CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sadie
Although I knew in the abstract that pregnancy cravings were a thing, I still wasn’t truly prepared for the intensity when they strike. It can be a flavour, or a texture, or both, but when it hits, it will not be denied and you just gotta have it. If you even try not to, or to have something else instead, you’ll get cranky as balls, so it’s better to just get what you’re jonesing for and enjoy it. It’s for the baby, after all.
Which is why I’ve nipped out in the middle of the morning to pick up some baby carrots and a jar of Nutella.
Something about the smooth, thick texture of the hazelnut spread and the sweet crunch of the carrots together is just speaking to me.
I feel marginally more virtuous when I find a different brand of the spread that’s palm oil free and made with all natural ingredients. “That makes it practically a salad, right?” I say to my bump. I’ve started talking to the baby loads more of late, ever since I noticed that he or she moves more when I do, like they like the sound of my voice. It’s the same when Leo talks tothem; I swear I felt the baby laugh once when he told them a funny story about Click licking his client’s face when they passed out. It’s heart melting each and every time our baby responds to either of us, to the point where I’m probably going to spend their first day of life smothering them with cuddles and kisses for being so adorable. “You don’t mind a healthy substitute, right? Course you don’t. It’ll help you grow all big and strong…though please, not too big, OK, sweetiepops? Mama’s pink falafel is only so big.” I feel what I think is a little elbow stretch, and I run a loving hand over it with a smile.
I hear a giggle next to me. A woman with grey hair wearing the supermarket uniform is shaking her head at me. “‘Pink falafel’. That’s a new one on me.”
I grin. “You’d love one of my best friends. She’s always coming up with weird and wonderful new names for lady bits.”
She points at my stomach. “First baby?” I nod. “How long to go?”
“Just a couple of months.” I’m not sure if I can’t wait for my due date or whether I just want to stay like this indefinitely. This way, both my baby and my vagina are safe from all harm.
She smiles wistfully at me. “Get as much sleep as you can now. But also remember, every sleepless night to come is totally one hundred percent worth it.” She lets out a sigh as she starts to stack jam jars on the shelf. “I love my boys as they are now, but I often wish I could have one last cuddle with them as babies. They change so fast.”
“They really do. My niece went from baby to toddler within about a week, I swear.” I rub my belly, wishing I could slow down time just a little bit. Aside from the sickness and the tiredness and the crying for stupid reasons, I’m enjoying myself. And while my baby is inside me, I can protect them from all comers. I swallow hard as Wendy’s face when she’s spoken of the PromNight shooting enters my head unbidden. This baby’s not even born yet, and I can’t evenimagine…
I shake it off. I don’t want to start crying in front of a stranger. Exchanging a pleasant goodbye, I pick up a couple of mangoes and a bag of kiwi fruit on my way to the checkout. Lord knows my craving for fruit isn’t going anywhere, and while cutting up the mango will be a faff, I discovered that it’s perfectly safe, albeit fuzzy, to eat kiwis without peeling them first, as long as they’ve been washed. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do in a pinch when I get desperate for a fix.
After paying and wrangling with the ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’ bullshit - every single time, for Chrissakes - I head out. The weather is just starting to turn, and there are fewer tourists around, but it’s still pleasant enough that some still linger for the last handful of mini-breaks they can squeeze in. Carrying an extra six or seven pound weight around my front that I can’t take off, one that also gives my other organs, including my lungs, a bit less space…well, it means walking around in a white t-shirt and shorts is still a solid option. And I’ve been living in my flip flops, which are so beaten up now that I’m not sure they’re going to last the remaining eight to ten weeks, but I don’t care that I can feel the texture and temperature of the pavement through them.
But I do wish the journey back to the parlour wasn’t mostly uphill.
So when Peter appears in front of me, I’m too focused on trying not to get out of breath to recognise him for a few moments. I even smile at him, just because he’s a familiar face. It’s a few seconds before my mind catches up.
If he hadn’t been right in front of me, staring like a creepy stalker, I might not have recognised him. His hair is a little longer than he normally likes; he prefers a haircut you can set your watch by. His skin is dry, his cheeks sunken, his eyesshadowed. He looks like he hasn’t slept well in weeks. His clothes are still of the highest quality - I spot his best Armani shirt straight away - but everything hangs on him like they’re one or two sizes too large for him.
I consider asking him what the hell has happened to him, he looksthatsick. But then I find I just don’t care enough to spend the breath it would take.
So I look away and start to walk past him.
“Sadie,” he says, his voice a mix of tiredness, irritation, and begging, but I ignore him. “Sadie, stop a minute.”
I roll my eyes and carry on, but I’m not as quick on my feet as I used to be, so he’s easily able to keep pace with me.
He makes a choked noise. “Jesus, you’re pregnant?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I stop and give him a wide eyed, innocent stare. “I’m what? What do you mean?”
He’s so shocked that he doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm he hated so much, and just points carelessly at my abdomen.
I cradle it, wishing my baby didn’t have to breathe the same air as this cretinous dicksplash. “What, this? No, I just swallowed a watermelon whole, youfucking idiot.” He continues gaping at me, and then, inexplicably, he takes a step forward, his hand inching towards my stomach. People seem to have no inhibitions about doing that, I swear. I will tolerate well intentioned clients touching it without asking,just, but not this wanker. “Touch my bump and I will break your face,” I snarl, making him jump slightly.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes fitfully. “I didn’t know. I…didn’t know.” His eyes are red and sore looking, and he looks almost defeated. “Leo’s, I suppose?”
I narrow my eyes. “Who else’s?Yours?” If he asks me if this baby is his, eighteen months after we broke up and even longer since we had sex, I don’t think I will ever stop laughing.
He doesn’t take kindly to being mocked. When I used to playfully tease him, he didn’t like it; open scorn is a red rag to a bull. “So, you twowerecarrying on behind my back, then?”
I roll my eyes. “Stop projecting. Just because you didn’t keep it in your pants doesn’t mean the rest of us were so sexually incontinent.”
