Swimming Upstream (30 page)

Tim was silent for a moment. He finished rolling
his cigarette and turned to face me. “And now?”

I pushed back the bedclothes and stood up. I
pulled on my dressing gown, drew back the curtain and stood for a few moments
by the window looking out at the black chimney tops over the fire escape and at
the bright, white full moon that sat alone in a vast and empty indigo sky. “I
think now it’s time to face the truth about what’s happened and be who I really
am again. And it’s something I need to do alone. Being with you is….” I paused.
“You make me feel…”

“Brand new?” suggested Tim, with a smile.

“Brand new,” I smiled. “Like a movie star.” I turned
to face him. “But I’m sorry, Tim. I mean it when I say it. I’ve got to do this
alone.”

I made my decision to leave England on the night of Uncle
Silbert’s funeral, as Tim slept, as I lay in his arms and looked out of the
open curtains at the moon, full and bright and beckoning, like another planet
waiting to be explored. I hadn’t yet formulated a plan, but I realised now that
this was what I wanted - to go to France, first of all, and then maybe to
travel for a while. As strong as my desire to stay with my friends, to feel
safe and secure, was the need to begin the process of self-definition, away
from everything and everyone who wanted me to be something that I wasn’t at all
sure that I was anymore. But there was something I had to do first.

The following day I waited until the lunchtime show
was over and then knocked on Sandy’s door.

“Lizzie, come in,” said Sandy. He immediately put
down his pen and papers and jumped up, as if he had been expecting me. He
ushered me into a sofa next to his desk, and sat down in an armchair opposite
me. He folded his hands in his lap and waited for me to speak.

“I need to leave,” I said. “I am so sorry. But I
have to go away.”

Sandy’s face fell. He clearly hadn’t been
expecting this. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything to persuade
you to change your mind? You are a great asset to us Lizzie. You are very
talented. In fact, I had had in mind that you might be interested in taking on
the role of News Editor.”

“News Editor? Really?” I was astonished,
overwhelmed. I contemplated this for a moment, then shook my head, sadly. “I’m
sorry,” I said, for the third time. “And I am really very grateful. But I can’t
accept. I’ve made up my mind. I have to go.”

“I’m the one who is sorry,” said Sandy. “Sorry to
lose you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Sandy smiled, and shifted a little uncomfortably
in his chair. “You know, you could take some leave. And then think about it. Take
a holiday, take a sabbatical. If that would help.”

I considered this for a moment, then nodded. “It
would.”

“All right,” said Sandy, looking relieved. “Good. That’s
settled then. When do you want to go?”

“Well my contract says three months…”

“We won’t hold you to that. Not if you need to go
sooner.”

“Is eight weeks enough notice?”

“That will be just fine.”

I hesitated. “Actually, there was something else. Something
else that I think would help, that is. You mentioned, once before... I was
wondering if you could, in fact, put me in touch with someone. You know. To
talk to.”

Sandy nodded and stood up. “Of course.” He went
over to his desk, thumbed through a book and wrote a name and number on a piece
of paper.

“There,” said Sandy. “It’s a man. Is that alright?”

I thought about this for a moment. “Yes.”

“I’ll call and let him know you’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.” I stood up and started to walk out of the door,
then turned back, walked over to his desk and kissed him on the cheek. Sandy
looked a little taken aback.

“Thank you for everything,” I said. “And, I’m
sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” said Sandy. “Not
for anything.”

He stood up and took my hands and held them for a
moment.

“Thank you,” I said, again.

In mid-July Lynne phoned to tell me that her
contract was ending early. I put most of my belongings in storage and moved
into the house with Zara, Shelley and Tim. I had researched and found a list of
guest houses in Paris and was ready to find a flight and book my ticket. But
something strange was going on. Gradually I noticed that I couldn’t eat or
drink certain things, things that I had always liked before. I couldn’t face my
dinner in the evening, or the smells of Shelley’s cooking in the kitchen,
wafting into the hallway and up the stairs. I found that I was getting home
from work each afternoon and going straight up to bed, exhausted, where I’d
sleep for ten or eleven hours. And then one morning, a few weeks after I had
moved into the house, and just as Zara had finally stopped throwing her guts
up, I started throwing up myself.

I knew immediately whose baby it was. I also knew
immediately what I was going to do; I was going to keep it. Lord knows it
wasn’t what I had planned. I was supposed to be travelling, leaving England
with no ties, no anchor, with nothing to stop me making and amending my plans
from one moment to the next. Having children wasn’t even on my radar. But as
Zara said, life changes direction and you just have to go with it. I knew that
there was no other option for me.

Zara was over the moon when I told her.

“Now you can’t go travelling,” she said,
excitedly. “You’ll have to stay. We can bring them up together. They could be
sisters! Or brothers! Or brother and sister!”

I smiled, and said, “We’ll see.”

After the initial shock had worn off, Tim too was
pleased. “I know this wasn’t what you planned. And I know I wasn’t part of your
plan. But I want to be there for you and the baby. We can do this together,” he
said. “I’ll be there for you every step of the way.”

“I don’t know, Tim,” I told him. “I just can’t
think beyond the next five minutes. We’ll have to talk about this another time.”

The sickness floored me. I was unable to think
about anything for several weeks, except for how to stave it off. By then,
fortunately, I had left the radio station, and I had the luxury of being able
to crawl back to bed in the daytime and stay there for most of the day. I still
had the money from Jude’s parents, sitting in my investment account but I
didn’t want to start dipping into that just yet. I put an advertisement in the
paper to sell my car.

Zara went out for bananas and Weetabix - they were
all I could stomach, along with the mashed potatoes Tim made me each evening,
or at different times of the day, depending on his shift. Zara sat on my bed
and held my hand and chatted happily, and made plans for us both and our
babies, while she flicked half-heartedly through the daytime TV channels on an
old portable black and white TV that Clare had left behind.

Once a week, I dragged myself out of bed to see my
counsellor. I had had been seeing him since the start of the summer and it was
helping beyond belief. When the session was over I was both physically and
mentally exhausted. I would walk back to the house, climb back into bed and
intermittently cry and throw up but I was happy in a strange, sad and ironic
way. I knew that the counselling was necessary, not just for me but for the
baby too. I had come to believe firmly in the principle that what you don’t
hand back, you hand on. I soon realised that I wanted this child more than
anything, and that I didn’t want its legacy to be one of anything but love.

In contrast to me, Zara was full of energy. I had
noticed how bubbly she was, how happy and how many plans she had for us and the
babies. It had vaguely crossed my mind that it could be mania setting in but I
had dismissed that as cynical. For the first time in her life, she had
everything she wanted. She was feeling well for the first time in weeks, now
that the hormones had settled down. Why wouldn’t she be happy?

But one morning, when she hadn’t come in to see me
as she usually did and I had got sick of the sight of my bedroom walls, I dragged
myself downstairs to find her sitting in the living room drinking tea alone. I
poured myself a cup, sweetened it and sat down opposite her. I noticed she had
dark shadows under her eyes.

“You okay?” I asked her.

Zara nodded, and said nothing.

I looked around the room. The dust sheets had been
cleared away, a carpet had been laid and the room was now habitable. Zara’s
canvases were now tacked to the walls.

I looked at the Rose and said, “I know how you
feel.”

“What?” said Zara. “What do you mean?”

“Not you, the Rose. Wilting. Sick.”

“Oh.”

Someone outside the window caught my attention, a
man with a bald head, wearing a beige Macintosh. Zara had spotted him too. I
heard Shelley running down the stairs and opening the front door.

“Who was that?” said Zara, jumping up and pulling
back the curtain.

The front door slammed shut and there was a male
voice in the hallway. Shelley poked her head round the door. “Lizzie, there’s a
man here to see you. He says he’s come about your car.”

Zara frowned. “Who?” she said. “Who is it?”

“Oh okay,” I said. “Tell him to come in.”

The man in the Macintosh walked in and I waved him
into a chair. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not feeling the best. You saw it outside,
right? I’ll get you the keys.”

I stood up and went to find my handbag.

The next thing I heard was Zara’s voice,
screaming, “Get out!”

I rushed back into the hallway and collided with
the man who was backing out of the living room with his palms up in front of
him. I noticed that the back of his head was red and wrinkled and then I saw
that so was his face. He looked astonished.

“What’s going on?” I asked him.

The man shook his head and pointed at Zara. “Her,”
he said, in a thick cockney accent, his chin wobbling. “She’s barking.”

I poked my head round the living room door to see
Zara, crouched in her armchair as if she were about to pounce. She was
scowling, and her eyes were dark.

“What is it?” I said to Zara. “What’s wrong? What
did he do?”

“He shouldn’t be here,” said Zara, defiantly,
glaring at the doorway.

“What do you mean? What did he do?” I asked. “Did
he hurt you?”

“What are you talking about?” said the man from
behind me. “I never went anywhere near her. She just started shouting at me. She’s
off her head.”

“Get out!” screamed Zara again. “Get him out of
here!”

Shelley came thundering down the stairs. “What’s
going on?” she said.

“I don’t know.” I turned to the man in the
Macintosh. “I’m sorry, I think you had better leave.”

“You have got to be joking!” said the man
indignantly. “I ain’t done nothing. I’ve just come all the way from Enfield. I’m
a busy man. You ‘ain’t even gonna let me look at it?”

“Here,” I said, spotting my car keys lying on the
telephone table in the hallway. I picked them up and thrust them at him. “Help
yourself. Front nearside brake light’s out, handbrake needs attention, rear
bumper slightly scratched. Other than that it’s in good nick.”

“No!” yelled Zara. “Don’t. You can’t!”

“Can’t what?” said Shelley, and ran to Zara and
put her arm round her. Zara shrugged her away.

“Don’t let him near your car. He’ll bomb it!”

“No, Zara, listen,” I said, grabbing her hands,
and bending down in front of her. “He’s a dealer. I told you, I’m selling my
car. He answered my ad. I knew he was coming. And quite frankly he can do what
he likes to it once he’s given me two grand.”

“Don’t take his money,” said Zara. “Please. I’m
begging you. It’s blood money.”

I heard my car engine revving outside and then
quietening as it went off up the street.

“Listen,” said Zara. “He’s taken it.”

“He’s gone for a test drive,” I said.

“He’s evil,” said Zara. “Don’t you see? Didn’t you
see his eyes?”

“Oh God,” I said, and looked at Shelley, who gave
a vague nod of the head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zara swung round
and glared at Shelley.

“What?”

“I saw you.”

Nausea started to creep over me again. My mouth
filled with water. I sat down next to Zara and rested my elbow on the arm of
the chair, my chin on my thumb and my face cradled in my forefingers. Zara
turned and looked at me for a moment as if I was a ghost, then jumped up and
headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” I lifted my head.

“Zara!” called Shelley, at the same time.

Zara turned in the doorway. “You’re supposed to be
my friends,” she said. “I saw that, Lizzie. Sticking your fingers up at me,
trying to hide it. Don’t think I don’t know that’s what you were doing.” She
turned and bolted out of the door.

I looked down at my fingers, confused, and then
moved to get up.

Shelley put her hand on my arm. “I’ll go,” she
said. “You’re in no fit state.”

She jumped up and sprinted after Zara. I lay back
in the chair, fighting back the bile that was rising in my throat.

A few minutes later, I heard shouting in the
street outside. I lifted the curtain and looked out. Zara was on the pavement,
grappling at Shelley, who was trying to catch hold of her and calm her down. I
watched as my car came round the corner. At the same moment Shelley and Zara
tipped into the road. My car screeched to a halt in front of them.

I leaped up and ran outside. The man in the Macintosh
was getting out of the driver’s side.

“What the bloody hell…?” he said.

“Sorry,” said Shelley, bending over Zara, who had
fallen over, and was sitting in the road.

“Is she okay?” I asked Shelley.

“She’s fine,” said Shelley. “No harm done.”

“No harm done!” said the Macintosh man. “What
about me? She nearly killed me.”