‘Ah, here we all are,’ Chris says, rising to greet them both.
Marisa is sitting on the flowery sofa to one side, wearing a bright blue smock dress Kate has never seen before. Marisa stays seated when Kate walks over to her.
‘Sorry,’ she titters. ‘It takes quite a lot of effort to stand up from a sofa these days.’
Her pregnant belly sticks out half a foot in front of her, a mountainous beacon of her indisputable womanhood, announcing itself proudly to the room. She proffers her cheek to be kissed by Jake and then byKate, whom she grabs by the hand, saying fervently, ‘It’ssogood to see you. Baby will be here any day now!’
Kate nods, teeth gritted, and although she wants to be aloof towards Marisa, she also can’t help but be drawn, ineluctably as though to the edge of a waterfall, to the baby bump. She places her hands on the solid warmth of it. Without warning, there is a thumping beneath her left palm.
‘Oooh, someone wants some attention,’ Marisa laughs. ‘He’s been kicking all night. Barely had a wink.’
Kate’s heart beats faster. It is as if her baby has given her a sign that he knows she is here. His mother. The real one.
‘I remember Jakey was just the same,’ Annabelle says. ‘Quite the little kicker, wasn’t he, Chris?’
‘Mmm.’
‘We weresureyou’d be a rugby player,’ Annabelle continues, fiddling with her earring and gazing into space.
‘Can I feel?’ Jake says, kneeling down beside Kate. Reluctantly, Kate shifts to one side and he places his hands on Marisa’s tummy. Kate watches as those familiar knuckles and close-cut fingernails rest on another woman’s body, and then she turns away and asks Chris if she can have a drink, and he says of course, how remiss of me, and he pours her a gin and tonic that is at least a double measure and probably a triple.
‘Did you bring the cake?’ Annabelle asks.
‘Yes,’ Kate says automatically. ‘And the balloons. Honestly, Annabelle, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
‘You really shouldn’t have,’ Marisa says. Kate smiles at her but Marisa turns away. Jake is still kneeling next to her, touching her stomach. Looking at them is like sticking her hand in a fire, but Kate is compelled to keep doing it.
Marisa smiles, and her face has that unlined, faraway quality that makes Kate think again that the real Marisa is buried deep underneath the surface of this conscientiously pleasant one, as though she is wrapped in protective plastic. She is saying and doing all the right things, and yet something doesn’t quite fit.
Jake fetches the provisions from the car. The room is soon filled with blue floating orbs. The cake is placed on the coffee table in the centre of the room. Annabelle claps with satisfaction, then disappears, re-emerging a few moments later with a tray bearing a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and five glasses.
‘You’ll have a glass, won’t you, Marisa?’
Kate gives an audible whimper. She is so appalled by the idea of Marisa drinking alcohol while pregnant with their child that she isn’t able to stop herself. Marisa turns to look at her, eyes swivelling slowly round like a lizard.
‘No, that’s OK, thanks Annabelle. I’ll stick to the elderflower.’
‘You sure? One glass can’t hurt.’
‘She’s said she doesn’t want one,’ Kate says, her voice loud.
Annabelle purses her lips. She pops the champagne bottle in silence and when the cork flies to the other side of the room, Chris says, ‘Watch it!’ and they all laugh, apart from Kate, who seems to have lost the capacity to find anything funny.
With the gin and tonic finished, she accepts the champagne from Annabelle and sips it, reminding herself to take it slowly. Although she wants to numb the awkwardness of this day, Kate also needs to keep her head clear. She tries to speak but it feels as though a piece of lint has got stuck in her throat. She looks at Jake and his parents and at Marisa and she notices how physically similar the four of them are: all blonde and strapping in their own ways, those blue eyes of Annabelle’s mirrored by Marisa’s; Jake and Chris’s shared florid cheeks and strong jawbones. They are poster children for a new Aryan nation, she thinks, while she is the dark, difficult one in the corner who refuses to conform. She latches onto the strangest image of the Sturridges and Marisa as a group of snapping alligators, circling the outsider with ominous intent.
‘Well this is nice,’ Annabelle says, crossing her legs daintily at the ankle. ‘I think a toast is in order.’
She raises her glass, with her long elegant arm.
‘It’s been a long journey to this point, but I wanted to make a toast to our baby boy. We can’t wait to meet him.’
The casually spoken ‘our’ lashes Kate’s heart like a jellyfish sting. She readies herself to raise her champagne flute, but Annabelle hasn’t finished yet.
‘And to Marisa,’ she continues, winking – actuallywinking– at her. ‘Thank you for giving these two such a precious gift. It hasn’t been an easy road for you, as we know …’ There is a loaded pause. ‘But you’ve come through it and we’re all so lucky you came into our lives.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Chris says.
Jake lifts his glass to cheers and smile with the others, while Marisa sits resplendent on the overstuffed sofa cushions, beaming like the Pope on his balcony. Only Kate doesn’t raise her glass. No one clocks it.
