Naomi looks at me as though I am Christopher Columbus himself, leading her by the hand into a terrifying new world. I don’t want to tell her that I’m every bit as much an internet dating neophyte as she is.
‘We don’t even really need to do anything with the profile, you know? Just… like window shop a little.’
She takes a fortifying glug of wine, all giddy.
‘What the heck,’ she says. ‘Maybe there are some adventures to be had.’
‘JFC, what’s going on with you and Johnny?’ our mutual friend Paul writes to me later that evening in a MySpace message. ‘He’s like the warmed-up dead over here.’
Curiosity takes hold, so I take myself over to Johnny’s Facebook page. I feel as though I’m sneaking a look at him, and I wish I hadn’t. There’s a group shot of him at a bar with some of his friends: Paul’s stag night. Johnny’s mouth is keeping up appearances with an obliging smile, but with a stab of sadness I can see his eyes are sorrowful and confused. Selfishly, I make a note to avoid any sight of him until I figure out some things over here. Because right now, I can’t think straight.
Maxi has dropped some juicy Ted fan fiction on to the Facebook page.
The sky set over Toronto, sending a nice glow over the city. Maxi loved the city more than anything, but tonightshe was attending the theatre, to see her favourite actor Ted Levy. When he took to the stage, the crowd erupted in applause. After the show, at the meet-and-greet session, Ted surprised her by saying, ‘Hey, a few of us are going for a drink after this. Would you like to join us?’
Maxi’s heart skipped a beat. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.
The group headed to a nearby bar, and Maxi found herself seated next to Ted. The conversation flowed easily, and she was amazed at how genuine and funny he was in person. ‘You know,’ Ted said, leaning in closer, ‘I don’t usually do this, but there’s something special about you. How about we go for a walk? It’s a beautiful night.’
They stopped by the edge of the water, the city lights reflecting in their eyes.
Ted turned to her, his expression softening. ‘Maxi, I feel like we have a real connection. Would it be OK if I kissed you?’
Minutes later, Violet messages me directly. ‘She writes like she’s huffing glue, seriousLAY.’
It turns out, too, that Juliet and Fifi, who both live in different parts of California, have just met up together in San Francisco. ‘Tedettes on tour y’all!!’ they caption their Facebook photo album. They smile for the camera while in each other’s arms, pulling faces and flipping the bird in various photos. They look so happy in each other’s company.
I come downstairs to find Naomi busy over the stove. ‘I’m batch cooking,’ she says, moving pots and pans over the flames. ‘It’s my happy place.’
‘Not my happy place, but I’m happy to visit for a little bit. What can I do to help?’ I ask her, rolling up my sleeves.
‘Uh, will you look for the crock pot in that pantry there?’ she instructs me.
‘What’s a crock pot when it’s at home?’ I ask her.
She laughs. ‘Just the big white pot with a plug on it.’
I do as I’m told, and while I’m rummaging in the pantry I find all of Naomi’s baby-mothering accoutrements: the bottle sterilizer, the bottle warmer, the diaper genie.
I run my hands over the soft white plastic. She notices me noticing them.
‘Ah,’ she says abruptly. ‘I could never bring myself to get rid of them, you know? I meant to donate some of it when the girls got bigger but then…’
‘Oh God, no, I completely get it,’ I tell her emphatically. These look complicated. I never got the chance to learn how to use any of them.
When Naomi next goes grocery shopping, I pull some of the baby equipment back out on to the worktop. I arrange them in a way that makes it look as though they’re in constant use. I walk through the vast kitchen, keeping them in my eyeline and pretending this is my real life. My home. My diaper genie. It’s enough to make me think back to last November.
18
It’s the morning of what would have been my due date: 10 November 2010. Ten-eleven-ten. The night before, Johnny and I had made a sort-of plan to have breakfast at the Charlotte Street Hotel, where we had our wedding reception. It’s the place we often return to after a big fight, as there’s something about the heavy furniture and artwork that reminds us of when we got married. Of better and easier times.
Quiet as a grave, I slip on clean underpants and a dress. A bra, make-up and a wee will only wake Johnny. I leave, closing the door after me with the most polite of clicks.
By the time I’m on the next street over, the phone calls from Johnny are coming every two minutes. They eventually stop, which somehow feels worse. I have a lupine hunger from not having breakfast, but the dull cramping of my stomach walls feels like a comfort. It’s past the point of uncomfortable and right now that somehow feels perfect. Or is my body having some sort of phantom contractions?
I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to do, until I find my feet walking to a bus stop and my hands hailing the bus to St Leonard’s. I stand outside the hospital on the footpath, looking through the windows and tryingto imagine what this day might have been like had things gone another way. What if the fates had spared us? A curtain flickers, and I imagine parents inside the ward getting to know their new child, showing it the vastness of London beyond the window, the first of a million new thing-showings. An oversized pink balloon disappears into the front door and I’ve never been so jealous of an eventual owner of a balloon in my life.
Suddenly, a car pulls up, throwing me out of my daydream. A woman, heavily pregnant, cradling her massive bump, lifts herself gingerly out of the car, letting out an animalistic yawp that she does not give two shiny shites about. The man she is with is doing a serious amount of flapping around, grabbing coats and bags. It’s all so very dramatic in a Richard Curtis movie kind of way, and a few passers-by stop to indulge them with a smile. She doesn’t notice me, the woman with whom she very nearly might have had something in common.
