The Year of Taking Chances (33 page)

‘Mum!
He’s thirteen,’ Gemma said.
‘Give him a break.’

‘Darcey!
Yoo-hoo!
Spencer!’
She cocked her head on one side.
‘I guess Spencer’s not back from work yet, is he?’

Gemma wasn’t sure where to begin.
So much had happened, it was impossible to condense events into a single sentence.
‘Let me put the kettle on,’ she said.
Then, knowing her
mother, and feeling slightly desperate already, she amended her own suggestion.
‘Actually I think there’s some wine in the fridge.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said Karen with a laugh.
‘Follow that daughter!’

Pouring glasses of wine, Gemma did her best to have a word with herself.
Forget the irritation and inconvenience, she ordered.
Forget the hurts from years gone by.
This is your
mum
– the woman you’ve missed having in your life for over twenty-five years, remember.
Your mum, who’s chosen to come and see you for once, with the chance to rebuild
bridges and forge a new grown-up woman-to-woman relationship.
With Spencer away and business booming, she needed every ally she could get.
What better ally was there than your own mum?

‘Cheers,’ she said, placing a full glass in front of Karen, before taking a long, thirsty gulp of her own.
‘How long are you planning to be around?’

Karen had lived in Ibiza since Gemma was eight, and subsequent visits had been few and far between; it was like glimpsing a phoenix or a unicorn or some other mythical, read-about creature, when
she did actually show her face for her children’s weddings or a cursory look at new grandchildren.
Blink and you’d miss her, though; she was not a fan of damp, drizzly England and was
always desperate to hop back on a plane to the sunshine.

It came as a surprise then – another – when Karen replied in a rather subdued voice, ‘I’m not sure, love.
Maybe I’m back for good this time.’

‘Really?’
Hope flared inside Gemma like a shooting star through the darkness.
‘How come?
What about Carlos?’

Karen pulled a face.
‘Carlos who?’
she muttered.
‘We’ve split up.
Men, honestly.
Why do they have to be such bloody .
.
.
children?’

Gemma winced at the way her mum said ‘children’ as if they were the most tiresome creatures ever to exist.
Er, hello?
Daughter sitting right opposite you, Mum.
Yeah, me.
Your child?

Mind you, she thought in the next moment, look at the way Spencer had behaved – flouncing off without so much as a goodbye, taking umbrage the one time Gemma had lost her patience with him
– for insulting her, no less.
Maybe Karen had a point.
‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, I’d been getting sick of him for a while, ever since he—’ Karen broke off, frowning.
‘Wait – did you mean for me to actually
tell
you about it,
or are you having man-problems of your own?’
Her nose twitched, as if expertly sniffing out marital strife right there at the kitchen table.

‘Oh, Mum,’ Gemma said, unable to keep up appearances any longer.
She took another long swig of her wine.
‘I’ve got a lot to tell you.’

Karen flicked her a quick, understanding glance, patted her arm and rummaged in her bag for a box of Marlboros.
Lighting up, she puffed two quick smoke-rings, then fastened her gaze on Gemma.
‘Now then.
Mummy’s here.
Tell me everything.’

Gemma did.
In between mixing the salad dressing, opening the window to let in some freezing fresh air, laying the table and slicing tomatoes and cucumber, she told Karen the
whole sorry saga.

‘My goodness, darling!
You’ve been through so much!’
Karen’s hand flew to her crêpey décolletage.
‘You poor thing.
Makes my little troubles look like
nothing.’

‘What troubles?’

Karen took a dramatic, shuddering breath and tossed her long hair.
‘Oh, you know.
Going bankrupt.
Carlos cheating on me.
Being mugged in the Old Town .
.
.
’

Gemma was bending down at the oven, sliding the hot lasagne out, but jerked round sharply at this list of woes, burning her wrist on the oven door.
‘Mum!
God, why didn’t you say?
You
shouldn’t have let me go on for so long.’

Karen waved a hand as Gemma went to run her scorched skin under the cold tap.
‘No matter.
It’s not a competition, is it: who can have the shittiest life?
Anyway we’re here for
each other now, right?
We’ll both get through this.
I’ll help you however I can.’

‘And vice versa.’
It would be different this time, Gemma vowed.
Here for each other –
just like a mother and daughter should be.
And of all the times for Karen to have
appeared offering support, this was the best time she could have picked.
Gemma went over and hugged her suddenly.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’

It quickly became apparent, however, that Karen and Gemma had quite different opinions on how Karen’s ‘help’ would best be effected.
Gemma, for example, had
envisaged assistance in the kitchen for mealtimes, so that she could squeeze in an extra hour’s work; Karen picking up some of the school runs, which would afford her greater flexibility with
client visits, or the chance to run slightly over time at Caitlin’s place, if she was immersed in a particular piece.
She’d even imagined Karen mucking in about the house, too – a
push-around with the Hoover here, a laundry load put on there, maybe even a few school shirts ironed .
.
.

Karen had other ideas, though.
Her version of ‘supporting Gemma’ seemed to consist largely of the two of them sinking endless bottles of wine together, slagging off Carlos and
Spencer for their general bastardliness, and offering reiki head massages, her fingers digging too hard into Gemma’s scalp.

After a few days of this Gemma was starting to despair.
Her mum seemed to do very little in the daytime, apart from stay in the spare bed smoking and then move down to the living room and lie
there, smoking even more and watching daytime TV.
She had already made it impossible for Gemma to keep any fabric in the house, because the smell of cigarette smoke clung to everything with
horrible persistence.
She hadn’t cooked a single meal or offered to wash up once.
When she grew tired of bitching about Carlos, she slagged off Barry – Gemma’s dad –
instead, leaving Gemma with an impossible conflict of loyalties.

‘Maybe getting out of the house will give you a lift,’ Gemma suggested that night, when the four of them were eating dinner.
‘Why don’t you go for a walk tomorrow, or
drive out to the coast?’

Karen raised a skinny eyebrow.
‘Are you serious?’
she asked.
‘The North Sea’s not exactly the Mediterranean, is it?
I might end up hurling myself off a cliff.’

‘You could come and see my school,’ Darcey piped up.
Gemma got the feeling that Darcey was rather impressed by her glamorous, young-looking grandmother, who swore and smoked, two
things she knew Gemma disapproved of.
‘Some of the other grannies come in and listen to us read.’

Karen scowled at being likened to ‘the other grannies’.
‘No offence, sweetie, but I bet those grannies are boring old biddies who have nothing else to do with their
lives,’ she said cuttingly.

Darcey’s face fell.
‘Perhaps you could pick Darcey up one afternoon,’ Gemma suggested, feeling a pang of sympathy for her.
‘I’m sure she’d love to show you
her school, and her teacher.’

‘Oh yes!
Yes, I would, Grandma.
I mean Karen.
Would you?’

Karen twirled spaghetti around her fork, not answering immediately, and Gemma’s heart ached to see the imploring expression on her daughter’s face.
Come on, Mum.
Think about
someone else for a change.

‘Maybe next week.
If I’m still here,’ she said vaguely.
‘I’ve got a few plans to sort out first.’

Darcey looked crushed, but Karen didn’t notice.
‘What sort of plans?’
Gemma asked.

Karen tapped her nose and winked a turquoise-lidded eye.
‘I need to think ahead,’ she said.
‘I’ve got my next big adventure to work out, haven’t I?’

This was the first Gemma had heard of it.
‘What’s that then?’

‘Maybe a bar,’ Karen said with an airy shrug.
‘I’m thinking Corfu.
Love a bit of Greece.
Feta and olives, and all those white-sand beaches.’
She winked at Darcey
– a sluttish, knowing sort of wink; highly inappropriate for a grandmother.
‘As for the Greek men .
.
.
don’t get me started, darling.’

‘But I thought .
.
.
’ Gemma began, then shut her mouth, hearing the accusatory tinge in her own voice.
Already?
she felt like shouting.
You’re going already?

‘I’m not one to hang about,’ Karen said, and picked up the wine bottle.
‘Who wants another?’
she asked.
‘Just me?
You bunch of lightweights!’

Darcey giggled.
‘Grandma,’ she said.
‘I’m only nine, you know.’

‘
Are
you?
You look at least seventeen to me.’

‘Probably because you’re pissed again,’ Will muttered under his breath and Gemma shot him a look.

She got to her feet, wondering why everything had to be so complicated.
At times like these, there was only one thing for it.
‘Who wants pudding?’
she asked.

‘Max Walters, please,’ Saffron said, her heart giving a thump of anticipation.
Determination had marched her all the way to the brightly lit reception area of the
swishy sports company where Max worked in Covent Garden, and she wasn’t about to leave again until she’d done what she’d set out to.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, I don’t.’
She gave the receptionist a quick, businesslike smile.
Pregnant woman here on a mission, love.
Don’t mess, if you know
what’s good for
you.

The receptionist had scraped-back hair and flawless makeup.
‘Can I take your name?
I’ll see if he’s available.’

‘It’s Saffron Flint.’

‘Thank you.
Would you like to take a seat?’

Saffron did want to take a seat.
Her ankles had taken to puffing up whenever she stood up too long in high heels.
She lowered herself cautiously into one of the bright-orange bowl-shaped
designer chairs, hoping she’d be able to haul herself up and out again.
Then she clasped her hands in her lap and prepared to wait.
This was it.
Cards on the table.
Bump on display.
News
told, however badly it might be received.

The receptionist was murmuring into the phone.
‘No, she didn’t say .
.
.
Well, she’s sitting here in reception, so .
.
.
Okay, great, thanks.
I’ll tell her.’
She
caught Saffron’s eye as she hung up again.
‘He’s on his way down.’

‘Thank you.’
Saffron’s mouth immediately went dry.
Her armpits felt wet.
She wished she’d blow-dried her hair properly after swimming, rather than pulling a comb through
it and tying it back in a ponytail.
Still, she had chucked on her nicest wrap-dress at least, a red jersey number that was forgiving on the bump, teamed with some black opaque tights, although
during the adrenalin-pumped walk from the bus stop here, these had ridden lower and lower.
Right now, they were balanced perilously low under her belly, prone to rolling down her hips at any given
moment.
A pair of tights around the ankles was an ice-breaker, she supposed.

There was a soft chiming sound and then the lift doors to her left opened, and out he stepped.
Handsome Max, shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair standing slightly on end as if he’d just
raked a hand through it.
Bloody hell, he’d only gone and grown a little silvery goatee beard on his chin.
It looked absolutely ludicrous.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘This
is—’

With a bit of effort, she pushed herself up and out of the chair, her black wool coat falling to the sides to reveal her belly.
He stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the new shape of her, and
then his face blanched.

‘Hi,’ she said after a moment.
You could practically feel the atmosphere electrify, crackling with the static of myriad unspoken messages.

Is that really what I think it is?

Yes.
It is.

She cleared her throat, aware of the receptionist in the background, who was unashamedly goggling at the unfolding drama.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

‘Uh .
.
.
sure.’
His eyes flicked between her belly and her face and then to her belly again.
He looked dazed and panicky.
‘Yes.
Right.
Let’s go and grab a
coffee.’

The receptionist belatedly remembered her job just then and glanced down at a diary in front of her.
‘Max, just to remind you, you have Anil Bhatia coming in at four-thirty?’

He waved a hand.
‘Just .
.
.
sort it out.
Get Nicky to cover for me or something.
Thanks.’
Then he turned back to Saffron.
‘Shall we?’

She nodded.
‘Let’s.’

Outside on the street Max said, ‘I suppose alcohol’s out of the question then?
Christ, sorry.
I don’t know what to say.
I’m kind of in shock.’

‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said.
‘Sorry to spring the news on you like this, I mean.
I thought you knew; I wrote you a letter about a month ago, but I’ve been such a
flake recently.
I only just found it, unposted, this afternoon.’

‘So it’s mine?’
he said.
‘The baby’s mine?’

‘Yes,’ she said.
‘The baby’s yours.’
They were on St Martin’s Lane, with black cabs honking, a couple pausing in front of them to snog each other’s
faces off, and tourists crowding round a silver-painted street entertainer pretending to be a statue.
Saffron would have preferred not to be having this conversation right there in the street, but
it seemed too late to press Pause.
‘I tried to tell you in person too, that night we went out, but we got interrupted.’

‘We did.’
He passed a hand over his eyes.
‘Oh God, Saff.
How do you feel about all of this?’

How did she
feel
?
It was hard to know where to begin.
Frightened, excited, joyful, alone?
‘Up and down,’ she said, after a moment.
A woman in a red mac talking loudly into her
phone barged between them just then, almost knocking Saffron off the pavement.
‘Look, this is ridiculous.
We can’t do this here.’
She gestured to a pub across the road.
‘Let
me buy you a brandy or a coffee, or both.
Whatever you want.
It’s the least I can do.’

He seemed to be working something out as they entered the dingy pub and went to the bar.
‘I wondered what had happened, to make you go quiet on me like that,’ he said slowly, not
taking any notice of the barman, who glanced up from where he was stacking the glass-washer and came over, drying his hands on a tea-towel.
‘Is that why you blew me out on the
phone?’

Saffron felt self-conscious with the barman standing opposite them, waiting for their order.
First the receptionist, then the hordes out on the street, and now him .
.
.
Was it too much to ask,
to have this conversation in private?
‘I’ll have a lime and soda, please,’ she said.
‘Max, what do you want to drink?’

‘I knew something weird was going on,’ he said, not listening.
‘I knew it.
It seemed completely out of character.
We’d got on so well before that moment, and then for you
to turn so offhand overnight .
.
.
Oh, pint of Doom Bar, please, mate.
Cheers.’
He drifted into a reverie.
‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’
She waited until their drinks were poured and paid for, then they found a small corner table and sat facing each other on uncomfortable bar stools.
He still looked stunned,
as if the news hadn’t yet sunk in.
She stirred her drink, ice cubes cracking together, and tried to find the right words.
‘Listen, I know this is a shock.
I know you’ve moved on
since me, and that’s fine.’
She thought of the way he’d been with his foxy female colleague in the Pillars of Hercules pub, how she’d felt like Gooseberry of the Year.
‘I know you already have children, and this might be the last thing you want.
And that’s fine.’

‘So you’re having the baby.’

‘Yes.
But I can manage on my own, if you don’t want to be involved.’
How tough and determined she sounded.
She wondered if he had any idea how scared she felt inside.

‘You’re having our baby.’

‘Yes.’
Her foot jiggled under the table, a sudden attack of nerves.
‘I can’t work out if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Please will you just tell
me?’

He frowned at his pint.
‘The times we went out together at the end of last year – they were the most fun I’ve had for ages.
I felt like we really clicked.’

She allowed herself a brief smile, but still couldn’t tell where he was going.
Answer the bloody question, Max.
‘Me, too,’ she said.
It seemed so long ago now, that
carefree whirl of excitement.
Now she had a bump and he had a beard; they were like completely different people.

‘Yet, realistically, we barely know each other.
All this has been happening to you, and I had absolutely no idea.’

‘I know.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t know what to do.’

His eyes softened a fraction and he looked at her.
‘A baby, Saff.
Fuck!
Talk about a .
.
.
a .
.
.
grenade through the window.’

Saffron didn’t really like the image of her baby as an explosive device, but she got where he was coming from.
‘Yeah.
I realize it’s not ideal.
And it’s fine if you
don’t want to—’ she began again, but he held up a hand, jaw clenching.

‘Stop saying that – about me not having to get involved.
I’m not a total bastard, you know.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And you don’t have to keep saying sorry, either.
I was the one who failed us on the contraceptive front.’

A moment passed where she remembered the last time they’d had sex: on the stairs at his place, frenzied and horny, devouring each other with lust.
The joyful kind of sex where you just
couldn’t keep your hands off each other, where you were confident there’d be plenty more where that came from, where you were just too damn passionate to think about sensible things
like condoms.
She wondered if he was remembering it, too.

‘Well.’
She shrugged.
‘These things happen, don’t they?’
She sipped her drink, aware that she was holding back a vital piece of information.
‘Max, before you
say anything else, there’s something I need to tell you.’
Haltingly, her heart thumping, she explained the situation – the scan, the risks, the amnio lurking on the horizon like a
dark cloud.

He listened intently, and she rushed to the end of what she had to say, fearful that he was going to shake his head and tell her: sorry, but do you know what?
He’d never signed up for any
of this, it was too much; he’d bung her a few quid in the name of child maintenance, but that would be his lot.

‘So now you know,’ she finished lamely, terrified of his response.
She looked down at the table.
‘Sorry to tell you everything at once like this.
Your head must be spinning.
I
wish things were different, that I didn’t even have to have this stupid test, but .
.
.
’

He didn’t say anything immediately, then reached over the table and took her hand.
‘Don’t then.
Why don’t we just .
.
.
not go?’

She glanced at him, fearful that he hadn’t fully understood what she was saying.
‘Well .
.
.
don’t you want to know?’

He looked deep into her eyes.
‘It’s not that I don’t care.
I do.
But sometimes these things can put such a strain on you, it’s almost not worth doing.’
His brow
creased.
‘When Jenna was pregnant with Leo, our son, they said at the second scan that he had very short legs, and made this enormous fuss about it.
We spent the rest of the pregnancy having
lots of tests and extra scans and worrying ourselves sick.’

‘And was he okay?
What happened?’

‘He was absolutely fine.
He was perfect.
But Jenna had been so stressed, it made her ill and she couldn’t enjoy the pregnancy at all.’
His expression was far away for a moment.
‘I don’t want that for you – or me.
Especially if there’s a risk that the amnio might actually harm the baby.’

They were silent for a moment.
Why don’t we just .
.
.
not go?
Saffron kept hearing in her head.
It hadn’t occurred to her that she could opt out altogether, and the thought
of not turning up for the dreaded test made her feel light-headed and giddy.
It wouldn’t be a case of hiding her head in the sand.
It would be taking a stand, saying,
I’ve weighed
everything up
and I want this baby, full stop.
I don’t care what the amnio says, thanks all
the same
.