22

After the dress fitting on Saturday, instead of going home with Mum, Grace and Audrey, I head to meet Sam at Waterside. Ever since she caught us together in the bathroom last weekend Grace has been asking constantly about the ‘surprise’ we have planned for her and the baby, piling on the pressure for us to come up with something decent.

‘Six quid for two pairs of socks that look like they could barely fit on my thumb?’ I say. ‘Are they having a laugh?’

‘Very possibly,’ Sam admits. ‘Although you have to admit these definitely have the “aw” factor.’

I pull a face. I’ve never understood why people get all gooey about baby clothes. They’re just little, that’s all. We’ve been in the baby-clothing department of John Lewis for over thirty minutes now and I’m slowly losing the will to live.

I put the socks back and pick up a pair of denim dungarees. ‘How come you haven’t found out whether it’s a boy or a girl?’ I ask, looking at the price tag and quickly returning the dungarees to the rail.

‘We want a surprise,’ Sam says.

We. Ugh.

‘I’d want to know,’ I say.

‘Really?’

‘Of course.’

‘You don’t like surprises?’

‘Only if they’re good.’

‘Call me cheesy if you want,’ Sam says. ‘But I really want to experience that magic moment where the midwife looks up and says “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy”, like they do on TV.’

‘What do you want?’ I ask, picking up an embroidered sunhat that fits almost perfectly on my fist.

‘I honestly don’t mind,’ Sam says. ‘As long as it’s healthy.’

I mime a yawn. ‘I knew you were going to say that. Come on, don’t be such a boring cliché. You must want one more than the other.’ I pause. ‘I won’t tell Grace,’ I add in a sing-song voice.

Sam glances behind him as if he expects Grace suddenly to leap out from behind the display of dribble bibs like a trained sniper.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘But you can’t tell Grace I said this …’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘… but I’d secretly quite like a boy.’

‘I knew it!’ I cry, stabbing him in the chest with my index finger. ‘I know you were lying when you said you didn’t mind.’

‘I’d love a girl too, of course I would, but … I don’t know, I’ve just always had this stupid fantasy about having a son I can impart all my “manly” wisdom to. I suppose there’s a part of me as well that wants to do right all the things my dad did so wrong. Does that make sense?’

‘I guess so.’

We drift into the toy department. I gravitate towards a huge wooden box filled with cuddly toys.

‘So how about you?’ Sam asks, absentmindedly playing with the ears of a pale grey bunny rabbit. ‘Do you want a niece or a nephew?’

‘God, I don’t care,’ I say, digging to the bottom of the box, tossing aside teddy bears and stuffed monkeys. ‘Half the time you can’t tell the difference anyway.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. Until they start walking and talking and stuff, all babies are basically just dribbly lumps.’

‘Harsh words.’

‘But true.’

Sam crouches down to pick up the cuddly toys I’ve rejected, gathering them up in his arms.

‘Yes!’ I cry.

‘What?’ he asks, straightening up.

‘Found one.’

‘Found what?’

‘A lizard. Look!’ I found him at the very bottom of the box, the lone reptile.

‘Are you sure he’s not a crocodile?’ Sam asks.

‘No. Look at its tongue.’ I thrust the lizard in Sam’s face. ‘See. One hundred per cent lizard.’

‘But why lizards?’

‘Because. Lizards hardly ever get to be cuddly toys. They’re the total underdog of the cuddly toy world.’

‘You gonna buy him for Bean, then?’ he asks.

The mention of the baby throws me, reminding me why we’re actually here. I hesitate, holding out the lizard so it’s facing me, its red felt tongue dangling out of its mouth hopefully.

‘Nah. It’ll get a ton of cuddly toys when it’s born,’ I say, shoving it back on the pile.

We continue round the toy department, struggling to find anything unique enough to warrant a secret bathroom meeting.

‘How about a baby shower?’ I suggest eventually. ‘That’s what they always do on the reality TV shows I watch.’

‘That’s a brilliant idea!’ Sam says, chucking his arm round my shoulder. ‘Mia, you’re a genius! We can do it in August, after the wedding.’

We abandon John Lewis and head to the massive twenty-four-hour Tesco superstore. I usually hate supermarkets, but shopping with Sam is actually kind of fun, even if it is all for Grace’s benefit, and for a bit I forget about how horrible yesterday was. It probably helps that we’re buying fun stuff – bunting and banners and balloons – and that Sam (who has already offered to pay for everything) lets me put whatever I want in the trolley, no questions asked. I sit cross-legged in the bottom and shout out orders as he steers. A couple of other shoppers throw us disapproving looks, but we ignore them, Sam pushing me even faster down the wide aisles, jumping on the back of the trolley so it almost tips up.

In the party aisle, as we argue over what colour napkins to buy, I find myself wondering if this is what it would be like to have a big brother. I’m so used to sisters, to living in a house so full of oestrogen you can almost see it in the air – pink neon sparks crackling like lightning. All I know is, it’s nice to hang out with an older boy and not feel the need to flirt or show off or act sexy. It just feels, I don’t know, easy and relaxed. Nice.

The feeling doesn’t last long.

We’re heading for the checkouts when I see them.

Jordan and his mum.

They have their backs to me, but I know it’s them right away. They’re loading their shopping into bags. Jordan’s wearing the maroon hoodie he used to drape round my shoulders when I got cold. I swallow hard. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since we broke up. With him suddenly only metres away from me, it seems miraculous I haven’t run into him before now – Rushton isn’t a small town but it isn’t a particularly big one either. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I haven’t had a shower or bothered to put on eyeliner or cover up the spots on my forehead or do anything to my hair, which is currently in two wonky bushy pigtails on either side of my head. Not to mention the fact I’m sitting cross-legged in the bottom of a shopping trolley like a little kid.

‘This one?’ Sam asks, about to steer into the checkout next to theirs.

‘No,’ I say in a low voice. ‘Let’s try further down.’

I dare to peek over my shoulder as we pass. Jordan is stuffing a Kellogg’s Variety Pack into a bag for life. He likes Coco Pops the best, he once confessed. I remember finding his childish taste in breakfast cereal cute at the time. What a sucker.

‘What are you looking at?’ Sam asks.

‘Nothing,’ I say, facing forwards.

‘That boy?’

‘No.’

‘Who is he? Do you like him?’ Sam teases, tugging on one of my pigtails.

I bat him away. ‘He’s my ex.’

‘Oops. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. I just wasn’t expecting to see him, that’s all.’

‘Fair enough.’

I can’t relax though, not until Sam is able to report Jordan and his mum have definitely left the building.

 

I’m still in a funny mood when we leave the shop ten minutes later, laden with bags, my eyes automatically scanning the car park for Jordan’s mum’s Mini.

‘You hungry?’ Sam asks. ‘Maccy Ds drive-in? My treat.’

‘Grace hates McDonald’s,’ I say, as we park up again shortly afterwards, removing our seatbelts and unwrapping our food on our laps.

‘Why do you think I suggested it?’ Sam asks. ‘I’ve been craving a Big Mac ever since I arrived in Rushton.’ He sinks his teeth into his burger and sighs with pleasure.

‘Does she email you links to articles about thirty-year-old hamburgers that still haven’t decomposed?’ I ask.

‘Yes!’ Sam says. ‘All the time. I thought I was the only one.’

‘Nope. She’s being doing it to me for years.’

We laugh.

I peel the bun off my cheeseburger and remove the two slithers of gherkin.

‘You not eating those?’ Sam asks.

‘Uh-uh. Gherkins are rank.’

‘Sacrilege! They’re the food of the gods!’

I flick them into his burger box.

‘So, do you want to talk about it?’ Sam asks, arranging the gherkins on top of his patty.

‘What?’

‘The guy in Tesco.’

‘Jordan? Not especially.’

‘You sure?’

I hesitate. It’s weird, because part of me does want to talk to Sam about Jordan. I haven’t really talked about him to anyone, not even Stella and the others.

‘There’s nothing really to say,’ I say eventually. ‘We went out, then we broke up. Isn’t that how most relationships go?’

‘Who called time on things?’

‘Me.’

‘Do you regret it?’

I shake my head hard.

‘But you still miss him, right?’

I pick up a napkin and begin to shred it into ribbons. Do I miss Jordan? Most of the time we were going out, I wasn’t even sure if I liked him. We only really got together because that was what was expected of us. I was cool and popular, and so was he. People had been shipping the two of us as a couple since Year 9. Getting together was just a matter of time. But it never felt right. For a start we argued all the time, about anything and everything. But it wasn’t just that. I kept waiting to feel something more, the stuff they describe in books – fireworks and butterflies. But I never did. I just figured maybe I’d never be one of those girls who just ‘fell in love’.

I realize Sam is still waiting for my answer.

‘I dunno if I miss him. Does it sound really messed up if I say I want him still to be heartbroken over me? Even if I don’t necessarily want him back?’

‘No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think that’s probably a pretty natural response. When did you guys break up?’

‘The beginning of May.’

‘Were you together a long time?’

‘A bit less than a year,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I just hadn’t bargained on him getting a new girlfriend so quickly, you know.’

‘It’ll get easier. You do know that, don’t you, Mia?’

‘I suppose so. I just wish it would hurry up … You won’t tell Grace about any of this, will you?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘I just don’t like her knowing my business,’ I say.

‘How come?’

I don’t really know. I used to tell her everything. I’m not quite sure when I stopped. I don’t think it was really like that. It wasn’t like there was ever a big betrayal or argument or anything that marked the breakdown in communication. It was more of a slow fade. If I was forced to pinpoint when things started to change though, it would have to be when I started at Queen Mary’s. The teachers’ eyes would light up the moment they realized I was Grace’s little sister, their excitement dissolving the moment they cottoned on to the fact a shared surname is pretty much all we had in common. It was different when we were little kids, back when things like grades didn’t matter so much, but with us both at Queen Mary’s, the differences between us were impossible to escape.

Grace is clever, I am not.

Grace is good, I am not.

Grace is going places, I am not.

‘It’s complicated,’ I say eventually.

I’m relieved when Sam doesn’t push me on it.