Just before he arrives – as I am midway through the long helter-skelter of pain and euphoria and exertion – I get out my phone and begin to text Josh, before Polly takes it gently from my hand, whispering, ‘No, sweetie.’
I don’t even know why I wanted to contact him, really. A primal urge perhaps, rising up inside me now along with all the others. Or perhaps I still feel guilty, that Lawrence was the one to tell Josh about the baby. My last text to him was an apology, because he hadn’t heard it from me.
But then comes another contraction, so the message to Josh remains unsent. Which is probably a good thing, since he might have replied, and this is the point at which Lawrence finally clatters through the door, swearing and complaining about the traffic. He asks the midwives if there are any free plug sockets for him to charge his phone, then informs them he has a mild phobia of hospitals and already feels a little faint. But I just have to leave him to Polly, as the waves of noise and pain and pressure close over my head, pulling me into a place where I am utterly alone, with only one precious purpose.
And now, she has arrived, and it is so surreal, to feel her tiny weight in my arms at last. Finally meeting her, my unblinking gaze latched to hers, after endless nights of reading to her, and sketching the shape of her in my stomach, and talking her through the plot intricacies of the latest series of24. I felt I’d got to know her; but this is something else entirely. My love feels boundlessly, extraordinarily vast. Already too big for my arms, this room, the world. A universe all of its own.
Polly has gone home to get some sleep, and Lawrence has nipped out for food, to update his parents and the rest of our friends, and probably check his email.
The room, temporarily, is empty. But I am not alone. I can hear nothing now but our two hearts, beating.
She is already, without a doubt, the best risk I ever took.
I dip my head to hers, which is thick with hair, drawing in the warm, milky smell of her. ‘I promise,’ I whisper, ‘I will be the best mother I can be to you. Always.’
I cannot stop looking into the tiny dark galaxies of her eyes. Right now, I only need her.
My daughter, after so many years of waiting, is finally here.
41.
Rachel
July 2004
Laughably, Lawrence and I came up with what we’d thought to be a fairly watertight plan, for after Emma arrived. We agreed to stay together five nights out of seven, leaving two nights flexible in case of travel, or work meetings, or really terrible sleep.
But it takes Lawrence all of three weeks to begin heading back to his place most nights, so he can – in his words – stand half of a chance of not turning up at work looking as if he’s slept in a bus depot.
His daytime calls and messages have become increasingly sporadic, the excuses ramping up. He starts saying, late afternoon most Fridays, that there’s been some kind of data- or compliance-related cock-up at the office, which means he has to work all weekend so as not to upset the ombudsman.
We have frequent arguments. Some of them trivial, some not so.
Like one Saturday, as I am sitting in the armchair with Emma and we are disagreeing – again – over why he has to leave so often. The table next to me, much like the rest of my flat, is a sea of snacks and half-drunk cups of tea and paracetamol packets and nipple balm and muslins.
‘What if it’s damaging Emma? All this coming and going.’
Lawrence laughs derisively, rubs his face. ‘She’s two months old, Rachel.’
On the back of my neck, sweat prickles. ‘Attachment is really important during the early—’
‘Actually, babies under six months don’t have a preference for any particular adult, as long as they’re being well cared for.’ He spins this little factoid at me with a note of triumph, as if he’s been saving it up for precisely this moment.
Blinking back tears, I think of my mother. I’ve been starting to wonder lately if I have somehow inherited her dysfunction. Are Lawrence and I destined to be defective too? I try not to fixate on this, but the worry only gets worse the more tired I get.
‘Lawrence, that’s really—’
‘You signed up for this. You knew the deal. We both did.’
‘What deal?’
‘That we were having a baby before we’d lived together. That we were still just having fun. If you wanted to be married with a joint bank account and picket fence before we did this, thenwe should have bloody waited.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘How can you possibly say that to me while I’m holding our daughter?’
But he just turns his back, as if my question is rhetorical.
I feel hot and sweaty and exhausted. I am craving a shower, to sleep, to tame my tangled hair, to brush the taste of biscuit from my mouth. But what I am desperate for, more than anything else, is a hug.
