Yes. Yes it was. Despite everything that had been going on. Or maybe even because of it.
She had been thinking about telling him tonight. She knew he wouldn’t be keeping track of her period (he was always surprised when it arrived – ‘What, already? Surely it hasn’t been a month?’), and he had been preoccupied lately anyway, so she knew she wouldn’t be telling him something he already knew, even if he had felt the same sensation as her when it had happened. But she was pissed off with him now. He’d been supposed to pick her up from work, she had waited out the front of the hospital for half-an-hour and he hadn’t turned up. She’ gone back inside to ask if there had been any phone calls. There hadn’t so, in a huff, she had stomped off towards the Tube station. He had forgotten about her. How could he?
To her horror, the man with the guitar pulled it to his stomach and began to play a tune. He did the first verse and chorus of ‘She Loves You’ then stopped and asked everyone in the carriage for cash. I should have been a fortune teller, Kirsty thought. She put her head down and made certain she didn’t catch the busker’s eye. Thankfully, the train pulled into a station before he reached her, and he got off.
She still couldn’t believe Jamie had forgotten about her. It was very unlike him. What if he hadn’t forgotten? What if something had happened to him? She hadn’t been able to get hold of him on his mobile. She had a sudden image of him crashing the car, his head going through the windscreen, shards of glass spraying passers-by as Jamie bounced back in his seat, his lifeless body slumping. She quickly shook away the image. It was replaced by an image of him being attacked in the street, a mugger stabbing him in the chest and grabbing his wallet, Jamie falling to the pavement, soaked in his own blood, grabbing his chest as his life ebbed away.
What was wrong with her? Why did she have to think of such things? She felt beads of cool sweat stand out on her forehead. She looked at her watch. Ten more minutes before this awful journey ended – if they didn’t get delayed, that was. She didn’t feel angry with him any more. She just wanted to get home, to check that he was alright. There had to be a good explanation for his absence. She only hoped something hadn’t happened with Lucy and Chris.
Since the night the police had been round, they hadn’t spoken to the Newtons. Nor had they received any letters, or CDs, from them – not directly anyway. Instead, they had been flooded with hoaxes. Letters, parcels and phone calls. Even emails sent from an anonymous Hotmail account, although neither of them could work out how Lucy and Chris had found out their email addresses (which Jamie had now changed). Of course, none of the hoaxes carried their neighbours’ names, but they knew who was responsible – just like they now knew who had been responsible for the first wave of hoaxes that had started almost as soon as they moved in.
There had been letters from credit card and insurance companies; circulars from Christian organisations; free samples of beauty products that Kirsty might have been pleased with if they hadn’t been so obviously intended to offend: anti-wrinkle cream, hair dye to cover up those grey hairs, cream to rub into your cellulite, wax strips to remove unwanted facial hair. They had received more offers and parcels from websites and magazines, including subscriptions to the Shooting Times, and a porn magazine called Barely Legal, which was full of girls who looked underage but weren’t really. They were sent several monstrosities from ‘Collectables’ companies, such as a porcelain clown that made Kirsty feel physically sick to look at, and a plate commemorating the Royal birth. All of this had to go back, which involved a phone call to the company and a trip to the post office, with a wait for the return label to arrive in between. It was inconvenient and stressful.
‘Why don’t we just dump them on Lucy and Chris’s doorstep?’ Jamie asked.
‘Because then we’ll get billed for them. And there’s no way I want to be taken to court for not paying for DoDo the Ugly Clown or whatever he’s called. Just enter it in the log. If we ever do end up in court, this will all be evidence.’
One thing they had done was ask the various mail order companies to send them scans of the original order forms. Several of the companies responded happily (they weren’t happy that they had been hoaxed either) and when the forms arrived it gave Jamie and Kirsty the final piece of evidence they needed. Because all the forms were filled out in the same handwriting. And the handwriting matched that on the letters Lucy and Chris had sent them.
Jamie phoned the police station and asked for Constable Dodds. He told him about the handwriting.
‘That’s good to have, although it’s not much use on its own. It’s hardly the crime of the year.’ Jamie realised this was one of Dodds’ favourite phrases. ‘Hold on to it and make sure you keep a record of everything, including conversations you have with the mail order companies. But I’d still advise you to hold fire for now. Sooner or later these people are going to get bored, I promise you.’
‘What did they say when you went down there to see them?’
‘To be honest, they didn’t say very much. We told them we’d asked you not to enter their garden uninvited again, and they thanked us. That was pretty much it.’
‘Were they both there? Lucy and Chris?’
‘Yes. But she did all the talking.’
‘I can believe that.’
When Kirsty and Jamie discussed the situation, which they did every evening, they found that without realising it they had begun to focus their anger and upset onto Lucy. She had become the arch villain, while Chris was just her sidekick, an acolyte who, despite being married to her, didn’t share her insanity. It was always her writing on the application forms; it was her who stood in the garden and shouted at Jamie, while Chris hid inside. Jamie wondered if it would be worth trying to talk to Chris alone, to see if he could reason with him, man to man.
‘No,’ said Kirsty, when he suggested this. ‘Stay away from them both. We might be wrong. Chris might be the driving force behind this. And the more I think about it, the more I blame him for what happened to Paul. If he hadn’t taken us karting…’
That had been one of the most sickening pieces of mail they had received: an invitation to join the National Go-Karting Association. Jamie had marched down to the basement flat and rammed it through their letter box, fighting the temptation to put a brick through their window. The letter had made Kirsty cry, and only a great effort of willpower stopped her from going down and throwing that brick through their window herself.
She hated them. She had never hated anyone before, not like this anyway. She realised it was unhealthy, especially if she was pregnant. It would do her no good to fill her body with hateful poisons, to let malice and spite drip into her bloodstream. She had to stay calm, relax, chill.
And she had to get off this fucking Tube train.
Finally it halted at her stop, and she pushed her way through the hot, closely-crammed bodies onto the platform, where she gulped down air like she had just crossed the desert and the air was fresh water.
As she approached the flat, she saw Jamie’s car. So he was home. She sighed with relief. She had almost begun to convince herself that something terrible had happened to him. Now, though, she wanted to know why he hadn’t turned up at the hospital.
Walking up the path, she spotted Lennon, looking down at her from Mary’s front window. A moment later, Mary appeared at the window. She waved and Kirsty waved back. Mary had bought them an expensive bottle of wine to say thank you to them for feeding Lennon while she was away. Kirsty was glad they had already drunk it, because if her suspicions were right, she wouldn’t be able to drink for a while.
As soon as she got inside, Jamie hurried across the room and hugged her. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I was stuck in a meeting and my phone battery died and I couldn’t find my charger. There’s loads of shit going on at work – they’re saying that this takeover might really be going ahead, and everyone was called into a big meeting that went on all afternoon. I couldn’t get to a phone, and when I did finally escape I called
the hospital and they told me you’d already left, so I came straight home.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘It’s OK, Jamie. Don’t worry.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘Well, you will have to make it up to me.’ She flopped down on the sofa.
He crouched in front of her and unlaced her shoes. ‘A foot massage?’
‘Mmm, that would be lovely. And a cup of tea.’
‘Your wish is my command.’
She leaned back and closed her eyes as he rubbed her heels with his thumbs. It felt good. ‘Any post?’
‘The usual junk. A letter from Oxfam asking why you hadn’t set up the direct debit you’d promised to after you told them you were going to sponsor a child.’
‘Jesus.’
‘And shortly before you got home, a taxi turned up and an extremely pissed-off driver told me he’d been sent here to take a couple to Battersea Dogs Home. When I told him we hadn’t called him and that he’d been hoaxed he wasn’t very happy, to say the least.’
‘Have you written it all down?’
‘Oh yes.’
Kirsty sighed. A broken promise to sponsor a poor child. This had gone beyond the realms of good taste long ago. She took deep breaths to keep her anger at bay, concentrating on the pleasant feelings in her feet as Jamie massaged them. She rested her hands on her stomach. Tomorrow she would go to the doctor, find out for certain. It was about time they had some good news.
Thirteen
Jamie twisted the wire and popped the cork, watched it bounce off the ceiling, stuck the foaming bottle-top in his mouth then poured himself a glass. He kissed Kirsty with champagne-flavoured lips. She held out her own glass.
‘It’s apple juice for you, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, it’s so unfair. Nine months teetotal. I can’t believe it.’
‘Longer if you breastfeed.’
‘God. Don’t remind me.’ But as she said it, she grinned. She hadn’t stopped grinning since the test confirmed her instincts. Apart from five minutes on the way home, when she had sat on a wall on the edge of the park and pondered the enormous changes that were about to happen in their lives. She thought about money, work, sleep, her social life, her figure, and then she dismissed it all and the grin returned. This was what she wanted, more than anything else in the world. She was going to be a mother. What’s more, she was going to a be a damn good mother. And she was with a man she loved, and she knew Jamie would make a fabulous dad. He had always talked about wanting a daughter, a little girl who would look up to him for love and protection, until she became a stroppy teenager, and if she was anything like Kirsty – who made her parents’ lives a misery for about four years – she would be a nightmare. But that was a long way off. And anyway, Kirsty and Jamie were going to be friends with their kids. They would be proud to bring their friends home; they wouldn’t have any secrets; they would talk openly about sex and drugs and all the other things that drove wedges between parents and children.
Kirsty smiled at her own naiveté. And then, sitting on the wall with football-playing boys looking on, she burst into tears. Big, fat, tears of happiness and relief. She could forget about Lucy and Chris now. She could forget about all the bad shit in her life (apart from Paul – she would never forget about Paul) because she had something wonderful to focus on.
‘I guess a son would be cool, as well,’ said Jamie now, guzzling champagne. ‘We could play football, and computer games.’
‘You can do that with a daughter too.’
‘Yes. Actually, I don’t care what we have. Hey, maybe it will be twins. One of each. That would be excellent.’
‘Don’t push it.’
Jamie kissed her again and ran his hand over her tummy. It was perfectly flat now, but soon it would start to bulge. He couldn’t wait. There was something so sexy about pregnancy. Right now, he felt so proud of himself. OK, so any idiot could get a woman pregnant – and you only had to turn on the TV on any weekday morning to see exactly how many idiots did manage to make women pregnant – but it was a great feeling to know that he was capable of doing so too. He felt immensely virile and potent. He was helping propagate the species – he felt like beating his chest and making Tarzan noises. Right now he felt like the luckiest man alive, and he wanted to celebrate.
‘Let’s have a bath,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll take you out for a meal.’
They ran the bath and stripped off amid the swirling steam. ‘I’m sure your boobs have grown already,’ Jamie said, as Kirsty settled into the water.
She shook her head. ‘You wish.’
‘Well, they will grow won’t they? God, there’s so much I don’t know about pregnancy and babies. I’ll have to look it up on the net. Soon we probably won’t be able to fit in the bath together.’
‘No. I’m going to get really fat and stay fat and turn into one of those earth mothers. In fact, we’ll have to buy a new, extra large bath because this one won’t be big enough for me. I’ll look like a Buddha, with breasts like water melons.’
‘Fantastic.’
They roared with laughter, and Jamie leaned forward quickly to kiss Kirsty, sending a wave through the water which surged up and splashed over the side of the bath.
‘Oops.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just kiss me.’
‘So does being pregnant make you feel sexy?’
‘Hmm. Although when I get bigger it’ll be awkward.’
‘We’ll have to try out some new positions.’
‘Hmm.’
He shifted forward and went up onto his knees. As he did this he slipped and banged his hip against the side of the bath.’
‘Ah!’
Kirsty laughed. ‘What a smooth operator.’
‘Hey, you won’t be able to criticise me in front of our child.’
‘No. I shall always have to refer to you as My Hero.’
They laughed again, and immediately heard three loud bangs which echoed through the bathroom.
They stared at the floor.
‘Oh my God, Lucy’s got her broom out,’ said Kirsty. Normally she would have got upset, but today she found it funny. It made her laugh even more loudly, provoking more banging.
‘The witch is banging her broom,’ said Jamie, making a v-sign and aiming it at the floor. ‘She can’t stand the sound of other people’s happiness.’
‘Miserable witch,’ said Kirsty. Then she said it louder: ‘Miserable witch.’
The bangs that followed made Jamie and Kirsty fall silent, staring at each other. BANG BANG BANG. It sounded as if the broom was going to come through the floorboards – and worse, the banging was accompanied by an ear-shredding scream.
‘Oh my God.’
‘She must have heard us.’
‘I thought you meant her to.’
‘Well…’
It didn’t seem so funny any more. Jamie looked at the back door. He had a horrible image of Chris storming up the steps and smashing down the back door, which was only made of thin wood. The scream had made his blood run cold. Suddenly, he wanted to get out of the bath and get dressed.
He stood up and grabbed his towel. He looked at the carpet. There was a big wet patch around the edge of the bath. He imagined he could hear Lucy breathing beneath his feet. He knew she would be standing there, looking up at the ceiling, and, ridiculously, he felt vulnerable in his nudity. He dried himself vigorously and as soon as he was dry enough he pulled on his underwear.
Kirsty stood up. Water rolled down from beneath her breasts over her belly and dripped from her pubic hair. Jamie saw her touching her tummy and smiled. Why was he allowing himself to get so stressed out? He should calm down, chill out, enjoy this momentous day. There were more important things to think about than their neighbours.
‘We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?’ Kirsty said, still standing up in the bath, the water level descending slowly from her calves to her ankles, swirling down the plughole. Jamie imagined the water pouring through the c
eiling onto Lucy’s head, soaking her comically, and he smiled.
He bent and pressed his cheek against Kirsty’s warm belly. ‘Of course we are.’
The Cinnamon Tree was their favourite Indian restaurant. It was situated in a quiet backstreet, just a ten minute walk from the flat. It was a small restaurant which hadn’t changed its decor since the early eighties, but the food was fantastic and cheap – or good value, as Kirsty preferred to put it.
It was a Wednesday, and the restaurant was only half full. Jamie and Kirsty took a table in the corner beside an enormous rubber plant. They ordered drinks – lager for Jamie, sparkling mineral water for Kirsty – and samosas for starters.
‘I wonder if you’ll develop any weird cravings later on,’ Jamie said.
‘Maybe. One woman at work had a craving for Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. She ate about six or seven a day. She suffered terribly from morning sickness as well.’
‘Hmm, I wonder if there was a connection.’
‘I’ve read about women who have cravings for coal or wood. I’ll probably just crave pizza and ice cream. And curries, of course.’
‘And what kind of curry are you craving tonight?’
‘Something mild I think. Vegetable korma with pilau rice.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll go for something a bit spicier.’
Their drinks arrived and Jamie drained a third of his pint in one go, gulping it down thirstily.
‘Take it easy, Jamie.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’ve been drinking an awful lot recently. You won’t be able to carry on like that.’
‘I know. We won’t be able to afford it for one thing.’
‘Are you worried about the cost of having this baby?’
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t had a chance to think about it yet. But no – I’m not too worried.’
‘I’ll have to go part-time, and nurseries around here are so expensive.’
‘We’ll be fine. There are people a lot worse off than us who get by.’