Babies in Waiting (10 page)

‘He’s all right,’ Natalie said.

‘Are you going to see him again?’ Eleanor asked, but at that moment, the teacher came back to their end of the row to correct Eleanor’s arm position and push Gemma’s
knee out further. When she’d moved away again, Eleanor came back to the subject. ‘Well? Are you?’

‘God, Eleanor . . . get a life. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I don’t really care, to be honest.’

‘Did he ask for your number?’

There was no answer, but Gemma could imagine the eye-rolling glance Natalie had given Eleanor. What guy wouldn’t ask for her number? Eleanor hadn’t finished prying, however.

‘So what did you do with him? I mean . . . I saw you kissing, but after that?’ They all had to move out into the middle of the floor then, so Gemma never got to hear what Natalie and Josh Morris had done – if she had revealed anything to Eleanor, that was.

Later, when she got home, she went up to her room to do homework. Her mother was still out at her charity meeting and her father was playing golf. She sat on the bed and thought for a moment. How did Natalie do it? How did she achieve that effortless confidence? Gemma had heard girls pretending to be indifferent about boys before, but she could always tell they were pretending . . . playing it cool. But Natalie hadn’t been pretending. She genuinely didn’t care if she never heard from Josh Morris . . . who, from Eleanor’s respectful tones, was clearly considered quite a catch. It was, Gemma thought, because Natalie was totally, completely comfortable in her skin. She knew who she was, and she knew she was all right.

Lucy, when she and Gemma had been close, had been the same. Lucy loved to talk about herself, and Gemma
had often found her self-centred pronouncements irritating . . . ‘I’m such a perfectionist,’ Lucy would say. Or she’d eat a big sandwich after school and say, ‘I’m always hungriest in the late afternoon . . . it’s just the way I am.’ But who was Gemma? Which way was
she
? She started getting ready to do her homework. She laid all her books and pens out on her tidy, empty desk, and then looked around her tidy bedroom. Was this who she was? Neat handwriting in carefully covered notebooks? Her ballet certificates in a row on the wall? Her tennis trophies? The cork board covered in snapshots of expensive family holidays and shots of her laughing with her friends, who all looked very much like she did? And that damned colour-coded schedule that ran her life, week by week? Yes, that was the shell, but what was inside? When Gemma looked within herself, she was frightened. It seemed to her as if she was empty. As if there was nothing at her core.

For six wonderful months, being Ben’s girlfriend had defined her. But somehow, without her having done anything, things had changed between them. His musical success had changed him, made him more confident, and Gemma felt she couldn’t keep up. It just seemed as if he was bored with her. She knew he’d seen her as a trophy in the beginning. He told her all his friends thought she was hot, but maybe that wasn’t enough any more. He had a big social crowd now, and he was always working on a new musical project, collaborating with someone on a recording project, playing a gig with someone else. At first, he’d talk to her all about it, but she’d get upset if
any of the names he mentioned were girls’ names, so after a while, he stopped telling her.

It wasn’t as if her life away from him was very interesting . . . all she did was study, dance and play tennis, so she had very little to talk to him about. She’d ask about his day at school and he’d grunt, or say ‘Fine.’ So mostly, they’d have sex, or if they weren’t having sex, they’d sit together listening to music, or she’d watch him play games. He never played his guitar for her any more. Lately, when she rang or texted and suggested coming round, he’d started making excuses. They were spending less and less time together.

Gemma worried about it constantly. She couldn’t get to sleep at night, she woke early, she couldn’t eat. Her course work had started to slip, and for the first time since she was six years old, she missed ballet for an entire week.

She didn’t really have anyone to confide in: Lucy had said from the beginning that she thought Ben was a bit of a player, and she didn’t like him. Gemma knew it was just because she was jealous, so she’d stopped talking to Lucy about him and they’d drifted apart. She’d neglected all her other friends since she’d been going out with him, so she had no one she felt close to. Ben was her boyfriend, her best friend, her world, and the only person she wanted to confide in . . . and she couldn’t.

Then there was a further blow. Gemma’s Pill prescription ran out after six months and she had to go back to the doctor for a check-up to get another. She went back to Ben’s surgery, but to her relief she didn’t see the careworn
GP she’d seen before. Instead she got a locum, a young Asian man.

He asked a few cursory questions, then took her blood pressure. She saw him frown, turn to his computer and check the notes, and then he pumped up the cuff again. ‘I’m afraid your blood pressure is definitely up.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘It’s not good, certainly. I don’t think your contraceptive is agreeing with you,’ he said briskly. ‘I’d like you to stop taking it immediately.’

Gemma was alarmed. ‘But can’t I just go on another pill?’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it. In cases like yours, we often recommend the contraceptive implant. It’s inserted under the skin of your upper arm. You can have it in for up to three years, and you won’t have to remember to take the Pill. Many women find it preferable.’

‘Fine. Can I get it done now?’

‘It’s a clinical procedure. It can’t be done in a normal consultation. You’ll have to book in for the next available slot at the clinic.’ He checked his computer screen. ‘That’s in three weeks’ time.’

‘And until then?’

‘Well, in the meantime, you’ll need to take additional precautions.’

When Gemma told Ben they would have to use condoms in the short term, he sulked. ‘I hate them,’ he said. ‘I suppose we don’t have any choice, though.’ He didn’t ask Gemma about her blood pressure, or if she felt ill at all.

It just seemed to be another reason for him to be annoyed and impatient with her.

Late one overcast Wednesday afternoon, she texted Ben as she left school to see if he wanted to meet up. After an hour, she’d not had a reply, and she started to walk towards his house. As she turned into his road, she saw him walking up ahead, deep in conversation with a short, dark-haired girl that she didn’t recognise. She stopped and took a sideways step behind a tree. Ben wasn’t touching the girl, but he was looking down into her face and laughing at something she had just said. Gemma couldn’t remember the last time Ben had laughed with her.

Ben and the girl stood for a while and chatted on the pavement, then both took a step apart, as if they were parting ways. Ben reached out and punched her shoulder softly and affectionately. The girl said something, laughed and tossed her head. Then she walked away. Gemma turned and walked back the way she came. She didn’t hear from Ben that day, or the next, or for a week after that.

Just when Gemma had begun to tip into the blackest despair, Ben seemed to soften towards her. He texted her and they met up in the park. He didn’t talk much, but he held her hand as they walked around. It made Gemma feel a bit better, but as soon as they parted the anxiety returned. Maybe she’d bored him. Maybe he hadn’t talked because she was so dull. She wished she knew what to say to make him laugh like the short, dark girl did. He’d never ring again. Then what would she do? She spent hours in her room, telling her parents she was studying. But in
reality, she was lying on her bed, staring at her mobile, willing it to beep or ring.

Then he rang her and invited her to come around for dinner for his mum’s birthday. That had to be a good sign. She wanted to be able to stay the night with him, so she told her mum she was sleeping over at Lucy’s and spent ages getting ready. She wore her best jeans and a pink hoodie Ben had once said he liked. She spent ages straightening her hair and getting her make-up just right.

Ben’s mum, whose name was Hannah, had cooked great bowls of pasta and made lots of salads. She had invited a few friends – women like her – in their late thirties and early forties, successful, assertive and forceful. The conversation was loud and often quite rude. Everyone talked over one another and the table was so full of food that there always seemed to be a bowl being passed around.

Gemma was completely intimidated. She moved her chair as close to Ben as she could. She’d put a few strings of pasta on her plate, and filled the rest of it with lettuce leaves, and she used her fork to move the food around. She kept her head down and let her hair hang over her face. As the wine glasses were refilled, the banter got louder. Ben, who had known these women all his life, gave as good as he got. Hannah’s friend Sarah was sitting on the other side of Gemma. She was something very senior in a media company, and she was a tall, big woman with a terrifying smoker’s cough and a voice to match.

She leaned over Gemma and poked Ben in the arm. ‘So, pipsqueak,’ she rasped, ‘this your girlfriend?’ She didn’t
wait for an answer. ‘You should put a tag on her or something. If she turns sideways, you’ll lose her. You must have to wrap yourself in bubble-wrap in the bedroom . . . you’d lacerate yourself on those hipbones!’ She leaned over and peered at Gemma’s plate. ‘Good lord, darling, you’ll fade away if that’s all you eat!’ She grabbed a bowl of potato salad and added a massive dollop to Gemma’s plate. She leaned across the table and ripped a hunk off a loaf of garlic bread and balanced that on top. ‘Now you don’t leave the table till that’s all gone!’

Gemma looked at her plate, horrified. There was no way she was going to eat all of that. Especially not in front of Ben. She mumbled something about the loo, and left the table.

She went upstairs to the bathroom next to Ben’s room and shut the door. She checked her make-up and tidied her hair. How long could she stay in there? Until they cleared the plates? Or at least until Sarah had drunk a few more glasses of wine and decided to ignore her. She couldn’t stay away too long . . . knowing those women, they’d start speculating loudly about what she was doing in the bathroom. This was a nightmare. She’d have to go back out there. She washed her hands, then decided she should flush the toilet for authenticity.

As soon as she pushed the handle, she heard a wail from Ben’s room. As she opened the door to step out, one of the women pushed by her and went into the bedroom. She heard her say, ‘There, there, Lily. Don’t cry. It’s just a strange place. You’re at Auntie Hannah’s, aren’t you?’ The
woman, whom Gemma remembered was called Patti, came out of the bedroom carrying a chubby baby girl. The baby had rumpled blonde curls and cheeks flushed with sleep. She had one fat little arm wrapped around her mother’s neck, and with the other hand was rubbing her face in bewildered grumpiness.

Gemma followed them back into the living room. She realised she needn’t worry about anyone noticing her or what was on her plate: all the women were too busy fussing over the baby. The poor sleepy little thing was being passed from woman to woman. They were all asking Patti about her eating and sleeping . . . did she have any teeth? Was she sitting up properly yet? Lily looked increasingly miserable, especially when gravelly Sarah bounced her energetically on her knee. ‘Who’s a gorgeous girl then?’ she rasped, putting her face close to the baby’s. She probably reeked of smoke and wine too. Lily’s little face crumpled and the corners of her mouth turned down like a comedy clown’s. She drew breath in and began to wail. The women all laughed, like this was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Patti leaned over and took her back from Sarah.

‘Silly girl. Want to go to your Uncle Ben?’ Patti dumped the baby on Ben’s lap. To Gemma’s surprise, Ben wrapped his arms comfortably around her. The baby stopped crying immediately, rested her head on Ben’s chest and put a fat little thumb into her mouth. She looked at everyone else in the room with big eyes, blinking slowly. Within a few minutes, she had closed her eyes and was sleeping quietly
in his arms. Gemma could barely breathe. She had never loved Ben as much as she did in that moment . . . he looked so masculine and tender, gently holding the beautiful baby girl.

Gemma hadn’t had much to do with babies: as an only child, she had not experienced the arrival of younger siblings, and as Samantha and David didn’t go in for extended family occasions, she barely knew any of her cousins. She stared and stared at Lily and couldn’t believe how tiny and perfect she was: her fat little hand, with its impossibly tiny pearly nails, resting on Ben’s arm, the flushed curve of her cheek, her candyfloss hair. She leaned close to Ben and smelt the sweet scent of Lily’s baby shampoo. She was desperate to hold her, but she was much too shy to ask if she could. She made do with lightly stroking the back of Lily’s hand. She had never felt such soft skin.

Ben held Lily until Patti and the other women were ready to go home. Patti gathered up a big bag of baby stuff, then handed Ben a blanket. He wrapped it gently around the baby and carried her out to the car. Gemma helped Hannah to clear plates and put them in the kitchen.

‘Well, that was all right,’ Hannah commented, loading plates into the dishwasher.

‘It was lovely, thank you,’ said Gemma. ‘Let me do that. You shouldn’t work on your birthday.’

Hannah needed no further persuasion, and she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the counter. She was a bit drunk, and clearly in the mood to get chatty.

‘You’re a super girl, Gemma. Really. Haven’t seen so much of you lately. It’s nice to have you back among us.’

Gemma didn’t know what to say, so she nodded and kept rinsing plates and loading them into the dishwasher. But Hannah continued to talk. ‘Ben seemed a bit funny when I asked him to invite you. I hope things are all right with you two.’ Mercifully, she didn’t seem to expect a response to this. She raised her glass to Gemma. ‘Anyway. I hope you had a nice time.’

‘I did, thank you,’ Gemma said, but she felt sick and cold. So Hannah had invited her. It hadn’t even been Ben’s choice. He’d obviously just gone along with it.