Baby Be Mine (6 page)

Christian returns the following week. I’ve kept tabs on the internet so that I can avoid constantly asking my boyfriend for news about my former lover, but all has been quiet. Dana went to her parents’ place in Montana to recuperate, and Johnny has been holed up in rehab. Christian cracked on with his work and we settled back into our unconventional routine.

In the middle of June, Bess calls to ask if Christian, Barney and I fancy meeting her in Barcelona for her birthday at the end of the month. I broach the subject with Christian over coffee outside on the terrace. ‘We still haven’t been and it’s only a couple of hours away.’

The corners of Christian’s mouth turn down. ‘Contour Lines will have started the European leg of their tour by then. I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘But you and Barney could go?’

Within days, Bess has booked her flight to Barcelona, and Christian has surprised me with a weekend’s stay for Bess, Barney and me at one of the city’s top hotels.

He’s due to fly out to Austria on Monday, but a phone call on Friday night completely scuppers those plans. As soon as I see his face, I know instantly that something is wrong. Very wrong.

‘What?’ he asks.

Johnny? Is it Johnny?

‘Oh, no . . .’ He clutches the receiver with shaking fingers, his face creased with pain.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask urgently, sick to the pit of my stomach.

He doesn’t answer, too caught up in what the person on the other end of the line is saying.

Christian drops the phone to the floor with a clatter and buries his face in his hands. I quickly pick it up and speak into the receiver.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘It’s Anton.’ Christian’s older brother. He sounds upset.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Mum.’

His next words send a chill through me: ‘She’s dead.’

Mandy Pettersson was killed simply crossing the road. She had nipped out between a small break in the traffic and didn’t see the motorcycle that hit her – it wasn’t even going very fast – but the impact knocked her into the path of an oncoming lorry. She died instantly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell Anton, going to Christian and putting my arm around his broad shoulders. He’s staring ahead in a daze. ‘Do you know when the funeral will be?’

‘No, not yet. Joel has to get back here from Australia. Call me tomorrow; we should know more then.’

‘Okay, I will. How is your dad?’

Anton’s voice breaks. ‘He’s in shock.’

‘I’ll let you go,’ I say gently, rubbing Christian’s arm.

‘Okay. Bye,’ he manages to say before hanging up.

I turn to look at Christian. He meets my eyes and his instantly fill with tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and then he breaks down. I hug him tightly while he sobs into my shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Two days later, we drive to Barcelona. Not to enjoy a mini-break, but to fly home to the UK. There aren’t any direct flights from Perpignan and this was the next best option. We’ve left Barney with my parents in France. It’s the first time I’ve been away from him and already I hate it. I’ll stay in Newcastle with Christian’s family for only a few days before flying home to him. Christian will need to be there for at least another week to support his dad and brothers.

It’s a bright, sunny day when we touch down at Newcastle airport, in total contrast to how we’re both feeling. The funeral is the day after tomorrow and we’ve opted to hire a car, refusing Anton’s offer of a lift because we figure he’s got enough on his plate. We’re staying at Christian’s house in Longbenton, which is about a twenty-minute drive east from the airport and ten minutes north of Newcastle upon Tyne. Christian is silent as he navigates the roads. He’s barely spoken since he found out. It’s a good thing that Barney isn’t here. He may be only young, but I’m sure he understands that something isn’t right with Daddy. It’s heartbreaking to think that my son won’t remember Mandy when he’s older, especially considering how much she loved him. A lump forms in my throat as Christian pulls up outside his childhood home.

I still remember the first time I came here. Anton was getting married to Vanessa, and Mandy had given Christian grief about not bringing a guest to the wedding. He’d just broken up with his girlfriend and that had messed up the table plan, apparently, so he invited me to keep his mum off his back. We were only housemates at the time, but Mandy put us in his bedroom together, convinced we were more than friends. Christian was mortified, but I found the whole thing amusing.

Oh, it’s so sad . . .

We walk up the front path towards the semi-detached, redbrick house. Anton opens the door to us, his face weary. It always surprises me how different Christian looks to his brothers. Anton and Joel take after their dad: distinctly Swedish-looking with blond hair and blue eyes. Christian, with his dark looks, took after his mum.

Anton gives me a hug, then turns to embrace his brother.

‘Dad’s in the living room,’ he says, breaking away.

‘How is he?’ Christian asks quietly.

‘The same,’ comes the reply.

Hours pass and I don’t know what to do with myself. Christian’s dad can barely speak. He sits in the living room, staring at photos of Mandy with tears trailing down his cheeks. Anton has had to leave to get home to Vanessa, who’s eight months pregnant. I decide that my role will be tea-maker, and experience a sting when I remember that Mandy never used to let anyone else into her kitchen – to make toast, tea or whatever. She always did everything. I don’t know how Eugen, Christian’s dad, will cope now she’s gone.

The next morning, Joel returns from Australia, sans girlfriend. He’s always been a joker, but there’s no laughing today. The funeral is tomorrow. Guests are coming back to the house afterwards so I busy myself cleaning and taking care of the catering. In the afternoon, Christian joins me on a trip to the supermarket – he needs to escape the house. I try to stay upbeat for him, but it’s hard. That night he faces away from me in bed and I know he wants to be left alone, but the following morning he comes into the kitchen while I’m making sandwiches and wraps his arms around my waist from behind.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs into my hair. I turn around and give him a hug, pressing my face into his chest. I hate seeing him so sad.

It’s Tuesday, the day of the funeral. We travel to the cemetery in a procession of black cars and walk into the church behind the pallbearers: friends and colleagues of Christian and his brothers. Mandy’s coffin is shiny and black with a wreath of white flowers on the top. There’s a framed photo of her on the altar, a snapshot of her laughing, as she so often did. The casket is closed. Her injuries were too severe to permit an open one.

Everyone is in tears during the service and I’m thankful that Barney isn’t here. He wouldn’t understand such sadness at his age, but as I sit next to Vanessa, her hands cradling her bump, I miss him intensely. It’s like there’s a hole in my heart, where he should be.

I once used to say the same thing about Johnny.

I reach across and squeeze Christian’s hand. He squeezes mine back, hard.

After the service we return to Eugen’s house for the wake. I reprise my role of caterer and spend the next two hours with a tray superglued to my hand as I offer sandwiches and sausage rolls to friends and family. I’m glad to have something to do. Eventually people begin to leave. I refuse Vanessa’s offer of help and insist she goes home to put her feet up, and finally only Joel, Christian and Eugen remain. I make them tea to take into the living room and then go into the kitchen to clear up, promising Christian that I’m happy to do the task by myself. To be honest, I want be alone for a while. I don’t know Christian’s family well. Many of them came from Sweden and don’t speak much English. Christian is bilingual so he’s had no trouble conversing, but the small talk for me has been exhausting, however unkind it feels to admit that.

I scrape the remnants of food off plates and stack the dishwasher. I set it going and then pause for a moment to lean against the sink and remember Mandy. I can almost hear her laughing.

The doorbell rings, snapping me back to life.

‘I’ll get it,’ I call into the living room, the murmur of male voices halting briefly. I can see an outline of a person through the stained-glass door and wonder who would call at this hour after a funeral. It’s only eight o’clock, but everyone went home ages ago. I open the door and my heart almost beats out of my chest when I see Johnny standing there.

I stare up at him in shock. He seems taller than I remember, even though I know he’s six foot two compared to my five-foot-seven-inch frame, and somehow he also appears broader. The fact that he’s wearing a chunky black coat in the middle of summer could have something to do with it. His face is tanned and his dark blond hair is as dishevelled as it ever was, falling to just below his chin. Even in the lacklustre light of the hallway, his eyes have an intense greenness to them.

He mirrors my shocked expression, but quickly gets himself together. ‘Are you going to let me in, or what?’ He glances over his shoulder with an air of impatience.

I find my voice. ‘Of course, yes.’ He’ll be worried that the press have tailed him. I step aside and look down at his beaten-up Chelsea boots as he walks over the threshold, the smell of fresh cigarette smoke wafting past me. What am I going to say to him?

‘Where’s Christian?’ he asks, not meeting my eyes. I’m caught off guard by the bluntness of his tone.

‘In the living room,’ I reply, shutting the door behind him. I begin to follow him, but something makes me stop. Heart still in my throat, I go instead to the kitchen, trying to block out the sound of Johnny’s now warm and sympathetic voice as he greets his oldest friend.

I face the kitchen sink, clutching the edge of the countertop. My hands are shaking.

Snap out of it, Meg. Snap out of it.

I force myself to reach for a glass, with the intention of washing it, but I have to rest my hand back on the countertop. I feel too weak to move. I need to sit down, but I daren’t move my feet.

I haven’t seen him for almost two years and he’s treating me like a stranger. No, worse: he’s treating me like an enemy.

I want to get away from here.

No. I want to stay. I want to see him again.

I hear footsteps behind me and I spin around, expecting it to be Johnny, but it’s Christian.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, concerned.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I reply quickly, blood rushing into my face. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m okay,’ he says slowly. ‘Would you mind making Johnny a cup of coffee?’

‘Of course, yes.’ Like a woman possessed, I clatter a cup out of the cupboard and switch on the coffee machine.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a hand out here?’ Christian indicates the mess in the kitchen. The plates may be in the dishwasher, but there are still loads of glasses to wash by hand, not to mention serving bowls and trays.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I reply, dementedly trying to shake a coffee capsule out of the large jar beside the Nespresso machine.

‘Why don’t we do the rest in the morning?’ Christian suggests. ‘I’ll help you. Come into the living room. You haven’t seen Johnny for ages.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ I say again, continuing to shake the jar like a nutcase until I manage to retrieve one of the extra-strong blends.

‘Okay. Only if you’re su—’

‘I’m sure,’ I cut him off. ‘I’ll bring his coffee through in a minute.’

He leaves, but my pace doesn’t slow. I lift up the lever and insert the capsule, then push it back down again and press the green button. Black coffee begins to fill the cup. Black, no sugar. I remember.

There’s pressure against my head. I feel like I’m in a vice.

I take the cup with my shaking fingers and, on autopilot, enter the living room. Johnny is relaxing in an armchair in the far corner. He’s taken off his coat and is wearing skinny black jeans and a faded black T-shirt with a yellow spark plug on the front. It looks vintage and is tight against his torso. He’s leaning back, one foot resting on the opposite knee, but he sits up as I approach. His fingers touch mine as I try to relinquish the cup. I almost drop it.

‘Whoa,’ he says.

‘Sorry,’ I murmur, turning around and going back through to the kitchen.

‘Do you need some help out there?’ Joel calls after me.

‘No, it’s okay,’ I call back.

My fingers are burning. For a moment I put it down to the heat of the coffee cup, but then I realise Johnny’s touch is to blame.

I stand in front of the sink for at least five minutes before I feel able to get on with the washing-up. After a short while, Christian returns.

‘Come and sit down,’ he urges.

‘No, no, it’s okay. I’d rather get it done.’

‘Meg,’ he says firmly. ‘I insist.’ He switches on the kettle. ‘I’ll make you a cuppa. It’ll be the first time I’ve been allowed to make one in this kitchen in thirty-three years.’

We glance at each other and both our features soften. He takes my hands and looks at me directly.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I know this is hard for you.’

‘It can’t be easy for you, either,’ I reply. Whoever wants to be in the same room as their girlfriend and their girlfriend’s ex? Chuck in the fact that the ex is the person-in-question’s best mate and it’s even higher on one’s list of things to avoid.

Christian shrugs. ‘We were going to have to do this sometime. He’s my oldest friend and you’re my girlfriend, the mother of my child. On that subject, I want him to meet Barney one day, too. I think enough water has passed under the bridge . . .’

The vice cranks up its pressure on my head. The kettle boils, thankfully distracting him from the look of pain on my face.

Joel makes room for me on the sofa so I sit between him and Christian. My legs are bare; I’m wearing a black dress and I took my heels off ages ago. Detached from reality, I feel strangely relieved that I painted my toenails before we left France. I stare down at my mug. It’s bright yellow and there’s a small chip on the rim. It’s one of the old, non-matching mugs that have been in Christian’s family for years. The nice ones are all in the dishwasher.