Babies in Waiting (24 page)

But there you are. It was the one thing James was adamant about. He said he was the last of three boys, and if his mum had known she was having yet another boy maybe she’d have been disappointed and not have wanted him. I couldn’t imagine Eileen feeling like that, but when he said he didn’t want to find out, it seemed like an easy compromise to make. Except now I really wanted to know. I was musing on this and chewing my way through another slice of pizza, so I didn’t hear what Louise said. I just caught, ‘ . . . dessert down by the river. What do you think?’

‘Think about what?’

‘You’re a million miles away!’ she observed. ‘I was saying, did you think you and James might like to come down to the farmhouse and I’d invite Gemma too? Be nice to have a bumps party.’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ It would also be a good opportunity for James to meet Louise. He thought it was funny that we’d become so inseparable so quickly, but so far all of our meetings had taken place when James was busy with something else . . . either we’d caught a girls’ lunch during the week if Louise had to see clients in town, or we met up at weekends when James was playing five-a-side
or going to the pub to watch football. To be honest, he hadn’t made too many noises about wanting to meet her . . . he seemed to think our friendship was a pregnant women’s thing and nothing really to do with him. But she had become important to me, and I wanted to share that with him. What he’d think of being the only bloke at a party with three pregnant women, I wasn’t sure . . . but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

We made an arrangement for the following Sunday, and when I told James, he said that the weather was supposed to be lovely and it would be nice to be out in the countryside. To be honest, I kind of glossed over who was going to be there . . . I just said a few friends.

We took the train there, and Louise came out in her car to pick us up from the station. When we got to the farmhouse, I was impressed. ‘Wow. You certainly got yourself a cushy number here, Lou!’ It was a beautiful, old, rambling house, and the grounds were amazing. Louise had obviously also thought about James being the only guy there, so she’d invited her brother Simon, as well as a bloke called Alan, who was her second-in-command at the printing firm. He was about twenty-five, earnest and ginger, and obviously totally in awe of Louise. We went through to the back garden, where Louise had set out a jug of Pimm’s and some snacks, as well as soft drinks for us. There was a Foo Fighters song playing on the radio, and that gave Simon, James and Alan something to chat about. Even though they’d never met, they seemed happy to talk music and sport, and we left them to it.

We went into the kitchen so Louise could carry on with making lunch. She gave me a cheeky grin. ‘Lord, woman. You never told me your husband looked like that.’

I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know. I’ve kind of got used to it, but he really is insanely gorgeous.’

‘How do you keep your hands off him? Most women would never let him out of the bedroom.’

Well, try carrying seven pounds of baby and seventy-two other pounds of water, placenta and general flab. It’d put you off sex, no matter how tasty the bloke.’

Louise wrinkled her nose. ‘The last time I got to do it was the time I got knocked up. To be honest, most blokes are starting to look good to me.’

‘Even Alan?’

She laughed her big, loud laugh. ‘Can you imagine? He’d die of fright.’

Louise was cooking an enormous roast with all the trimmings. She buzzed around the kitchen very efficiently, basting things and chopping things. I leaned against a counter and tried not to get in the way (difficult when you’re four foot wide), and nibbled on raw green beans and carrots.

‘So is Gemma coming?’ I asked.

‘Yes . . . she’s just got her licence and Daddy bought her a Mini, so she’s very proud that she’ll be driving herself.’

‘That’s quite brave, for someone who’s probably not driven much alone before.’

‘She says she’s got sat nav and music. She’s very determined. She said she’d ring if she got into any trouble.’

I looked around at the big, open kitchen with its scrubbed table and stone counter tops.

‘So, tell me about the guy whose house this is.’

‘Adam?’ Louise looked up and caught my eye as she said his name. There was definitely something there. ‘He’s, well . . .’ She seemed lost for words, unusually for Louise. Eventually, she finished lamely with, ‘Well, he’s Adam.’

‘Oooh,
Adam
?’ I teased breathlessly, like we were in junior school. And, to my absolute surprise, she giggled like a schoolgirl. I thought she wouldn’t say anything more, but in a way, I think she was just dying for someone to ask. She wanted to talk about him (as you do when you really, really like someone), and once she started, she just couldn’t stop.

‘He’s amazing. He’s away on this Tall Ships Race, working with kids and helping them to learn to sail. But then he’s also built this amazing business here, and all his staff love him. He’s moral and strong, but also funny and clever. And hot. My God, so hot.’

‘And he feels the same about you?’

‘I know . . . it’s bizarre. Even though I’m . . .’ she gestured at her belly. ‘He still seems to care about me. We only met two weeks before he left, and only realised we had feelings for one another the day before he left. So the whole relationship has been conducted by email and the odd phone call when he’s in a port. It’s kind of old-fashioned . . . courting by correspondence. I quite like it.’

‘And he comes home . . . ?’

‘In a month. Four weeks, actually. Not that I’m counting.’

‘And the baby? And the job? And staying here?’

‘I know. There’s a lot to work out. We haven’t actually talked through all the logistics of it. We’ve just been getting to know each other, really.’

She turned away from me and stirred something, but I could see her profile, and honest to God, she was blushing! She really did have it bad. But there was still that elephant in the room, (And I don’t mean me!). After all, she didn’t get pregnant by herself. I decided just to come out and ask.

‘So Lou . . . what about this Brian bloke . . . the . . . father?’

Her lips tightened. ‘He really isn’t interested. He doesn’t want anything to do with us. He wanted me to have an abortion. So . . . well, I’ve written a letter to say he has no legal responsibility for the child and I won’t ask him for anything.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Strictly speaking, if I wanted to I could send the childsupport people after him. But I’m not going to. He’s got . . .’ she paused. ‘Well, he’s got his own life.’

I had a lot more questions, but before I could ask anything, a midnight-blue Mini convertible pulled into the driveway. Louise looked out of the window. ‘Ah, Gemma’s here,’ she said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. The discussion was clearly over.

Gemma loved her little car. She felt invincible in it . . . like it was her own small kingdom. She’d taken to driving from her first go and passed her test after just fifteen lessons, and her dad, as he had promised, had bought the Mini. ‘There you are, pumpkin,’ he said indulgently, handing over the keys. ‘Now you can buzz around town and give lifts to all your mates.’ He didn’t seem to notice that she didn’t have mates any more. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have wanted them in her car. She didn’t want anyone in her car. When she got in and shut the door, turned the key and heard the satisfying roar of the engine, when the music came pouring from the speakers and the seatbelt was snugly tucked under her bump, she felt she had everything she could ever need in the world. When the bass was thumping particularly loudly, the baby responded by kicking more firmly. She’d looked forward to the drive to visit Louise for days, as much for the drive as the chance to see Louise.

She stepped out of the car, and Louise came out of the
front door to welcome her. Behind her was another pregnant girl, with a round, very pretty face and a wide smile.

Louise kissed her quickly on the cheek. ‘Glad you made it in one piece,’ she said. ‘This is my friend Antonia.’

‘Oh, call me Toni, please!’ the girl said, and impulsively came forward and kissed Gemma too.

Gemma took a last quick look at her car, and the other two bustled her through the house. She only had a moment’s impression of the rustic farmhouse. All the furniture looked a bit scruffy and old. Then they were out in the back garden. There were three men there: Louise’s brother, a skinny ginger bloke, and a tall, blond guy who looked like a movie star. They all greeted her really politely, but a bit nervously. She was used to that. People, especially guys, didn’t know where to look when they met a pregnant teenager. She’d always looked a bit young for her age anyway. The pregnant belly seemed to make them very uncomfortable indeed. Louise went inside to finish the lunch, and the other girl, Toni, stayed outside to chat. She was really nice and bubbly, and asked lots of questions. How far along was Gemma? It seemed Toni was only two weeks further along . . . twenty-eight weeks. How was Gemma feeling? She looked amazing! Toni made fun of her own size and water retention, and called herself a whale. She seemed to like to put herself down, which was odd, because she really was a pretty girl, and she was married to a totally gorgeous guy who kept glancing over as if he wanted to make sure she was all right. If that was me, Gemma thought, I’d feel amazing about myself.

Louise yelled from the kitchen window for help, and her brother went in to help her serve. Together, they brought out dish after dish. It looked like she had cooked a whole cow, with a mountain of potatoes and more vegetables than Gemma had ever seen in her life, as well as great crusty Yorkshire puddings and a massive jug of gravy. They set everything down on the big, old wooden table outside. Everyone started passing dishes around and sharing. They didn’t know each other well, but the chat seemed to flow easily. Gemma served herself the smallest portion she could without looking rude, and started cutting things into tiny bites. She didn’t feel nervous: she was used to being the youngest person at a dinner party. It had been that way her whole life. Her father had always expected her to be able to hold a conversation and be polite. But this was different. Here she was an equal. One of the pregnant women.

She was sitting between Simon, Louise’s brother, and Toni’s husband, who was called James. Now they’d got used to her, they both made a big effort to be friendly. She knew about Simon, because her mum and dad had met him at Richard and Rachel’s. Her dad had been quite rude about him. ‘I didn’t know Richard was going to invite his wife’s brother . . .’ he’d said. ‘Definitely light in his loafers, that one.’ Her father was a real, old-fashioned homophobe. But she thought Simon was really nice. He asked her about school. He did something in the government, and he seemed to know a lot about education. He asked her serious questions about going on to university,
and how her generation felt about the increased debt they faced, and whether they’d find jobs. She liked how he took her answers seriously. ‘It’s a lot harder now,’ he observed. ‘You can’t always follow a creative dream. If you’re going to start your working life with tens of thousands of pounds of debt, you’d better be able to get a job that pays well.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ James chipped in. ‘I’m twenty-eight, and I’m still paying off my student loan. So’s Toni.’

‘You don’t look twenty-eight,’ Gemma said before she could stop herself.

‘Thanks,’ James grinned, ‘it’s my dewy complexion, and reflected youth from your good self!’ And he gave her a cheeky wink.

Gemma felt herself blush. How silly. She knew he was just being nice to her, as if she were one of his mates’ little sisters. He was clearly crazy about his wife. But he was just, so, so good-looking and well dressed and charming. Next to him, Ben would look like a scruffy, gawky teenager.

She looked down and was surprised to see she had cleaned her plate. Louise got up to clear things away and the blokes leapt up to help her. She brought out a big apple crumble and a jug of custard, and they all sat around eating dessert in the warm afternoon sun. Toni swapped places with Simon, so she, Gemma and Louise were all grouped around the head of the table. Toni tucked in to her dessert, but then suddenly paused and waved her spoon at Louise. ‘Lou! I forgot to tell you . . . on the site this
morning, there was a whole discussion about packing hospital bags.’

Gemma realised that she must have looked confused because Louise said, ‘It’s a baby website, with discussion forums. It’s how Toni and I met.’

‘She’s my dodgy internet-dating bump buddy,’ Toni smiled.

‘Anyway,’ Louise said, ‘you were saying – hospital bags?’

‘Loads of people were saying they’d got theirs all packed. Nighties, toiletries, clothes for the baby, the lot!’

‘But I’ve got ten weeks to go! You’ve got twelve . . . Gemma . . .’

‘Fourteen weeks yet,’ said Gemma. ‘If I pack mine now, my moisturiser will be past its use-by date before I open it!’

Toni and Louise chuckled loudly at this and Gemma felt absurdly pleased to have made them laugh.

‘I mean,’ Toni said, helping herself to another portion of dessert, ‘I can understand wanting to be ready in case you went into labour early, but three months ahead of time? That’s ridiculous. If I go into hospital early, I’ll just give James a list and he can bring me what I need.’

‘I’ll need to pack mine well ahead of time, though,’ said Louise. ‘If I go into labour and nothing’s ready, I’m screwed. I can’t expect Simon to rifle through my underwear drawer or go out and buy me sanitary towels.’

‘My mum wouldn’t be much use either,’ said Gemma. ‘She’s given me gift vouchers or money for every birthday and Christmas since I was seven. She’d probably come into
the hospital with an Evian face spray and a John Lewis gift card and expect me to get everything online or something.’

‘So what sort of stuff are we supposed to have packed?’ Louise asked.

‘Well, clothes for the baby and nappies obviously, then nighties for yourself, ones that open in the front if you’re going to breastfeed. Underwear, something to wear in labour . . .’