If you think physical pain is the worst thing to contend with when you’re trying to sleep, you’ve obviously never tried mental torment.
When I started worrying that I might be pregnant last night, the first thing I did was panic. This was in no way planned and it is absolutely not the right time. I know I’m in my early thirties, but I am sure I still have plenty of time for this stuff, right? It’s not like it’s now or never … right?
As my rational thoughts kicked in, I decided that it might help to call Patrick and talk to him about it. Not just because he’s involved, but because he’s my boyfriend. I just knew that talking things through with him would make me feel better.
But he didn’t answer.
I felt guilty, calling him when I knew how tired he was, and that he’d probably been asleep for a couple of hours, but when he didn’t answer his mobile I felt my stress levels creeping up again so I called his landline without a second thought.
No answer though, not from him or a random woman.
So I tried my best to sleep but I had a terrible night, and by the time it turned morning it was just a matter of counting down the minutes, holding off for as long as possible to call him without waking him up too early.
When I did call, his mobile went straight to answerphone which was odd. Then he didn’t answer his landline, which worried me. By the time I’d called his office and his secretary had told me that he wasn’t in work yet – but he’s always in work at this time – I was really concerned.
Thanks to my overactive imagination I am already panicking about being a single mum, which is definitely jumping to a few more conclusions than I ought to. I’m sure he’s fine; I’ll just feel better when I hear from him.
I don’t want to be that girl, the one who seems like she’s keeping tabs on her man, but I’m legitimately worried about him. What if something has happened to him? What if he needs help?
Patrick has two best friends: Brandon and Evan. The three of them – or the three amigos as they call themselves – all work together, all wear the same suits and the same watches. I doubt they will be impressed with me calling them, checking up on Patrick, but if it makes me feel less worried then it will be worth a few seconds of a judgey man thinking I’m a possessive woman.
I try Brandon first but he doesn’t pick up, which only fuels my (it turns out, quite pessimistic) imagination. Then I try Evan and every ring feels like it takes a minute. Eventually he answers.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, Evan, hi, it’s Lola,’ I babble. ‘I was just a bit worried about Patrick because I tried to call him last night, then this morning, and he’s not answering any of his phones and he’s not at work.’
I try not to sound overly concerned, which potentially makes me seem more like a crazy girlfriend than just an overly anxious human concerned about another human they care about.
‘Oh, that might be my fault, sorry,’ he explains. ‘I called him up last night, asked him to come over and have a drink with me and then he crashed here. He left not too long ago, to go to work. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.’
I exhale a tornado of relief. ‘Oh, well, that’s OK then,’ I say. ‘Are you doing OK?’
It only feels right, to ask him how he is. It feels polite.
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he says. ‘But I need to get ready for work.’
‘OK, well, thanks for putting my mind at rest,’ I reply.
He doesn’t waste any time asking me how my leg is – no one from home does. It’s strange, isn’t it, how I refer to both London and Marram Bay as home? Whichever one I am in, I suppose the other one just feels more like home.
So I suppose now all I need to do is wait for Patrick to get to work, so that he can return my call and I can tell him that I’m late and a bit worried about it.
My phone rings almost immediately, which makes me smile – it’s a smile of relief as well as a little laugh at myself for being so ridiculous. Of course he’s fine.
It isn’t Patrick though, it’s Brandon. I suppose he’s just returning my call. I suppose I have to answer it and tell him why I called, which is probably only going to make me seem weirder.
‘Hello, Brandon,’ I answer.
‘Hey, Lola, everything OK?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sorry for calling,’ I start. ‘I’d tried to call Patrick a couple of times last night and at work this morning, but couldn’t get in touch with him …’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry about that,’ he starts.
I’m about to say it’s no big deal that he didn’t answer my call, and tell him that Evan told me he stayed there last night, but Brandon keeps talking.
‘We went out for a few late-night beers and it turned into a bit of a school-night session,’ he explains. ‘He slept at mine, headed straight to work from here.’
I quickly thank him and hang up.
Men have an interesting relationship with loyalty, don’t they? They have a ton of it, or none of it, depending on the circumstances. When it comes to their friends, men are fiercely loyal. I mean, look at Evan and Brandon, both so quick to offer up an alibi for their friend without a second thought. But Patrick, who spent our call yawning and insisting he was going to bed, is obviously not where he said he was going to be. He’s clearly lied to me. Zero loyalty to me, but he’d probably die for Evan or Brandon.
Am I really that unimportant to Patrick that the second I am out of the picture he just pretends I don’t exist and gets on with his life? I know that he’s selfish and a little funny about commitment but I figured we all have our flaws, and if Patrick needed some time to work things out then I was happy to give him that.
Wherever he was last night, he absolutely wasn’t at home like he said he was, and I don’t care if he was out with one of his mates (and the other lied to cover for him just in case) or if this alleged cleaning lady was the one he was out with. The bottom line is that he’s keeping things from me, he doesn’t seem to care about the fact I have a broken leg, he had no interest in looking after me – he wheeled me into a doorframe, for crying out loud. I don’t need a man like that in my life so balls to him. I’d rather be a single mum than raise a child with a crap dad.
I grab my phone and punch out an angry message to Patrick. I tell him that I know what he’s up to, that things are over, and that I never want to hear from him again. A text is all he deserves – well, it sounds like he’s moved on without even texting me. Who knows if he hadn’t done so before I broke my leg? Maybe he isn’t always working, maybe he just says he is. Forget him, I’m better off without him. I feel bizarrely strong and smug, but then I remember my late period and start worrying again.
I need to take a test, obviously. I can’t just do nothing, I’ll drive myself crazy, wondering, catastrophising, allowing my brain to run every possible scenario before assuming that the worst possible one is the most likely.
I’m not sure how, exactly, I’ll manage to take a test. I can’t even put my own underwear on at the moment, so I have no idea how I’m going to get to a shop and actually buy one …
I rack my brains, searching for a little something left over from my teenage years. Well, when you grow up on an island as small as Hope Island, in a tightknit community like Marram Bay, where everyone knows everything about everyone, it’s hard to get away with things. As a teenager I had to be creative, although admittedly most of my tactics were focused around bending the truth. I’m just glad the Marram Bay Facebook group didn’t exist when I was a teen, because now it’s even easier for everyone to be in everyone else’s business, and information spreads even faster than it did by mouth, like in the good old days.
Every time my mum would call me, she would have some gossip for me, courtesy of the Marram Bay Facebook group – so-and-so being shamed for not keeping their lawn at the right length, rumours about Hollywood actors walking around like ‘Freddie someone’ or ‘thingy Hardy’ (which was how my mum told it at the time), or even full-blown conspiracies to keep certain businesses out of town if the locals didn’t think they were a good fit.
I guess that’s what I’ll do today, I’ll tell a little white lie, to get my mum to take me to a shop so that I can buy one myself. I’ll just need to think of a good reason and then find a way to shake my mum off for a couple of minutes …
‘Morning, love,’ my mum says.
‘Morning, Mum,’ I reply as I gear up to tell my fib. ‘I was wondering if we might be able to pop to the shops today. I wanted to get a few things.’
‘Oh, love, I can get you anything you need. Don’t be dragging yourself out when you’re in such agony. Just make me a list, I’ll get right to it. I need to pop out anyway.’
Curse my helpful, considerate and loving mother. Just this once, I could do without the comprehensive mum treatment. I suppose there are worse things to have than an amazing mother, but that doesn’t help me get a pregnancy test. I am absolutely not asking her to pick one up for me because that comprehensive mum treatment will also include helping me with the test and waiting for the results with me while we discuss honouring grandma Lillian by naming the entirely hypothetical baby after her.
Come on, Lola, get creative. Slip back into your devious teenage mind-set, the one that made sure you never missed any cool parties you had been told you absolutely were not allowed to attend. In hindsight, that makes me sound like a nightmare, but I went to the parties my mum had forbidden me from attending, and I behaved appropriately. I never wound up injured or accidentally pregnant – nope, I’ve reserved such mistakes for my thirties, obviously.
‘Actually, Mum,’ I start, pausing for just a split second, hanging in that brief moment where it occurs to me that this plan might not work, that it might somehow backfire. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, but my leg feels like it’s burning up again – worse than the other day. The doctor said I had to go back, if it got any worse, so … if you could just drop me off maybe?’
I internally congratulate myself on a flawless plan. I can have my mum drop me at the doctor’s but then, while she goes off to do her shopping, I can nip into the pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test – if that doesn’t take long, I could maybe see about nipping into the loos, taking the test there so that I don’t have to worry about trying to dispose of the packaging at home. Now my plan really is foolproof.
My mum feels my forehead with the back of her hand in the way that mums do.
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘That is concerning. You’d do right to get it checked out.’
Relief washes over me, as I realise it’s going to work.
‘But we can’t mess around,’ she insists. ‘I’m going to call Dr Will, ask him to see you as soon as possible. None of this dropping in and waiting to be seen.’
Shit.
‘No, Mum, honestly, don’t take appointments from anyone else. I’m happy to just drop in, show it to Kim, see what she thinks …’
‘Nonsense,’ my mum replies. ‘This is important, Lola, we can’t take chances with your health.’
‘Mum, really, it’s—’
‘I’ll go call now,’ she cuts me off. ‘And I’m making sure you get sorted this time.’
Double shit.