matter what.”

“You don’t, Dad.” Chloe shook her head, adamant. “I annoy you, I let you down. You can’t wait for me to go to boarding school and stop disappointing you.”

“I don’t hate you, Chloe. I’m just . . . I’m knocked off my feet. This is a huge shock. You don’t know, you can’t understand what it’s like to see your baby girl—” He gestured at her stomach. “But we’ll sort it. We’ll cope, together.”

“I don’t want to cope together.” Chloe spoke with quiet determination. “I don’t want to come home.”

“Chloe.” Willow tried to intervene, but Chloe went on, her gaze fixed on her father.

“You don’t know a thing about me anymore. You haven’t for years. You don’t know that I started drinking vodka when I was twelve to try and help me get to sleep. You don’t know that I’d been having sex for almost a year before I got pregnant. You don’t know that last New Year’s I climbed out of my window at eleven and went out until dawn, even though you’d grounded me. You don’t notice that I’m
pregnant
. I just live in your house and get on your nerves.” Chloe’s expression was tight with fury. “You might not hate me, but I hate you. And we don’t have to cope because there won’t be anything to cope with. I’ve decided what I’m going to do already. I’m going to stay at Will’s until the baby’s born and then I’m having it adopted. Then I’ll go to boarding school and as soon as I’m old enough I’ll look after myself. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“P-pardon?” Willow stammered, but she went unnoticed.

“You don’t mean that.” Sam stared at Chloe, as if he didn’t recognize her.

“Which part?” Chloe asked him.

“You don’t hate me, you don’t want to move out.”

“But you’re okay with the adoption bit?” Chloe questioned him.

“Well, I mean, you need time to think things through . . . we both do, but if that’s what’s right for you.”

“For you, you mean. That’s why I’m not coming back. If I came back then it would be for you. But it’s not.” Chloe put her hands over her belly. “I’m having it adopted for her or him. I want to stay here until it’s born.”

“With me?” Willow couldn’t stay out of it any longer. “Really?”

“Yes, obviously it’s your choice.” Chloe eyed her scathingly. “Either I’m here with you. Or on the street with the human traffickers and drug dealers. Your choice.”

“Or at home.” Sam tried again.

“No.” Chloe was adamant. “I’m not going there. And as I’ve got no grandparents, no aunties, no friends who are still talking to me, the only place left is here.” She looked at Willow. “You’re it. You’re Plan B.”

“Story of my life,” Willow said. She looked at Sam. He suddenly looked much smaller, much older, as if the air had been let out of him and he’d deflated a little. She’d seen him look like that once before and the memory ignited an unexpected rush of sympathy.

“Can she stay here for a bit?” Willow said hesitantly. “At least over the weekend, to give you both a chance to take this in, see how things are then?”

“You are not a good influence,” Sam said.

“While you’ve done a brilliant job of keeping her on the straight and narrow so far.” Willow gestured at the bump. “Look, Sam, I’m not offering to let her stay to annoy you. But like it or not, she found me, and I think a bit of breathing
space, a chance for you both to calm down, is a good idea. I promise not to have sex or take drugs while she’s here. I will need to drink alcohol, though, starting in about five minutes. Have you got any samples in the car?”

Her flippancy might have been a little out of place, but it was all that Willow could muster at that moment.

Sam shook his head, looking at Chloe. “Is this really what you want?”

She nodded.

“Why her? Why here?” He jerked his head in Will’s direction.

“Because I’m just like Willow. We’re the same.”

Chapter
          Six

W
illow wasn’t usually a fan of Fridays. Friday meant the end of the week, the end of being purposeful, of having a reason to get dressed and speak to people. But as she forced herself out of bed that morning, the aftereffect of far too much wine still swimming around her head, she was actually looking forward to the end of the week. Admittedly, it had only been less then twenty-four hours since Chloe had turned up, but so far Willow’s new role as provider of housing for unmarried mothers hadn’t been so bad.

Climbing out of bed and remembering at the last minute not to be naked, Willow pulled a towel around herself and wandered into the living room to put on the kettle. Carefully she pushed open the door to the spare room to find Chloe beached on her back, still snoring.

Sleep was good when you were heartbroken or battered by life; it was a refuge from the pain, and there was always the gift of those few carefree moments just as you woke up before the world came crashing in again and the memories of all the bad things came flooding back. Who didn’t need that every now and then? Gently, Willow pulled the door closed, determined to let Chloe sleep as long as she could.

Collecting her coffee, Willow’s heart lifted as she spied her
lovely new shoes by the sofa and slipped them onto her bare feet. As she walked into the bathroom for a shower she let the towel fall to the floor and caught sight of her naked body in the full-length mirror that had been glued to the back of the bathroom door when she moved in.

Looking at herself without clothes on was something that Willow never did if she could help it, but as she glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of her bottom, for a fleeting moment Willow wondered whose bottom it was. Steeling herself for another look, she craned her neck over her shoulder to see herself from behind.
It must be the shoes,
she thought. Her calves were stretched and shapely, smooth and creamy white, which Willow wasn’t all that surprised by; she’d always been fond of the lower half of her legs, particularly her persistently slim ankles that persevered even when the rest of her body was piling on pounds of fat in all directions. Her thighs, though, were another story. Willow usually hated her thighs, the dimpling of lard that puckered under her skin, the thick pads of fat that collected at the tops, and worst of all her inner thighs, which scraped and jostled each other, especially in hot weather. She despised her enormous arse that exploded over the tops of her legs like an unruly soufflé and was disgusted by the saddlebags that swathed her hips in wanton flesh. Usually looking at herself unclothed filled Willow with such a swell of self-loathing that she’d have to sit down, trying vainly not to feel the folds of her stomach pushing against each other, and give herself a good talking-to. Tell herself to get some control back over her life, remind herself that this weight was nobody’s fault but her own. Usually that was when the great ache—the empty hole that was always there, pulsating, oddly enough, not in her stomach but in her chest—would open up and demand feeding, and just as Willow was presented with the choice of changing things or carrying on in the same way,
she’d realize just how far a journey it would be to run back now, and she’d reach for some comfort food.

But today was different. Her thighs seemed smoother somehow, and firmer. Her bottom looked a little rounder, possibly even a tiny bit pert, although much bigger than many considered socially acceptable. Still it rose like a full moon from the curve of her waist. It was . . . statuesque. Willow admired her back for a moment longer. Maybe taking in waifs and strays was good for her metabolism, or maybe she’d invented a new diet, the pink wine and malted milk balls diet . . . or maybe it was the shoes.

If these shoes could transform her posture and appearance from behind, then what about the front? She snapped her head round and looked at the tiled wall. There were many, many things that Willow hated about her body, but nothing more so than her stomach. Could she stand to look at that if she didn’t have to, even in the magic shoes? Slowly, holding her breath, Willow turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her sleep-tangled blond hair trailed lazily over one shoulder, and her eyes—a little more heavy-lidded than usual—observed her from the other side of the reflection.

“Go on, I dare you,” Willow whispered to herself as she allowed her gaze to travel from her ankles upward, as if exploring an undiscovered country. Her tummy, which she always felt hung like an apron from her hips, was still there but somehow in these shoes it looked smaller, if not flatter. Round and sort of sweet, like a ripe apple. Willow knew she had a good waist, that she’d have an amazing waist if she could only be more like her sister. Even now, even carrying all these extra pounds, her thighs and belly tapered into an approximation of the hourglass figure that could be hers.

Finally her gaze reached her breasts. Large, of course, and always too heavy, Willow thought; she couldn’t remember
them ever going through a perky phase. In her head, one minute they hadn’t been there and then the next minute there they were, along with a whole lot of attention. Still, her breasts were the only thing about her that she felt confident about. They were the thing that men noticed first about her, the part of her body they were intrigued by and desired. Willow’s breasts had been her currency since her teens, but even so she wished they were less weighty, that free from the constraints of her bras they’d plummet a little less earthward. Observing them as she stood naked but for a pair of junk-shop shoes, Willow felt a little flutter somewhere just below her stomach, something almost like desire. Something, something about the cut, build, height of angle of these wonderful shoes did something magical to her disproportionately unwieldy body, as if with them on her feet all the disparate parts of her that she hated so much individually lined up to make what was actually quite a pleasant whole. Which was, Willow thought as she let her eyes travel the length of her body once again, actually quite beautiful. Willow bit her lip, trying to pin down the unfamiliar sensation she was experiencing, and then she realized: she was feeling good about herself.

Just then the door burst open and her opulent reflection was replaced with Chloe in an outsize Little Miss Naughty nightshirt.

“Fuck me!” Chloe clasped her fingers over her eyes. “I thought you were at work, Jesus. Now I’ll need therapy or something.” She turned around, bumping first into the door frame and then backing into a little metal rack of shampoos and soaps used once and then stored forever, sending it clattering to the floor.

“Oh, shut up,” Willow retorted mildly, picking her towel off the floor and swathing her body in it. “I was just about to take a shower, but I’m decent now!”

“I need to pee, I always bloody need to pee, it’s a nightmare,” Chloe grumbled, before catching sight of Willow’s heels.

“Wow, do you always shower in shoes? Kinky!”

Willow glanced down at her feet. “No, there’s something about these shoes that makes me want to never take them off. I think they might be magic or something,” she said wistfully.

“Menopause?” Chloe eyed her suspiciously.

“No, I mean, look at them, they really suit me. And I mean me, it’s like they were made for
me
.”

Chloe stared at Willow’s feet. “They are shoes, Willow. It really is a shame you never got pregnant, then you’d have something to think about apart from shoes.”

“Whereas a girl your age really should only be thinking about shoes,” Willow snapped back, more stung by the careless jibe than she cared to admit. “Pee, and be quick about it.”

“You have no idea what a pain in the arse it is to be knocked up,” Chloe said, sinking onto the loo with an expression of pure relief as Willow hurriedly closed the door.

“So?” Victoria demanded as soon as Willow walked into her office. “How’s India this morning?”

“I went to check on her. She’s not much better, I’m afraid, she looks so lost in that room, I left her in bed, you know . . . sobbing and sipping from a macrobiotic smoothie.”

“Hmmm, well, it looks like she won’t be in that room for much longer. I think we might have to resort to Operation Secret Shithole today. There’s been a coup. One of the bastard tabloids has scooped the scoop; the cat is well and truly out of the bag.”

“Out?” Willow asked.

“Will, I’m sure I’ve mentioned to you once or twice that it’s your job to keep up with the press, darling,” Victoria said, her tone deceptively mild, a sure sign that she was truly angry.
Willow thought about mentioning the unscheduled arrival of her former stepdaughter and how it had taken her much longer to leave her flat than usual that morning because it was just hard to leave Chloe there, resting a plate of toast on her bump, watching reruns of
Friends
and complaining about the lack of satellite TV. For the first time in a long while, Willow didn’t want to go to work. But Victoria wouldn’t understand any of that. She didn’t understand family life or personal stuff. She always made it clear when she recruited new staff that if they had sick children or needy spouses or any kind of personal crisis, it had to come second to the job. What surprised Willow was that there were more than enough people quite willing to take those terms.