Читать книгу Not What They Were Expecting - Neal Doran - Страница 16

Chapter 6

‘She’s mad. It’s much too early. You haven’t even had The Quickening yet,’ said James as he sat on the arm of the couch and stroked Rebecca’s hair.

When he’d got home Rebecca had seemed fine, although the house did smell alarmingly of bleach and furniture polish. She was sitting, feet tucked up under her, on her place on the couch for watching the telly. Then he realised the television was switched off.

‘Hey darling, how’d it go?’ he’d asked softly and the tears had started again.

The Quickening – the first fluttering feeling of the presence in your womb. When they’d first read about it on a pregnancy website James had said it sounded like the name of a horror movie, and it did feel a bit like that to Rebecca, a sign that something overwhelming was about to happen. Since then whenever she had hiccupped, or her stomach had rumbled, he’d say in a hammy voiceover voice ‘Was it gas? Or was it…THE QUICKENING?!’ and walk around stiff-legged and arms out like a zombie. This time he didn’t do the all-out production, deciding it might not quite be the time, but it raised a smile.

‘Der-derr-derrrrrr,’ managed Rebecca, blowing her nose.

This is what he’d worried about. James had wanted to be there for the first appointment but had been persuaded it wasn’t too big a deal and there’d be other times they’d need to take leave for things he couldn’t miss. He hadn’t minded too much, seeing the sense in that, but did a little bit feel like this was the precursor to years of missed school concerts and sports days. And now his wife had been sitting by herself for hours on end dealing with the stupid things this moron of a midwife had done, leaving her thinking she’d had a miscarriage or something.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just overreacting. It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with the baby,’ Rebecca said. ‘It’s just she was…I feel like I’m going to be doing this on my own and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

‘I’m calling her boss now, and getting someone else to come around.’

‘Don’t. Don’t. You can’t. She’s all right, she’s just learning…’

‘I don’t want our baby used for a practice session.’

‘It’s not like that. And it’s not like I want that either. Do you think I’d let that happen?’

‘There must be a patient charter somewhere we can just quote and they’ll have to send someone more experienced. I’ll do it, you won’t have to speak to her again or anything.’

‘I said no! You’re not listening!’

‘You had such a good time you’ve been reduced to tears, is that it?’

‘Look, I’m fine.’

‘Clearly.’

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed and she started to say something but thought better of it. James put his hands behind his head and huffed slightly.

‘It just wasn’t what I expected, that’s all,’ Rebecca said, breaking the silence.

‘And I just want to make sure it goes all right for you. That you don’t get too stressed out.’

‘Yeah. Well.’

James walked across and tried to give his wife a hug, but she was too low down and ensconced in the corner of the bulky sofa. He settled for a kiss on the top of her head.

‘Let’s have a beer, eh?’ he said, massaging her shoulder gently. Her head leaned into his hand.

‘I shouldn’t, really…’

‘Even your mad midwife said it was all right. Come on, I’ve got a weekly email from Babycentre we can look at, see what that creature is up to now, whether he’s planning on keeping that tail.’

‘We need a better name than “That Creature”,’ Rebecca shouted as James headed for the fridge.

‘You’re right,’ said James, handing over a Heineken. ‘Jeff?’

‘Jeff? What if it’s a girl?’

‘It’s not their real name. I don’t think we’ll be planning on calling a boy Jeff either, it’s not going to come out aged fifty-three and ready to join your dad at the golf club.’

‘It might stick though, and we’d end up taking Jeffrina to her ballet classes. Try again.’

‘The Thing?’ he suggested, ‘Fifi Foetus?’

Rebecca rubbed her hand over her belly again while she was pondering, trying to feel a difference.

‘We could go for one of the classics and just call it the bump?’ she said. ‘Will be one soon.’

‘Who put the bump in the bump-a-lump-a-bump? It was the man with a rama-lama ding dong,’ sang James. ‘I think I could live with that.’

‘But we’d have to live with your singing. Bompalomp’s cute though…’

‘What do you think, Creature?’ asked James as he sat on the couch and rested his head in Rebeca’s lap. ‘Would you rather be Bumpalump?’

‘Bompalomp. I don’t need to be associated with being a lump, thank you.’

‘Bompalomp then. What do you think, give your tail one swish for yes, two swishes for no. I think that’s confirmed it. It’s christened.’

Rebecca smiled down at her husband with his ear pressed against her tummy, and gave his neck a pinch.

‘Spoken to your mum yet?’ he asked.

‘She called earlier. Apparently I had it easy. In her day it was creepy pervy doctors and ferocious uncaring nurses. Turns out I was carried to term in a Carry On movie.’

‘And how’s your dad?’ James asked cautiously.

‘Getting on with his projects, usual self. Like it’s gone away.’

‘Maybe it will.’

Rebecca sighed and massaged James’s head.

‘Now what can I and Loyd Grossman get you for dinner?’ he asked, ‘Thai? Indian? Italian? The world is your oyster in a range of delicious sauces.’

‘Thai curry I think. Would be nice with the beer. And I’ll have some crisps as an appetiser.’

‘Salt ’n’ vinegar?’

‘Thanks, love.’

James propelled himself to his feet with a thump, and headed back to the kitchen, loudly singing a range of half-remembered doo-wop songs from adverts. Rebecca sipped her beer and pulled a face as a metallic taste flooded her mouth. She’d been dying for just a regular end-of-a-long-day drink for weeks, and now it tasted like licking a battery. What a shitty day. Sometimes James just wasn’t the person to talk to about something difficult. Maybe it was her because she couldn’t explain herself properly. The midwife had been quite funny really when she thought about it. But it had seemed scary at the time, and she didn’t know why she’d been apologising for freaking out a bit. She wasn’t sorry.

And of course it just had to have been more difficult for Mum.

She sipped the beer again, but she was going to have to give up on it. She was tired and it had been a big afternoon, she had to get over herself and this ‘no one ever listens to me moaning’ nonsense. Maybe a nice tea and another early night would help.

‘And here’s your hand-crafted chicken rogan josh and delicately microwaved naan, as requested,’ said James as he came into the living room. ‘Now what shall we watch on the telly?’

Coming back from a layout meeting on the paper, Ben Smalling hadn’t been surprised to see the note to call Howard Collins on his desk. Although it had been happening less frequently since he’d left the council, still there was the occasional demand from the old Tory toad that coverage remain fair and impartial, or rather, more partial to his views. He knew already how the conversation would go. Howard would be rather chummy and jolly but there’d usually be some reference to dinner with a big-advertising local estate agency and serious concerns about the effect on house prices. That was a best case. Ben hoped it wasn’t a call proposing some sort of ghastly middle-class dinner party to celebrate their offsprings’ fertility. A feast for the foetus. Guess Who’s Come Before Dinner? Abigail’s Partum?

It didn’t sound like a social call, he supposed. Howard’s message was just that he wanted to speak to Ben about a grave injustice that he thought would be of interest to his readers, and probably right up his street too. Probably some ‘PC gone mad’ rant to do with his business. Well, if it was important he’d call back, Ben decided, doodling a few more dinner party puns along the margins of the copy for this week’s restaurant review.