‘What about you?’ she’d said to Bligh.
He’d pulled a face. ‘You know what my dream is. Mr Harris said it wasn’t ambitious enough.’
The careers teacher had gone around the class asking each of the children to name their dream job. Bligh had said being a family man. The whole class had laughed.
‘You can work for me, doing handyman stuff like your dad,’ Emma said. ‘And you can look after my children. You’d be ace.’
‘What about your husband?’
She’d pulled a face. ‘All that kissing stuff? No thanks. I’ll be the only parent.’
So it wasn’t as if she’d ever planned to be part of a couple when bringing up kids. Tentatively she pulled a magazine out of her bag. She’d found it in a bin. It was the Mothercare catalogue. She turned the first page and flicked through, admiring the stylish nappy bags and buggies that looked as if they belonged to a futuristic century. And weren’t those dummies cute? Those socks so small? Emma would make sure her baby’s toys were educational, like those sorting and stacking ones.
But I’m not pregnant, she told herself, and shoved the catalogue back into her bag. She opened a packet of biscuits that someone had given her and picked at the contents. But what if that bump across her stomach wasn’t due to ill-health but was a child trying to make itself heard? The packet of biscuits fell to the pavement. Emma’s chin sank onto her chest and she covered her face with her hands. Had her sense of denial crossed through the placenta? Could the foetus read her thoughts? Her last period had been a few days before she and Joe slept together, so… for possibly six weeks now, had it floated alone thinking nobody cared?
But Emma did care and would be damned if she ended up following her dad’s example. He hadn’t needed her. Or respected her. Or made her a part of his life.
She got to her feet. Grabbed her rucksack and not for the first time wished she had somewhere to store her belongings. Rough sleeping was hard enough without having to constantly lug your life around on your back like a snail. Carrying your emotional baggage didn’t leave much energy to spare. She headed over to the burger bar, went into the toilets and disappeared inside a cubicle. Fifteen minutes later she was back on her patch holding a slim white plastic stick.
She inhaled deeply and then looked down at the test resting in her hands. She lifted it up, aware that it might be about to change the course of her life.
And there they were, as if the universe were sticking up two pink fingers to her face. Pulse racing, she leant back against the wall, feeling faint. She grabbed the small stick tightly and focused on the pink lines. Pink was an LGBT colour, the colour of fighters against breast cancer. It represented being proud of your identity, and survival. How could Emma live up to all that? And wasn’t pink also supposed to signify romance? She’d messed things up big time with Joe.
And now she was going to be responsible for another life. That would never work.
Her hand reached for the bottle poking out the top of her threadbare rucksack. She pulled it out and paused mid air, staring through the plastic at the liquid’s inviting caramelised sunshine colour. Then she let the bottle drop back inside the bag and instead fished out an orange flyer, staring at the information on it. She’d passed a mobile soup kitchen late one night. Got chatting to one of the volunteers. They’d handed her the flyer giving details of a treatment centre.
Her mind skipped back to the days before she’d started drinking all day. It used to be just on special occasions, with Mum and Andrea, and occasionally round at a friend’s house – vodka and marshmallows in the bedroom withPretty Little Liarsplaying in the background. How grown-up she’d felt. And then she’d failed her A level biology. She’d retaken it at a college in Manchester and made new, exciting friends. But when she’d failed a second time, she’d thrown herself into the party lifestyle, making her appearance more glamorous. Nightclubs Fifth and Factory were great for cheap shots. She was in with the in crowd and just the first mouthful made her feel accepted and loved. It gave her the sexiest moves on the dance floor. The funniest sense of humour.
Happy days.
It wasn’t long before the weekend stretched from Thursday to Monday, and then every day of the week. If Emma wasn’t out with the girls she’d take a bottle of wine to Bligh’s. One bottle became two. Wine o’clock got earlier: midday, then the morning. Resentments grew – along with Andrea’s disdain, Mum’s disapproval and Bligh shifting to parental mode, calling her Emma rather than Emmie.
Her face screwed up and she tossed the pregnancy test away. It couldn’t have been accurate. Her fingers curled around the top of the bottle and she lifted it to her mouth.
Darkness had fallen when she woke up with a thumping headache and a dry mouth. Late trams whistled. Amateur drinkers stumbled home, singing songs or having arguments. Someone had placed a sheet of cardboard over her. It was soggy now, like an over-dunked biscuit. She pushed it off. The early summer evening felt like a damp autumn night.
‘Why did I have to wake up?’ she said numbly, and gazed skywards. ‘I’m done. What do I have to do to end things?’
‘Get help, cock,’ muttered a rusty Mancunian voice. ‘And stop the pity party. It serves no purpose.’
Cheeks hot, she turned sideways to see a rough sleeper in his sixties. Stormin’ Norman he was called. She didn’t know why – something to do with him being ex-army. He knew Beth. Emma had chatted to him now and again under the railway bridge. He was sitting in a drenched sleeping bag and wore a military-style cap. He caught her eye. ‘Just thought I’d keep you company until you woke up. There are some crazy bastards out there.’ He offered her his cigarette. She shook her head. ‘So, you want to end things? Why?’
‘Because stopping drinking… it’s impossible.’
‘Thousands of alcoholics have done it.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just… been down on my luck. I just want it over. I’ve had enough.’
‘There are four ways of ending it.’ He took a drag of nicotine. ‘Prison. Psychiatric hospital. Recovery. Death. Not everyone has a choice. You’re lucky. At the moment, you still get to pick.’
‘But I’m stuck. I can’t stop.’ Her voice broke. ‘And I can’t carry on.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you’re in a shit place at the moment. It’d be different with a clear head, with prospects, with help.’ Stormin’ Norman stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’ve decided to go and see my old case worker again. I tasted a different existence in rehab – remembered how things used to be. I’m going to stick to the programme this time. It isn’t easy, but you know what they say – you don’t get owt for nowt.’
He stood up and yawned. ‘See ya around, cock.’ He lumbered off muttering something about finding a doorway.
A small flash of orange caught her attention – the flyer leaning against a lamp post. She scrambled to her feet and stared at it for a moment as it shifted in the breeze.
