But the one thing I desperately needed to know was something that no expert in the world would be able to answer, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Would this baby even be viable? Was there any chance that it would form properly and grow into a healthy, normal baby? Would it even be possible for me to have this baby, given that its father was dead at the time it was conceived?
Imagine typing that question into Mumsnet.
I got through the next few days at work on autopilot, then hurried home and locked myself away from the world. Some evenings I stood at the door of the small box room at the top of the stairs and tried to picture a cot in there, a little chair where I would sit and rock a baby to sleep in the darkest hours of the night. Greg and I had talked about it often, had discussed what our babies would be like, what they’d be into.
‘Eddie will be an actor like his mum, and Connor will be into sport like his dad,’ he said, and I’d roll my eyes.
‘No girls?’ I said.
‘Maybe one day,’ he said, and winked.
And although it hadn’t been this house we’d envisioned bringing them up in, our old house had had a room just like this that we’d earmarked as the nursery. One day soon.
One day.
Was this the room that Nick and Dawn had imagined as the baby’s room? He told me they’d planned the nursery – had they picked out colours, bought a mobile, a cot?
Nick.
I thought about his face when he’d talked about being a dad. About how much he’d wanted a baby, how sad he’d been when he talked about the fact he and Dawn had been unable to conceive before she fell ill. Being a dad was all he’d wanted, and now he wouldn’t ever know about this baby. It felt like the cruellest trick of fate.
I pushed myself off the door frame and went downstairs. The nausea had eased a little and I needed to eat something other than the endless packets of spicy Monster Munch that seemed to be the only thing I’d been able to keep down these last few days. I was just stabbing a potato with a fork when the doorbell rang. I froze. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and the only person who’d come round at this time of night unannounced was Rachel. I wasn’t ready to tell her what was going on yet.
I didn’t move, hoping she’d leave. But the doorbell rang again, then the rap of the knocker. I heard the clatter of the letterbox, then Rachel’s voice, reedy through the tiny gap in the door.
‘Emma Vickers, I know you’re in there. Stop ignoring me!’
The seconds ticked by. I held my breath.
‘Fine. But just so you know I’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day. And I’ll ring you every ten minutes until you pick up. You know I will.’
The letterbox clattered shut. I was about to peer round the kitchen door to see whether she’d left when my phone buzzed.
Rachel
Seriously, darling, I hope you’re okay. I hope we’re okay. Love you. R x
A wave of guilt washed over me. I knew Rachel worried about me. I should reply.
Emma
I’m fine, just not up to talking. Thanks for caring. Love you too. E x
20
NICK
Two months was long enough, I decided. Long enough to have stayed away from the bandstand. Long enough for the pain of losing Emma to start to ease, and for the desire to go back to the place I’d always loved to return.
I didn’t tell anyone I was going. I especially didn’t tell Andy, because I knew what he’d have to say about it.
‘You need to move on with your life, Nicky. Stop dwelling on the past and start thinking about your future.’
And although I knew he meant well, I couldn’t help thinking that he hadn’t said the same thing when I used to come to the bandstand to remember Dawn. For him, that was perfectly normal behaviour. Acceptable. Which told me all I needed to know about whether he’d ever actually believed me about Emma. Although he’d never said it again, he clearly still thought she’d been conning me, or at least lying to me, for whatever reason.
But why would she? And, if she had been, where was she now?
