One Thing Led to Another (17 page)

I walk out of the cool, air-conditioned shop into the thick, polluted heat of Regent Street, a sudden fizz of happiness bubbling up my throat. It is 4.30 on a Saturday afternoon, the end of a sultry weekend in London, and yet for once I don’t get a twinge of jealousy when I see people walk past me, new purchases in hand, on their way for an al fresco beer down Kingly Street or a boozy barbeque. And then I see him. Across the road in front of French Connection. I wonder if he might be a mirage, my mind playing tricks. Two double-decker buses speed past and I blink hard but he’s still there. He’s wearing a pale grey T-shirt and a dark grey blazer and blue jeans and Converse and sunglasses on his head. I smile and wave and feel something like excitement and desire creep across my belly like sunshine on your sheets in the morning. Then I feel the sting of the four giant Mamas and Papas bag handles heavy in my hands, and the heaviness of my swollen boobs under the hammock-bra, and the excitement turn to a sudden rising panic.

I don’t have time to think though, because before I know it, he’s there, right in front of my face and just the smell of him – Oh!
–
fresh laundry, with that smoky, musky aftershave, gives me that feeling: like light-headedness but between the thighs. ‘What are you doing here? Hello,’ he says. Then
he rests his forehead on mine and we kiss, a slow, savoured kiss in the middle of Oxford Street. I can feel Laurence’s boner against my belly and hear people’s tuts as they try to get round us. And it thrills me, I can’t help but surrender. And somehow the guilt and panic I felt dissolves instantly, to be replaced by something like caramel drifting around my veins.

We end up going for something to eat, sitting outside Carluccio’s in St Christopher’s Place.

‘So what’s with the ten day silence, mister?’ I say, settling in to get a closer look at his face. The sun’s shining on it, turning it a burnished brown, I want to kiss it desperately.

‘It’s not like I didn’t
want
to call you! I thought about you constantly. But as soon as I started talking about it she went ape shit, bawling her eyes out and saying she’d do something stupid.’

‘Shit, that’s heavy, that’s emotional blackmail,’ I say, brows knitted, all serious, desperate to get to the next bit. ‘But you did it though? You told her it was finished?’

‘Well, no not exactly.’

‘Oh.’ I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice.

‘I tried to, I really tried. Please believe me when I say I will! I basically did. I just didn’t say the words.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘That it wasn’t working, that she was too high maintenance.’

‘But she’s got her results for the marketing exam, right?’

‘Yeah, but they weren’t what she was hoping for. Then there was the grandma’s eightieth birthday party I promised her I’d go to. I mean, spare a thought for me, having to spend the day in a fucking retirement home, speaking to old biddies who banged on about the war and forgot what I said two seconds after I said it.’

He starts laughing and even though I think about my own lovely grandma and think he’s a little bit mean, I follow.

Laurence is like a drug, an hypnotic, addictive drug. It’s in his lazy smile, the straight line of his eyebrows, the way his dimples make him look younger than he is. It’s in the close cut of his hair around his ears, his tanned neck when he leans forward to eat, it’s in his toned forearms and the way he shouts ‘branleur!’ and does that French gesture with his hand whenever he’s got road rage. And it’s in the way he’s looking at me now, his hands clasped beneath his chin, making me feel like I’m the sexiest woman in London. But mostly, it’s how he can eradicate any maternal, nesting instincts I may have and replace them with an animal desire so instant and overwhelming, I almost have to sit on my hands to stop me from acting on it. No matter how much I pretend it’s not true. I want him. I want to be with him. And sometimes, although I am almost so loath to admit it, I can’t bring myself to say it, I want him to be the father of this baby. Because then it would be so much simpler, so less stressful, so much more normal. But that’s not my life. That’s not how things turned out.

‘So anyway,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘Tell me again, who are the presents are for?’

‘Julia. My friend Julia from work. She’s about to pop anytime.’ (The last bit’s not a lie which makes it half alright, surely?)

‘You’ve gone a bit over the top, haven’t you?’

‘She’s having twins.’ (What? Why did I just say that?! Now what was only half a lie is a whole lie again, at the very least.)

‘Lucky her,’ says Laurence. ‘
Not.
I mean one baby’s surely enough for anyone – I could take them or leave them myself – but two…’

CHANGE OF SUBJECT. NEEDED. URGENTLY.

‘Anyway, so,’ I say, eager to pin Laurence down on the
Chloe front. ‘Do you think you might tell Chloe soon? I mean to be honest I don’t feel that comfortable meeting like this when you’re attached.’

‘Look I’m sorry Tess,’ Laurence continues. ‘But give me a fortnight and honestly!’ he slaps the table, decisively, ‘I swear, it’s over. In my head it was over weeks ago! I never loved her,’ he says, ‘not like I loved you. God I loved you. I still…’

‘Laurence.’ I put a finger to my mouth. ‘Don’t. Don’t say it. Not until you mean it.’

I want to hear those words more than anything but I also remember how much he hurt me.

‘Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you,’ I say.

Laurence leans on his elbow, taking in every millimetre of my face.

‘What?’

‘I moved in with Jim.’

I don’t know what I’m expecting. Mad, crazed jealousy ideally. Or at least a valiant effort to appear nonchalant when oh so obviously not. But instead all I get is a sort of amused surprise.

‘Jim?’ Laurence crinkles his long, Gallic nose. ‘What? Lanky Jim from uni?’

I suddenly feel protective. That’s the father of my child you’re talking about, I think. And what’s wrong with lanky?

‘Yes, Jim Ashcroft from uni.’

‘Right, interesting.’ He’s smiling now. ‘What brought that on?’

‘He had a spare room.’ I realize I’m stuttering. I suddenly feel a bit stupid. ‘Gina and mine’s time together had run its course.’

‘Course, nice one. Well, I’ll have to come over some time. Although I can’t say me and Jim were ever particularly pally.’

And that’s it. That’s his big reaction and I’m kind of baffled it didn’t have more of an impact. But then, Laurence has
grown up. Why should he get all gnarled up and jealous about me living with a bloke? That, I decide, would be highly unattractive.

We pay the bill and walk out onto Oxford Street. We are just about to say goodbye and go our separate ways and then he turns to me and grabs my hand and I just know what he’s going to say next and I’m wishing for it and dreading it all at the same time. ‘Come back to mine.’ he says.

I must be mad (definitely bad) and drunk on the sun like a big, fat bee but the next thing I know I’m in the back of a black cab, haring down New Oxford Street, embroiled in the second snog of the day and laughing at the driver who’s shouting ‘Get a room!’ from the front of the taxi, as I constantly try to move the hair that’s sticking to my lip gloss. And I’m thinking, this is the best day, the best fun, the best idea, ever. And yes I feel naughty. But I trust myself that it’s all for the end result. A girl’s got to have a bit of fun before it’s too late, after all and I will tell him, just maybe not now.

Laurence’s friend’s flat is on the top floor of a terrace just down by where the canal runs through Islington.

‘Well your mate’s either gay or he’s got a super stylish girlfriend,’ I say, eyeing up the lime green cushions and silver accessories, the ‘accent’ wall with its flocked wallpaper and the chandelier.

‘The latter,’ says Laurence, ‘but she dumped him and moved out, so he’s left with this girly flat. Anyway…’ The air’s knocked out of me as he suddenly starts kissing me again. ‘That’s enough talking for one day, you sexy,
sexy girl.
’ He puts his hands in my hair and pulls at the roots. ‘’Coz I want you.’ He leads me by the head and I surrender, flopping all my bags down and collapsing with him onto the sofa, giggling. ‘I want to devour you. Right now, Right here.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘We’ll have to see about that.’

He’s on top of me now and we’re tonguing and our breathing is fast and shallow. He puts his hand up my skirt and my thighs shudder involuntarily as he runs one finger from my knickers all the way down my thigh. I slip my hand down his jeans and feel his balls, warm and deliciously familiar in my hand and we’re groaning now and sort of laughing all at the same time and I think, God this is good.
Fuck,
I’ve missed this. Then his hands start to roam under my smock top (thank God for the current fashion) and up to my belly button. Shit! Is there a bump? There’s definitely a curve to that area now but you can’t see it when I’m lying down, surely, or can you? I hope he won’t notice, I pray he won’t notice…Then his hands are roaming up my top and he’s dangerously near the hammock-bra. Fuck, fuck, the hammock-bra! This is like a bloody obstacle course! I have to act fast and so I undo it at the back and whip it off, throwing it as far away as I possibly can. But it lands in a heap right in front of Laurence’s eye level. ‘Fuck me,’ he says, eyes popping out of his head, ‘I could fit my head in that.’

I redden, embarrassed but he doesn’t seem fussed. He just kisses my neck, up my neck, biting kisses all over my jaw, and on my eyelids and then he lifts his entire body and lays down on me. He smells of sun-on-skin and fresh air and I feel him press his pelvis down into me, his dick twitch in his jeans. His hands are on my breasts now, his breathing urgent, our kisses more frenzied. ‘Jesus.’ Laurence stops kissing me and looks down my top. ‘They’re massive!’ he laughs. ‘They’re fucking magnificent!’ I laugh too but he stops me with another kiss and then he’s undoing his flies and I think I might explode with desire and I can already feel the tell-take flush across my chest and the nagging, pulling throb between my legs. I
lift up my skirt. I’ve totally surrendered and we’re pushing our pelvises together slow and hard and I’m a gonner now, the pregnancy thing pushed firmly to the back of my mind. The sofa’s squeaking beneath us, my breathing’s rapid and I’m loving this, I’m absolutely loving this!! I’ve longed for this moment for so long and…

At that moment we roll, limbs entwined, straight off the sofa landing right on top of the pile of plastic bags. And Sebastian Snail’s head.

‘Good morning! I’m Sebastian Snail. And how do you do?’

‘What,’ pants Laurence, his face inches from mine, ‘the fuck is
that
?’

I come to my senses abruptly and horribly. Sebastian Snail is suddenly a beacon of clarity in an otherwise heady, sun-drenched day of madness. ‘It’s Sebastian Snail,’ I say, meekly, ‘and I think we should…’

But Laurence is un-perturbed. ‘Sebastian Snail, eh?’ he says lifting himself up and pushing the offending bag to the side. ‘Well Sebastian Snail can fuck right off because I’m in the middle of something.’ I’m on top of him now and he gently pushes me off and then crawls on top of me, starts to kiss me. But it’s no good.

‘Sorry! Get off me please.’ I hastily push Laurence off and stand up. ‘I can’t do this! I’m sorry, I can’t do it!’

‘What’s wrong?’ Laurence has got his pants down his ankles, he looks slightly absurd. ‘Have you got your period? Because honestly, really, a bit of blood…’

‘No!’ I snap. ‘Why are you so obsessed with me having my goddam period? Actually, if you must know, I won’t be having a period for a long time.’

Laurence goes white as a sheet.

‘Because I’m pregnant.’

‘
What?
Pregnant?!
How
pregnant…?’ Laurence leaps up,
a look of disgust on his face like I just told him I had crabs.

‘Fifteen weeks, almost four months.’

‘Who’s is it? It’s Jim’s isn’t it?’

‘Yes, oh! But we’re not an item!’ I say, seeing this thought process cloud his face. ‘He’s not my boyfriend, I’d never lie to you about something like that! I still want to make this work with you Laurence, I still want…’ His face goes blank, my voice trails off. ‘But I know it’s a lot to take in.’

‘A lot to take in? Just a bit Tess!’

‘So, what, you don’t want me now? You’ve finished with Chloe for nothing?’

I’ve stooped low now, but who cares? I feel exposed enough already.

‘No, it’s not that,’ says Laurence, he looks clammy with shock. ‘It’s just well…’ he clears his throat. ‘I just need time to take this in, that’s all. I just need time to think about it. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.’ He puts his shirt on and I follow suit, putting on my skirt. ‘I can handle this, Tess, honestly I can. I’ll call you really soon, I promise.’

‘I will never forget those words: “I think there’s three heartbeats”. I put on six stone during my pregnancy and was bed-ridden from week thirty. We slept no more than three hours a night for six months once they arrived and couldn’t go out because by the time we got them dressed it was time to come home. Nothing could have prepared me for how hard it was having three at the same time. But now I look at them and I feel truly blessed.’

Michelle, 33, Amersham

Good morning! I’m Sebastian Snail. And how do you do?

Good morning! I’m Sebastian Snail. And how do you do?

Good morning!…

Aaah! FUCK OFF! Fuck-off-you-fucking-mollusc!

I curl the pillow so that it covers both ears and try and go back to sleep.

No good.

Good morning! I’m Sebastian…

Right, that’s it. I throw back the duvet and leap out of bed. I surrender! I can’t take anymore of this.

Ever since the heinous Laurence debacle of yesterday, the
little cinema in my head has constantly played one of two sequences. Both of them, torturous.

1) The March of the Molluscs: a horror film, starring a giant Sebastian-Snail-turned-nasty and a whole army of his similarly tormenting friends

2) The whole, sorry pregnancy announcement scenario from start to finish, in excruciating slow motion with a scene selection that seems to go something like this:

a) The hammock-bra landing on the floor right in front of Laurence’s eyes, in all its head-sized glory

b) The bit where we pressed our pelvises together and bumped and ground and I thought I might, actually, have an NPO (non-penetration orgasm). Glorious. Although I can’t fully enjoy that bit because then this next bit kicks in…

c) The point where we toppled off the sofa and onto Sebastian Snail’s voice box (and the look on Laurence’s face, like I’d just fallen in a cow pat)

d) Me leaping up and announcing I’m pregnant and the look on Laurence’s face (like I’d just eaten the cow pat)

Yeah, he tried to smooth it over, but the fact remains, the poor bloke was horrified.

I grab a towel and go to the bathroom, on the way checking, just one last time, my mobile for missed calls. (There’s none.)

I turn on the shower full pelt. The water feels good on my skin but does nothing to drown out my thoughts. I cannot believe I almost shagged Laurence. With £176.50 worth of stuff, stuff for
my
baby growing in
my
body, right at our feet! And suddenly I feel guilty, stomach-churningly guilty that I have broken House Rule #10 – not to shag, snog or date other people whilst I am pregnant – in nearly all its parts. Obviously it should have been higher up the list, but then let’s face it, I’d already allowed my hormones to take over once, it was only a matter of time. But now I even feel guilty about not feeling guilty earlier.

I pump some shower gel out of Jim’s Radox Active and cover myself in soap. My hands feel the curve of my belly. There’s definitely a shape to it now, a shape I didn’t have even a fortnight ago. But unless you saw me naked all the time – which Laurence does not – you wouldn’t know. No, the man had no inkling whatsoever. It was a total bolt from the blue. But he said he could handle it. In Bedales he said all that stuff about wanting the house, the kids…Maybe he likes the thought of having a child but not having ultimate responsibility? Yep, that would probably suit Laurence Cane down to the ground. He said he’d call. He WILL call.

There’s a banging on the bathroom door.

‘Yeah?’

I stick my head out of the shower cubicle.

‘Are you going to be much longer?’ says Jim, ‘because I’ve got something you might like. Come downstairs.’

‘Right, put this on,’ says Jim.

He takes a tea-towel from his jeans back pocket and gives it to me.

‘On?’

‘Like a blindfold. Come on.’ He beckons me to him, bossily, turns me around then puts the blindfold over my eyes and ties it, tightly.

‘What are we doing?’ I ask.

‘Going outside.’

‘Then what?’

‘All in good time, Miss Jarvis, all in good time.’

He pushes me up the rest of the hall and then I hear the front door open and feel the balmy outdoors envelop me. Footsteps pass, two women chatting. Jim walks in front of me and takes my hand. ‘Watch the step, there’s a step there.’

‘What are you doing, you weirdo?’ I say, giggling, more out of nerves than anything else.

‘OK stop.’ He presses down on my shoulders.‘Now, I can’t do anything about the fact I am a useless twat and didn’t have a condom, but I can do something to prevent you ever getting up the duff or having any other major accident befall you due to the lame,
lame
excuse that you couldn’t drive.’

‘Jim, I’m not planning on anymore unplanned pregnancies, this is quite enough of a head fuck for one lifetime.’

‘Yeah, you say that now but I’m not taking any chances. So.’

He slowly takes off my blindfold. ‘Ta-da!’

It takes me a few seconds to spot it and then I do: A car! A car with L plates on!

‘Jim! You star! You absolute star, it
rocks,’
I gasp, truly shocked.

‘It’s alright, you don’t have to be that excited. It’s not new, it’s my old car, remember my old Polo? It’d been sitting in Awful’s garage for ages but I finally got round to wheeling the old knacker out and getting some L plates.’

‘I don’t care, it’s ace, I
really
love it. Thank you!’ I give Jim a hug.

‘I’m glad because we’re going in it today. Your driving lessons start this very minute.’

Jim drives up to Barry Road, a wide boulevard, largely empty on a Sunday with cavernous houses on either side and trees with leaves the size of spades. He parks the car with smooth, intimidating ease and gets out.

His crotch is right at my eye level and I look away politely as he hastily rearranges his balls in his jeans and then, when I don’t move, he sticks his head in the car. ‘So, get out then. We need to swap places.’

I look at him alarmed.

‘What, now? I’ve got to get in the driving seat now?’

‘Well you’ll never learn anything with me driving, will you, you div head. Yes now, just bite the bullet. I want you, Tess Jarvis, in the driving seat.’

I have wanted this all my adult life. Someone to trust me enough to let me sit behind the wheel of a car. Mum has never, ever allowed me to even sit in the driving seat of her Nissan Micra. Dad gave me a lesson or two about a decade ago, once took me for a spin down on the shore, that was brilliant. But when mum found out she had a massive epi about me not even having a provisional licence and how we could have both got stuck then swallowed up in the quick sand and how
that
would have been a lesson to us both (no mention of whether she’d be sad that we died or anything). And so we never did that again.

Today, at long last, someone is giving me the opportunity to learn to drive and yet, now, I’m terrified. Absolutely bricking it.

Still, I get out of the car, go around the other side, Jim smirking at my face on the way. Jim gets in next to me, slams the door, then stretches his arms in front of him, cracking his knuckles.

‘Nervous?’ he asks.

‘Just a bit.’

‘Don’t be. It’s like riding a bike.’

First of all we go over the vital ABC – Accelerator, Brake, Clutch – even though I tell him I do, at least, know that much. We haven’t turned the engine on yet.

‘The main thing to remember when driving,’ says Jim, putting on his serious teacher voice, ‘is eeeasy does it. No sudden movements, no jerking, no showing off.’

‘What about jerking off?’

‘Jarvis, behave.’

‘Sorry. I’ve gone all silly.’

‘The point is,’ he continues, ‘you have to go carefully.’

‘Jim, I barely know where the accelerator is so I don’t think I’ll be doing any Dukes of Hazard style wheel spins just yet,’ I say, getting slightly fidgety that it’s been forty minutes and still no engine.

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He’s hamming up the teacher thing just to irritate me now. ‘Right, I want you to turn on the ignition, start the engine and eeeease –’ he does this pushing gesture with his hand so I have to bite my lip to stop myself laughing ‘– gently away from the curb, pressing gently on the accelerator and controlling the clutch. Off you go.’

I start the ignition and put the car in first then I press on the accelerator and…

‘Fuck! Tess!!!
Jeeeesus
Christ.’ Jim curls up in a hedgehog-like ball, hands in hair, his knuckles white. I’ve missed crashing into a VW van by millimetres.

‘Ooops.’

‘Ooops?! Tess you nearly killed us then!’

‘Sorry,’ I say, sheepishly. My heart’s going nineteen to the dozen.

‘OK. It’s OK.’ Jim takes a few deep, dramatic breaths. A nosy old man who was hobbling down the road and saw this farcical scene unfold stops. Leaning on his walking stick he peers into the car, his face all gnarled and interfering.

‘Yeah, what you lookin’ at you old git?’ Jim mutters through the gritted teeth of a very forced smile.

We try again and this time I manage to do it – slightly shuddery but with some degree of control at least.

‘Good, that’s good! Spot on.
Now
we’re cruising.’

I wouldn’t go so far as to say cruising, more shuffling. On wheels. But suddenly I’m driving, I’m actually driving a car!

‘So where were you last night? It’s OK you can get a bit more speed up. Woah! I said a
bit
Tess!’ Jim shouts as I misjudge the accelerator.

‘Well stop talking then, I was trying to concentrate.’

It’s a handy excuse not to answer the question. A question I hoped would never come up. When I got back from Laurence’s house Jim was sitting at the breakfast bar, much as I’d left him, but wearing his glasses now and marking books. He didn’t ask and I didn’t explain why I was back so late, I just said I was tired and went to bed.

We carry on in silence, me looking at Jim now and again. His face is completely neutral, he’s staring right ahead.

‘Jim?’

‘I thought we weren’t allowed to talk,’ he says.

‘It’s OK for me to talk, I’m driving. Well, trying to!’

‘Right. Charming.’

‘How do you think it will pan out, you know, when we meet other partners?’

Jim sighs and look at me in the mirror.

‘Is this one of your this is all really fucked up and I’m quite scared questions?’

‘If you like, yes.’

‘Well…’ Jim looks out of the window. ‘The answer is…I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t expecting that.

‘I s’pose we’ll just have to try and meet nice people, people who can accept that we’re friends and who like children, preferably.’

Does Laurence fit that, I wonder? OK, he and Jim were never best buddies but they don’t hate each other…

‘We’re going to take the second right,’ says Jim

‘OK,’ I say, not really paying attention. Thank god there’s not another soul on the road. Nobody moving anyway. ‘So how is it going to work us living in different houses. It’ll just be a logistical nightmare, won’t it?’

‘Now! Right! Indicate!’

‘Ahhh!’

I swerve into Goodrich Street, completely over-steering.
Jim has to grab hold of the steering wheel to avoid a head-on collision with a skip.

‘Oooh,’ he winces. ‘That was close.’

‘You’re telling me. I’m not very good at this am I?’

But we are moving forward again now, unopposed.

‘You’re doing fine,’ says Jim. ‘Just –’ he clips me round the head ‘– pay attention! Now what were you on about? Oh yeah, well, you’ll have to get a flat as near to me as possible. It might be a logistical nightmare at times, true, it certainly won’t be perfect. But we’ll manage, we’ll cope. People always cope.’

I look across at Jim, he’s leaning his head back on the seat of the car now, eyes half-shut, trusting me behind the wheel of this car. How is Jim so confident about me and this car? About how we’ll cope? How come I’m not? I realize I’ve probably never had to ‘cope’ in my whole entire life, that’s why. He has, in ways I don’t even know.

We’re going at a snail pace down Landell Street now, just the sound of birdsong keeping us company. And I can’t make out if it’s the fact that I might be finally learning to drive, or ten hours of sun still to enjoy, or just being here with Jim. But I suddenly feel happy, I suddenly believe this might all be OK.

‘I like living at yours,’ I say. It comes out of nowhere. ‘I like it already, thanks for having me.’

‘Don’t get too cosy,’ says Jim, putting on a Johnny Vegas accent, ‘because as soon as that babby’s born, you’re out on yer ear, mark my words!’

‘Jim.’ I frown.

‘Sorry, I always make a joke out of everything, don’t I,’ he says. ‘Well I like living with you, too Tess,’ he says, looking at me sincerely now. ‘And you can stay as long as you like.’

We swap places, we’ve both had more than our fair share of near death experiences for one day, and decide to go to
Ikea, to get some stuff for the baby, some stuff that doesn’t cost a John Lewis arm and a leg. Jim looks at me as we cruise down Lordship Lane.

‘So where were you last night? You still haven’t told me,’ he says and I think well what’s the harm in telling him (at least most of) the truth, he knows I met him for lunch the other day.

‘I bumped into Laurence,’ I say. ‘He was shopping in town, too, and we were both hungry so we went to Carluccio’s, just as mates, obviously.’

‘Oh right,’ says Jim, surprised maybe, but not un-cheerful. And then we don’t say anything else for a while. We just sit, in comfortable, contented silence, two friends and a baby. A thoroughly modern relationship and dealing with it, admirably.

There’s something about haring down the A23, seeing the blue and yellow towers of Ikea rise up out of nowhere, that makes me feel comforted and warm inside. They say, ‘home, family, Saturday, normality’. They’re like the visual equivalent of the theme tune to
Grandstand.
But the reality is, of course, always rather different: jostling crowds, the constant high-pitched wail of toddlers, the moaning of heavily pregnant women and the silence of their nodding-dog husbands. People, everywhere, paralysed with indecision, destined to return home with yet more box files and a peg bag.