‘Well, isn’t this is a turnaround, you with your legs in the air instead of me?’ giggles Tasha.
I’ve managed to squeeze in an internal scan before I head back to Methoni tomorrow. My GP suggested it was wise ahead of travel and given I’m possibly around eight weeks, it would be good to check all is progressing as it should ahead of telling Theo.
Feeling very vulnerable and exposed, I try to push away the last time I was in this position when I miscarried, but the squeeze of fear keeps clenching at my heart. I try to be balanced, telling myself it will all be fine, it has to be, but the anxiety is ever-present.
I replay every possible version of Theo’s reaction, but I need only wait another twenty-four hours and I’ll know for certain what his stance is. Tasha holds my hand, reading my angst as only she can. While I’m on my back, I reflect on all that’s happened since I embarked on my April Fool’s quest to Methoni.
The door opens, breaking my train of thought, and a nurse enters.
‘Sophie Kinlock?’
‘Yes, hi,’ I respond, waving nervously when it’s more than clear I’m the one due to be probed since I’m half-naked with my legs in stirrups.
As the scan begins, I try to relax, but as soon as anyone tells you to do so down below, the reaction is automatically the opposite. A small, wriggling, blurry form appears in black-and-white on the screen. Shapes and shadows, but somewhere in there is the most important little person beginning to grow. Tasha grips my hand, once more instinctively knowing the terror running through my mind as we wait for any news from the sonographer.
‘This all looks fine,’ she begins, pointing to the screen as she takes pictures and measurements. ‘There is the heart, hands and the head.’
I couldn’t identify most of those parts if I tried, even if my eyes weren’t awash with tears. The little pulsing black dot becomes centre screen and the unmistakable sound of life fills the room. Tasha and I look at each other and burst into noisy sobs.
‘Congratulations, you two,’ smiles the nurse. ‘You will be wonderful mothers.’
Our sobs turn to laughter as we realise we’ve been paired off.
‘I do think we’d make a fabulous couple, but alas, no – just best friends. Her baby daddy is the most divine Greek fisherman and she’s travelling there tomorrow to tell him the wonderful news.’
I fix her with an appalled look, encouraging her to cease oversharing, yet she persists and begins to tell the whole tale from the start. The nurse is gripped, still holding the probe aloft in her hand after, thankfully, removing it from me, eyes widening as Tasha relays her version of events. Tasha completes the story by showing stealthily taken screenshots when I introduced them on video calls and they stare, oohing and aahing at Theo.
‘When you’ve both quite finished,’ I intervene as the nurse begins asking questions about Theo, ‘I would love to put my knickers back on.’
She snaps back into professional mode quickly, apologising and handing me the scan pictures.
‘Your due date is December 26th. And for what it’s worth …’ she pauses, ‘I think your mum would be very proud of you.’
* * *
Armed with my precious printout, I walk towards Arabelle’s office near Notting Hill. She’s messaged several times asking after Mum’s painting, bordering on harassment. I managed to avoid her, having much more pressing things to occupy my time. But I’m about to put her out of her misery and tell her how I found it, conjuring pound signs in her eyes, no doubt. She’ll be disappointed, though, as it belongs with Grigor. Mum gave it to him and there it must stay.
The fresh air is helping to remove the hospital smell from my mind. I’m due a couple of weeks before Tasha, so we really will have sibling-like best-friend babies, mine like the third twin, and I couldn’t be happier about that aspect of timing.
The early afternoon traffic ebbs and flows, like a London version of the tide. Except the grey and dirty air is the opposite of the technicolour vibrance of Methoni. I feel rising excitement at the thought of being there this time tomorrow. In Theo’s arms. Except when he wraps his arms around me, he will, unbeknown to him, be holding two of us. I instinctively cradle my non-existent bump.
We can do this, little one, I know we can.
I decide to stop imagining every version of his reaction followed by multiple scenarios of what my life could look like. All I know is that at the end of this year, I will have a baby, whichever order of events transpires, and Tiff will need to take the reins at work either for my maternity leave or for my actually leaving the country.
I press the intercom buzzer and am greeted by Arabelle’s assistant. As the door closes behind me, Notting Hill’s noisy hum is instantly muted. In the waiting room, my eyes automatically travel to Mum’s painting, She’s Leaving Home. It seems to have been given a second life, an additional poignancy, as I may be leaving once again.
‘Darling, you look awful. Are you sick?’ Arabelle kisses me on both cheeks and indicates for me to sit. ‘Do you want a brandy, champagne?’
‘No, I’m fine, just tired, that’s all.’
She looks at me, raising a pencilled eyebrow, and takes the seat behind her desk.
‘So, Sophie, I am dying to know and you keep all the news away from me. Tell me about this mysterious painting.’
I take a moment, knowing the torrent of persuasion and stream of questions that are about to head my way. Breaking into a smile with the sense of achievement, I confirm what she’d hoped for.
‘I did find it, yes, but before you get too excited, it’s staying where it is now and will never be for sale.’
She taps a pen on her desk, clearly irritated, rocking back into her leather chair.
‘I am not too surprised; however, it is of course très disappointing. Will you at least tell me where and how you found it? What is it like to see?’
I relay the story of my blind quest to track down the painting, the dead ends, false hope, and the final unexpected discovery of its location. Arabelle then presses me as to whom Tony Giovinazzi deals with and if he’s interested in any other pieces of my mother’s, to at least salvage some business from this unsatisfactory outcome. Even though Arabelle attempted not to betray emotion during my tale, I could see she was gripped by the twists and turns and as much as I tried to stick to the facts, I couldn’t help myself reliving certain parts of my trip with her that had little to do with the painting. I show her a photograph of Methoni V on my phone and she bursts into tears, the most emotion I’ve seen her display in my lifetime – possibly hers, too.
‘Oh … c’est … magnifique! Everything I imagine and more,’ she says, smiling at me, dabbing at her tears. ‘So, what now? Surely you aren’t thinking of moving to this place just for the love of a man.’
I’m taken aback by her assessment and abruptness of her question.
‘I’ve obviously thought about it long and hard. In fact, I’ve thought about nothing else and it’s possible, subject to a couple of things landing in the right order.’
I don’t need to say the entire decision on whether or not I uproot my life depends on Theo’s reaction to my baby secret. Arabelle exhales heavily, her lips making a noise as the breath escapes her crimson lips.
‘Well, this is a crazy idea. Vous abandonnez votre vie et votre monde juste pour l’amour. Qu’en est-il de votre travail et comment vous pouvez laisser tout ce que vous savez? J’espère juste que cela vous suffira quand vous y serez.’
I speak a little French and the odd word flashes in my memory from school, but I have no real idea or sense of what she said, nor why she’s speaking at me in her native tongue.
‘Sorry, Arabelle, I got something about abandoning life and that’s about all,’ I laugh nervously.
‘That, Sophie, was a preview of how you feel in another country. You do not speak the language, do you? I am concerned for you feeling far away from all that you know. I say this as I have known you since you were a bébé and your mother is not here to say these things, yes?’
I feel the rising surge of irritation at the audacity of her language display and try to ignore any chimes of resonance she may have alighted upon.
‘I speak bits of Greek, but I could learn. And with respect, I know my mother would encourage me to choose love. Which has even more weight now since she was unable to do that for herself. But for the first time since Mum died, I feel excited about the future. I never thought I’d have that feeling again when I lost her. And it’s not about a man, it’s about doing something solely for me and I deserve that.’ My hand automatically goes to cradle my non-existent bump, as if to wish upon it like a lucky talisman. ‘And if it doesn’t work out, then at least I tried and will have no regrets. How many people can say that? Very few. And to say it how you may understand: je ne regret de rien!’
Arabelle laughs throatily and looks at me, shaking her head.
‘Well, at least we are speaking the same language, in that case. I want you to be happy, Sophie. I owe your mother so much and I feel bound because of her to ask these questions of you. But I see you have the fire back in your eyes, so much like Lyndsey. I wish you luck. It seems you are guided on this way and who are we to resist this?’
‘Thank you, Arabelle.’
I get up to hug her as warmly as her naturally frosty demeanour will allow. She kisses me on both cheeks, then holding my shoulders, she looks at me.
‘And of course, if this Grigor ever decides to sell the painting, you will call me? I have a blank cheque offer from somebody, seven figures this time. Word got around that it may be found, so perhaps you present the idea to him. Maybe we reunite the five Methoni paintings in a grand exhibition, yes? But let me know if he will take this offer. Is very important he knows the worth and makes a decision.’
I can’t help my amusement; she’s an absolute terrier when it comes to work, not permitting emotion to dominate for long.
‘It will never happen. The exhibition might, but he won’t sell. It belongs with him.’
* * *
I walk back towards Mum’s house … home … my house … I don’t know what to call it any more. Another task is crossed off my mental checklist in preparation for my trip tomorrow. Whether or not I then embark upon a journey of permanency rests on Theo finding a way to welcome fatherhood into his life. My phone starts to vibrate. I see Angus’ name on the screen.
‘Well, hello, daddy-to-be …’
‘Soph, you need to come to the hospital. It’s Tasha. She’s losing the babies.’