Which all made this growing conviction of hers – what if I were pregnant? – all the more difficult to swallow. To be pregnant, Maggie argued in vain, there had to be a man on the scene. Jack was gone, and the only men in her life nowadays were Mr Kipling and the heroes of the TV shows she liked to watch late into the night. And yet—
The signs were definitely there. Her belly had grown. Her breasts were swollen and tender. In the months that had followed her miscarriage, she’d always felt so empty. No matter what she ate, it seemed that nothing could fill the baby-shaped hole at the pit of her stomach. But now, there was something. A fullness, she thought. A sense of possibility. I’m eating for two, she told herself, in the flickering light of the TV screen, and somehow it felt almost true, even though it couldn’t be. Miracles happen. I know they do. Life sometimes gives you a second chance.
One day, she picked up her knitting again. She found it therapeutic. She knitted a set of baby clothes in exactly the same shade of sugar-pink as the icing on a Mr Kipling’s French Fancy. That gave her an appetite, which led to another set of clothes, this time in lemon-cupcake yellow, and a set of bootees in vanilla off-white. This time, there was no Jack around to curb her body’s instincts. Day by day she watched her belly grow rounder, and was aware of a corresponding sense of happiness and pride. So what if she didn’t have a man? This baby would be all hers. My bun in the oven, she thought to herself as she opened a pack of Bakewell tarts. This time around, there was no sense of guilt. After all, she was eating for two.
By the fifth month of her mysterious pregnancy, other people had started to stare. Maggie could feel the sidelong glances, the unspoken words from her colleagues at work. She had given up sandwiches and muesli bars. Now that she was eating for two, she could indulge her cravings. And so at lunchtimes, at her desk, she ate chunky Cornish pasties from Greggs, whole packs of iced buns in pink or white, and maybe even a doughnut or two, comfortingly stodgy and soft in their thick coating of caster sugar. She wondered when someone would ask her when the baby was due. But no one dared – after all, they must have known all about Jack’s bit on the side. Maggie’s friends in the office weren’t really her friends at all, but Jack’s, which meant that there was no one left to ask her the question that must have been eating them up over all these weeks – could Maggie really be pregnant?
But Maggie found she didn’t care. Let them whisper all they liked. The fact that no one knew for sure made the baby all the more wonderful. You’re mine, she told it tenderly. All mine, little Cookie.
Maggie found that bakery names were the ones that came to her most readily. Sally Lunn. Angel Cake. Quirky, but appealing. Terms of endearment were always sweet: Sugar, Cupcake, Cookie, Honey-bun, Sweetie-pie. And this time, there was no doubt in her mind that the baby would be a girl. She needed no scan to confirm it. She hadn’t been to the doctor once. Why should she? She felt fine. She’d been through all that the first time. Doctors hadn’t helped her then. This time, she could cope on her own.
She started feeling drowsy at work, especially after lunch. Some days she could barely keep awake. Her supervisor, Chloë, mentioned it, and finally Maggie couldn’t keep the secret to herself any more. Blushing madly, she told her: ‘Well, I’m doing my best, but you know, in my condition I get very tired—’
‘Your condition?’ Chloë said.
‘Well, you know. My pregnancy.’
Chloë stared at her. ‘What?’ she said.
It wasn’t a very flattering stare. But then, Maggie had never liked Chloë much – a skinny redhead who looked fourteen and ate nothing but low-fat yoghurts for lunch. What did she know, anyway? How could she possibly understand?
Word got around after that, of course. Her colleagues stared at her openly now as she ate lunch in her cubicle. Maggie didn’t care, though; she needed to keep her strength up. And the others were simply jealous, she thought. Jealous of you and me, Cookie.
A week later, Jack came to see her while she was on her tea break. ‘Is it true you’ve been saying you’re pregnant?’ he said. ‘Chloë says you told her you were.’
Maggie shrugged. ‘Well, I am,’ she said.
Jack looked startled. ‘Have you been seeing anyone?’
‘Why should I?’ said Maggie. ‘I feel fine. Oh—’ She paused. ‘I see what you mean.’
She knew that if she’d met someone else, then Jack would have been the first to know. Jack was a genius at collecting (and disseminating) news, and although he clearly wasn’t interested in getting back with Maggie, a boyfriend on her horizon would have certainly caused a ripple or two.
He looked her critically up and down. ‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘Really? How very like you to say that.’
At least he had the grace to blush. ‘Mags, I didn’t mean that. I meant you’ve put on a bit of weight.’
‘Of course I have. I’m pregnant.’
‘But you’re not, Mags, are you?’ he said.
Maggie shrugged. ‘How would you know?’ She looked at him, thinking suddenly that he was the one who looked terrible. His cheekbones were saggy and over-pronounced, the wrists that protruded from his shirt-cuffs unexpectedly bony. Had he lost weight, she asked herself? Was he working out too much?
‘You don’t look so good yourself,’ she said. ‘You still with Cherry, or has that fresh-fruit diet turned out not to be nutritious enough?’
‘Don’t try to divert, Mags.’ Jack liked to think that because he’d watched In Treatment he knew about psychoanalysis. ‘We’re talking about you here. This story you’ve been telling people. This story about being pregnant.’
Maggie smiled. ‘Why assume it isn’t true?’
‘Well, because – it just isn’t,’ he said, sounding like a little boy. ‘Where would you get a baby from? It isn’t mine, and there’s no one else. So what are you going to give birth to? A family pack of Krispy Kremes?’
That should have upset her, Maggie thought. But this pregnancy seemed to bring with it a sweet new kind of serenity. And so she simply smiled at Jack in that new, tranquil way she had, and said: ‘You’ll see in four months, won’t you, Jack? Come on. Have a Digestive.’
After that, the news was out. Everyone had their opinion on Maggie’s mysterious pregnancy. Opinions which differed only in that some believed she was crazy, and others thought she was making it up to try to get Jack’s attention. Both points of view were so ridiculous that Maggie didn’t even try to argue with them, but simply went on listening to that sweet, warm feeling in her belly, and feeding it with bread and cake and biscuits and pies.
Why had she ever believed that she needed a man to produce a child? The nursery rhyme had it right all along. Sugar and spice and all things nice – that’s what little girls were made of, and Cookie – yes, that was her name – knew exactly what she needed. She became more demanding as time went on; gave Maggie a craving for sweet rice pudding; for apple pie with clotted cream; for strawberry shortcake, treacle tarts, croissants with honey and crusty French loaves.
By the seventh month, Maggie was so tired and heavy that all she really wanted was to stay at home and watch TV, coddled in a blanket, with a jug of pink lemonade on the side, or maybe a pot of hot chocolate and a plate of warm scones with apricot jam. She called in her maternity leave, and no one even questioned it. Compassionate leave, the letter said. Maggie couldn’t be bothered to protest. They didn’t believe in her Cookie? Who cared? Maggie didn’t need any of them. A few people called. She knew they meant well. But Maggie didn’t want their help. Nor did she want diet tips, or bereavement counselling, or relationship therapy, or any of the solutions they offered to her phantom pregnancy. Cookie wasn’t a phantom, she knew. Cookie, at seven months, already had a strong enough personality to make those people feel like ghosts in comparison. Cookie was warm, Cookie was sweet, Cookie was a bundle of love – and Cookie was always hungry. And so Maggie left her job without the slightest hint of regret, and devoted her time to Cookie. The decisi
on somehow seemed to have given her more energy. She started to do her own baking, which meant that she didn’t have to go out as often. She sent for some paint from the DIY shop and finally painted the baby room – the room that she and Jack had never quite got round to preparing. She painted it in rosewater-pink, with a border of stencilled cupcakes. She made a set of curtains in the same printed cupcake design. She was just assembling the crib (blond wood, with bedding to match the curtains), keeping her strength up with the help of a pack of Wagon Wheels, when the doorbell rang.
It was Jack. This time, he looked even worse than before: unshaven, pallid and rail-thin. He was wearing his running shoes and a grey T-shirt over scruffy jeans, and he smelt of sweat, as if he’d just got back from the gym. He took one look at the baby room and sat down hard, as if he’d been pushed.
‘Oh, Mags. What’s going on?’
Maggie gave him a sympathetic smile. Some men took it hard, she knew; especially men like Jack. The bond between mother and child is so strong that fathers are often excluded. Still, that was hardly her fault – after all, Jack was the one who had written himself out of the picture. Now that she was almost due, perhaps he regretted leaving her. Too bad that Maggie didn’t care. Cookie was all she needed now.
She sat down beside him on the couch. It sagged alarmingly as she did so. The baby weight had really come on over the past two or three months, but Maggie didn’t feel bad at all. This time, she felt beautiful. Her skin glowed. Her hair shone. Her body expanded like warm dough. She smelt of baking, of sweetness, of yeast. She could see it in the way he looked at her, his eyes half afraid, half awed, like a child’s.
‘What are you doing?’ he said again.
‘I’m getting things ready,’ Maggie said. ‘It won’t be long now before Cookie’s here.’
‘Cookie?’ said Jack.
‘That’s her name. I never told anyone that before.’ Maggie smiled again, feeling glad. He’d left her, of course, but Jack was still the man she’d loved, and it seemed only right that he should know the baby’s name before it was born. She laid a protective hand over her distended belly. Inside, Cookie was fast asleep, although she would soon be hungry again. Maggie wondered whether Jack would put out his hand to feel her bump, as he had when they were together. She wondered if she wanted him to, or whether that was all in the past.
But Jack was looking agitated. His mouth pulled sharply to one side, as if he’d been running too fast. ‘Maggie,’ he said, looking at her. ‘You have to stop this. Get some help.’
‘Help with what?’ Maggie said. ‘I told you, I’m fine. The baby, too.’
‘What baby?’ said Jack. ‘Whose baby is this? Where did it come from? Pizza Hut? And now you’re taking maternity leave – picking out baby clothes – doing all this …’ He waved a hand at the open door of the baby room with its cupcake trim. ‘Maggie!’ he said. ‘You have to get help!’
‘Are you volunteering?’ she said, making it sound like a joke.
Jack shrugged. ‘I blame myself. I shouldn’t have run out like that. But losing the baby—’ He looked away. ‘I didn’t know what to do, Mags. I acted like an idiot. I hope you know how sorry I am.’
‘Sorry?’ said Maggie, feeling numb.
‘I shouldn’t have left you. I know that now. I’ve told Cherry it’s over. I can move back whenever you like—’
‘Move back?’ Maggie said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll look after you. I’ll make sure you get back on your feet. I’ve already talked to the people at work. They’ll hold your job for as long as you need. One in four people in the UK suffer from depression at some time in their lives. We’ll get you some counselling, maybe some Prozac or lithium. And then we can start working out again – make you feel better about yourself. As soon as you start to lose the weight, you’ll get over this – delusion.’
‘You think I’ll get over it?’ Maggie said. Now, at last, she was angry. ‘You think the baby’s all in my mind? Here! Feel this!’ She grabbed his hand and laid it on her belly. ‘Can you feel her kicking, Jack?’
Jack pulled away, and muttered: ‘Intestinal gas. That’s all it is.’
‘You think?’ said Maggie.
‘Oh, Maggie. I know.’
‘All right, then. Get out.’ She was shaking now. Cookie was making her hungry again. There was a cold rhubarb crumble in the fridge; with a scoop of ice cream it would be just what the doctor ordered. ‘I don’t have time for this right now,’ she said, seeing Jack’s astonished face. ‘I have work to do, proper work, as opposed to working out—’
‘Maggie, please. I love you,’ said Jack.
He meant it, too; she could see it now. But she also knew that it was too late. Cookie was more important. And – if he really wanted her – Jack would have to make a choice.
She said: ‘If you can prove that you want to be a proper father to my baby—’
‘There is no baby!’ shouted Jack. ‘There never was! You made it up! You’re fat because you eat all the time, not because you’re pregnant!’
‘Don’t listen to him, Cookie,’ she said. ‘We don’t need him any more.’ She opened the door. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.’
After that, Maggie screened her calls and put a spy-hole in the front door. She was too busy getting things ready for Cookie to deal with interference. She’d decided on a home delivery – she found it too stressful leaving the house – besides, she didn’t need help, she thought. All she needed was peace and quiet.
No one saw her for weeks after that. No one answered the phone any more; no one came to answer the door. Jack called by several times, without success, although once or twice he could have sworn he heard movement from inside the house. She’d changed the locks. He wasn’t surprised. His first attempt to involve the police met with polite indifference, his second with open amusement.
Had there been a crime, sir? Did Jack have any reason to believe his ex-wife might be at risk? Had she robbed a bakery? Jack left feeling angry and humiliated – as well as increasingly anxious. Something was going on in that house. Behind those neatly drawn curtains. He started to watch the deliveries that came to the door every couple of days. Most were from various bakeries, but some were from shops supplying babycare products. Maggie never spoke to the people who made these deliveries. Instead, they left the goods on the porch, just inside the outer door. One day, watching from his car, Jack saw a large, indistinct figure wrapped in a pink dressing-gown emerge to collect a pastry-box. It moved with a curious waddling gait, then vanished into the darkened house.
Christ, he thought. She’s got so big!
The next time, he knew what he had to do. No one else would help him. He waited until the baker’s van came with the morning delivery. Then he jumped out of his own car and levelled a smile at the deliveryman.
‘Thanks. I’ll take it in,’ he said.
The deliveryman looked uncertain.
‘It’s all right. It’s my house,’ said Jack, hefting the covered tray on to his shoulder. It smelt of bread, and the richer scent of butter pastry and slow-cooked fruit. ‘My wife’s pregnant,’ he explained. ‘She’s been practically living on these things.’
‘Well, OK,’ said the deliveryman, and watched Jack step on to the porch. He looked as if he lived there, of course. Walked in as if he owned the place. And he said his wife was pregnant – well, only a pregnant woman, he thought, could want to eat so many pies.
At least, this is what the deliveryman would tell the police some time later. At the time, he simply shrugged and set off without thinking at all. And Jack, still carrying the tray, opened the door into Maggie’s living room and looked inside at what was there –
He’d had visions of Maggie lying in the dark, huddled under a duvet. In fact, the room was brightly lit. A series of lamps with rose-coloured shades had been placed at intervals along the floor. Dozens of strings of fairy lights had been left to tumble over the furniture and to proliferate across the
floor. Mobiles hung from the ceiling: little bells, cut-out shapes, crystals that reflected the light. And on every surface there were cakes, arranged on cake stands and doilies; little sugared fairy cakes; iced buns with cherries on top; macaroons and lemon tarts and apple pies and rich sweet rolls all stacked up in tiers to the ceiling and gleaming in the coloured light like treasure from Aladdin’s cave.
To Jack it looked like a combination of Santa’s Grotto and the Gingerbread House, and if there had been any doubt in his mind that his wife had run completely mad, it vanished in the face of this – this child’s-eye view of fairyland.
Barbie’s pleasure-dome. Jesus wept.
‘Maggie? Are you there?’ he called.
Stupid to think she’d be anywhere else. But there was no answer. The room was still, except for the twirling of paper mobiles and the tinkling of a music box, somewhere in another room.
Jack put down the bakery tray. The scent of sweet things was overwhelming. The door to the adjoining room was slightly ajar. He opened it. It was the room they’d both agreed would belong to the baby, when it was born – except that Maggie had wanted to paint it pink, whereas Jack had wanted to paint it blue, which meant that the room had stayed as white and bare as the day they’d laid their baby to rest in a box supplied by the hospital; something like a bakery box, lined in cheap white satin.
Now all that had changed, of course. Jack had noticed the last time he’d called. Now, the room was a nursery, brightly lit and painted pink; scatter-cushions on the floor, and a wooden crib in the centre, half shielded from view by curtains.
Jack took a couple of steps into the room. Maggie wasn’t there. But something was playing a tinkling tune, and a lantern by the side of the crib was revolving slowly, casting little arpeggi of coloured light against the newly painted walls.
‘Maggie?’ He’d meant it to sound alert, in charge. But his voice in this alien room was lost, smothered beneath that sugary scent, that pastel drift of cushions and drapes. He was alone in the room, and yet he was aware of a presence, a kind of fullness in the air. It was almost as if something were there, something that was breathing.