Baby Be Mine (2 page)

‘Night, night.’ Mum turns back to give me a peck on the cheek.

‘Night,’ I reply, and go into my bedroom.

I shut the door and take a deep breath before exhaling as quietly as I can. My iPhone is charging on my bedside table. I see that there’s another message from Christian:

I feel bad. I should have called him earlier. I’m surprised to discover I’m looking forward to seeing him.

Why am I surprised? He’s my boyfriend. I love him.

I know why: it’s the guilt. It’s poisonous. And deep down I know that it’s going to be the death of our little family.

  Chapter 2  

‘Hello, there!’

I hear Mum’s cheerful voice echoing through the walls. I’m in the bathroom and, from the sounds of it, my dad has just arrived home from the airport with Christian.

‘Hi!’ Christian replies. ‘Hey . . .’ There’s silence as I picture him scooping up Barney into his arms for a warm, cuddly hug. I quickly towel myself dry – I didn’t think they’d be back so soon.

‘Where’s Meg?’ Christian asks.

‘In the shower,’ my mum replies.

‘Have a nice lie-in, did she?’ Christian says and I frown as they all chuckle at my expense. It’s six thirty in the evening and I’ve been on my feet all day. A moment later there’s a knock at the door.

‘Meg?’

‘I’m coming,’ I reply tetchily.

‘Unlock the door.’

Still frowning, I do as he says.

‘Hey!’ He beams as he enters the steam-filled bathroom, but his face falls when he sees my expression. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ I wrap the towel around my still-damp body.

‘Can I have a hug?’ he asks warily as he opens his arms and cocks his head to one side.

‘Sure.’ I grudgingly step forward and his arms embrace me.

‘Mmm,’ he murmurs into my wet hair. ‘I missed you.’

‘Did you?’

He pulls away and gives me a look. ‘Of course I did. I hoped you’d change your mind about coming to get me.’

‘Sorry,’ I say and genuinely mean it. I’ve been having second thoughts all day about whether or not I should go to the airport myself. ‘I thought I’d better do Barney’s dinner and get things back to normal after yesterday’s mayhem. Dad offered; I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You’re still pissed off at me for not getting home in time.’ It’s not a question. I shrug. ‘I did try. I couldn’t help it,’ he says. ‘Anyway, it’s not like Barney would have missed me; he’s only one.’

I’ll have to remember you said that if you discover the truth about him anytime soon . . .

I nod towards the door. ‘Better go and get dressed.’

He turns away and I follow him into the bedroom. ‘How was yesterday?’ he asks, sitting down on the bed and watching me as I open the wardrobe.

‘It was good,’ I reply, taking a navy-blue and white polka-dot maxidress out of the wardrobe and slipping it over my head. ‘I don’t think he knew what hit him with all the toys your parents sent. And he loved the balloons and candles. Did you bring him anything back?’

He grins. ‘Yep.’

‘What?’

‘A dumper truck.’ He’s still grinning cheekily.

‘What’s so funny?’ I smile. ‘Did you bring
me
something back?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

‘It’s Pebbles, isn’t it?’ He laughs as I clamber onto his knees and throw my arms around him. He collapses back on the bed.

Pebbles is a type of American cereal. It’s supposed to be for kids, but Christian and I both have a sweet tooth and we became addicted to the multicoloured rice crispy things when we spent time in the States a few years ago.

Christian rolls me off his body onto the bed next to him and stares into my eyes. I stare back into his: a darker shade of brown than mine. His black hair falls across his eye-line and I reach over and push it away. He needs a haircut.

He leans forward and kisses me on the lips. I sit back up again.

‘I’m going to get the bed wet.’ I indicate my damp hair.

‘Fuck the bed,’ he says, a tad exasperated.

‘Oi, don’t swear!’ I chastise.

‘He’s not in earshot, is he?’ He’s talking about Barney.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I reply firmly. ‘You’ve got to get out of the habit.’

Christian swears more than anyone else I know. I’ve been trying to get him to clean up his act ever since our baby was born.

‘He can’t even talk yet,’ he mutters, getting up from the bed with a sigh.

I move on. ‘How was your flight? Flights, I mean.’

We live in a little village called Cucugnan in the French Pyrenees, so Christian had to fly via the UK from Los Angeles and then onto our nearest airport, Perpignan, which is twenty-five kilometres away. With the winding mountain roads it takes a good forty-five minutes to travel to Cucugnan.

‘Both fine. The LA one was an hour delayed, but I still managed to find time at Heathrow to buy some Krispy Kremes.’

‘I hope you didn’t eat them all . . .’ I say of the doughnuts.

‘Only six.’

‘Six out of twelve?’

‘I’m joking. I managed to stop at three, so there are nine left for you lot.’

‘Bugger the others,’ I joke.

We used to live in Belsize Park in north London – in fact, Christian still owns his house there – but a few months ago, his friend offered us a reduced rental price on his holiday home in the south of France and we jumped at the chance to take a break from grey old London. My parents actually live in the south of France themselves, in Grasse, about four and a half hours’ drive away. I’m not working at the moment, and as for Christian, he’s a full-time writer, so he can work anywhere – and he does.

‘How was your trip?’ I ask. ‘Did you get much done?’

‘A fair bit.’

‘Anything interesting happen?’

‘The gig was good. Scott whisked a couple of groupies away to his hotel room afterwards.’

‘Threesome.’ I roll my eyes.

‘Yeah, been there, done that.’ He glances at me and gives me a wry little smile. ‘I’m going to hang out with Barney. See you in a min.’

He leaves the bedroom and I turn to look at myself in the mirror on the dressing table.

Johnny . . .

I grab my hairdryer and start to blast my shoulder-length, straight blonde hair.

Christian used to be a music journalist, but now he’s an author. He made his name writing his best friend’s – rock star Johnny Jefferson’s – biography and his ‘been there, done that’ comment is a reference to the wild boy’s own sexual encounters. Now Christian is working on another biography, this time about American rock group Contour Lines. But there are three guys in the band, which means three times as much work for my writer boyfriend. Plus, as Scott, Niall and Ricky are all based in Los Angeles, Christian has to travel there a lot. I’m dreading this summer when the band goes on tour. I’ll never see him.

A memory comes back to me of being on tour with Johnny. The screaming fans, the obsessive groupies, the drink, the drugs . . . Thankfully Christian isn’t into any of that stuff. I trust him completely. He can’t say the same for me. In fact, he can and does say the same thing about me. The sad thing is, he’s severely misguided.

I slam my hairdryer down on the dressing table. I’ve had enough of facing my own reflection for now.

The sound of laughter brings a smile to my face as I walk down the corridor towards the living room. Christian is tickling a near-hysterical Barney on the sofa.

I lean against the doorframe and watch my boys, Christian with his dark, messy hair and Barney with his blond locks. My smile falters as Barney looks up and spies me, his green eyes piercing in the early evening sunlight. He looks just like his dad. His real dad. How can Christian not see it?

‘How about a drink, Mummy?’ Christian interrupts my thoughts.

‘What do you fancy?’

‘Got any of that cheapo cider?’

All the cider is cheap here. Doesn’t mean it’s not yummy.

‘Yep.’

‘Right, we’re off!’ Dad declares, coming into the living room with his car keys dangling from his fingers. Mum follows him in.

‘Aah, thanks for coming.’ I go to give them both a hug. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay another night? Set off first thing?’

‘No, we’d better get going, honey,’ Dad replies. ‘Your mother’s got her ladies coming over for morning tea tomorrow.’

‘See you soon, Barney!’ Mum calls, but my little boy stays entangled with Christian on the sofa.

‘Come and say bye to Nanny and Grandad,’ I urge, and Christian heaves himself up, carrying my son’s weight with him. The three of us see my parents outside to their car and wave them off, and I experience the usual pang at watching them go. My head starts singing that song, ‘Alone Again’. I wish they lived closer. At least they’re in the same country. I wonder if I could get them to come and stay next time Christian goes away.

The following day, Christian and I sit by the pool drinking iced lemonade and making our way through a fresh baguette. We took Barney for a walk in his buggy earlier to get him to sleep. He usually naps for about two hours, so Christian and I are taking this opportunity to chill out together.

‘This is bliss,’ he says, slicing a piece of Camembert for his bread.

‘Mmm,’ I agree, tilting my head back and gazing up at the blue sky. It’s been tipping it down in England for the last four days. It is lovely here. I just wish I had some friends around to enjoy it with.

‘When are you going away again?’ I pop my sunglasses on top of my head and turn to face him.

‘I don’t know,’ he replies, not looking at me. ‘Might be soon.’

‘How soon?’ I ask with trepidation.

‘The band’s starting tour rehearsals next week. I should probably be there for that.’

‘Next week?’ I exclaim. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

‘I’m not. Sorry, Meg.’ He glances at me sideways, furrowing his brow.

‘For pity’s sake!’ I explode. ‘You’ve only just got back!’

‘I know. But I have to do this. I have to make this book work, otherwise I’m fucked.’

I don’t bother to tell him off for his language. I put my sunglasses back on and stare moodily at the pool.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.

‘Whatever,’ I reply.

‘You do like it here, don’t you?’

‘Of course I like it,’ I retort. ‘I’m just really bored being all by myself.’

‘You’re not by yourself,’ he corrects me, irritatingly. ‘You’ve got Barney.’

‘You know what I mean,’ I reply crossly. ‘I have no social life. I have nothing to do, no friends to see.’

‘How can you say you have nothing to do? Look around you! Don’t you know how lucky you are?’

‘Yes, of course. But I’m lonely!’

‘Why don’t you get a job?’

‘What would I do?’

‘I don’t know – work in a bakery or something.’

‘Oh, yeah, and where am I supposed to put Barney? Out at the back with the ovens?’

‘He could go to a nursery.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s hardly likely to be financially viable, is it?’

‘I don’t know, Meg, but you said you were bored. I thought maybe you could do with a change of lifestyle.’

‘By sticking our son into day care?’ I snap.

He sighs. ‘Why don’t you try taking him to a playgroup or something, then?’

‘I don’t know of any.’

‘There must be a way to find out about them.’

‘I don’t know anyone at them, though,’ I say.

‘Isn’t that the point? You’d go to meet people.’

‘What if no one speaks English?’

‘You speak French!’

‘An A level doesn’t constitute speaking French! Especially when I’ve barely used the language in the last decade, apart from asking for croissants and baguettes.’

‘Well, wouldn’t this be a good time to use it? I thought you wanted to brush up.’

‘Now you are really annoying me,’ I warn.

‘Only because you know I’m right,’ he replies. ‘Stop making excuses for yourself.’

I’m about to storm inside when he puts his hand out to stop me.

‘I don’t mean to wind you up. I’m trying to help.’ He gets to his feet and goes out through the pool gate. I sit there stewing for a minute, but I’m over it by the time he returns with some magazines.

I nod at them. ‘Research?’

‘Yep. Band interviews.’ He dumps them on a table. ‘I sat in on a couple of them. It’s interesting to see how they’ve been edited.’