Growing Up Twice Read online

  ‘We need a pregnancy-testing kit for our friend Selin, who you may have seen with us before,’ I say, shamelessly. ‘She’s married, has been for years.’

  ‘Well, good for her, babies bring much joy.’ He turns and places three kits on the counter in front of us. ‘Did she request any brand?’ I look at Rosie, who is closely examining a false-nail kit.

  ‘The cheapest?’ I say, wondering how much cash I’ve got on me.

  Rosie springs into life. ‘No, no. It was definitely the most expensive. Which one is the most expensive?’ Rosie’s philosophy of life is that you get what you pay for. We get the most expensive test, which is flipping expensive, and has two stick things in so that Rosie can make sure for definite twice that she is not up the duff. I buy the nail transfers and Rosie buys a pair of silver-effect false eyelashes and some stick-on glitter nails. We both get some diamanté-effect heart-shaped tattoos.

  When we get back in there is a message on the answerphone. It’s my boss, Georgina.

  ‘Hello, Jennifer. I was just calling to see how you are. I expect you’re in bed and can’t hear the phone. Call me when you have managed to drag yourself up for a Lemsip and let me know if you will be in tomorrow.’ Kind of her to give me a ready-made excuse, I think, and I go to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  ‘Well, go on then!’ I call through to Rosie, who I can see is slumped on our black velveteen foam-filled sofa. She seems to be unpicking the sleeve of her sweater.

  ‘It says to wait until the morning,’ she calls back in a gloomy tone.

  ‘It is the morning.’ I am looking around the kitchen for the box of tea bags. I can’t remember where I had it last.

  ‘Yes, but for your first pee of the morning. I did mine ages ago. Hours ago. Shall we watch This Morning instead?’ she says hopefully.

  ‘You know very well that it’s not on for another hour. Does it really say that?’ I sound like her mother, not her best friend.

  ‘Yes! I’m not making it up! You can read the leaflet if you like.’ She’s bordering on petulant now.

  I’m not going to let her get away with a Rosie-tantrum this time. I find the tea bags in the fridge.

  ‘Well, do you need to go now?’ I ask sternly.

  ‘A bit, I suppose.’ I can hear her pouting.

  ‘Well, go on then! You can do the other one in the morning if you have to.’ I’m not sure if this is how it’s supposed to work but I’m working on the theory that if you’re knocked up, you’re knocked up and it doesn’t matter what time of day you pee on the stick. I hear Rosie mumble something derogatory about me as she pads along the hallway to the bathroom and shuts the door. I lift pots, pans and plates out of the sink until I can find two mugs to rinse out and I lean against the counter waiting for the kettle to come to the boil. What are we going to do if she is pregnant?

  I can’t picture Rosie as a mother. I can’t picture Rosie in anything other than four-inch heels, with a cigarette in her mouth and a cocktail in her hand. If she has a maternal streak I haven’t seen it yet. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be a good mum one day, though. I mean, she’s loyal and kind. She’s funny and good at listening; she’s emotionally generous and always thinks the best of people. I suppose all of us have it in us to make good mothers one day, it’s just that I have never thought of that day as being anywhere but around some far distant corner, and after some very radical changes of direction and circumstance. And the thought of someone as vain and superficial as Chris becoming a father? Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. No wonder she’s been a bit madder than usual recently, with this on her mind.

  I’m trying to think of the best way to be for her. Non-judgemental, supportive and practical, I decide, at least until I can get Selin on the phone to be in charge. We’ve got £820 in the emergency holiday fund if we need cash to get anything over with, and if she isn’t pregnant, well, then straight over the road to the Duke of York and have two pints of bitter for old times’ sake. The kettle clicks off and I pour the water on two tea bags, milk and the two sugars which neither of us takes except for regular daily emergencies.

  I hear the bathroom door click open and Rosie running down the hallway.

  I turn to look at her in the doorway. She is grinning from ear to ear and there are tears in her eyes.

  ‘It’s all OK then?’ I ask, clasping both mugs of tea for dear life.

  ‘Yes, it’s brilliant!’ She rushes to engulf me in a hug. I hold the two mugs out either side of her, trying not to spill anything else on to the sticky floor.

  ‘Oh thank God, what would we have done!’ I say, laughing with relief.

  Rosie takes a step back and puts her hands on my shoulders. Her smile is radiant. ‘Everything is going to change from now on. It has to.’ I can see that the result has overwhelmed her.

  ‘Well, you know, Rosie, you may have got away with it this time but––’

  ‘I mean,’ she interrupts me in a rush of emotion, ‘I’m going to be a mum!’ She is hugging me again and hot tea splashes on to my thumb. ‘I’m having a baby!’

  From the other room I can hear my mobile phone ringing.

  Chapter Eight

  We are both sitting on our black velveteen sofa, tea in hand, staring at the opposite wall.

  ‘You’re definitely pregnant? You haven’t read it wrong?’ I ask her. I’m still reeling from the news.

  ‘Definitely. Blue stripe, the works.’ She is already resting the palm of her hand on her abdomen. I can’t quite believe this.

  ‘But Rose, mate, are you sure? A baby? Single mother? You don’t want to keep it because you think Chris will come back, do you?’ I turn to look at her. That would be a typically Rosie move.

  ‘No! God no, I don’t want that bastard near my baby. Jesus!’ she spits. I’m starting to wonder how long Rosie has been thinking this through. Maybe she knew even before she took the test. She seems to have everything planned out.

  ‘I earn good money, I get good maternity leave and a childcare allowance from work and then there’s the settlement from the divorce. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

  But just at this moment I can’t see that it will be fine, I can’t see that at all. I lean my head on the sofa’s back and look at the watermarked stains on the ceiling.

  ‘But, Rose, a new baby. Your life will change for ever. Nothing will be the same, you’ll have to grow up – and for real, this time, not just in terms of the clothes you can afford. And what about Chris? Will you tell him? What about future boyfriends? What about Saturday nights?’

  Rosie puts her tea on the floor, squashing a small beetle as she does so, and picks up one of my hands. ‘I know I’ve been … a bit … well, a bit out of control in the last few months.’

  ‘Years,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Years then, but especially in the last few months. On the sauce a bit too much, taking more drugs than I’ve let on about and all that. I know I’ve been a bit tricky sometimes and I’ve been worried about myself too. It’s almost seemed as if it wasn’t really happening to me: living here, it’s been like having a holiday from my life. But maybe this baby … maybe this baby is my chance to get out of all that. Maybe this baby is it, the thing that is going to get me on the right track again.’ She pats my hand. ‘Holiday over.’

  ‘You decided all that while you were in the loo waiting for the stick to go blue?’ I’m worried. Typical Rosie; life-changing decisions made in two minutes. I generally think that life-changing decisions should take, well, a lifetime; makes it much less likely that you’ll have to live with the consequences if you don’t actually change anything. ‘Because this is about more than saving yourself. This is about a real person, another person, who will rely on you always and for ever,’ I say, feeling an odd sense of vertigo at the pace at which her life is changing.

  ‘I know that, of course I do. Jen, I promise I’m not going into this lightly. I promise this will change my life and I will be a good mother. I know I will.’ She grabs my hand again. �
��I know it won’t be easy, I’m not that naive but I really feel I can do it, I can make this baby’s life a happy one. And that’s a really important thing to do with your life, isn’t it? The most important thing really.’

  I look at her and think: non-judgemental, supportive and practical.

  ‘Honestly now. How can you have decided all this so quickly? You knew already that you were going to keep it, didn’t you?’ I ask her.

  Rosie shifts in her seat and takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. I can’t explain it really, I mean the vomiting thing has only been recently, but for weeks I’ve felt … well, I’ve felt different, it happened almost immediately.’ She laughs. ‘I mean, it’s pretty fucking weird, really. I don’t know how anyone is ever surprised to be pregnant! I tried not to think about it for a while, but you can’t ignore it in the end. Everything changes.’ She hugs her legs up to her chin and looks at me over the tops of her knees. I decide to keep quiet and just let her talk.

  ‘For the last few weeks I’ve been awake every night thinking about what I would do if I was pregnant. At first I was scared, I thought this couldn’t be happening. Not now, not with Chris, of all people. I mean, how could I be ready for something like this? I was all sick and panicky. To be honest, I thought if I just drank and partied enough the problem would go away on its own. God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?’ I shake my head and pull my own feet up on to the sofa in a mirror image of her. She looks like a little girl.

  ‘That’s not awful,’ I say softly. ‘Not at all. I expect loads of people react that way. It’s just the shock.’ She smiles a little smile and continues.

  ‘One night I found myself worrying that I wasn’t pregnant, that that time with Chris was just another pathetic, demeaning encounter which meant nothing. I found myself thinking, no, hoping, that maybe this baby is the reason I met him in the first place. If I’m honest this baby became a reality to me a lot longer ago than with that positive test result. This is my baby, mine. This is my chance to do things right for a change and I’m going to take it.’ She lifts her chin a little with a determined air. ‘And yes, I did make up my mind long before I took the test. The thing I’ve been stressing out about most recently is how I was going to tell you two!’ She laughs sheepishly.

  ‘God, you shouldn’t have been scared about telling us! Well, not me anyway.’ I hesitate, and then continue. ‘Look, I’m not sure I would have made the same choice and I’m not sure how we’re going to iron out the details, but if this is what you want then of course I’m with you one hundred per cent. I’ll help in whatever way I can. And so will Selin, I know she will. Once she comes down from hitting the roof.’

  We reach out and hug each other and settle back on to the sofa in each other’s arms.

  ‘No more booze, you know. You drink a lot,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know. No more booze. None.’ She shakes her head and crosses her heart.

  ‘No more pharmaceuticals.’ I think about the last few weekends out we’ve had with regard to foetal health and decide not to mention it right now.

  ‘Nope,’ she concedes.

  ‘The fags will have to go. Right now.’

  ‘Right now.’ She pulls a pack out of her jeans pocket and gives it to me.

  ‘Tea, coffee, Red Bull. You’ll have to cut all that out.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been waiting for an excuse to detox.’ She shrugs and pulls the ends of her sleeves over her fingers.

  ‘And you’ll have to kiss goodbye to your hipster Versace jeans before long.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks. I’ve changed my mind.’ And we fall into a fit of the giggles.

  I have the strangest feeling of unreality as I watch the indestructible little beetle struggle out from under Rosie’s mug. Things will have to change so much, things that neither of us have any idea about right now. I wonder if evolution really meant it to be this easy to bring another life into the world.

  ‘Imagine, a baby in the house!’ I say, feeling light-headed in a tipsy kind of way. ‘We can paint a nursery! What fun!’

  ‘Oh yes, but not baby pink or blue, something a bit more hip. I have to have a hip baby!’ Rosie says and I nod in agreement.

  As we sit with stupid grins on our faces, we watch the little beetle crawl over a discarded toast plate and amble under the sofa. Then suddenly Rosie sits up and inexplicably dives for the Yellow Pages.

  ‘Bloody hell, we have to move! We have to move like now. This week – we can’t live in this flea-pit with a baby on the way!’ She’s turning the pages but there doesn’t seem to be a section called ‘Reasonably priced three-bedroom flats just over the road available now’.

  ‘God, yes, we have to move,’ Rosie continues in her new hygiene rant. ‘We’ll definitely need more than one ring with a baby. Hot water and stuff, I expect.’ And then, ‘We’ll never afford anywhere round here,’ she says, matter of factly.

  I sit back, a little stunned, and think about it. I had just started to come to terms with the fact that her baby would change all our lives but I hadn’t expected it to change my life quite so much.

  ‘We do?’ I stand up and look out of the window and down the Grove, and think about the hundreds of nights when brim-full of wine I’ve strolled up it with Owen. This flea-pit has been my home.

  ‘What about south of the river? Brixton or Streatham?’ Rosie used to live there with Chris.

  ‘Well, you know, south and all that. It’s just not my cup of tea,’ I say, rather than point out that we’d practically be moving in next door to the evil absent father of her love child. ‘And I see your point, what with the “wildlife” and everything, but maybe we could buy some kind of spray?’

  Rosie picks up on the uncertainty in my voice.

  ‘Jen, darling. I have to move out of here, you know why.’ She points at the dark recess beneath the sofa where who knows how many beetles are eavesdropping on our life-changing morning. ‘I, well, I’d love it if you came with me. It could be a new start for us both, but well, look, if you don’t want to come I’ll understand …’ Her voice trails off and she looks at me, her expression a mixture of concern and panic.

  I look around the room and see memories of Owen in every corner, smirking at me. Leaving this flat is exactly the kind of life-changing decison I don’t like to make in a hurry. This place has been my refuge for so many years. On the other hand, Rosie has suddenly altered her life beyond recognition, always and for ever in the space of a few minutes and well, maybe moving flat wouldn’t be so bad, in fact maybe it would be another way to distance myself from Owen, to show solidarity with Rosie’s determination to get over Chris, even while she’s carrying his baby. Owen always said I was never impulsive enough. I hesitate a moment more, that sense of vertigo creeping over me once again, and then I decide. I’ll show him.

  ‘OK, yes. Come on, let’s bloody move!’ I catch on to Rosie’s excitement. ‘But I’m not moving south, you can’t make me move south, OK?’

  ‘Ha!’ Rosie jumps to her feet. ‘I’ve got it. We’ll move back north, we’ll go home to Stoke Newington and live near Selin! They’ve got cafés there now, an organic supermarket and everything.’

  Stoke Newington. No tube, but the number 73 would take me straight to Tottenham Court Road, which is only two minutes’ walk from the office. And we’d be going home really, so it would be much less of a change than it might have been. Rosie is a genius.

  ‘Of course!’ I agree. ‘Then the three of us will be close and Mrs Selin loves babies, I bet she’d babysit any time you liked.’ I’m talking about Selin’s mum. We have always referred to parents as Mrs Rosie, Mrs Jen, Mr and Mrs Selin. ‘I’ll go and get a copy of Loot right now.’ And I already have my coat on when a sudden sinking feeling stops me in the doorway; I turn and look back at Rosie. I can tell she has just had the same thought I have.

  ‘How are we going to tell Selin? She’ll kill us,’ I say, forgetting for a moment that none of this is my fault. ‘And what about your mum?’

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sp; ‘I’m not worried about telling her …’ Rosie says. We look at each other a moment longer and I shut the front door behind me. In times of difficulty, denial is always the safest place.

  In the newsagent I buy a token copy of Loot – though I know in my heart that it is probably already useless by 11.45 on a Monday morning – and a large bar of Cadbury’s. Before I go back into the building I take out my phone and check the received-calls register. I check the last number to call my phone and compare it to the number he left. They aren’t the same. I dial to pick up my messages and find that it was the bookshop calling to tell me my ordered items are now available.

  I stand in the doorway for a moment longer and look at the dark sky. It’s funny to think that only a couple of days ago it was bright blue and warm enough for a vest top. I remember the touch of the sun on my face as he tipped my chin back to kiss me. A small knot forms in my stomach. I close my eyes just for a second and think of his kiss. My lips tingle.

  This is insane. I’m twenty-nine, he’s far too young for me, one of my best friends is pregnant and anyway he hasn’t even called yet. I think about switching my phone off. In the end I just put it back in the pocket of my coat and go inside.

  ‘Rosie, get some biros and get ready,’ I call as I walk through the door.

  ‘OK. There was phone call for you, while you were out.’

  ‘Michael?’ I ask before I can stop myself, even though I know he doesn’t have the land-line number.

  ‘No.’ She sighs and crosses her arms. ‘Owen.’

  Chapter Nine

  Rosie has gone into the kitchen to put the kettle on again. Rain has just started to hit the windows and I reach under the three-legged dining table that leans against the wall, bring out the buckets and situate them around the room. Usually the ceilings don’t leak unless the rain gets really heavy, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  Owen used to laugh at my faux-destitute lifestyle. He used to say it was bohemian and I used to think, ‘Yeah, right. I’m a very bohemian Customer Service Administration Manager (UK) for a hardware-component manufacturer.’ And then, when he was back into writing his literally fictional novel, with so far not one word actually committed to paper, as far as I knew, I’d be Miss Mundane Bureaucracy. I’d be Miss Lower Middle Class Mediocrity. And I’d know that I was shortly to be dumped again for a poet called Alicia or an editorial assistant called Hermione.