I never met Beckett’s parents, but I know he didn’t have the best of childhoods. It seems I underestimated just how awful it was.
‘Well, if we’re baring our souls here’—Griff throws back a mouthful of beer—‘the baby’s yourswould be right up there.’ He shivers, whether feigned or real, I can’t be sure. ‘So apart from the whisky company going bust, what about you?’
You’re not the one.
But I won’t voice either because they aren’t factual. The truth isn’t in what Miranda says but rather in what she doesn’t say. It’s in her behaviour. The way she shields herself from me, and in the way she thinks she must protect herself and our child against her heart being broken. It’s in the way she responds to my touch, and in her soft smiles in the sunshine and her whispered confessions in the dark. She might not know it yet, but she loves me. I see it. I feel it. I know it. And I’ll wait for the truth to dawn on her.
Meanwhile, I’m not baring my soul to these fuckers. But I will share my news, sort of anonymously. I could argue sharingournews brings Miranda into focus. Tellingmynews keeps her protected somewhat.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet while the pair look on.
‘He’s going to demonstrate it for us.’ Griff’s hand taps the table in quick succession, clearly enamoured by his own mirth. ‘The thing that frightens him the most?It’s your round.’
I pull the ultrasound image from my wallet carefully, smoothing the crease between my fingers. Griff’s laughter stops immediately as though a television program switched off midsentence. I place the shiny paper on the table and run my finger over the edges, careful not to make it look any more careworn than it currently is. Both men lean forward in their chairs, staring down at the thing, apparently mute with shock. Or perhaps sensible enough to keep their opinions to themselves. I watch their reactions, rather than look at it again, familiar with what I’ll see. A black background. The grey ghostly arc. The tiny jellybean smudge that is my child.
‘Big foreheads don’t run in the family, by the way. He’s just developing a big brain.’ According to the maternity manuals I’ve collected, in this image, he’s currently working on defining all kinds of body parts. Ears, lips, nose, arms, and legs. Bones and heart valves.
A heart when he already has mine.
‘Fuck me.’ Griff leans closer as though not quite believing his own eyes.
‘No, thanks. My swimmers are, apparently, potent. And impervious to latex. I wouldn’t like to get you pregnant, too.’
‘I’d screw you over child support,’ Griff mutters. I make to move the image, to secret it away, when my heart pinches.
Fuck. How did I forget the text printed there?
Notes. Measurements. Plus, three pertinent details I hadn’t sought to share.
Miranda Henry.
Aug 29
8w3d
If Griff notices, he doesn’t say, not that her name would mean anything to him. Beckett, on the other hand, sees it fucking all. Thankfully, he says nothing. At least not right now.
‘Your shout.’ Griff rubs his hands together gleefully, his shoulders almost around his ears.
‘And you’ve decided that how?’
‘To wet the baby’s massively big forehead.’
I’m not going to repeat myself. There really wouldn’t be any point.
‘Try not to be so ridiculous,’ Beckett intones, speaking for the first time since my big reveal. ‘The tradition relates to the birth of the child, not the conception.’
‘I don’t know. Harry here looks pretty happy. I think we should at least drink to that.’
And as the waiter passes just at that moment, Griff orders a bottle of vintage champagne. For my tab, of course.
29
Miranda
‘Hey,you missed the hot courier earlier.’
Olivia’s teasing tone greets me as I stand on the threshold, shaking out my wet coat. I’ve been to check out the florist this morning after he’d called and said he was having trouble sourcing the shade of cabbage rose I’d ordered for Olivia’s bouquet. I shiver a little because it’s almost as though autumn has arrived overnight, bringing the rain with it as my mind reels with cold weather contingency plans. Who on earth thought getting married outdoors in England during the last week of September was a good idea? September certainly can be very pretty, all sunshine and golden leaves, but it can equally be awful; soggy, grey, and cloudy. It’s a good job they’re getting married in their own garden because if it’s too windy for the marquee I’ve ordered, at least they have a mansion to use.
