HECTOR DROVE ME back to my flat – he had to keep nudging me for directions – put me in my bed and then slept on my sofa that night. It’s a two-seater and he’s a big man – did I mention that? – so it can’t have been very comfortable.
The next morning, when I get up, I’ve forgotten that he’s there and I go and sit on the toilet, leaving the door open as usual. My neck’s still so sore and gradually as I sit there, I try to replay what happened yesterday, culminating in Hector practically carrying me indoors, and—
Crap, he’s on the sofa, just yards away from where I’m having an enormous pee. Quickly I push the door closed with my foot, praying he’s still asleep.
If I’d been awake twenty minutes earlier, I’d have seen that having barely slept all night, he’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before work. He’s left me a note on the sofa, though. You can see that little square of paper lying there on top of the folded blanket. When I look at it later on this morning, I’ll see that it says, ‘Dearest Rachel and Plum, I hope you’re both well this morning. I’m so sorry not to be there when you wake up but I have an early meeting today and I must change my stinky clothes and scrape the filth from my limbs. Please, please, ring me if you need anything. I will call you tonight. H.x PS Plum, be good for your mum.’
It’s a lovely note. After reading it, I fold it up and put it in my jewellery box.
Anyway, I have to spend two weeks off work with this sore neck, which is bliss. Have a quick peek at the office for me, would you? Has it all come to a complete standstill? Everyone vanished, furniture all packed up and gone, just a few stray papers blowing around in the breeze from all the broken windows, loose telephone wires sticking out of the walls and a family of pigeons settled in the corner?
No, I didn’t think so.
Everyone is busy answering calls, sending out brochures, selling holidays and add-ons, in spite of my absence. There’s Jean, looking like she’s about to go for a cigarette break – she’s always only half an hour away from a cigarette break – and there’s Chrissie, leaning over her desk, engrossed in . . . hold on a minute. Who’s that talking to Jean? Is that Nick Maxwell? What on earth is he doing in Telesales? Has he come down to see me, perhaps? But he’s nowhere near my desk – in fact, he’s making his way over towards . . . Oh for goodness’ sake, look at Marion and Graham, staring at him like a kid looking in a toyshop window. Yeah, Marion, I said Toy, as in Boy. God, she must be in her thirties if not even older.
Hector is true to his word and calls me that evening. He calls me the next evening too, but not the one after that. The day after that, he calls during the day, and the day after that he brings me shopping and cooks me tea. During the second week, he calls only three times, each one in the evening. I am stuck in the flat so I spend every day waiting for his call.
Does this remind you of the day after Nick and I had got together, when I was hanging around the flat all day waiting for him to call, and pretending that I wasn’t? Me too. Except this time, I am quite happy to acknowledge that I am waiting for his call.
After two weeks I go back to work. I’m still keeping my resolve not to tell anyone, even Susan. But even though keeping it from her makes me feel a bit guilty, I can’t tell her, or anyone else, yet. The baby is nothing to do with them, it’s just between me and Hector. Oh, I mean, me and Nick. Silly me.
On one of my first days back at work, I come home and find a brown envelope in the mail box. I turn it over in my hands, examining the post mark and the handwriting, but I can’t guess what it is. Once I’m inside, I head for the kitchen and put the letter down on the countertop. I reach into the fridge for the orange juice, and the phone rings.
‘Hi, Rachel. It’s Hector. How are you today?’
I’m smiling as I’m talking. ‘Hiya, Hec. I’m really well. Been to work, which was OK.’
‘That’s good. How’s your neck?’
‘Swan-like and elegant, thanks. Surely you knew that?’
‘But you describe it so well, I can almost see it.’
‘Is that why you rang me then? So I can describe various parts of me down the phone to you to help you build up a clear mental image?’
‘No need. Every part of you is burned into my memory.’
OMIGOD.
‘Oh, well, not every part, obviously. I mean, I haven’t actually seen every part, so I would have to imagine . . . No, no, I don’t mean that I’ve been imagining you with nothing . . . Which is not to say that I wouldn’t like to . . . Um, I mean, what I’m trying to say is that I know exactly what you . . .’ He stops. Finally. ‘Shall I come in again?’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Give me a minute.’ And he hangs up.
I’m doing that staring at the phone thing again. Except this time it’s not so much with puzzlement, but more with a soppy fond smile on my face. Hector is so cute, even when he makes no sense. Especially when he makes no sense.
Ooh, the phone’s ringing again. I’ll leave it to ring a few times before answering, and use the time to get comfy on the sofa.
After it’s rung five times, I press the answer key. ‘Hello?’ I’m doing a breathy, puffed-out voice.
‘Hi, Rachel, it’s Hector.’
‘Oh, hi, Hec, how lovely to hear from you. I’ve only just got in – heard the phone ringing from the hall.’
‘Oh really?’ He’s grinning. ‘So where were you?’
‘I was at my Circus Skills course in the Community Centre. We did unicycle today.’
He chuckles. ‘What was it like?’
‘Well, once you’ve learned how to climb on to something that has no brake and can’t stand on its own, then balance on one wheel by pedalling rapidly backwards and forwards, steer using a combination of your body weight and the left and right pedals while flailing your arms wildly around in the air, worked out how to stop and got over the terrifying feeling that a crucial part of it is missing, there’s nothing to it.’
‘Yeah. I picked it up in about twenty minutes flat.’
‘As long as that? We’re doing trapeze next week. That’s a whole hour.’
‘Is that wise, in your condition?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s fine. The doctor said some moderate exercise would be beneficial.’
‘So, something like a nice walk in the park, a little slow dancing perhaps, slicing through the air at fifty miles an hour clinging to a two-foot-wide bar suspended forty feet above the ground, or a gentle bike ride?’
‘Yes, he said any of those would be good.’
He laughs again and I snuggle down further on the sofa, enjoying the sound. Then he clears his throat meaningfully, as if to change the mood of the call. It works.
‘Actually, Rach, I’m ringing for a bit of a favour.’
‘Oh. What can I do for you?’
‘Well the thing is, it’s my mum’s birthday today. She would have been seventy.’
‘Oh, oh no.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I think you should have a celebration. Just a small one. To remember her life, and birthdays gone past.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Look, I know I didn’t know her, but I do know my mum would want people to smile and laugh when they remember her, not sit around all glum and miserable. What was she like about birthdays?’
‘Well, she liked them, I think. She had one every year, without fail.’
‘Seriously, Hector. I mean, did she ever let a birthday, yours or hers or Glenn’s or your dad’s, or anyone’s, go by without doing something?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. She would probably want some kind of party, even if it’s just a little one.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Even if it’s just a party for two.’
‘I can’t think of anything more lovely than her two boys getting together and having a few—’
‘I meant me and you, Rachel.’
‘Ah.’
‘What do you think? I rang you because somehow it feels as though you are involved in this. I mean, I know you never knew her and I didn’t really know you when she died, but I spoke to you that day, and then you left that message on my machine and came to the funeral – sort of – I just know that . . . I’d like to spend the time with you. It will help to take my mind off things.’
Can you hear the change in his voice? The intensity, the gravellyness? And his breath is really booming down the line, as if he’s got his lips right up close to the mouthpiece. What does that say to you?
I’m picturing him sitting in his office, or on his sofa at home, hair all messy, tie askew, shirt crumpled and untucked, clutching the phone to his ear, thinking about me. No, I mean, thinking about his mum.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to spend this time with Glenn?’
‘Huh? Not likely. I’m still pretty angry with him about this woman, and I haven’t had a chance to speak to him about it yet, so it would affect how I was feeling. I’d be all aggressive and hostile, instead of warm and slushy. Plus, he’s got Jake and Sarah with him – he’ll just spend the evening with them. I hope, anyway.’
‘All right then. Why don’t you come round here for a drink later, and we can break open a birthday cake?’
He sighs deeply. ‘That would be wonderful, Rachel. You’ll be saving me from being on my own in this horribly empty house.’
He says he’ll be round about seven, when he leaves work. That gives me about an hour and a half to get to Sainsbury’s and back.
It’s 25 October, so naturally the store is decked out with Christmas garlands, twinkling trees and inflatable reindeer, and there’s a CD playing that is probably called Best Classic Christmas Hits EVER! I grab a couple of bottles, one of wine and one of wine flavoured water, and head off to the bakery for a birthday cake. Incredibly there’s one there that says ‘Happy Birthday Mum’ on it, so I grab that one and head home.
I’m back now, and have you ever seen me move so fast? I’m unpacking the cake and wine and frantically tidying the place up as I go. It’s not too bad, but I have just had two weeks of not being able to move much, so there’s a few things here and there to pick up. Mostly clothes. And dirty cups and plates. And magazines. And some empty crisp packets. And videos. And the post.
As I’m tidying, I’m going over in my head the conversation that Hector and I have just had. It’s very exciting that we’re having our first proper arranged date, even if it’s only in my flat. Every other time we’ve seen each other, it’s been to support me in a crisis, or to support him in a crisis. So far, our relationship has been disturbingly like two friends, supporting each other in crises. But this one is different. It’s pre-arranged and there’s alcohol and cake, which makes it a party. A party for two. He said so himself.
But hang on. Isn’t this just another crisis? His mum’s birthday. He’s feeling down, doesn’t want to spend the evening alone in his empty house so he rings me for a bit of distraction. I stop mid-dust and straighten up. ‘Take my mind off things,’ he’d said, as the reason why he wanted to spend the evening with me. Oh crap. We’re just friends, aren’t we?
This is another new experience for me. This year is peppered with them. I have never had a male ‘just good friend’ before. Every bloke I’ve known, apart from family, of course, has pretty much wanted to have sex with me. I’m not assuming, or guessing – they tell me, sometimes straight out. Once I could see it in the guy’s face. ‘Will you have sex with me?’ was written in black felt pen across his forehead.
So there’s Nick, who did want to, and followed the norm as far as that, but no further, and now there’s Hector, who apparently doesn’t even want to. Doesn’t even fancy me. I expect the fact that I’m carrying another man’s child is putting him off a bit. Oh God, not again. For the second time in three months, I am falling for a guy who’s not interested.
When the flat looks presentable, I bring the wine, two wine glasses and a candle to the coffee table. Then I take the candle back to the kitchen and put it away in the cupboard. It’s not appropriate if he just sees me as a friend. We can sit under the electric light and swap stories about previous loves.
How fair is this that twice in the space of three months I have got the hots for someone who is not interested? After all those years of irritating blokes who had the hots for me long after I stopped being interested. Mum would probably say it was ironic. Actually, I think I would have said that first, and she would agree.
So I’m curled up on the sofa, everything’s ready. I’m looking repeatedly towards the front door, which is ridiculous. He’s not going to suddenly appear there – he’s got to ring the buzzer and come through the external door first. But I am imagining his tall form filling the doorway, those brown eyes crinkling with a smile as he walks towards me and puts his arms round me . . .
I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. We can move forward two hours, unless you want to spend two hours watching me sleep.
No, please don’t. I went out with someone who did that once. It’s surprising how a face held motionless ten inches above your own for four hours can seriously interrupt your sleep pattern.
So two hours later, half past nine and the phone’s ringing. It’s woken me up and my head snaps up from where it was lolling on the sofa. My chin is wet with drool and strands of hair are stuck to my cheeks. I’m glad Hector hasn’t repeated his trick in my dream and materialized in the doorway.
I lean forward and pick up the phone, confusion filling me. ‘‘Lo?’
‘Hello? Rachel? It’s Hector.’
‘Hi.’
‘Rachel, I am so sorry. I’ve been in a meeting with Rupert de Witter since I spoke to you and it took much longer than I expected. He’s single at the moment, so he’s got nowhere else to be . . .’
Suddenly I’m completely awake. ‘Who did you say?’
‘What do you mean? The meeting? It was just some bank guys and Rupert de Witter. He’s the director of —’
‘I know who he is. He’s my boss.’
There’s a silence. ‘You work at . . .?’
‘Horizon Holidays, yes. Why were you in a meeting with him?’
‘Well, he’s asked my company to fit a new computer system for him, that’s all. We were mates at school, so he’s given me the job. Plus, I’m the best, of course. We had to meet-up today to discuss the applications and what sort of thing he wanted from the set-up . . .’
‘Oh, right. Well. What a coincidence.’
‘It’s a small world.’
‘You know, people say that but really it isn’t.’
‘No, I suppose not. Rachel, I’m so sorry for being late. Can I make it up to you? I’ve got the birthday cake. I could still bring it over, and we can . . .’
‘Oh, look, Hector, I’m sorry, I’m really tired.’ You’re surprised, aren’t you? You know first hand how much I was looking forward to seeing him tonight, and yet here I am, putting him off. But I am trying to sound really casual, like a friend. Not like someone who’s gagging to see him. ‘Can we do it another night? Do you mind?’
Look out of the window, up the street and go along the first right turn you come to. Recognize that car? The big silver Mercedes, with the air conditioning. Yes, that’s how close he is to my flat when he pulls the car over to the side. Oh, look at that, there’s a bunch of freesias lying on the passenger seat.
When the car has stopped, he leans forward and puts his head on the steering wheel. ‘Of course. You must be exhausted. You get off to bed, and maybe I’ll speak to you soon.’
Back to me at my flat. I’m sitting there like stone on the sofa. He hasn’t even tried to talk me round. That’s that then. He definitely just wants to be friends and nothing more. And when I think back to the time we’ve spent together, all the gestures of affection have been really platonic. Little tiny kisses on my cheek; a hand held in the hospital, smiles and winks that any friend might give to a friend who’s secretly pregnant.
‘Right. Night then. And happy birthday to your mum.’
‘Thanks, Rachel. Night.’
In his car, Hector clicks off the phone, then tosses it carelessly on to the passenger seat, where it lands on the flowers with a rustle of Cellophane. He pushes his hands into his hair and leans forward again, as if trying to soothe a bad headache. If we go back an hour to the drawn-out meeting with Rupert de Witter and the finance people, you can see him there sitting forward on the very edge of his seat, repeatedly looking at the clock on the wall, straightening the papers in front of him, fidgeting with his tie and saying things like, ‘So, if we could move on.’ Rupert, you can see, is nodding and agreeing with Hector. ‘OK, next point,’ but then within moments he’s laughing at some story he’s telling about his decorator. He and Hector look like negative images of each other, don’t they? Hector, clearly and concisely going through his presentation in bullet-point form, getting his entire input done in less than an hour and a half so he could get away quickly; then Rupert, entertaining everyone by getting off the point and telling long rambling anecdotes about his painter’s mother getting stuck for fifteen minutes under a desk in Furniture Village before anyone noticed.
So here he is now, looking pleasingly fucked off in his car twenty seconds around the corner from the flat. He makes a ‘Nnnnhhh’ sound from frustration, bangs his palms once on the steering wheel, then pushes the car into first gear and swings it round across the road, back the way he’s just come.
The next morning, I’m opening the fridge and I’m stunned to find a brown envelope addressed to me on the shelf next to the margarine. I take it out and stare at it. How the hell did that get in there? Cosmo is weaving in and out of my feet, prrrping.
‘What do you reckon, Cos? Super-efficient postman, or what?’
‘Prrrp.’
‘Right, OK, I’m doing it, don’t worry.’ There’s a plastic airtight container in the fridge that holds the rest of the cat food from the tin that I opened yesterday evening. I take it out of the fridge and pull back the lid, then get a spoon from the drawer.
Would you say that the smell of cat food is one of the most repulsive stinks in the world? It’s a thick, meaty aroma that you can almost see rising in greasy tendrils from the repulsive glistening chunks squatting at the bottom of the bowl. Suddenly without warning, I start shovelling the cold, meaty mass into my mouth as fast as I can, not chewing, just swallowing and shovelling, over and over, like a robot. It slides over the back of my tongue and down my throat slick and easy.
Suddenly, I reach the end of that particular road, just as I had with the cucumbers. I drop the spoon and the bowl in horror, much to the relief of the starving Cosmo who instantly starts to tuck into the spilled food. As I watch him, the wet lip-smacking noises he is making with the meat start to grate loudly on my ears and in that moment I become sickeningly aware of the soft, mushy lumps stuck between my teeth. My mouth floods with saliva and my throat and stomach constrict violently, sending me running for the toilet, where I am the most sick I have ever been in my life. The sight of the recently consumed cat food lumps floating around the toilet bowl brings on convulsion after convulsion until my eyes are streaming and my stomach muscles are screaming.
It’s another giant leap away from the perfectly honed and maintained poise I have spent twenty-four years working on.
After a long, long shower and a ten-minute session with the toothbrush I feel cleaner and refreshed and about ready to head off to work. Just as I’m glancing around the kitchen, I notice the brown envelope from the fridge, still lying there on the side. I pick it up and this time I open it straight away. It’s an appointment at the hospital for the ultrasound scan the midwife mentioned. Tuesday, fourteenth November, at half past two. Almost three weeks away. According to the letter, I need to drink two litres of water in the two hours preceding the appointment. I burp and unfortunately it tastes of salmon and beef chunks in gravy. Quickly I grab a glass and pour some water down my throat. Yet more time to be craved off work. Never mind – I can’t wait to see little Plum on that screen.
As I walk into the Telesales room twenty minutes later, I notice a sudden hush, accompanied by the hurried movement of people, who are giving the impression they were grouped together moments earlier, returning to their desks. I glance around the room and notice that just about everyone has got their head determinedly down, focusing intently on their work. Even Val barely looks up when I arrive at my desk. The clock is showing two minutes to nine. This is unheard of, everyone, bar none – well, except me – starting early.
‘Hi, Val. What’s going on?’ I ask, hanging my jacket over my chair.
‘Don’t be silly, of course not.’ She hesitates and then says, ‘I mean, nothing. What do you mean?’
I blink at her. ‘Well, everyone starting early, heads down, not looking up. It all went quiet when I came in. What’s everyone talking about?’
‘I don’t know. Oh, look, a call . . .’
She busies herself answering the call. I look around the room. Even Chrissie is already working, scrolling through the South of France. There’s one noticeable exception, though. Paris, the new station eight, is absent, her terminal off, the screen dark and grey.
There are clues here that, if you look at me standing there stationary by my desk looking confused, I haven’t got a hope in hell of working out. I could show you where Paris has gone, and I could explain what everyone was talking about before I came in, but I think that if I have to be left to puzzle it out myself, so should you be.
So I give up and get on with setting up my desk for the day. Headset plugged in; computer on; turret switched to ‘O’. Aren’t I naughty, to be making an outgoing call before I’ve even taken my first call? It’s 9.01.
I’ve managed to commit this number to memory and it rings once before being answered. ‘McCarthy Systems, may I help you?’
‘Is Hector there please?’
‘I’ll see if he’s in. Whom shall I say is calling?’
I smile at this. I’m imagining an old lady sitting in some draughty hallway, or in a corner of the room that Hector rents for his office. She’s probably a relative, an aunt maybe, or a cousin straight out of school, helping out by answering the phones to make the company seem more impressive. Whom shall I say is calling! I tell her my name and wait a few seconds while she checks, probably by peering over a partition or shouting out his name with her hand over the receiver – ‘Hec! Are you in? There’s a call for you!’ – and then she comes back and tells me he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed for several hours.
Another bloody meeting! I’m amazed that he ever manages to make any money at all, the amount of time he spends in meetings. When does he do any actual installing?
I leave the Telesales number and click off. Before I switch my turret over to ‘F’ for ‘Free’, I pause a moment. Did Hector say yesterday that he was in a meeting with Rupert de Witter? I was so drowsy when he rang. He said he was installing a new computer system for him, didn’t he? But that doesn’t make sense – you don’t need a professional installation company to put a new computer in for you, you can just pick one up off a shelf in Dixons. Or get one of the sales staff to do it for you. Maybe it’s something to do with a home security system, or something then. Hector certainly gives his clients good service.
It’s very strange to think about Rupert de Witter being one of Hector’s clients.
I flick over to ‘F’ and instantly my turret bleeps and flicks to ‘I’ to receive the incoming call.
‘Good morning, Horizon Holidays, Rachel speaking. How may I help you?’
‘If I book a holiday with you, will you come with me?’
Don’t panic, it’s all right, it’s Hector, not a filthy caller. Although I’ve had my share of those. There’s a procedure laid down in the staff handbook that you have to follow whenever you get one. Basically, it involves disconnecting the call immediately. We don’t always follow the procedure though – it’s a good laugh to keep the guy going for a while.
Anyway, this isn’t one.
‘Hector! I thought you were in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed for hours.’
‘Well, that was the plan. But I’ve just come out so I could call you. How are you this morning?’
‘Fine.’ I decide, in the interests of feminine mystique, not to tell him about the cat food. ‘Actually, I’m quite excited. And I’ve thought of a way you can make it up to me for last night.’
‘Oh, Rachel, I’m so sorry about that. It was so inconsiderate of me. Inexcusable. What can I do to make amends?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a favour, actually. I’ve got this appointment, for an ultrasound, when they kind of look inside you to see if the baby is the right size and things. I had one done at the hospital after the accident, just to make sure it was all right, but I couldn’t see it because of the neck brace. So this will be the first time I’ll see little Plum and I wondered whether, seeing as you’re the only other person in the world who knows about the baby and therefore the only person qualified to be there without saying, “What in God’s name is going on here?”, if you’d come with me.’
There’s an elongated silence. Yet again, I’m worrying that he’s getting uncomfortable with how this is going, although this is no more than one friend might ask another. I’m chewing my lip while I wait for an answer.
‘Erm, well, if I’ve understood you correctly, and I’m not entirely sure that I have, then I’ll have to say, because of the fact that it’s going to be quite a personal and private appointment and, if I know anything about obstetrics and sonography, might be fairly intimate, and us being virtual strangers and all, that wild horses won’t be able to keep me away.’
What a tease! I thought he was going to say no. ‘Well, that’s not saying much. Wild horses are notoriously bad at security.’
Here I am now, on Scan Day, spending ages on getting ready, much like the old days. I told Jean it’s Granny’s funeral today, and then made a mental note to go and see Granny soon and make it up to her. I’ve got very little idea of what to expect, so what to wear is proving a problem. Most of my clothes are too tight round the middle now, so I’m left with a knitted woollen dress Mum gave me once that’s little more than an act of penance, and a black lycra skirt that’s always been a bit loose on me.
The only way to decide between the two is to enact the scan by lying down on my back on the bed. Immediately I can see that the dress is a no-no. I would have to raise the whole thing up from the hem so everyone in the room – i.e. Hector – would see my knickers. The skirt then. Now for a top. This is a bit easier because my top half is much the same as ever, except for an extra D on my cup size. In the end I settle on a red V-neck T-shirt that hugs in all the right places but is stretchy enough over my enlarged boobs. I have a look at the whole outfit in the bedroom mirror, with jacket on and off, and I’m as satisfied as I can be. Now all I have to do is pop down to the sports centre and drink the swimming pool without peeing. Right. I’ve got an hour and a half before I have to leave, so I fill up a measuring jug and sit down to flick through Parenting while I slurp through it.
Did you notice the new direction my choice of magazine is taking? Cosmopolitan and Elle seem largely irrelevant now, and these parenting magazines hold an intense fascination. I can’t stop looking at the photographs of women giving birth, even though I always slam the magazine shut and have to breathe deeply for a few moments afterwards to calm myself down. My overriding feeling about those pictures is amazement that anyone would agree to be photographed doing that.
Two o’clock and I’m heading out the door, even though it’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. My car, by the way, is good as new – all sorted out by the insurance company while I was off sick from work. They even collected the car from my flat and delivered it back there afterwards. I was very impressed with the service, although, as I’ve mentioned before, I do tend to get good service if it’s a man.
Anyway, I’m really worried about finding a parking space near to the hospital. Have you ever filled your bladder to its utmost capacity so that it feels like stepping on a small pebble will cause it to explode? Well, it’s a first for me too. I have walked beautifully in some very difficult shoes in my time, but they were nothing compared to this. I feel like I have to glide along the ground, keeping my legs permanently bent so that I don’t bob up and down at all. Fortunately, I find a space only twenty-five yards away from the door, which is better than I was expecting.
I’m meeting Hector here, but there’s no sign of him. I make my way to the ultrasound clinic and check in. I’m fifteen minutes early, and the clinic is running fifteen minutes late. I’ve got to wait for half an hour.
‘But I need a wee!’ I blurt out.
‘Yes,’ says the receptionist, not looking up.
The waiting room is full of women slamming Parenting magazines shut. They’ve all got men with them, solicitously bringing them more water or lemon squash from large jugs on the table, asking them how they’re feeling, reassuring them that it won’t be long now. They’re like worker ants, bringing nectar to the queen bee.
I wish I’d known I could drink some of the water here, while I’m waiting. I’m starting to feel real pain. I find myself thinking that I’ll know better next time.
Next time?
Five minutes later, ten minutes early, a familiar voice says, ‘Hello, you there, am I late? I haven’t missed it, have I?’
I’m so relieved to see him, particularly as he takes one look around the waiting room, sees my agonized face and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. It’s quick, automatic, the kind of kiss I imagine gorgeous six-foot-two husbands give to their wives all the time.
‘Are you all right, bubbalugs?’ He’s slipping into this role so easily, it’s just a heartbeat’s work for me to imagine what it would be like if it was real.
‘Yes thanks, Pooh Bear. Just bursting for a wee, and still twenty-five minutes to wait. But I’ll live.’
‘Well, I passed a Ladies on the way in. It’s right outside—’
‘Oh get behind me, Satan.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to have a full bladder. It helps them get a clearer image of the baby.’
‘Oh. I forgot about that.’ He looks at me, then reaches for the jug of water and a cup, fills the cup and drinks it straight down. He immediately refills the cup and drains it just as quickly.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
‘I’m putting myself in your shoes,’ he says. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to understand what this is like for you.’ He drinks down another cupful of water, then immediately refills it.
All the other women suddenly look disappointed.
On the wall near the ceiling is an electronic board that scrolls out messages like ‘Please turn off your mobile phone,’ and ‘Donate your unwanted cutlery’. Every so often there’s a beep and a name flashes up; then one of the other women gets up and leaves the room. One by one, everyone in the room, including me and Hector, has fallen mute, as we stare up at this board, transfixed.
Beep. Helen Roberts.
All eyes scan the room looking for the lucky Helen. She gets up and waddles painfully away.
Beep. John Lithgoe.
Everyone is stunned and we all start looking around us quickly. Nobody had noticed that there was a man on his own in our midst, sitting in the corner reading Men and Motors. He puts the magazine down and gets to his feet somewhat self-consciously. We stare at him as he walks the length of the room and goes out into the corridor towards the examination room.
‘Gall stones,’ someone says, and everyone does a collective, ‘Oh,’ of understanding.
Beep. Roslyn Pike.
‘Oh, Jesus, thank crap for that!’ Roslyn shouts out in a broad Australian accent as she heads for the door.
‘Lovely, lovely lady,’ Hector says quietly after she’s gone, closing his eyes and nodding.
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I warn him. I have a groaning dam inside me and one good laugh will collapse it.
‘Sorry.’
Beep. Lara Croft.
‘No way!’ someone actually says out loud. We all turn eagerly to find out who is getting up. It turns out to be a heavily pregnant young woman with a scruffy blond ponytail and glasses.
‘Don’t laugh. I was Lara Croft long before she was,’ she says to the room as she gets up. ‘It’s a bloody curse.’
‘She’ll be gone long before you, though,’ Hector says kindly as she walks past.
‘You think? She’s already died once, but came back. How many more times?’
She walks through the door to the examination room and we hear the muffled sound of her giving her name to the sonographer. There’s another muffled sound, and then poor Lara has to say her name again, as if the sonographer didn’t hear her correctly, or at least thought he didn’t. Or maybe he’s having a giggle at her expense.
Beep. Rachel Covingt.
Apparently there isn’t enough space on the electronic display for my whole name. I glance around the room quickly, to make sure that Rachel Covingt isn’t getting up, but she isn’t so we head off into the examination room.
‘Are you baby’s father?’ the scan machine operator asks the room, not taking his eyes away from his equipment. It’s very dark in here; evidently his eyes have adjusted so well to years of working in such poor light that he can even see behind him.
The silhouette of Hector looks at me and I nod almost imperceptibly. He clears his throat. ‘Yes I am.’
Hector comes to the bed and sits down on the chair by my head. He takes my hand and leans down to me so his head isn’t so far above mine. His right arm and shoulder are pressing against me.
The machine operator does some fancy things with his machine that we can’t see, and then he says, ‘OK, here’s baby.’ And he turns the monitor round so the screen is facing us.
And there’s my future, in two shades of green. Look at that. The scan man is pointing out all these things and I can see them all. There’s the spine; there’s a hand, with five stumpy little fingers; there’s a foot; and there’s the face. It’s turned on its side and is facing right towards us now, as if it can see us on the other side of a window. I can make out two dark green hollows in a pale green oval, a faint outline of a nose and another hollow underneath.
‘He’s like you,’ Hector murmurs, eyeing the inhuman skull-like image.
‘Yes, he is beautiful, isn’t he?’
‘Who’s his dad, the incredible hulk?’ He’s joking around, but he can’t take his eyes off that screen, can he?
‘It was a profoundly beautiful and intense moment.’
‘Well, I want a divorce. He’s clearly not mine.’
‘It’s really very difficult to tell at this early stage what the child will look like,’ the sonographer interjects. ‘The green hue is nothing more than the LCD screen the image is displayed on.’
Hector and I stare straight-faced at each other, both of us governed by our full bladders.
‘Would you like a picture of baby?’ the scan man says at the end, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
Hector and I use the facilities while the picture is printing out. There are few pleasures in life that equal the sensation of emptying your bladder when it’s been full for two hours.
When I come out of the Ladies, I see that Hector has finished before me. Look, there he is, standing by the door to the scan room. That’s the humourless scan man, giving Hector a small square of paper, then retreating back into his shadowy domain. Look closely at Hector’s face as he turns from thanking the scan man to look down at the picture he’s holding in his hand as if it were made of spun sugar. His eyes widen, his mouth smiles very faintly and as it lies there on the palm of his big hand he raises his other hand, very softly lays his fingers down upon the image and strokes it gently.