Lover in Law (23 page)

It was a close run thing that I came back to this vicinity at all. Anthony’s been such a gentleman about our whole affair. He was so forgiving when I was slack at work this morning, hadn’t gone through all the papers carrying the ‘who’s NOT the father of Sahara’s baby story’ so I could brief him, that I started feeling even guiltier about what I was about to do. I’ve only looked at this through my eyes and through Adam’s. Anthony’s point of view has never really been part of the equation, but this morning I started seeing it from his angle. What if I was carrying his child? Did he have a right to know? Would he tell me to keep it, we had a future, or that he’d be happy for Adam to bring it up, anything but get rid of it? Did he deserve to be told? The problem is, if he deserved to be told then by God, so did Adam.

It doesn’t matter though, because I know as I head towards the clinic that I’m not going to go in. Perhaps I was never going to. Perhaps I was just kidding myself, pushing myself to the limit to see how I would react when it came to the crunch, but the moment I knew that I absolutely couldn’t go through with it was when that black man left the bakers. He walked out with such dignity, head held high, that an instinctive, protective hand found its way to my stomach. If my baby is Anthony’s, if my baby is black, then we’ll face the world and its prejudices together. What I know now is that my desire for this child is greater than any fear I may have of the consequences that lie ahead.                                                       

Chapter 26

Paul and Kayla are both round this morning. It wasn’t planned. Paul had been coming by anyhow to pick up some freebie tickets Adam got him for this Mind, Spirit, and Body Fair at Alexandra Palace, although it’s the first I’ve heard of him being into that sort of mumbo jumbo. Kayla popped in because she wasn’t up to much. Bank holiday Mondays get her down as much as rain. Despite being exhausted from pregnancy and lack of sleep, I’m pleased for the distraction. Today’s the day that Maxwell Hood QC is hosting his infamous garden party. I’ve been dreading it since the invite. Anthony, it turns out, didn’t have any prior engagements and respectfully responded in the affirmative, so he and Adam are destined to meet. Not quite the worst nightmare in my current predicament, but a hazard with alarm bells ringing nonetheless.

The porch thermometer is already tipping the 75 Fahrenheit mark and it’s only just gone eleven. Heat doesn’t suit my condition. The rest of the female population is looking great baring legs and arms, but I’m not at my finest. My entire body seems to have swelled, particularly the ankles, which are raised and resting on a stool Paul just fetched me. We’re all sitting round the garden table. Kayla and Paul are sunning their faces. The umbrella is tilted at an angle to give me shade.

“Here you go,” says Adam, approaching with a pack of chilled Diet Cokes. He hands them out.  I don’t bother opening my can. Instead I roll it up and down the right side of my face before laying it to rest on the nape of my neck.

“Oooooh, that’s better,” I say. “So Paul, are you going to the fair today or tomorrow?”

“What fair?” asks Kayla, pulling the tag on her can.

“Oh, some alternative health convention at Ally Pally,” he answers, slightly embarrassed, taking a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket for distraction, putting them on.

“It’s the Mind, Spirit, and Body Fair,” I spell out.

“Oh, I think my college has a stand there this year,” says Kayla. “Why are you going anyway? That’s not your bag,” says Kayla.

“No, I know,” Paul shifts in his seat, opening up a copy of
The Times
he came in clutching under his arm. It’s the crossword he’s after. It’s not the concise ones he likes, but the cryptic monsters. He’s brilliant at them. He nearly always finishes and when he does he sends them off for the hundred quid prize. As he says, someone’s got to win, but in my opinion, he’d get a better return with Premium Bonds.

“So why are you going?” Kayla persists.

“Because they’re free,” says Paul.

“And he’s got nothing better to do,” jokes Adam, taking a swig of fizz.

 “Adam!” I object.

I wouldn’t want to offend Paul. He was in a bad way when he realised there really was no getting back with Anna. After an initial phase of not wanting to be alone, cramming his diary full of arrangements, even ones he wasn’t interested in, just to be occupied, he went completely the other way. He became a social hermit, going out only to work, other than that, staying at home, wanting to be alone. In no small measure thanks to Adam, Paul’s finally come through and is starting to do more stuff, make more of an effort.

 “It’s alright, it’s true,” says Paul gamely, taking a pen out of the same pocket from which he took his glasses. “Right,” he looks down at the paper. “One across. Nine letters. Country place for Frau’s home cooking?”

“So,” I turn to Kayla as Adam helps Paul work out the clues. “Did I tell you how lovely you’re looking today?”

“Only three times already, but don’t worry. It’s still valid currency,” she laughs.

She looks beautiful. Tall and leggy in her shorts, vest T-shirt and high wedge sandals, long black hair hooked around her ears by the sunglasses which are perched on her head. We are not, right now, mirror images of each other. I am a puffier version, although it’s more how I feel than how I look. At least that’s what Adam keeps saying. I’m coming up to five months now and it’s getting harder to hide. I’ve only got away with it this long because of my height and because my weight gain’s been minimal. We plan to tell the world at large about my pregnancy after I’ve had my twenty weeks anomaly scan in a few days’ time. I look at my watch. We’ve got to leave in half an hour.

“I don’t suppose you want to help me sort out what to wear?” I ask Kayla, pushing back my chair.

I’ve been putting this off all week. I dress in the clothes that disguise my mini bump every day for work, so I’ve got to find something different, but I can’t possibly get away with the slouchy tracksuit bottoms I lounge around in at home. People make an effort for Maxwell’s parties.

“Of course I will,” says Kayla.

She stands and follows me upstairs. I hate opening my wardrobe. Whenever it happens, I’m reminded I didn’t do that cull I vowed to do.  Half the clothes haven’t been worn in years. The other half isn’t suitable. She runs her hands along the rows of jackets and skirts, through to the dresses. So much of the stuff is black, which isn’t the best of colours to wear on a hot day.    

“This is nice.”

She pulls out the slinky black Diane von Furstenberg dress I wore for the Midsummer Ball.

“Yes, but I show in it.”

It’s a stretchy fabric and I tried it on a few days ago, just in case, although really, in any event, there are too many unsuitable memories associated with that particular garment.

“I bought this last weekend,” I pull out a paper bag from the cupboard. I’d forced myself finally to shop for maternity clothes, but only found one thing I liked. It’s a figure-hugging, three-quarter length silk sundress, with thin shoulder straps in a deep emerald green. I hold it up. It matches my eyes.

“That’s lovely,” says Kayla.

“Yes, but I show in this too,” I say, demoralised.

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes,” I snap. “Nobody must know until after the scan.”

This is the yarn I’m continuing to spin, when in truth, the only reason I’m not telling anyone is so I can skew the dates for Anthony.

“Put it on anyway,” she says, “I want to see you in it.”

I twirl this way and that, like a model, in front of the mirror. To hide the bump, which in Kayla’s opinion looks gorgeously sexy and should be worn with pride, she double wraps a long black chiffon scarf around my stomach, giving the dress a twenties feel. I put on a bit of lipstick and some black sandals. Kayla rests her hands on my shoulders as we both look at my reflection.

“Perfect,” she says. “Just perfect.”

Would she think I was perfect if she knew the complete truth?

“See, don’t you feel better now that you’ve done it?” she asks.

She’s talking about ending things with Anthony.

“I guess so,” I say.

I don’t elaborate, but I’d so love to, to have her know the complete, whole truth. I turn to leave. Now is not the time to admit all. Perhaps I’ll never have to. When I go down, the boys both go “whoa” and wolf whistle. I think they’re humouring me. Adam quickly heads upstairs to change out of his shorts into some chinos and a shirt. “By the way,” says Paul, showing us the crossword whilst we’re waiting, “country place for Frau’s home cooking was farmhouse. You see ‘cooking’ means the answer’s an anagram of ‘Frau’s home’. Clever isn’t it?” When Adam comes down, he puts on the alarm and we all dash out the house. Paul, as an afterthought, as we linger by our respective cars, shouts to Kayla that he’s got a spare ticket, does she want to go to the fair with him. She deliberates a couple of seconds and then I hear her say yes, why not, she’s got nothing else to do.  Adam and I share a raised eyebrow and a smile as he opens the door, helps me in.

***

“Nice to meet you,” Anthony had offered his hand.

“You too,” Adam had shaken it.

I’d started to relax. I’d dreaded the concept of these two men coming face to face with such a vengeance that it was a relief to finally have it out the way. What, in the cold light of day, had I expected to happen? Was Anthony really going to blab? Was Adam really going to notice our chemistry? No, my fear had been more about me than them. It was about my feeling uncomfortable, embarrassed, forced to confront my demons, my guilt, head on.     

This had all happened about an hour after we’d got there. Anthony had been late, which gave Adam the chance to down at least three glasses of champagne. The crowd is a mix of bigwigs, judges and titled folk with the token arty writer and thespian thrown in. The one thing they all seem to have in common is an unquenchable thirst for booze. Despite a fantastic buffet spread, food always comes secondary at these dos. Waiters are under strict instruction to keep the finest bubbles flowing. No glass is left empty, which is why I keep passing my flute to Adam behind my back.

It being such nice weather, the party has spilled out of the designer conservatory with sliding doors, onto the patio and the long, beautifully manicured lawn. A string quartet is tucked away in the corner, playing background chamber music, Bach fugues, Mozart sonatas and the like. I’d known exactly what to expect in terms of set-up and layout, because it’s the same year after year. What I hadn’t been banking on is how well Anthony and Adam would get on. They have much in common I realise, watching, as they converse with ease, two tall, striking, intelligent men. I’ve no idea how Anthony had felt at the prospect of meeting my boyfriend. If it hurts it doesn’t show, probably because he’s not come alone. He’s with a blonde so tall and skinny and attractive that I didn’t want to like her, when in truth, she’s friendly, with a nice smile. Anthony had made the introduction after he and Adam had shaken hands. “This is Louise,” he’d said, leaving her status wide open to interpretation.    

“So,” I say to Louise, once Anthony’s got Adam on the topic of the proliferation of TV and how there’s never anything decent to watch despite having access to at least eight hundred channels. “How do you know Anthony?”

Even though Anthony and I are no longer and I know that I shouldn’t, I feel territorial about him. I feel like this Louise, a Solicitor in her early thirties, perfectly suitable girlfriend material, is treading on my turf. I want her off. I am irrationally jealous.    

“He was a set-up,” she says.

“By whom?”

“By his ex-wife.”

“No!”

What ex-wife match-makes her ex-husband with another woman?

“She thought we were made for each other,” laughs Louise.

She carries on talking, at me, about him, and it’s all a bit too much. The build of nervous energy and tension has finally got to me. I’m no longer sure what she’s saying. Whilst I can see her mouth moving and my brain registers the all-pervading raucous buzz and tipsy, shrill laughter, I can no longer hear individual words. My face, my jaw, is tight, controlled, lips frozen in an upturned smile. Inside my stomach something is fluttering, I’m not sure if it’s nerves or the baby moving for the first time. A heat haze blows towards me from the direction of the string quartet and slowly, as it approaches, my world starts to spin, round and round, making me dizzy. Just as I’m about to tap Adam’s arm, to interrupt him, to whisper that I feel funny, a wee bit strange, my legs buckle, giving way to the weight of my body. I black out.

Everything’s more peaceful in my unconscious. It’s a safer place of sleep so deep it’s almost nauseating. Nobody or anything can hurt me here. This is a slumber so dark, so heavy, that there’s no thinking or dreaming or worrying or caring. There’s nothing, apart from being. I like it here. I’d like to stay, so it’s with regret that reality starts to seep into my underworld and lightness filters through. I try to block out the sound of the viola, the cello, the drunken brouhaha and the clink of cutlery on china. If I keep my eyes closed long enough, perhaps where I am will vanish into thin air.

“Ali, Ali.”

It sounds like Adam. I feel a hand on my shoulder.