12 October
Laurie
‘Happy birthday, dear Thomas,
Happy birthday to you!’
We all clap, and the baby laughs like a contented loon.
‘I can’t believe he’s one already,’ I say, bouncing him on my hip as I’ve watched Anna do for most of the weekend. My sister-in-law is fully immersed in parenthood, never knowingly seen without a muslin cloth over her shoulder or the hip rest slung round her waist in readiness for Tom’s chubby little behind to land on it. I’ll give it to him: he’s super-cute. All blond curls and pudge, with a couple of tiny white bottom teeth and peaches in his cheeks. For one so tiny, he’s completely dominated the weekend; everything is geared around being compatible with a baby.
‘He looks good on you, Laurie.’
‘Don’t say another word.’ I shoot my mum a warning look.
She shrugs, laughing. ‘I was just thinking …’
What everyone else is thinking, I think but don’t say. When are we likely to hear the patter of tiny feet is pretty much the first thing most people ask us now that we’re married, with the notable exception of Lucille, who probably falls to her knees beside her bed every night and prays that I’m barren. It’s 2014 not 1420, I want to yell when yet another colleague asks me if we’re thinking of kids. What if I want a career first?
Daryl puts his arm round my shoulders in welcome solidarity, and straight away the baby fusses to be handed over to his dad. ‘Put it off for as long as possible, sis. Your life will never be the same again afterwards.’
I’m relieved that Oscar has already left for home, thus avoiding this entire conversation. He left the party early because he’s flying out to Brussels tonight in readiness for a prolonged five-day stretch; they’re in the middle of crucial takeover negotiations and he needs to be there to oversee things. I haven’t allowed myself to quiz him over whether or not Cressida will be there for the duration too; he’s promised me there’s nothing for me to worry about where she’s concerned and I’m choosing to wholeheartedly believe him. He was right after all – I knew that Cressida worked for the same company – I just didn’t know they worked in such close proximity. But Oscar assures me that they didn’t, right up until the week before Lucille visited me to crow about it. Thankfully, I’m not the jealous type, and he’s never given me any reason to think he still harbours feelings for her. They have to work together – it happens. They have to work together in a different country – to be fair, that probably happens less often, but I trust Oscar, and that’s that. So with him on his way to Brussels, I’ve decided to stay over with my folks until tomorrow afternoon. I’m trying my best to stick to my New Year’s resolution where they’re concerned, if not where Lucille is.
Is it terrible to say I feel slightly more relaxed since I waved him off? He’s never anything but complimentary about my parents, yet still I always feel slightly awkward when we’re all together, as if without me there’d just be three strangers in a room. I spent a chunk of our train journey pretending to sleep, when actually what I was doing was assembling a small selection of subjects I could bring up. Holidays, work (mine more than Oscar’s, for obvious reasons), the new colour we’re painting the bathroom, that kind of thing. I hadn’t counted on baby Tom, of course. There’s no conversational lulls with a baby around, so all in all it’s been a pleasant family weekend. I find that I almost don’t want to go back to London tomorrow, back to our lonely, quiet flat.
‘Take this through to your dad, will you, love?’ Mum rolls her eyes as she hands me a mug of tea. ‘He’s in the den watching football.’
Dad’s an avid Aston Villa fan; if they’re on screen he’s watching it, even on his grandson’s birthday, it would seem. I take the mug and escape down the hall, glad of an excuse to get out of the ‘when will Laurie have a baby’ conversation. The answer is when – and if – Laurie is ready.
‘Dad?’ I push the den door, startled when it won’t open. It can’t be locked; it doesn’t even have a lock on it. I push again. There’s something wedged behind it. ‘Dad?’ I call out again. My heart starts to race when he doesn’t answer. Panicked, I shoulder the door, slopping tea on to Mum’s new beige carpet, and this time it opens an inch or so. Then everything seems to stop, and I hear someone who sounds like me, but can’t possibly be, yelling out for help again and again.