Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy (7 page)

‘Tony means jaundiced, of course, when he says yellow, not Chinese, though if it’s Chinese it would be lovely also,’ said Meryl. ‘I take it he or she will be, um, a mixture, a lovely cultural mixture I expect, Adam?’
 

I shot Adam a look to help poor Meryl out of her politically correct quagmire.

‘Yes, I expect the baby will be mixed race,’ grinned Adam.
 

‘Lovely,’ said Meryl going uncharacteristically red. ‘Well look, well done and I’ll keep in touch. I’ve got a mountain of hand-me-downs you can have, a breast pump, and a lovely Villeroy Boch potty, which I’ve only let Wilfred poo in on special occasions.’ She flashed us her Margaret Thatcher smile and then rang off.

‘Is anyone going to have a normal reaction to you being up the duff?’ said Adam.

‘I’ve still got to tell Daniel,’ I said.

Thursday 2nd February

Adam offered to come with me, but I said I’d like to go alone and tell Daniel. I haven’t seen him in ages; in fact I don’t know if I’ve seen him since we got married, which would make it almost five months. I texted him to ask if he would like to meet for a drink. He said he would be in Covent Garden to pick up some new sheet music from the Dress Circle
music shop. I caught the tube across to King’s Cross and bumped into him on the platform. He was looking good; he’s lost some weight and his hair is very long, past his shoulders. He was wearing a beaten-up old leather jacket and jeans, and he had his guitar slung over his shoulder.

‘Hey Cokes,’ he said as my train whirred past and away. I gave him a hug. We made our way through the crowds and found a spot on a Piccadilly Line train to Covent Garden.

‘Where’s hubby number two?’ asked Daniel as we rocked through the dark tunnel.

‘He’s at my house – I mean our house, Adam’s and my house…’

Daniel laughed. ‘Ah, poor bastard. He’s just like I was, under the thumb eh?’

‘No. Where’s your
girlfriend
?’

‘Jennifer’s not coming.’

‘Is she busy polishing her trombone?’ I asked, a little cattily.

‘It’s the bassoon she plays, not the trombone. And she didn’t come because she’s only got four points left.’

‘On what?’

‘Weight Watchers’ points. If she came with us she’d have to use two of them for a drink, blah blah blah…’

‘Jennifer isn’t fat,’ I said.

‘Well she’s
almost
a fourteen,’ said Daniel, as if she were bed-bound with obesity.

‘I am a fourteen!’ I said. ‘Well, I’ve got an excuse…’ I bit my lip. I hadn’t planned to tell him on the Piccadilly Line. We were silent until we had a spot in the clanking lift up to Covent Garden.

‘I think it’s ’cos you’ve got good tits for your size,’ said Daniel.

‘What?’

‘That you don’t look like you’re, you know... Big girls with big tits look less big than big girls with small tits…’

‘I’m not big.’

‘No, ’cos you’ve got the tits to soften it, you know?’ An elderly lady in a smart suit was staring at us.

‘Go on, just objectify us Daniel. Women are simply objects with varying sized tits hanging off them,’ I snapped. The elderly lady was now looking at me disapprovingly. Why not Daniel? He started the tit debate.

‘Alright, sorry.
Voluptuous.
I like voluptuous girls. I did marry you,’ said Daniel.

‘Oh thank you. Thank you so much,’ I said. We emerged into the crowds surging past the station. Daniel suggested the pub beside the covered market.
 

It wasn’t too busy and we found a seat in a cosy corner. A flirty young waitress approached with her pad. Daniel ordered two steak and blue cheese pasties with a pint of Guinness. Then he checked out her backside as I ordered the same minus the Guinness. He watched her pert little backside slink away, then said,

‘Eating for two, Cokes?’ I suddenly felt sorry for Jennifer at home, miserable, and saving up her four points whilst Daniel ordered fatty food and ogled the twenty-year-old waitress.

‘Yes,’ I said. I kept staring at him.
 

‘Yes what?’
 

‘Yes, I am eating for two. I’m twelve weeks pregnant.’ The waitress slinked up with our drinks. He stared at me as she put them down, then slinked away.
 

‘Ahhhh. Good one Cokes. Very funny.’
 

‘I’m not joking. Look.’ I pulled the ultrasound scan out of my pocket. Daniel grabbed it and stared. He handed it back then took a sip of his Guinness, changed his mind and downed the whole pint. He sat back.

‘You’re having an abortion, yes?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re old! What? You had IBF?’

‘You mean IVF, you moron. And no. I conceived naturally.’
 

‘What’s natural about it?’

‘Don’t you dare be disgusted by me! What’s natural about you thinking you can have it away with that waitress? I saw you. She’s what? Eighteen and you’re nearly forty-six!’

Daniel still looked disgusted.

‘It’s different. It’s biological that guys go for younger women. It means they’re more likely to have a good baby.’

‘A
good baby
. You are such a dick Daniel.’

‘You’re just jealous.’

‘Yeah really jealous. You look like you’ve got it all sorted…’

We stared at each other for a few minutes.

‘So. When are you having it?’ he asked.

‘August.’
 

He carried on staring.

‘You could say congratulations!’ I said.
 

‘What is it? Attention seeking?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘You need a gimmick to promote your next book?’

‘It wasn’t planned and I conceived naturally. What’s gimmicky about that?’

‘So you’re just doing it to piss me off?’

‘Yes. Adam and I decided to conceive a child which we’ll be responsible for for the rest of our lives,
just to annoy you
.
’

‘So you’re saying you and Adam are serious?’

I started to laugh.

‘Don’t laugh at me. You’re making a big mistake, I’m telling you. That baby won’t be happy.’

I stopped laughing.
 

‘Is that what you think?’

He nodded. I was really angry now.

‘Is that the same jacket you had at University?’
 

‘Yeah, still fits,’ he said.

‘And the same guitar?’
 

‘Yeah. I was going to busk later.’

‘So a forty-six-year-old busker is giving me tips on how to live my life?’

‘What’s wrong with busking outside the Royal Opera House? It’s bloody good money.’

‘With your talent you should be
inside
the Royal Opera House conducting an opera you’ve written!’

‘I haven’t written an opera.’ he sniffled.

‘I know. How can you have let this happen?’

‘What?

‘You’re frozen in time. Still a bloody eighteen year old.’

‘I am not!’

‘You’ve jumped from one woman to the next and let them take care of you. You went from your mother, to me, back to your mother via a few skanks, and now Jennifer with her house in Hampstead and trust fund.’

‘Leave it out Coco.’

‘No. You tell me this baby won’t be happy, but I’ve already cared for two children, Rosencrantz and YOU.’

We sat in silence eyeballing each other. Then Daniel said he was going for another drink. I watched him walk off to the bar. I remember Chris constantly telling me that I was the enabler in Daniel’s and my relationship. I thought it was fancy chat from his therapist. It was a revelation to finally understand.
 

‘Have you got two quid?’ asked Daniel popping his head back from the bar. I gave him a look. ‘What? I’ve only got fifty six pence on me…’
 

‘Daniel,’ I said. ‘You need to realise something. We are divorced. You cheated on me and left me. Things aren’t the same anymore.’

He stared at me. ‘Okay. But have you got the two quid?
Come on
you can afford it.’ he looked back at the waitress decorating the top of his Guinness with a four leaf clover, she grinned at him.

‘I can, but I’m not giving it to you.’

‘Come on Cokes,’ he said doing his cheeky little smile.

‘I’m not your enabler.’

‘Oh
enabler
. Did Chris pull that out of his arse again?’

‘Let me put it another way. This whole cheeky little Peter Pan act was fun in your twenties, you even got away with it in the early part of your thirties.’

I watched the waitress waiting for Daniel, and she looked like she wanted to give him more than a pint. He nodded at her and pulled a face.

‘I’d say you’ve got a couple of years left of being the sexy older man before you’re in Roger Moore territory with no chance of a James Bond pickup.’

Daniel looked shocked.

‘Now I say this with love. Get a life.’ I picked up my handbag and left him owing two quid to the horny waitress.
 

Friday 3rd February

We ordered in pizza tonight, to celebrate having told everyone that I was pregnant. I was just thinking that everything would be perfect if Rosencrantz was here, when the doorbell rang. He was standing outside in the snow with Oscar.

‘Peace offering?’ he said holding up a present wrapped in a bow. They came through to the kitchen, and Adam grabbed some extra plates and glasses from the cupboard.

‘I want to say sorry to you both,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘I was just a bit shocked. You’re gonna be the most amazing parents.’

He gave me a big hug.

‘
And
I get to have a baby sister… or a brother?’

‘We won’t know for a while,’ said Adam hugging him.

‘Congratulations Mrs P, and Mr R,’ said Oscar hugging me and shaking Adam’s hand. ‘Or are you now Mrs R ?’

‘Um, bone of contention Oscar,’ said Adam pouring us all some wine.

‘Well, my professional name is Coco Pinchard,’ I said. ‘I think it would cause complications…’

‘You can have both, Mum,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘Or you could go double-barrelled! If Oscar and I get married, we could be Pinchard-North or North-Pinchard.’
 

There was silence. Oscar cleared his throat nervously.
 

‘Although I think Oscar wants to keep his name,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘He’s getting far more acting work than I am. He’ll probably be hugely famous before the end of the year.’
 

‘You’ll get work,’ said Oscar kindly.

‘Well my agent seems to think I should shape up,’ said Rosencrantz pouring himself some more wine.

‘He just suggested you go to the gym and bulk up a bit,’ said Oscar.
 

‘I’m naturally slim,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘We can’t all be muscle men like you.’

‘Well you’re not going to get fit pouring another glass of wine, and I’m not dealing with you sloshed again,’ said Oscar.

There was another awkward silence.

‘Well, look, congratulations to you both,’ I said hugging Rosencrantz. ‘On being a couple.’ Oscar grinned back. He has the cutest dimples.
 

‘I propose a toast,’ said Oscar. ‘To a beautiful
healthy
baby.’ We all clinked glasses.

‘Come on, open your present,’ said Rosencrantz. I tore off the paper. It was a lovely bottle of champagne, and an envelope.
 

‘We got you a voucher for a his and hers spa day,’ said Oscar.

‘And the champagne is to have after you’ve given birth,’ added Rosencrantz. ‘We couldn’t think of any other time a woman is more deserving of a lovely glass of champagne.’
 

I got quite emotional as we thanked the boys.

‘And don’t worry about being an older mum, Mum,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘You guys are in a great position to have a baby. You’ve done it before, you’re more established. You own this house, and Adam’s flat round the corner. It’s perfect.’

‘Cool, you’re in property?’ asked Oscar. ‘My mother is too.’

‘Well I wouldn’t say we’re ‘in property’,’ said Adam. ‘Renting out the flat pays the mortgage and gives us a little extra to live on.’

‘Isn’t the Tenancy Deposit Scheme a bureaucratic nightmare!’ said Oscar.

‘The what?’ asked Adam.

‘The Tenancy Deposit Scheme, I had to help my mother transfer all our tenants’ deposits over when the scheme launched. Nightmare.’
 

Adam looked blank.

‘Did you do this tenancy deposit thing?’ I said.

‘Not yet,’ said Adam shifting uncomfortably.

‘Don’t worry, your letting agent must have done it for you,’ said Oscar.

‘I didn’t use a letting agent,’ said Adam. ‘I put a card up in the caff on Baker Street.’

‘You should have used an agent. Running credit checks on all the people you interviewed must have been so pricey,’ said Oscar.

Adam looked blank again.

‘You did run a credit check on our tenant? What’s her name?’ I said.

‘She showed me her savings booklet…’ said Adam. There was a scandalised silence.

‘So what job do you do?’ asked Oscar changing the subject.

‘Nothing at the moment. I’m looking for work in the public sector,’ said Adam.

There was yet another awkward silence. Rosencrantz changed the subject to safer ground, and they chatted on about their acting auditions and trip to Ibiza, but the happy atmosphere between me and Adam had evaporated.
 

‘Can I see the tenancy agreement for the woman who rents your flat?’ I asked, when the boys had left.

‘I haven’t got one,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘She’s been there for over a year now and we’ve had no problems.’

‘So you’re telling me that our main source of income depends on a word-of-mouth agreement with a dotty old spinster?’

‘She’s not dotty!’

‘What job does she do?’

‘I think she’s on disability allowance…’

‘I don’t believe this. We have no savings Adam! We’re screwed.’

‘Coco. Why have you never brought this up before?’

‘It didn’t seem as urgent,’ I said. ‘But we’re having a bloody baby. The most expensive thing you can have!’

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Adam, but I could see from his face he didn’t believe it either.

Saturday 4th
February

Adam phoned our tenant this morning. I perched beside him on the sofa when he made the call.