Happy Endings (25 page)

We said goodbye to a still-beaming Mum and got back in the car. I looked across at Emma and rested a hand on her belly.

‘I love you so much, Em.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Just promise me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’ said Emma, starting the engine.

‘That whatever happens at your parents’ house, you’ll still marry me.’

Emma laughed, leaned across and kissed me.

‘Silly Jack,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ll still marry you.’

What she didn’t see was the emotional tumour growing inside of me. The worry that her Mum was right and I wasn’t good enough for her daughter made me want to run away and hide. My biggest fear though was that it was just a matter of time before Emma realised the same thing.

Emma

I was terrified to tell Mum and Dad we were pregnant. Not so much Dad because he wouldn’t be that bothered. Nothing seemed to bother him much these days. I think I could become a burlesque dancer and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He was too busy with his garden, playing golf and pretending he wasn’t drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. Mum, on the other hand, seemed to be getting infinitely more resentful, snobbish and pompous every time I saw her. With age comes wisdom, at least it should, but in my parents’ small Oxfordshire parish age seemed to bring an ever-increasing degree of snootiness and small-mindedness. The streets near the village green were lined with fierce-faced women in wax jackets ready to run you over in their large 4 × 4’s should you pronounce anything with an Estuary accent. My mother, unfortunately, was the head girl in that school of self-proclaimed prefects of little England.

I’d been dealing with her my whole life. From ballet and gymkhanas to my choice of secondary school and university, I was used to going to battle with her. It was as much a part of my childhood as worrying about the size of my breasts and whether Paul Clayton fancied me or not. My fights with her became something of a daily chore, from which neither of us emerged any the better. She wasn’t a very motherly mother and even when I got my first period she didn’t explain anything or give me a hug. Instead she gave me a box of tampons and told me to read the instructions carefully. I loved her, of course, and her constant pushing and cajoling had given me an inner strength that had come in handy in the acting world. Jack, on the other hand, had been brought up in a soft, nurturing environment. He couldn’t deal with the harsh, cold wind that swept constantly around our house and I was worried that today it might blow him away.

‘Ready?’ I said in the car.

‘Not really.’

We were sitting in my Mini Cooper on the large gravel driveway of my parents’ home that set it back a good thirty feet from the road. The house, a four-bedroom character cottage with creeping ivy and rustic charm, was worth well over a million now and had been passed down from Dad’s family to ours. Around the back was a large garden that led to a small meadow and a crop of trees. It really was idyllic; the perfect place to grow up. If only I’d had the perfect family to go along with it.

‘It will be fine. Mum will rant and rave for a bit. Dad will disappear down the garden with a bottle of whisky and then we’ll go home.’

‘Sounds fun,’ said Jack with a gorgeous little smile. I squeezed his hand and we got out.

Mum was in the kitchen when we walked in. I could see Dad in the garden pretending to weed; the small cap of a bottle was poking out of his wax jacket pocket.

‘Emma, darling,’ said Mum loudly with a huge smile. ‘Jack,’ she said with a much frostier tone.

‘Hello,’ said Jack, attempting to kiss her on the cheek, but before he was half-way leaned in, she had turned and switched the kettle on.

‘I’ll make tea. Jack, please fetch in Emma’s father from the garden.’

‘Right,’ said Jack and snuck off gingerly.

‘Do you always have to be so cold with him?’ I said as soon as Jack was out of earshot.

‘I don’t know what you mean, darling,’ said Mum, needlessly rearranging some flowers in a vase. Everything in Mum’s house was spotless. I think it was part of the reason why Dad spent so much time outside, because he was too afraid of making a mess inside – in more ways than one.

‘Yes you do,’ I said, sitting down at the breakfast bar. ‘We’re getting married soon and I’d really like it if you were completely on board with the whole thing.’

‘Oh, I’m on board dear. One hundred per cent on board,’ she said, but as usual the words were tied together with a little ribbon of superciliousness. ‘Anyway, enough about Jack, how’s the film going? How’s Rhys? As good-looking in real life as on film? Must be tempting. I mentioned the film in the village newsletter. Any chance of an exclusive interview? Perhaps Rhys too? You could bring him for brunch. I could make those little baked eggs.’

‘Let’s wait for Dad.’

‘Sounds very serious, darling.’

‘It is,’ I said, which made her eyes lock onto mine with a glare.

It was the same glare she gave me the day Paul Clayton emerged from my bedroom looking flushed and with his shirt half undone. Only then I was fifteen and under her roof. Now I was an adult and about to be married and have a baby. Technically still under her roof, but for how much longer we would soon find out.

Ten minutes later Jack walked back in, Dad padding behind him like a naughty Labrador, looking at Mum with big sorry eyes and me with love. Slightly pissed love, of course.

‘Emma,’ said Dad, staggering towards me and engulfing me in his large but now slightly podgy frame.

‘Hello, Dad.’

‘Derek, please, straighten yourself up,’ said Mum severely, looking at Dad. Dad tucked in his shirt and flicked his hair away from his eyes.

‘Must keep the wife happy,’ Dad said to Jack with a smile, a mischievous glint in his bloodshot eyes. He always enjoyed winding her up and to a certain extent she accepted it, but eventually she would snap. I spent most of my childhood learning how to distinguish the early-warning signs that she was on the verge. Dad, despite his ever-growing reliance on alcohol to make it through the day, always knew when to stop jabbing and back away to his corner.

‘Emma and Jack have news,’ Mum announced loudly. She instinctively poured a cup of dark black coffee and handed it to Dad, who, without question, took it and had a sip. ‘About the film.’

I looked across at Jack and he appeared nervous. He came across and stood next to me and I put my arm around his waist: a united front.

‘I’m pregnant,’ I said, the words falling out and into the room. Jack’s Mum had greeted the news with a heady mixture of excitement and tears, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on my mother. Her face was an amalgam of confusion, shock and horror. Dad started to break into a smile, but before the corners of his mouth could fully extend, Mum snapped.

‘What do you mean pregnant?’

‘We’re having a baby,’ I replied, feeling Jack’s grip tighten around my waist.

‘But what about the film?’

‘I had to pull out. They’ve replaced me with someone else.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mum, her voice getting higher and louder. Jack’s grip tightened again. ‘You’ve spent your whole life working towards that film and you’ve thrown it away. I don’t know what to say.’

‘You could say congratulations,’ I said.

‘Congratulations that you’ve ruined your life? Oh well done, darling, bravo.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Jack, stepping into the ring.

‘This is going to be priceless. And what do you have to say for yourself?’

‘You’re going to be a grandparent, Helen. That doesn’t mean anything to you?’

‘If my only daughter hadn’t ruined her career in the process. It’s just so irresponsible, both of you. So irresponsible.’

‘Well we’re very happy,’ I said, feeling a wave of tears begin to swell up behind my eyes.

‘And how happy will you be when the baby is crying at two in the morning? When your nipples are dry and cracked? When your career is down the drain and you haven’t got two pennies to rub together? How happy are you going to be then?’

‘We’ll be fine,’ said Jack. ‘I’m going to take care of them.’

I looked at Jack and in that moment I couldn’t have loved him more. He was honest, sincere and he would do anything for me. I loved him dearly, but I also knew Mum was right and that hurt more than everything else put together.

‘You?’ Mum looked at Jack like you might look at a piece of dog shit on the pavement. ‘And how are you going to take care of them, exactly?’

‘Steady on,’ said Dad, but Mum shot him down like a Spitfire taking out a much larger and slower German bomber.

‘Don’t worry about us; we’ll be fine,’ spat out Jack. His determination and fighting spirit made me so proud. ‘Come on, Em, we don’t have to listen to this.’ Jack grabbed my hand and started leading me towards the front door and freedom. Only it wasn’t really freedom because we needed Mum and Dad and she knew it. Jack knew it too, but just couldn’t admit it.

As soon as both car doors were closed, I burst into tears. I’d been holding myself together, but outside I let it all go. Jack put his arm around me and held me close.

‘Don’t let her get to you, love; she isn’t worth it.’

Jack held onto me for all of his worth, but the truth was it did matter. I wasn’t crying because she’d upset me. I was crying because I wanted the best for our baby. I didn’t want them growing up in the gutter, while both parents scrimped and saved trying to give them a decent life. They wouldn’t have the chance to go to the best schools, live in a nice house and go on European holidays. I wanted that for them more than anything in the world and I was crying because no matter what Jack said, what Jack wanted, when it came to the crunch, Mum was right. I’d be back there asking for her help. Jack could do poor, he could do just getting by, but I couldn’t and, even if I could, I knew our baby shouldn’t.

To: Kate Jones

From: Emma Fogle

Subject: Re: Oz

K,

I hope you’re OK now after our chat and you’re enjoying yourself again. Just remember this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. You have the rest of your life to worry about men, careers and all the rest of it. This is about you. Enjoy every moment and don’t regret a single thing.

So we told my parents about the baby (their grandchild) and what do you think Mother said? Of course she went completely ballistic and said we were irresponsible and that we’d basically ruined our lives. No mention of happiness or congratulations. I wasn’t expecting anything else though, to be honest. I feel awful for Jack because he just wants to take care of us financially, but he can’t. I wish he could so we could give Mother the two fingers, but unfortunately we need their money. God, I really wish we didn’t. Nothing would make me happier than to be independent of them.

I’m so tired at the moment. I haven’t gained much weight because I’ve had some fairly heavy morning sickness, but I’m doing fine. I just wish I wasn’t so tired all the time. I really need to find some work to help financially, but that involves getting off the sofa. Sorry, I’m having a moan day and you’re not here physically, so all I have is email. I also need to start organising the wedding, but again, too tired and Jack is always at work, taking on more shifts to help save some money, and I don’t want to ask Mother unless I really have to.

Anyway, enough bitching. I will do something productive today. I promise. Miss you BFF.

Love Em X

Kate

‘It’s mental though, innit?’ said Mental Mike.

‘To be fair though, Mike, you think everything’s mental,’ I said. Hence the nickname.

‘It is though, innit.’

‘Possibly,’ I said.

I was sitting with Mental Mike, twenty-one and from Essex, Mhairi and Jamie from Edinburgh, both mid-twenties, and Tom and Tash from Denmark, who were in their early thirties. We were on a small Fijian island which was about as near to paradise as I could imagine. It was night time and we were sitting at a table overlooking the beautiful beach. A million stars littered the sky, barely any space between them, and I could hear the gentle sound of music from the bar and the occasional dog barking from the nearby bures where the hostel workers lived.

The island was small enough that you could walk around it in a couple of hours, which I did with Mhairi and Jamie on my second day. The hostel was right on the beach and consisted of a dormitory with about fifteen simple beds, a common eating area, where they served breakfast, lunch and dinner, and a bure where we showered. It was back-to-basics living and I loved it. We only had power for certain hours and the days revolved around meal times and getting together during the evening for a drink. There were kayaks to rent and they offered tours of other islands, but most days were spent relaxing, playing cards and talking. A day on the island felt like a week in the real world.

‘It depends what you mean by mental,’ said Tom in his steady Danish English. I’d only been on the island for four days and I was in love with Tom and Tash. They were so gorgeous: tall, athletic, with model looks and the nicest personalities of anyone I’d ever met. Most British backpackers I met seemed to be travelling to get pissed and have a laugh, but Tom and Tash were different. They were, in many respects, the Ed and me I wished Ed and me were. Interesting, cultural, relaxed and effortlessly in love. Back in Denmark Tom was a graphic designer and Tash played violin in an orchestra. They were taking one last year off before they settled down, got married and had kids.