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9

Melanie

I was never ashamed that I had sex. It wasn’t like Liam’s father was my first – he was my third as a matter of fact, if you’re the type that counts. I was more ashamed at the carelessness I’d demonstrated by having fruitful sex. There was no need for an accidental pregnancy in October 1999. It was the turn of the millennium. We had science and everything on our side.

‘Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ My brother spat out this question, unable to meet my eye – whether through anger or his own embarrassment, I was never certain. It was a fair question.

I was also ashamed that I couldn’t soften the blow by introducing a lovely boyfriend into the mix, someone who was willing to stand by me and at least show up at the prenatal scans or, better yet, make an honest woman of me as my mum so blatantly wanted.

And it was awful, the way it happened. I hate thinking about it. Even now, all these years on when the result of the dreadful night has turned into such an overtly wonderful thing: a decent, intelligent, kind young man. Just thinking about that night always makes me start mentally humming random tunes so that I don’t delve too deeply into my thoughts. Into my memories. He didn’t force himself on me or anything awful like that. Liam wasn’t a product of rape. He was the product of selfishness and irresponsibility. On both sides. Honestly, he deserves a better providence story.

I was drunk. And, he – well, he was hot. It was as simple as that. So drunk and so hot that I thought that withdrawal seemed a reasonable option. I was the one to suggest it. He’d have been happy with a blow job. Of course he would: biology is designed to give men a leg up and to stomp on women. It was me who pushed for more. I wanted him inside me. However fleetingly, I wanted it absolutely.

I remember my dad pleading, ‘But you must have a name. Can’t you tell us his name?’ I really wished I could.

On about the hundredth time he asked, I finally replied, ‘Ian.’ I know my tone was snippy. Awkwardness often manifests itself that way with me.

‘A surname?’ He probed gently, fighting his frustration, yet sensing a breakthrough, sniffing at it like a bloodhound. Aware if he moved too suddenly, he might scare me off; a terrified rabbit.

‘I didn’t catch it. It was a loud club,’ I muttered sulkily.

Dad hung his head in his hands. Rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his palms, he aged in front of me. Suddenly, his head snapped up, fortified by a new idea. ‘But he’s studying at your university. We could get in touch with the chancellor, or what have you, and demand they look at their records. We could track down all the Ians that are registered.’ He seemed momentarily hopeful. It was sad, in the true sense of the word, not the way Imogen uses it now.

‘What and do an identity parade?’ I snarled, sarcastically.

‘Do something!’ Dad yelled. Dad is not a shouter, so this upset me, but I couldn’t let him pursue this warped version of Cinderella, chasing across the kingdom of Birmingham University to see if the shoe fit. I did the only thing I could think of that would put an end to the business.

‘He doesn’t go to my uni. He said he was visiting a friend. Freshers’ week, you know. It’s packed. People float through. He came from down south somewhere. I don’t think he ever said exactly where.’ It was safe telling my father that the man responsible for my downfall was a southerner. An intelligent man and reasonable in most ways, largely devoid of prejudices, my dad was and is irrationally unsettled by the south: its size, its smugness, its slickness. It suited him to believe all forms of trouble came from down south. Why would this trouble be any different? Still, he pursued the matter.

‘What friend? Did he at least give you the name of the friend?’

‘No. He didn’t.’

Dad sighed – it was like all his breath was coming out of him. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been much talking,’ he commented sadly.

‘No, not talking,’ said Mum, eyeing my tightly-rounded belly with poignancy. I couldn’t drag my gaze to meet hers. In fact, I spent months looking at people’s shoes.

Abigail also thought we ought to pursue my partner in crime. She insisted on returning to the club I’d said we met at, in the hope he’d be there or, at least, I’d recognise his friend. It was mortifying.

It was loud, thumping, strobe lights sweeping the room, making me feel dizzy. It was packed, heaving with noisy, sweaty gangs of people looking for a good time. Dancing, kissing, drinking, laughing. They seemed alien to me. I held my hands in front of my belly, protecting my bump from the raucousness.

‘Where do we start?’ yelled Abi, above the throb of music that was banging and thrashing through the club. Even she looked slightly defeated. I couldn’t believe she’d ever held any hope. She must have been expecting crowds this large and dense. We’d come here together often enough.

I sighed, looked up and gave a cursory look around. ‘Nope, he’s not here – we might as well go.’

‘Not so fast. You can’t just give up like that. This place is huge. We need to have a good scour about. You do want to find him, right? That’s what you said.’

I nodded. Yes, that’s what I’d said. That’s what everyone had expected me to say. But I knew I would not find him there. I was one hundred per cent sure of it. ‘It’s been months. He was visiting a friend.’

‘Yes, you’ve said.’ Abi’s stare was penetrating. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’

‘Can we just go home? My back is aching.’

This was all a long time ago. I do not associate Liam with that mess, that anger and disappointment of those early months. Not anymore. He’s nothing but a joy. A funny, good looking, bright kid. He’s turned out just fine.

So why have I invited this reminder of that time into my home? Someone who knew me from before? Abigail Curtiz in particular.

Why am I pressing the bruise?