I head off to the little cul-de-sac, feeling such a strange mix of emotions. I am a total mess, I really am – I even annoy myself. I break it down in my mind, realising that it makes no sense. If people rely on me too much I’m worried I might feel pressurised and trapped, but if they don’t rely on me enough I feel irrelevant and surplus to requirements. It’s a lose-lose situation and the only possible conclusion I can reach is that I’m a bit of an arsehole.
This is not a revelation, but it’s also not great. I don’t want to be an arsehole. I want things to feel simple and easy and straightforward. So why do I keep getting in my own way?
I let myself in to the cottage and immediately kick off the high heels. Stupid torture devices – it’s probably all because of them that I’m having a mental slump. I go and put the kettle on, passing the photos of my mum on the way. I stop and stare up at her, her knowing eyes and easy smile, the way she is still able to look into my soul.
‘I wish you were here,’ I tell her, my voice a little ragged. ‘I wish you could tell me what to do, or at the very least take the piss out of me and make me laugh. You always said I didn’t need to be normal, I just needed to be me. But what if being me is crap? What if being me means being miserable when I shouldn’t be, or always looking for excuses to move on because I’m not happy? What if being me isn’t good for my baby? And if it isn’t,how do I stop being me and be someone else? Someone less complicated?’
She doesn’t answer, which is probably a good thing. I look at her some more and take deep breaths. I open my heart and my mind and let all my memories of her in. Sometimes I keep them out, because they hurt too much – because thinking about her is too hard, the emotions too raw, even after all these years. Sometimes if I let myself really miss her, I worry I won’t survive that pain, and I’ve learned to keep it penned up like a flock of unruly sheep. But tonight, I need to. I need to feel her close.
What would she say to me, if she was here? I don’t really know. I can’t predict the words she would use, or the advice she would give – but I do know how she would make me feel. She would make me feel heard, and safe, and like everything was going to be okay. That was her greatest gift, and I can only hope I’ve inherited even a fraction of that ability when it comes to my own child. The ability to make them feel better just by being close.
I’m on my way through into the kitchen when there is a knock on the front door. This by itself is odd – partly because nobody in Starshine Cove really has such polite boundaries as knocking and waiting, they usually just walk in announcing themselves. Secondly because everybody is at the party, apart from pregnant ladies who are feeling a bit blue and suspect they need to be put into emotional quarantine so they don’t infect anybody else.
I walk down the hallway, realising as I go that not everybody was at the party. I smile when I figure out who it might be, my heart instantly feeling lighter. I pull the door open, and there he is – standing outside in a black suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie that he’s already pulled a little loose. His hair has been trimmed, his jacket fits to perfection, and he basically takes my breath way. I stare at him for a few seconds, hoping I’m not drooling.
‘Wow,’ I say, ‘you look… scrumlicious.’
He quirks an eyebrow and grins at me. ‘Scrumlicious? Is that even a word?’
‘It is. If you look it up in the dictionary, it’s next to a photo of you tonight.’
‘And you,’ he replies quickly, gesturing at my outfit. ‘You look… like a grown-up.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not. Are you implying that I usually look like a toddler?’
‘No. Just that your normal look is more casual. And your hair is normally bigger. And you have make-up on. It’s… nice.’
I place my hands on my chest, and say: ‘Nice? Be still my beating heart! Where have you been all night anyway? I thought you might be lone wolfing it.’
‘Yeah. I suppose. I, uh, well… I wasn’t going to come. I don’t really like parties that much. And I didn’t have the right clothes, which was a good excuse until Jake insisted I go over to his apartment at the inn, and help myself. He has alotof clothes.’
I remember my dad telling me Jake’s story – he was some kind of big-shot wheeler-dealer property developer before he moved to Starshine and opted for the quiet life. I guess his wardrobe still reflects a more glamorous time, and it certainly looks good on Guy. So good I really can’t stop staring at him.
‘You look a bit like James Bond,’ I say, my eyes running over him. ‘I feel a bit like I might swoon. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Will my virtue be safe if I come in?’
‘I make no promises. You can’t come round here looking like that and not expect there to be consequences, pal.’
He smirks as he follows me inside, and I make us both a drink. I offer to put a whisky in his to get his night started, but he says no. I’ve noticed that he hasn’t had a single alcoholic drink at all since I told him I was pregnant – at least not while I’ve been around.
‘Are you not drinking because I’m preggers?’ I ask him, passing him his mug.
He thinks about it for a second, then nods. ‘Yeah. I think so. I didn’t plan it, and now I think about it, maybe it’s a bit weird. I just… I suppose I’ve given up booze in sympathy. Is that really freakish?’
‘Yeah. Totally. But also kind of sweet. I’ve been at the party until about ten minutes ago, and everyone was getting more and more tipsy. Which is fine – of course it’s fine! – but it’s also a bit tricky. Like, unless you’re sober, you never realise how much drunk people repeat themselves. And each time they tell you the same story, you have to pretend to react to it like it’s the first time. I swear, once I’m drinking again, I’m never going to touch a drop unless everyone else is getting sozzled too.’
He raises his mug, and replies: ‘Well, cheers anyway!’
‘Cheers! You still haven’t told me why you’re here though. You’re all dressed up – why aren’t you at the party?’
‘I was, but then I realised you weren’t.’
I nudge him playfully and bat my eyelashes at him. ‘Aah, that’s sweet. You just couldn’t bear to be away from me?’
I’m joking, obviously, but he takes it seriously. Guy often thinks before he speaks, which is something I very much appreciate in a person – it makes up for me, who tends to be the opposite.
‘Well, “couldn’t bear” is maybe a bit strong,’ he replies, ‘but I definitely wanted to see you. Everything feels a bit better when you’re around.’
