Behaving Like Adults (41 page)

I smiled. ‘In the spirit of greed, I think I can manage three doughnuts.'

‘Capitalism at its most ruthless,' said Claudia happily. Issy's agreement wasn't quite so heartfelt, but she ripped open a stack of vacuum-sealed paper plates and handed them round. ‘Oooh!' cried Claudia, ‘Int she posh!'

‘We need coffee,' exclaimed Issy. ‘I'll go.'

Claw and I raised our eyebrows at each other in silent approval. ‘New leaf,' mouthed Claudia. I beamed. Work! This was part of what made life meaningful – striving! What
had
I been thinking? Who could do without it?

The second Issy was out the door, Claudia said, ‘What's wrong?'

I told her about Nick's reaction. ‘I'm fine, though,' I insisted. ‘I'm more than capable of managing without him. And – da naaa! – I told Mum and Dad last night. They're thrilled.'

‘Oh my gaad, of course they are! Christ, they must be over the moon. What did they say? That must have been why Mum rang me this morning – I was on my way out so I didn't pick up. I'll ring her back right now. It's
so
exciting, I can't believe it! And don't worry about Nick. We'll all help you. One kid is a doddle. You can pick it up and carry it around in your pocket!'

‘Yeah,' I said, ‘I can be doing without
two
.'

We laughed, and I refused to feel guilty. Yes, it was mature of Nick to offer to beg a favour from Michael on my behalf, at a time when he was still furious and hurt and wanting to reject his adoptive parents. But this was, I decided, the exception that proved the rule. Nick
was
a kid. I tried to disapprove of him. What about the time he stumbled in drunk after a boys' night out and made himself a sandwich by tearing the wrapping off a pound of brie and sticking it between two slices of bread. He hadn't even cut off the rind. I did my best to frown but smirked instead. The thought of it made me laugh.
Was
this childish, or was it merely high spirits? And what about the time he stood in front of the mirror and said ‘Candyman' five times? I'd screamed at him not to (you never know). That was irresponsible, wasn't it? Yes, but it was also
fun
. What about the time he'd cleaned half the hob because, as he'd explained, ‘That other bit isn't
my
dirt.' I remembered something Claw had said when we'd got engaged.

‘You're lucky, Hol. You're marrying a man who's going to make you laugh for the rest of your life.'

She'd always liked Nick. I sighed, and thanked her for the previous night. It had turned my head around. Made me realise that it was up to
me
to make myself laugh for the rest of my life. It seemed a bit of a tall order. Still. I could do it. ‘Great to see Nige looking so happy,' I said, to ward off another ‘what's wrong?'

‘Oh
yeah
,' said Claw.

‘I thought he'd drop us the second he got a sniff of success but he hasn't. He's a good bloke. He really cares about the agency.'

‘He cares about you, you daft cow. He despises most of the world, but if he respects you, he'll stick by you. He
is
a good bloke. You were very sweet to him when he split with Marylou, he's never forgotten that. He still mentions it. A lot of his friends sided with her, presumably because she's on the telly. Did he tell you the latest on that score? Suddenly, now he's star of the show, she wants to meet him for a
cappy
. I said the filthy girl! He said she meant a cappuccino. My God. She's even more of a luvvie than he is! I'm surprised they stood each other as long as they did. How their egos fit in that two-bed flat! You know, techically, they're still married?'

I pouted. ‘I hope he doesn't meet her for a cappy or anything else. She treated him horribly.'

Claw shrugged. ‘Right now he's getting his adrenalin kicks from elsewhere. He shouldn't need her.'

We were nodding sagely, when Issy returned with a caffeine tower. ‘Okay,' I said, wanting to do justice to their faith in me. ‘To business! And in the interests of not wasting time, I suggest we speak unashamedly with our mouths full.'

Cue, an enjoyable morning of discussing
Glamour
articles, filing applications and spitting crumbs. What, I thought to myself, would you be doing, if not this? At 1 p.m., Claw and Issy both skedaddled (my sisters take
their statutory rights extremely seriously). At five past one, there was a knock on the door. Instinctively – and this doesn't say much for my instincts – I snatched up a pencil.

‘Who is it?' I snarled, brandishing my weapon.

‘Delivery for Holly Appleton,' said a male voice that wasn't Stuart's. I opened the door an inch, still wielding the pencil. A young guy in sloppy jeans thrust a huge bouquet at me and fled.

‘Thanks,' I shouted after him, feeling sheepish. I sniffed the flowers. They were mostly red and purple, clashing beautifully. I opened the card, hands trembling. What would it say this time?
See you in court
? The message was in untidy handwriting as familiar to me as my own.

For the mother of my child, xx N
.

I squirmed, part pleasure, part embarrassment. You think you want old-style romance, but when it comes, it feels
icky
. Well, he'd changed his tune. My heart began a faster beat. This was a highly significant statement. On a level with ‘Britain is now at war with Germany'. Well, not
quite
. What I mean is that those six words, to me, were life-changing. They spoke the difference between single parenthood and a cosy family unit.

Five seconds later, the phone rang. ‘'S'me!'

I practically purred. How would, for instance, Audrey Hepburn say it? ‘The father of my child?'

‘Oh Christ – Hol – listen – you got the flowers, yeah? – I'm sorry – about last night – I'm thrilled – it's a blessing – it was a lot to take in – a lot, that's all – I wasn't expecting it – but I'm ecstatic – it's the best thing that's ever happened to me – the best thing – I've hardly slept – I'm so excited – really – a kid – our own baby – wow – it's fate – it is – for it to happen now – it's got to be!'

I beamed down the phone. I couldn't have put it better myself. But Nick (breathless with delayed joy) hadn't finished.

‘Hol – are you free tonight? – because – I want you to come with me – I have a very special evening arranged –
yeah? – please say yes – cancel whatever you've got on – dress up – not too dressy – but nice – special – I'll pick you up from home – okay? – seven, alright? – don't want to be late – a surprise – you'll never guess – okay, great – see you at seven – be ready – okay – love you – bye!'

I replaced the receiver, shaking my head in wonder. ‘Love you, too,' I said, aloud. One thing for sure, I'd never be bored again. I rested my hand on my stomach. There was something restful about being pregnant. In a dim corner of my mind, a thought loitered that I wasn't quite ready to welcome into the light. That I could stop trying with
my
happiness and concentrate on the baby's. All over the world, people used their offspring as a reason to stop making an effort. Stop going out. Stop looking after their appearance. Stop
bothering
. Because then they didn't have to think about their own failed lives. They could legitimately distract themselves with someone else's.

I'm not saying that's what I decided. But it was nice to have the option.

The afternoon dragged by, and I sent Claw and Issy home on the dot, creeping off myself moments later. Nick arrived bang on seven. He looked like he'd bathed in electricity. He gave my outfit a critical once-over. ‘Will I do?' I said, half-indignantly.

He laughed and kissed me. Then he knelt and kissed my stomach. ‘I can feel a bulge!'

Bless his innocence. ‘I'm afraid that's just podge,' I said, lowering myself into his car. ‘In the last couple of weeks I've been stockpiling. So, are you going to tell me where we're going?'

Nick grinned at me from the driver's seat. ‘You kind of gave me the impetus to do it,' he said. ‘This morning, I called my birth mother.'

‘What! You spoke to her?'

He was off. ‘For an
hour
 . . .'

Meanly, I thought to myself, that's nothing.
We've
spoken for three hours on the phone before.

‘Pamela Fidgett warned me to be careful – she said she prefers to make initial contact – but I wanted it to be me – and it was great, Holly, great – amazing – her voice – it was
creepily
familiar – she answered the phone – when I said it was me, she screamed.'

Screamed? I thought. Burst into tears, surely?

‘She wanted to see me straight away – she said she always hoped I'd get in touch.'

But you say that to a casual acquaintance.

‘And she asked about my life – and she told me about hers – I have a half-brother called Russell – he's twenty-three – he's in retail – she lost touch with my father – it was a fling – not that I mind – well – it would have been too much to hope for – I suppose – but her husband knows about me – he doesn't mind – but he's not in tonight anyway – Russell might be there though – she works in a hairdresser – A Cut Above the Rest – which is fine – I told her I work in the entertainment business – I didn't want her to be disappointed – she couldn't believe how smart I sounded – I told her about you – and the baby – she wanted to meet you both—'

‘Nick,' I yelped. ‘You're meeting your mother for the first t—'

‘
Second
time, Holly. She gave birth to me. In a way, we are intimately acquainted.'

‘Of course, yes, sorry. What I mean is, are you sure I won't be in the way? Won't you two want to be alone?'

‘I want to have you there. You're
my
family.'

I was beginning to understand his thinking and it didn't make me feel comfortable. We drove the rest of the way in silence, the excitement buzzing off him. He raced down narrow roads at forty, and I suspected that – even if he'd merely sat in his car peering at her darkened windows – this wasn't his first visit to his birth mother's home. He rolled to a quiet halt a few doors up from an unremarkable suburban end of terrace. There was nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other houses in a thousand other streets.

‘There,' he said, pointing. He looked rapt. But he didn't move from his seat.

‘When is she expecting you?'

I half imagined that he'd reply, ‘She's been expecting me for the last thirty years,' but he said, ‘Seven forty-five.'

We were very early. Nick stared at the house. So did I. I wanted to ask a lot of petty questions. Was she making us dinner? (Already, with half an inch of baby inside me, I suspected I was going to be the kind of mother who encouraged people to eat at gunpoint.) Why wasn't she gazing out of the window?
I
would have been. This
had
to go well. I glanced at my watch as the minutes ticked by. At a quarter to eight precisely, Nick checked his (immaculate) hair in the rear-view mirror. I wondered why there weren't more lights on in the house. Was she trying to save money?

Nick unclicked his seatbelt. He looked at me, pale as milk. ‘Ready?' he said.

WE PADDED UP
the garden path and I felt like a bloodhound, sensitive to every detail. The uneven paving stones. The weeds run riot in the flowerbeds. The paint cracking off the squeaky gate. The greyed net curtains hung limply in the bald windows. I glanced at Nick. He had a glazed look, as if he was taking in none of it. Don't be such a snob, I told myself. Only one thing matters here.

He turned and grinned at me, awkwardly, and rang the bell.
Ding dong!
He stepped back. He held a sorry-looking bunch of flowers in front of him, with both hands like a knight wielding a sword. I crossed my fingers. Please let her be wonderful. Why didn't she open the door
immediately
? What was she doing, playing it cool? This is not a time to play it cool, I growled inside my head, as the door swung open. And there stood Nick's biological mother.

She looks
old
compared to Lavinia, was my first thought. And despite working at a hairdresser's (did she work at one or was she one? I couldn't recall), her hair was strange. It was different from her wedding picture: bobbed, brown and fine – well, thin to be exact – and had been sprayed into shape to give it the appearance of body. Her pale skin might have once been an asset but was now smoked and worried into wrinkles. It seemed as if she had tossed her make-up into the air and walked through it, as proper ladies are supposed to walk through their perfume. Despite all this, she
was
pretty, even if it was a faded prettiness. If you asked me, Nick's looks were more than a credit to her, they were a jackpot. Her eyes, brown, like his,
didn't rest. They darted from him, through me, to him again. She fanned the air around her mouth, and quite right – I could smell the cigarettes from
here
. And then she flung her arms around him.

Nick dropped the flowers on the porch as he hugged her. As she held him tight, I watched her face. She cried enough. And her eyes were squeezed shut. I guessed she was genuine. The two of them stayed fixed in that hug for ages. She kept wheezing something I couldn't quite catch. Then I realised it was the name
she
had given him. His name is Nick, I thought stiffly. But he didn't correct her. I assessed her clothing. A black and beige patterned jumper with a round neck, the sort of item a great-aunt might pick up in Woolworths. Flat black shoes and beige trousers, which emphasised her barrel shape. Nick really must have taken after his father.

I never used to make snap judgments about people, but that had changed. I decided she wasn't a
relaxing
person. She radiated tension. Nor was she what I'd call warm. I tried to separate her from the situation and surroundings. The ordinariness of her house wasn't in her favour, but then,
my
parents' home was the definition of ordinary, and it had no effect on their aura of contentment. But maybe I was being defensive. She was ushering in Nick, never taking her eyes off him, touching his hair, his face. As for him, he didn't speak. Then he did an odd thing. He leaned in close to her neck and
sniffed
it. A dreamy look came over him and he sank his head in his hands and his whole body shook.