Behaving Like Adults (45 page)

‘Definitely,' I replied. ‘It's great for Girl Meets Boy. But really, the agency is nothing. I'm just thrilled that Bernard and Sam have found each other. And you're right, it
is
classy. Secretly, I'd imagined Bernard's country cottage to be one of those new Barratt Homes type things, all nasty pink brick and yellow gravel drive, but this is so pretty, very Hansel and Gretel. And Rach has done a great job with the food, flowers and music. She really is very good.'

I was confused. I knew I'd always love Nick, but here I was showing all the symptoms of being
in
love with Nick. Well, almost all of them. All the condradictory signs were there. Feeling self-conscious in his presence one minute, deep peace the next. Bliss one second, then frustration. I felt lustful when he held my hand but – and this is where the part of the confusion arose – no desire to take it further. Also, there was a sense of acceptance towards him. Before, I'd always been geeing him on to be just a little bit
better
. Now, I felt I'd take him, no conditions. And this wasn't wholly to do with the sense that he'd finally matured. After all, in the speech about respect he'd made in the restaurant he'd let slip that he'd taken out some loan and squandered it. Once, I'd have pursed my lips. Now, I was of the attitude, we all have our flaws. Also, it hit me that I didn't want him to be
too
grown up.

And yet. If he had improved,
I
certainly hadn't. Perhaps this was why I suspected he was not exactly raring to tie the knot. Did he suspect my motives? I tried to stop my next thought, which was ‘
should
he?'

When I'd asked him, possibly. But now . . . today . . . increasingly . . . it no longer felt as if it were about needing him for
me
, because of my fears. It was about needing him for
him
, because he was wonderful.

We sat and listened as Bernard himself thanked us for coming, heaped praise on Sam to the extent that even Issy's eyes watered and invited us to eat, drink and be merry. Sam, to my pride – although what
I
had to be proud of I wasn't sure – also made a speech. There was no sign of the
shy, eczema-covered girl forever hiding in baggy dungarees. Here was a pretty and confident woman with clear skin and a cheeky sense of humour. I'd suspected as much when I saw my bridesmaid dress.

After the speeches, everyone gorged on salad, quiche, and coronation chicken. (Rach had discussed it with Sam who'd decided on a traditional/retro theme.) An elegant string quartet played while we stuffed ourselves and I couldn't recall a more civilised afternoon. I was introduced to Sam's parents – her mother had cried all the way through the service and was still bursting into tears on sight of her daughter. Bernard's mother seemed to be made of sterner stuff, until I spied her fondly adjusting his bow tie. He indulged her with such good grace, I wanted to congratulate Sam on her choice of life partner.

I dabbed my eyes. I could have sat there and wept happy tears all evening, but Sam had asked me to browbeat guests onto the dance floor. Bernard had exacting taste in music and, after serious discussion with Rachel, had been persuaded to hire one of her favourite DJs. I'd feared Europop, but was treated instead to Frank Sinatra, Burt Bacharach, Andy Williams and other greats (I say vaguely, having zero knowledge of the other greats). Bernard's patio was transformed into a dancefloor, and his fruit trees winked and twinkled with pink fairy lights as the sun set.

‘Can I book you for the next dance, Holly?' boomed the groom, his red face oozing sweat and joy as he bent over me. ‘My
wife
is dancing with her father.'

‘I'd love to,' I cried. ‘Bernard, this is such a great wedding.' I jumped up and felt giddy. I suspected my dress created a backwash. ‘I'll just go and . . . Won't be a sec.'

I left Nick chatting to Claudia and bustled upstairs to the bathroom. And there I was, planted on the lavatory, like a large burgundy mushroom, and I saw a
stain
. Rust red, on my knickers. Quaking, I dabbed myself with toilet paper. A smear of blood. Oh God. Please, no. The pain in my stomach was mild though. How could
that
be a
miscarriage? And the blood – it wasn't gushing out in clods, it was just like a normal period. Calmly, trapped in a bad dream, I upturned my bag, found my phone and rang Claw on her mobile. The second she tapped on the door I became hysterical.

‘Okay, keep calm. I'll drive you to hospital. I presume they have hospitals in Devon.'

‘No . . . no. Wait.'

Claudia looked at me oddly. ‘Don't some people get bleeding in early pregnancy?'

‘Yeah.' I couldn't speak. I had a horrible feeling. The sickening sense I'd got myself into a situation it would be hell to get out of.

‘Shall I call an ambulance? Holly, what's wrong? There's no time to muck about.'

I hid my face in my hands. I
knew
why I'd done it, but what had I done? Claudia let me hide for a reasonable length of time, then pried my fingers from my eyes. ‘Hol?'

I looked up. ‘You know when you do a pregnancy test. You must have done?'

‘In my misspent youth.'

‘And . . .' I forced my voice to an audible level. ‘There's a line in the round window if you're pregnant, right?'

‘I can't remember. I thought there was a line in both windows. Hol?
What?
What are you talking about?'

I cleared my throat. Better get it over with. ‘This isn't a miscarriage. This is the plain old time of the month.'

Claudia said nothing. She looked grave.

‘I lost fifteen pounds in a short time when I had glandular fever. And sudden weight loss can cause you to skip periods. I read about it . . . a few days ago. But I've gained most of the weight back in the past six weeks. So . . . I suppose . . . I . . . I wanted . . . it would have made an end to it . . . been so nice if Nick and . . . shit, oh God, what will I . . .?'

Claudia shook her head and sat down hard on the side of the bath. She looked as if she'd been struck dumb.

‘I believed it, at first, Claw. I really did. I really thought I was pregnant. And then . . . I wondered but . . . I didn't want to go back . . . it seemed so possible . . . I postponed the doctor's appointment . . . I thought . . .'

I stared at Bernard's cork matting and thought,
if you want it badly enough you can make it happen
.

Not true.

Claudia stood up. ‘Here's a Tampax,' she said. ‘We're going back to the party and you are going to dance with Bernard. And tomorrow, Holly, you are going to start sorting out the mess in your head. Reality doesn't suit any of us all of the time. Functional adults accept that. If you can't, you will not have a happy life and I mean that. Christ knows what you're going to tell Nick.'

She marched out of the bathroom. I stared at the door. It suddenly banged open again, nearly causing me to fall in the toilet with fright. Claudia burst back in. Her face was brick red.

‘How
dare
you?' she screamed. ‘How fucking
dare
you do this! How could you
do
this, to yourself, to Nick, to me, to Mum and Dad? It's not just about you, you know! We're all affected! I've had it with you and your weird behaviour! You're letting him win, you know that? Do you want Stuart to win? Do you want to help him screw up your life? I am
sick
of this, you don't fucking
lie
about things like babies, whatever you've been through, it's not the way, it's not healthy, it's fucking insane! So fucking stop it, okay, you're frightening me!'

I gazed after her as she slipped out of the bathroom, then pulled up my knickers.

CLAUDIA WAS MOSTLY
right. Reality doesn't suit all of us all of the time. And, yes, successful grown-ups do accept that. But if you ask me, their acceptance is a bit on the sporadic side. Why else, seven evenings out of seven, is a good quarter of the British adult population to be found chucking alcohol down its neck? We smoke, drink, take drugs – recreational or prescription, they all serve the same purpose. It's about softening the sharp edges of life. My softener of choice that Sunday night was vodka, lots of it.

Vodka enabled me to trip through the remainder of the wedding, dance with Bernard and fuss over Sam. If I began to feel ropey at around one and vomited discreetly in the lavatory without splashing my dress at one oh five, conking out in the guest bedroom at one oh eight, few people noticed or were bothered. The bride and groom had departed at midnight for the splendour of the Heathrow Hilton, and the nearest and dearest whom I hadn't offended were too wrapped up in their own concerns to wonder about
me
.

Monday was a different story. Bernard's parents, cottage-sitting for their son, insisted on preparing a lavish breakfast for all remaining guests and – if this wasn't cruel enough – watching us eat it. Out of the sheer goodness of my heart, I forced down a pale glutinous heap of scrambled egg, then spent the drive back to London gulping repeatedly to prevent its reappearance. Happily, Nick presumed I was suffering from morning sickness. Which, in a manner of speaking, I was.

Prior to the bathroom scene, I'd agreed with Claudia that we'd award ourselves the morning off and reconvene at the office at 2 p.m. I'd been nervous about announcing the news of Nick's employment but then, still in the mood to indulge me, she'd replied, ‘Fine by me. If it weren't for nepotism I'd be on the dole.'

I'd been all ready to reassure her that Nick had recently discovered the work ethic and was still displaying the fervour of the newly converted, but it hadn't been necessary. Claudia had been curiously positive about welcoming Nick aboard. Maybe she could tell he'd grown up some. He'd hardly drunk at the wedding because, as he explained, ‘It's my first day at work tomorrow. There's no point having a hangover unless it's the weekend and you can actually enjoy it.'

Issy wasn't due in until Tuesday, which I was glad of. Claudia had left with Camille late on Sunday night, without saying goodbye. I could understand it. For those few months I'd convinced myself I was pregnant, I'd realised the extent to which an unborn baby belongs to
all
the family. Claudia might have had her reservations about my reasons for wanting a child, but her excitement had betrayed itself. I knew it took all her self-control not to stage a dawn raid on Baby Gap. I got the feeling that if it weren't for common courtesy, she'd have bent over my belly and yelled, ‘Hurry
up
!'

Nick's presence at work would prevent Claudia from physically attacking me, but I was sure she'd find a thousand subtle ways to communicate her displeasure. At least Issy wouldn't be there to sense the mood and start
ferreting
. Monday afternoon, I showed Nick his desk, talked him round the office, all the while thinking ‘When will I tell him?
When
?' At ten past two, Claudia marched in with one coffee and a single doughnut. I was glad when my mobile rang and I could busy myself fumbling in my bag, it made her iciness less apparent.

‘Holly?' said a familiar silvery voice.

‘H
el
-lo!' I cried. ‘Wait a second. I'm in the office, bad reception, I'll take it outside.' I jumped up and ran into the corridor. ‘Mrs Mortimer? Sorry. You know Nick started work at the agency today? Oh. No. Of course. Sorry. Well, he has. Are you . . . bearing up? You're round the corner! Yes. Yes, no, that wouldn't be a problem. Although I have only just got back to the office, so it might have to be quick,' – listen to
me
, I thought, giving the Mortimers orders! – ‘but . . . yes. Yes, I know it well. Fine. I'll see you in five minutes.'

I stuck my head round the office door, said, ‘Something's come up, I'll be about twenty minutes.' Nick nodded, without shifting his gaze from his screen. Claudia sipped her coffee and ignored me. She was wearing her hair in a high ponytail which reeked of disapproval.

‘Oh God,' I said aloud to myself, clomping down the stairs. I ran across the road to Martha's Got Buns, where Mr and Mrs Mortimer were sitting in orange and white plastic seats at an orange table, each nursing a coffee and an untouched slice of what Rachel called ‘Vicky sponge'. Boring, boring cake, it didn't deserve a nickname. Lavinia and Michael looked prosperous and miserable. Michael, in his City man's coat, long, thick, navy, and Lavinia, immaculately attired, superbly preserved. They seemed lost here, and it made them all the more pathetic. It pained me, to see such powerful people helpless.

Ever courteous, they rose to their feet and kissed me. I ordered a tea from Martha – I couldn't quite bring myself to order the Vicky sponge, even out of solidarity. Then I changed my mind. I didn't have to
eat
it, for godsake.

‘Holly,' said Michael in his captain of industry voice. ‘We are so sorry to trouble you again. I know Lavinia has already spoken to you. But we are really [he pronounced it
rarely
] at our wits' end. He still is barely speaking to us, and even when he does deign to see us he is so terribly distant. We feel as if we're losing him, our only son, and we can't bear it.'

It jolted me, to hear a man like Michael own up to not being able to
bear
something. Throughout our five-year acquaintance, I'd assumed he was made of steel.

‘Tell us,' Lavinia enquired gently, ‘has he traced his' – a delicate pause – ‘original mother?'

I was about to obey and launch into the tale. Lavinia and Michael were unaccustomed to being refused information or assistance. I opened my mouth – both of them leant towards me, eagerly pressing their well-tailored jackets against the greasy edge of the orange plastic table – and I shut it.