Behaving Like Adults (38 page)

‘It's Nick's,' I said, before she could ask.

Most people would have cried, ‘Congratulations!' but Claudia wasn't most people. ‘Are you
sure
it's his? When did you, er? Shouldn't he take a paternity test? Or won't a gynaecologist tell you how many weeks it is? And are you sure this is a good idea? Don't you need to spend a bit more time sorting your head out? Would you be having it for the right reasons? It shouldn't just be a
distraction
. Are you and Nick back together? Does he know yet?' She finished up with, ‘Well, if you
are
having a sprog, all the more reason to stick with your business and make it work. You need money to raise a child.'

Like lemon juice finds a paper cut, that was Claudia. I snapped my bag shut, dragged my coat off the back of the chair, and replied, ‘Ring Issy, ask her to cover. Find a temp. I don't care. If you want me, I'll be at home.'

As I flounced from the office, Claudia yelled after me, ‘Fine, but I'm going to have to tell Issy about Stuart, because I can't keep up this charade any longer, I've run out of excuses for you.'

I turned and screamed, ‘Tell her everything, see if I care, tell Nige, tell Rachel, tell them all, let them speculate about how it was just a shag but it fucked me up anyway, I don't give a shit!'

I glimpsed Claudia framed in the doorway, shock on her pale face. Sun streamed in from the window, lighting the edges of her hair, a dark angel. ‘Holly,' she said – and I had to strain to hear – ‘they are your real friends and they would
never
doubt you. Please have faith. Not everyone is as cruel and unkind as Stuart.'

Claudia was as good as her word and told all three of them, because on Wednesday, Rachel sent me flowers. White roses. I put them in a glass vase and stared at them. If your life is a pigsty, white roses in a glass vase are – superficially – the answer. The very fact there are white roses in a glass vase in your house creates the illusion that everything is under control.
Look
, they say,
I have the time, money and peace of mind to purchase the beautiful and superfluous
. I tried to think what else they might say. White, the colour of innocence. The card read, ‘Dearest, precious Holly, I am so, so sorry'.

Naturally, I was screening my calls and I felt tragic doing it. She also rang, but I didn't pick up even though I knew I should thank her for the roses. I still felt rage towards her – she was almost definitely screwing my brother-in-law – I couldn't send
her
white roses. Nige rang too, sounding shaken. I wondered if he really was appalled or if he were acting. I've always wondered this about actors. If Tom made Nicole cry, how did he know it was for real? How did
she
know it was for real if he had a tantrum? Obviously with, say, Stallone, there wouldn't be a problem. Nige also wrote me a letter in velvety black ink on thick cream notepaper about what a special person I was, begging me not to let this destroy me.

Destroy?
I thought, admiring his jagged calligraphy, like rows of daggers on the page. A bit overdramatic, wasn't it? It was one thing,
me
believing that I was doomed to
poverty and misery. It was quite another thing my friends agreeing with me. Issy actually came round, ringing the doorbell, then – when I didn't answer it – bursting into a storm of tears, walking in a small, furious circle, drying her eyes and ringing again. I watched her, with curiosity, from the upstairs window. She was always aloof, our eldest sister, as if whatever Claudia and I got up to was child's play. Even her attitude to Girl Meets Boy had been coolly condescending. It surprised me, that the Stuart thing would rouse her to emotion. She was so accustomed to maintaining a professional distance, and half her clients had been through far worse than I had (the proof being that they were all bonkers). Surely, to her, my little mishap was piffle.

I couldn't even bear to face Nick, although I was slightly peeved that he'd only rung once since our date. (I'd been too lacklustre to return his call and he hadn't called again.) He'd
have
to ring more when I told him the news. I spent three days thinking, ‘I'm pregnant. Great! Oh shit. Great! Oh shit. Great! Oh shit . . .' I found this new state extremely effective in overriding my other concerns.
You cop-out
, said a small voice from somewhere in my head, but I disallowed it. Pregnancy was my ticket to an easy life.
Are you crazy?
said the voice. It was, though. It would guarantee me Nick's adoration, and if Stuart did sue it would give me the sympathy vote in court. It would permit me to bail out of Girl Meets Boy with minimum hassle from friends and family. It would wipe me from the radar of sexual predators. It was the best mistake I'd ever made.

I also spent more time than is healthy scrutinising my stomach in the mirror. Despite swearing that I wouldn't lose weight, I'd dropped at least two stone in the last few months. Nick was right, it
didn't
suit me. It was more the glandular fever than Stuart, but I still objected to it on principle. When Gloria rang the doorbell in Gloria-code – tring tring tring! (she always rang these days, even though
she had a key) – I told her the house was spotless, would she mind if we went food shopping instead?

‘Why aren't you at work?'

I frowned at her sharp little face. ‘I have sick leave.'

‘You've
had
sick leave.'

‘Gloria,' I said, wondering how she dared wear stonewashed drainpipe jeans and walk the streets, ‘I don't want to discuss it.'

‘When was the last time you went to the supermarket by yourself?'

‘Why is this relevant?'

‘When, Holly?'

‘Jesus! I don't know! Three months ago, okay?'

She pushed her hair from her eyes. ‘Can I ask, did the police offer you counselling?'

I tutted. ‘Yeah, yeah, they recommended people.'

‘And did you take it up?'

‘Oh bloody
hell
, Gloria, leave it. I don't have time, I'm sick to death of talking about it, thinking about it, it's over, I just want to be normal again.'

‘Right. And that's why you need me to chaperone you to Tesco.'

‘Just forget it then!' I screeched.

I stamped down the garden path, jammed my key into the ignition and roared off to Marks & Spencer. (If I was going to face crowds, it would have to be a slow acclimatisation. I assumed that M&S food hall – more posh and more expensive than Tesco – would be frequented by a genteel class of customer who'd keep their distance. I was mistaken; they were like a pack of starving wolves.) The sweats began as I drove into the car park. It took me ten minutes to leave the car. I took a basket and started dumping fruit and vegetables in it. As I stared at the shelves, people hovered close behind me, forcing me to dart away, glaring. I lost sight of the doors and couldn't get a full breath. I had to heave so hard my lungs hurt. I
trembled and wanted to run, but too bad, I had to feed the blob.

Forty-five minutes later, I staggered up the garden path, the weight of the bags cutting into my fingers and stretching my arms at least a couple of inches. I could still feel my heart racing, but altogether the experience hadn't been as horrendous as my imagination had drawn it. Supermarket shopping was, I decided,
do-able
. It wasn't like the tube, where the black walls of suits closed in on you and there really was no escape. Gloria said nothing when she saw the bags. She kept scrubbing the oven, but I could sense a smug aura. Only after she left, did I see the note on the table. It was an email address, in Gloria's rather painful handwriting. She'd mispelled words like ‘cousin' and ‘recommend'. I stuck it in the nearest drawer. Gloria had had one triumph with me that day, two would be overdoing it.

I did, however, order a pregnancy book off Amazon. If I liked, there was little need ever to set foot outside the house again. I could get a job proof-reading and – now that I considered it – didn't Tesco do home deliveries? If I boarded up my letter box and disconnected the phone, Stuart could sue me all he liked, I'd know nothing about it. I spent the rest of the week lying in bed, reading the pregnancy book (apparently written for ten year olds), and wondering whether – if I had an ‘incompetent cervix' – there was a danger of the foetus falling out of my body and getting stuck down my pyjama leg like a sock. I had a moment or two of weakness, when I itched to ring Claudia to see how Date Night had gone, but I held back.

Then, on Friday morning, she rang me. ‘Hol, pick up, I'm bored of this. If you don't, I'm telling Mum and Dad. You're freaking me out.'

She'd called my bluff. I lifted the receiver. ‘Hello. It's me.'

‘Finally. Great, well, come on, open the door.'

‘What?'

‘Open the door, I'm standing outside freezing my bollocks off.'

I peered down from my lookout, and there she was, yapping into her mobile. She was wearing a high ponytail and red mittens. ‘Wait a sec.' I scrambled downstairs, in my pyjamas. I'd been wearing them for the best part of five days. The house gleamed, and so did I (who wouldn't, averaging three baths daily) but my pyjamas were about to disintegrate. I redialled. ‘Wait another sec.'

I ran upstairs, into my bedroom and dragged on some clothes. In my haste, I pulled on a pink jumper. I'd been boycotting any tone brighter than brown, but Claudia was rat-tatting the knocker to the tune of – as far as I could tell – ‘Why Are We Waiting', so I thought rather than change I'd be wise to get downstairs fast.

I let her in.

‘Ah, good, you're a bit fuller in the face. How are you feeling? Where's the cat?'

‘Out socialising.'

Claudia nodded her approval. She and Emily hadn't seen eye to eye ever since Claw had taken off her pink and black ponyskin mules (acquired in Paris) at the door, and Emily had been sick in the left shoe. Claudia had discovered the crime, of course, by putting her foot in it. She disliked cats anyway, and such sabotage confirmed it.

‘Can you lock the catflap until I've gone?'

‘No! How would
you
like to be locked out of your own home!'

‘You're mental,' replied Claudia, and tip-tapped into the lounge. What she didn't know was that the catflap
had
been locked until a week before. No matter how long Emily had sat by the door, scraping plaintively at the cat flap or yowling through the night, I couldn't bring myself to let her out. I'd huddled under the covers and blocked out her cries. Yet another bone of contention between Gloria and myself. I'd come home more than once to find a neat pile of ironing, and Emily at large. When I'd asked Gloria
not to let the cat out, she'd replied, ‘Cats are
meant
to go outside. They're hunters, it's their reason for being. It's not fair of you, to take your hang-ups out on Emily. You're as bad as those vegan idiots who feed their dogs on broccoli. Or their children for that matter.'

I suppose it was Gloria who prompted me to let Emily out again. She continued to unlock the catflap in my absence, and no feline tragedy occurred. Furthermore, I hated to see Emily miserable, I felt like her jailer. And finally, Emily did four consecutive poohs on my Persian rug. I'm loathe to give in to blackmail, but I'm afraid the fourth pooh swayed it for me. I let her out, and cordial relations were resumed.

Claudia rejected a cup of coffee and stood by the sofa rather than sit on it. To be honest, I was pleased to see her. Despite the adrenalin charge of novelty, I felt a restlessness that seemed alarmingly close to
boredom
. I didn't want to admit it, but by Thursday I'd missed the office. I was still resolved to give it all up – after such a song and dance it would have been weak to change my mind – yet I was slowly coming round to the idea that maybe I could leave the house occasionally. I could be a – oh what was it called, when you did nothing under the guise of expertise? – a consultant!

‘Flying visit,' said Claw. ‘To say that I've been considering your offer about Girl Meets Boy, and I think we should have a serious talk about it. If we don't act fast, the agency is going to go under – the finances are better but not exactly great, and the business as a whole needs direction. I suggest Sunday, at seven, at my place. I'll make cheese on toast. It'll be a proper business meeting.'

Quite how cheese on toast made a proper business meeting, I didn't know. And her determination caused flutters in my stomach. (It's easy not to want something – boyfriend; boots; a particular menu item – so long as no one else wants it. Once someone voices interest, you presume you've made the mistake of your life.) But it was too late.

‘Yeah, okay,' I replied. ‘Sunday at seven it is. I'll dig out the paperwork.'

Claudia nodded, a pert business nod, paused at the door, and granted me a regal wave. ‘Be punctual.'

I was left standing, mouth open. Be
punctual
! Before I employed her she was unemployable! Of all the cheek!

Sunday, dot on seven, I rang Claudia's bell. (Having first called her from the car to announce my arrival, as I refused to wait outside in the dark, alone, not even for five seconds.) Obligingly, it played the first few bars of ‘God Save The Queen'. A visit to Claudia's flat was like going back in time. It was a shrine to the fifties. Or sixties. It wavered according to whatever tat she'd picked up that week in Brick Lane. You walked through a shower of pink door beads into a lounge dominated by a fake tigerskin carpet, deep red walls, and a cocktail bar – a garish silver homage to vinyl and formica, with a pineapple ice bucket claiming pride of place. Fairy lights twinkled from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with illuminated pictures of waterfalls that I'd only ever seen in Indian restaurants. As Nige once said, ‘Christ alive, it's me Great-Aunt Mabel's house!'