The Baby (7 page)

She stops brushing the tears. There doesn't seem any point as they just keep coming. She's not cried like this for a long, long time and it seems like there is a month's worth of mucus fighting to escape. The tears drip on to the back of her hand. Strands of her hair become damp and wavy around her sodden skin.

Olivia waits by the radiator, her face strangely impassive. Nicola knows that she is waiting for the answer.

A minute creeps by. A minute of tears and moisture and guilt. Olivia's fingers weave slowly together. Nicola's get wetter.

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have done the only thing she could have done to jeopardize a friendship which meant the world? And how can she explain the thrill of it? Nothing like that ever happens to her. Nothing.

She'd been at Joe Peterson's party, having a breather in a bedroom. She's always liked to walk around other people's houses. Getting an idea of how they live. It's probably because her own house is so quiet. So boring. So she wandered upstairs into Joe's bedroom, full of football trophies and posters; perched herself on his boy-smelling bed and looked around. She felt particularly fat that night. Her jeans seemed tight on her waist and she pictured the unpleasant layer of white fat spilling over the denim underneath her tunic.

And then Jonty turned up. Thinking about it now, she's sure he followed her up the stairs. She can't be sure because he didn't say very much, but even now she can feel the electric current fizzing between them in that room.

He stood, legs wide apart, planted in the centre of the bedroom, his head to one side. ‘I just …' he uttered, before moving forward to kiss her. Suddenly she didn't think about her fat any more, suddenly it didn't seem to matter. All she felt was this boy kissing her and kissing her like nothing else seemed to be an issue. The kiss moved from her lips to her neck; from her neck to beneath her clothes.

And there she'd lain, bewildered and excited, unpeeled and shocked.

Kissing Olivia's boyfriend on Joe Peterson's bed.

Jonty wasn't saying anything, but he was doing a hell of a lot.

When it was finished he'd lain on top of her for just a couple of seconds, then he rolled over and began adjusting his jeans. He was awkward. So was she. He wouldn't look her in the eye.

She could have done with that.

He straightened himself and glanced at the door. ‘I'd better …' He nodded downstairs, where Olivia was. Olivia had probably not even noticed. Too busy dancing and laughing and chatting with the crowd of people who seemed to follow her wherever she went. It was sometimes annoying to see. She looked especially gorgeous that night. A dress from River Island, high heels which thinned her legs and accentuated her calves. She probably didn't even notice Jonty or Nicola's absence. That was part of the problem.

Nicola glanced at the clock radio by the side of Joe's bed. Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes
. That was all it had been. But it had felt like fifteen years. The shift inside her was immense. She'd only ever done it once before. An experiment in her bedroom, which had gone embarrassingly wrong. Something she didn't want to think about. But this … this, with Jonty. This was very different.

But then it happened again. Two days later, while walking a dog for a neighbour.

In a field. By a hedge.

And then another time, barely a week later; at a village wedding reception, behind the community centre on the fire escape steps.

It was like they couldn't get enough of each other. It was wildly exciting. Thrilling. Her stomach felt like it was on fire. Her mouth and neck burnt all the time. There was a permanent ringing in her ears. She felt alive. She felt pretty … and yes, she felt guilty. And this just made it all the more exciting.
The guilt was somehow mixed up with the pretty feeling.
This must be how it feels to be Olivia
, she'd thought. This was how it must be for every other non-fat person in the universe.

The last time was in Olivia's bedroom. That was reckless. They had been waiting for her to come back after picking up her sister.

‘Can you amuse yourselves for a bit while I go and get Alice? I'll only be half an hour.'

She saw Jonty's eyes; how they narrowed and fluttered at the word ‘amuse'. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

Only Olivia came home sooner that they thought. They heard the front door open and the girls' innocent voices as they skipped upstairs. The twisting of clothes, the breathless panic when they realized what they had done. It wasn't exciting this time. Instead, it was frightening and heavy and riddled with guilt.

‘No more,' she said swiftly as Jonty did up his jeans. And Jonty nodded with her.

And that was that.

Flushed, and packed full of bleak, heavy guilt, Nicola met the eyes of her best ever friend when she came through the door and she vowed that no matter what happened, however much she felt like it, she would never, ever do that thing again. Her friendship with Olivia meant too much. And judging by Jonty's unease standing at the windowsill, he felt the same.

Sighing, Olivia reaches for a box of tissues. She's been waiting quite a while. She tosses them gently on to the bed next to
Nicola. ‘Here,' she says.

It's as if she knows.

So Nicola says the necessary words. Her friend, if nothing else, deserves some honesty. ‘It was four times.'

‘Oh.' Olivia studies her fingers furiously.

‘So sorry.' Nicola whispers, pulling tissue after tissue after tissue from the box. She'll empty it in seconds.

Olivia has a neat parting in her chestnut hair, a pale line running from her crown to her fringe. It's like everything about her: smart, orderly, organized.

‘I think I might have been jealous.'

Olivia nods. Glances up. Chews on a nail. ‘I can't say I understand it. It's so cruel. To do it to a friend. To your oldest friend.' Her voice wobbles and she stares at the chewed nail. ‘Um … but can I ask? Have you told him … Jonty, I mean? Have you told him he's the father?'

Nicola blows her nose.

Her turn to bite at a nail. She thinks about the question. Attempts to remember the phone call that she'd made and tried to blank from her memory for weeks now.

Hospital had been difficult. She was sick of seeing people come and go with newborn babies which had been planned for and celebrated. Where the parents cooed and gushed over the tiny forms swaddled in brightly coloured blankets. Nicola had to make do with the faded threadbare efforts which the hospital supplied. She was sick of grandparents, siblings, dads and friends of these tiny creatures who had visited the
ward, laden with flowers and silver balloons. Nicola had no one. Nobody visited Eliza. No one had expected her and no one welcomed her into the world. Except perhaps the stream of visitors from the authorities who asked a long list of frightening questions and hardly ever looked at the baby.

That's not quite true. Ben came twice. Nicola could have kissed him there and then when the first thing he did was reach out to Eliza, let her pearl fingers clutch on to his little finger with her strong grip. He brought her a small purple donkey, which he placed in the corner of the Perspex cot.

Two of the mothers in the ward smiled indulgently at him; they nodded their approval and asked over the heads of their brightly-coloured-blanketed babies if he was the dad. That made him laugh.

The only other visitor who didn't have a badge to state their employment was Nicola's mother. And a tower of strength she was not.

In fact, it took ages for Nicola's mum to drag herself away from the ward doorway. She stood with her arms folded and her lips tight and thin. Just a line where a smile should have been. A thin, straight, grey line which spoke volumes. Without glancing in the baby's direction she jabbed with her words.

‘What the hell are we expected to do now?'

Without laying eyes on Eliza, ‘And where's the bloody father?'

She continued, jabbing with her finger into the silent air of the listening ward. ‘I'll tell you where he is. He's off scot-bloody-free. That's where he is.'

Nicola had looked around, embarrassed at the faces of all the other new mums.

And she pushed all thoughts of Jonty Newman to one side.

But, drained and tearful, she'd eventually plucked up the courage to phone him.

She could hardly manage the words.

It was late at night and she didn't want to disturb the other women in the ward, or their babies. So she spoke softly once he answered after the eighth ring. Her hands shook.

Despite everything – despite their kisses; despite their links with Olivia; despite their knowledge of each other's bodies and scents – they hadn't really spoken very much.

‘What do you want?' he answered.

Silence as she caught her breath. ‘She's yours, Jonty.'

A full ten seconds of pounding silence. She wondered if he was still there.

And then four chilling words that stabbed at Nicola under her sheet in the warmth of the maternity ward. ‘You are a slag.'

He'd hung up then. And the words rang in her ears for the rest of the night.

She was never going to contact him again. Whatever happened, she knew she was on her own.

Nicola looks at her friend's face. Her paleness, her deep eyes, the hair which she's pushed back behind her ears.

She nods. ‘Yeah, I told him.' She clears her throat. ‘He wasn't very impressed.'

Olivia pulls the sides of her mouth down and nods. Inhales. ‘Well, Nic, I reckon you might just have done me a favour. If nothing else you made me see the light.' She draws her knees up and holds Nicola's eyes. ‘Tell me, how are you doing for money?'

Nicola balls the tissue in her hand. ‘Oh, you know, I've had to fill in about fifty million forms for this benefit and that benefit. There are even a few charities involved. I've been assigned a temporary social worker, which is weird. She's been good though. Lets me know what I'm entitled to and stuff. But it looks like as soon as Eliza's old enough I'll have to get some work. Cos as my mum keeps telling me, there's not enough money coming in, even with the benefits. So I won't be going to uni, like you. And I'll be lucky if I work for New Look. Versace's definitely not going to happen now.'

Olivia pays attention, her head to one side. Nicola is reminded of how good she is at listening. She nods. ‘And Jonty pays nothing?'

Nicola shakes her head. ‘My mum keeps going on and on about it. I haven't told her it's Jonty,' she adds in a rush. ‘I haven't told anyone.'

Olivia shuffles forward on her knees and then reaches for Nicola's fingers. Both sets of hands are warm and damp.

She winces. ‘Well, Nicola Taylor. I might not ever be able to forgive you. I might never understand.' She draws her hand away and bites her nail again. ‘But I
do
think I can help you. Whatever happens, Jonty needs to take responsibility for his actions. And I'm going to make sure he does.'

Not completely sure what Olivia means, but grateful all the same, Nicola tries a small smile. It hovers. ‘You will?'

Olivia nods. Squeezes Nicola's fingers. ‘I will.' There's a slight return of the smile. ‘And you know what?'

Nicola widens her eyes in a question.

‘… I might actually enjoy it.'

Nicola bites her lip, hardly daring to admit the rush of relief. It feels like she's getting her friend back.

Eliza won't settle. Almost as soon as Nicola arrives home from Olivia's she begins to grizzle. Her knees draw up against her tummy and her face becomes pinker and pinker as her temper gets more frantic.

Nicola tries everything. She remembers how the health visitor has told her to run through the checklist. Is she hungry? Does she need changing? Is she too hot? Is she too cold? Is she wet? Does she just need a cuddle?

None of this works. In fact, with all the checking and the manhandling Eliza just seems to get more and more upset. Nicola's scared. She's at her wits' end. It is nearly midnight and the crying has not shown any sign of stopping. She's conscious of her mum in the next bedroom. The impatient knocking on the wall hasn't started yet but she's sure it won't be long before it does. It is a school night after all, and no one with any sense of hearing could sleep through the racket coming from this small bundle of fury in Nicola's arms.

Sweat spreads across her back. Prickles of anxiety encase her throat. She can't stop her baby crying. She must be
rubbish. What made her think that she could do this?

She paces with Eliza from the Moses basket to the window, from the window to the bed. She swaps the screaming baby from her left shoulder to her right. She rocks her, she sings to her, she lies her down, she picks her up again. Eliza just won't stop the screams or the wailing. Her little face is purple with rage and her fists clench in anger.

Nicola suddenly misses the hospital. It was very difficult in there but at least there were nurses to ask. Now there's no friendly face to keep an eye on the baby while she nips to the toilet. No midwife rushing over to answer the bell if Nicola needs some help. No comforting eyes if she makes a mistake.

And there's nowhere lonelier in the dead of night than your bedroom with a baby screaming blue murder and your mum sighing through the paper-thin walls.

She tries her with a bottle again. Even though she only had one an hour earlier. Eliza spits the teat out. Her tongue is strong and outraged. It makes her cry even more.

Nicola's crying too. She catches sight of her reflection in the darkened window in the crack between the curtains and sees great wet streak marks all the way down her cheeks. She looks outside into the darkness. Sees the drop below. Imagines, in a daze, opening the window and letting Eliza fall. How her blanket would billow to the floor like a parachute after the tiny body.

The image is shocking. Frightening. It makes her gasp in horror.