Trouble (19 page)

‘There’s no such thing, Annette. A woman has some legal rights once there’s a baby of the unwed union, but none at all if there isn’t. She has just the same status as a friend who’s happened to live in all those years, and enjoyed the perks while she was at it.’

‘But I am having a baby, Mum, so there’s no worry.’

‘I don’t mean to upset you, puss,’ said Judy, ‘but you do need reminding of practicalities sometimes. Your father’s been looking it all up.’

‘Dad hates Spicer, Mum,’ said Annette. ‘Of course he’s been looking it up.’

‘He doesn’t hate Spicer,’ said Judy. ‘Not at all. He finds him as charming as I do. We’re just both the worrying kind. You are our only daughter. Now don’t get upset and start lashing out at us because we’re in the way. I’m going to put the phone down now, puss, so you can get a hold of yourself.

‘I’m perfectly in control of myself, Mum,’ said Annette.

‘Goodbye, Annette,’ said Judy. ‘Love to Spicer. And I mean that. And look after yourself.’

‘Goodbye, Mum.’

‘Annette, are you okay?’ asked Gilda. ‘There was another child abuse case on the news last night. I sometimes wonder what my own father was like. He died when I was three. If you don’t remember it, is it there in your psyche, traumatising you for ever?’ Or do you have to remember it for it to damage you? The things they never tell you; it’s worse than AIDS. Annette, are you there?’

‘I’m here, Gilda.’

‘Annette, I spent most of the morning on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor,’ said Gilda. ‘Scrubbing! Does that mean I’m going to have this baby soon?’

‘Probably,’ said Annette. ‘It’s the nest-building instinct. You make things clean.’

‘I hate being taken over like this,’ said Gilda. ‘I’m terrified. Supposing I split?’

‘You do split,’ said Annette. ‘They sew you up afterwards. Or else they cut you open neatly before you begin.’

‘They don’t say that at the Clinic, or did I miss it? It’s all about holding your birth-partner’s hand.’

‘That’s why I don’t go much to the Clinic. I don’t want to hold my birth-partner’s hand, I want gas-and-air and an epidural and a nurse I’ve never met who’s never heard of an archetype.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gilda.

‘Do you remember when Spicer and I got married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we didn’t,’ Annette said.

‘It was a wonderful wedding,’ said Gilda. ‘A marquee and champagne and a band, but none of us got asked to the ceremony itself, I do remember that. We felt demoted to second-class friends. I went right off you and that was the real reason I had that stupid thing with Spicer. I keep trying to think of reasons. I feel so bad about it, Annette. I’m superstitious. If I have a clear conscience, I’ll have an easy birth. So I keep confessing to everyone. It’s insane. I know it’s insane but I can’t help it.’

‘There was a hold-up to my decree and we’d done all the organising, so we went ahead with the reception. And then we just never got round to getting married. It didn’t seem to matter.’

‘Get married now,’ said Gilda. ‘Suggest it to Spicer. How can you get divorced if you’re not married?’

‘Now seems a little edgy, Gilda,’ said Annette. ‘Though I’m being as sweet as pie, I really am. And it’s working. He’s running down Dr Rhea himself: I don’t have to do it.’

‘Oh God, Annette, is it worth it?’ asked Gilda. ‘I’m getting contractions. They don’t hurt; my belly just goes hard as a board. I rather like it. Do you think men feel like this when they have an erection? Purposeful and out of control at the same time?’

‘I expect so,’ said Annette. ‘I wonder if Spicer realises about the house and us not being married?’

‘Of course he does, darling,’ said Gilda. ‘He’s a very successful businessman.’

‘Not all that successful,’ said Annette. ‘If it wasn’t for British Rail we’d be bankrupt; poor Spicer was just about to put everything in my name.’

‘Who told you that? Spicer? Steve says he has so much salted away it’s unbelievable,’ Gilda said. ‘Annette, I can’t talk any longer, I’m going to lie in the bath.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Annette, ‘because if the waters break you might not notice.’

‘Annette?’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. It’s Ernie. Where are you? Why did you take so long answering?’

‘I went back to bed,’ said Annette. ‘I was tired.’

‘But you’re okay? I worry about you.’

‘Thank you, Ernie. I just didn’t get much sleep last night, one way and another. And I had to grope for the phone. Somewhere on the floor in the bedclothes. I’m sorry.’

‘It sounds a wild scene,’ said Ernie Gromback.

‘It was rather.’

‘Should you be doing this kind of thing?’ asked Ernie Gromback. ‘You being so pregnant?’

‘I’m told it’s natural,’ said Annette. ‘And if it’s natural it must be good, or else the patriarchal spirit will triumph, and Eve will be wrenched once more out of Adam’s rib.’

‘You’re rambling, Annette.’

‘Am I? Sorry.’

‘You sound like Marion on a bad day,’ said Ernie Gromback. ‘I want to run off with you and look after you.’

‘What do you need, Ernie? Why did you call?’

‘Don’t be like that, Annette,’ said Ernie Gromback. ‘It’s eleven o’clock: you’re meant to be at my office seeing the Oprah Winfrey researcher at half-past, and you’re not even out of bed.’

‘I didn’t know we had a meeting,’ said Annette.

‘Didn’t Spicer give you the message last night?’

‘He must have forgotten,’ said Annette. ‘We got rather tied up. Ernie, I’m not going to do Oprah Winfrey.’

‘Why not? Because Spicer doesn’t want you to?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Annette.

‘You can’t let him do this to you,’ said her publisher.

‘There seems to be rather a lot at stake,’ said Annette. ‘More than you’d imagine.’

‘What I need like a hole in the head,’ said Ernie, ‘is a first novelist in a time of recession turning down the Oprah Winfrey Show. Do you want my entire business to go down the drain?’

‘If it’s my marriage, or what passes for my marriage, or your business,’ said Annette, ‘I’d rather it was your business down the drain. I need the roof over my head.’

‘Do you have a marriage there worth saving?’ asked Ernie.

‘It’s not just me,’ said Annette. ‘It’s Susan, Jason, my parents, our friends, the house, the garden, everything. I have to have time to think.’

‘You’ve been brainwashed,’ said Ernie Gromback. ‘The man’s a monster.’

‘He’s the man I love,’ said Annette. ‘You just say that because you want me to do Oprah Winfrey and make money for you.’

‘It’s money for you,’ said Ernie Gromback. ‘Fiction is your way to independence. That’s why Spicer doesn’t pass on messages.’

‘I’m so tired, Ernie, and I keep getting pains,’ said Annette. ‘I expect it’s indigestion. I drank too much champagne last night.’

‘Who gave you champagne in your condition?’

‘Spicer says champagne doesn’t count as alcohol,’ said Annette. ‘It wasn’t too much in ordinary terms, Ernie, just too much because I’m pregnant.’

‘And Spicer doesn’t think of that.’

‘He’s a man,’ said Annette.

‘I’m a man too,’ said Ernie. ‘I wouldn’t do that. I’d know how to look after you. I know a lot of things. I know Spicer didn’t give you my message. I know Spicer has been seeing a lot of Marion. I know it’s hopeless to try and do business with friends. When Spicer gave me your manuscript I should have run a mile. Get your clothes on and come down here at once, or Spicer will have won.’

‘But I’m so tired,’ said Annette.

‘Of course you are,’ said Ernie. ‘Spicer made you tired.’

‘It wasn’t calculated, Ernie,’ said Annette.

‘No? When did Spicer ever not calculate anything? I’m coming round to fetch you. I’m going to bring you back to my office, where you can put your feet up. Then you go on to the studio. What are you going to wear?’

‘I haven’t got anything to wear.’

‘Borrow something from someone,’ said Ernie Gromback. ‘Spicer gave me that manuscript because he expected me to turn it down. It wasn’t my kind of book. He knew that.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘Because it was really good.’

‘Gilda.’

‘Hello, Annette,’ said Gilda. ‘I feel okay again. A false alarm. I did have a bath. Now I’m busy decorating the crib. Steve’s home: he bought all these ghastly things from a car boot sale. White satin ribbons and stuff.’

‘Have you got anything I can wear for the Oprah Winfrey Show?’

‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’ asked Gilda. ‘Spicer’s going to be furious.’

‘Too bad,’ said Annette. ‘Anyway, Spicer won’t know. I’ll be home by seven, before Spicer gets back. He has an appointment with Dr Rhea at six-thirty. The last one, he says. I was right to do a tweetie-pie, it really worked. Disney wins against Mount Olympus. Spicer and me are on course, truly on course. I just want to be on the Oprah Winfrey Show. They’re not screening it till January, when Spicer will be in France. He’ll never even see it.’

‘I do have that blue sort of spotted shift,’ said Gilda. ‘Armani.’

‘Shows too much arm,’ said Annette.

‘Wear it with a jacket,’ said Gilda. ‘What about your hair?’

‘I’ll do it under the shower now,’ said Annette.

‘Someone’s bound to tell Spicer,’ said Gilda. ‘You won’t get away with it.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Annette. ‘There’s no possible way I can know what to do for the best so I’ll do what I want.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Gilda. ‘What the hell.’

‘What the hell, Gilda, what the hell. In my mother’s good days she used to quote from
archy and mehitabel.
Archy was a cockroach, Mehitabel was a cat. They typed each other letters on the office typewriter: they couldn’t manage the upper case. Mehitabel used to sign off: “what the hell, archie, what the hell.” So that’s what I’m signing off to you, Gilda: what the hell, gilda, what the hell.’

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘I think so. Who are you?’

‘I’m Doctor McGregor, casualty officer. Who are you?’

‘I don’t know you,’ said Annette. ‘You have really nice straight teeth.’

‘Thank you. Try and understand what I’m saying.’

‘Why can’t I?’

‘You’re still feeling the effect of the anaesthetic. Now, what is your name?’

‘Annette.’

‘That’s a very pretty name,’ said Dr McGregor. ‘Could we have a second one? And an address? Even the luxury of a next-of-kin?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ asked Annette.

‘We like to know these things,’ said Dr McGregor. ‘You are in hospital, Annette. You collapsed in a taxi you’d picked up in the street. You didn’t have a handbag with you. Just some loose change in your pocket. So you’re a mystery to us.’

‘That’s not my fault. I couldn’t find my bag and I was in a hurry.’

‘Good. If you can remember that, can you tell us your second name?’

‘Shan’t.’

‘Where are you? Can you remember that?’

‘In hospital.’

‘Good girl. We’re admitting you. We’re waiting for a bed in gynae.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Annette.

‘We need to find your husband.’

‘Do I have one?’ asked Annette.

‘We had to cut off a wedding ring when you were under the anaesthetic. And some bangles. I hope you don’t mind. There was a nasty mess beneath them.’

‘I wish I could remember more,’ said Annette.

‘Don’t worry. It will come back. You’re very thin, but well-dressed. Designer clothes, nurse said. We don’t see many of those.’

‘Thin? I’m enormous,’ said Annette. ‘Vast like a mountain, like a cleft hill, like Lilith’, like Medusa; I’m about to flood the world.’

‘Oh Christ, she’s gone again,’ said Dr McGregor. ‘It may not be just the anaesthetic. She may be disturbed.’

‘She’s in some kind of therapy,’ said the nurse. ‘We were doing that stuff in Bereavement Counselling. I’m new in this hospital. What’s the deal on foetus disposal? Incinerator?’

‘At seven months? Coffins, memorial service and counselling,’ said Dr McGregor. ‘We do things properly here.’

‘You mean my baby’s dead?’ asked Annette.

‘Don’t try and sit up,’ said Dr McGregor. ‘You’ll find it difficult for a couple of days. You had an emergency caesarian. You were haemorrhaging. A flamboyant toxaemia: you’re lucky to be alive. Why did no one pick it up? This is what our entire antenatal service exists for. The baby didn’t make it. We couldn’t pick up a foetal heartbeat. I’m sorry. She had probably been dead for a couple of days. This is no way to break this kind of thing to anyone. That was why I needed to find your husband. You do have a husband?’

‘Listen, and you hear your own heartbeat. Listen hard enough and it’ll tell you the story of your life. Whether it’s comedy or tragedy depends only upon where you stop, at a good bit or a bad bit. But the heart doesn’t let you stop,’ said Annette on to the tape machine Dr McGregor gave her. ‘It just goes on and on, carrying its owner along with it, past the definite conclusion its owner longs to have. My resentment at this is nothing to do with suicidal inclinations: just the desire for proper endings and understandings, proper tyings-up, in real life as well as fiction. Not that you care about my mind, Dr McGregor; your area is my body. One of the rules of writing feature films, or so Ernie Gromback told me, is that if everything’s looking just fine three fifths of the way through, the next two fifths must be devoted to making everything go sour. If all is black and sad three fifths in, thereafter you move relentlessly towards your happy ending. If I could see losing the baby as three fifths of the way in, I could then look forward to happiness. Or was the three fifths point when Wendy startled me with “Oh, born on Christmas Day, a little Capricorn, a little goat.” And the five fifths when the new casualty nurse said “What’s the deal on foetus disposal here?” It felt like five fifths at the time but the heart goes on beating, and before you know you’re carried on into some other film, quite possibly three fifths of the way through and sitting up and paying attention again, wondering what’s going to happen next. The plural of foetus is foeti but catch a nurse, anyone, knowing that and acting upon it. People in hospitals have more sense than to be sticklers. She came up and apologised later. She’d thought I was unconscious but I’d just had my eyes closed.’