Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff
Читать онлайн книгу.
anklet. ‘She mostly temps – flitting from job to job. She’s twenty-six now so I try to persuade her to have some sort of career plan. But she just spouts that bit in the Bible about the lilies of the field and about how they toil not neither do they spin.’
‘Is she religious?’
‘Cassie?’ I snorted. ‘Not in the least. She’s also worked as a lingerie model – my parents never found out about it, luckily – and then as a croupier; they were horrified, but she said the money was great. She’s forever short of cash.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she’s always lived beyond her means. She rents a flat in Chelsea – it’s very small but it costs a fortune. I said she should try and buy somewhere in a cheaper area but she won’t compromise on postcode; plus she has very expensive tastes – designer clothes, luxury holidays, smart restaurants – things that I, on my City salary, would have hesitated over, Cassie just goes for.’
‘So she’s a hedonist, then.’
‘Completely – and she’s got this old MG that’s continually breaking down. She’s always running to Dad to pay her garage bills.’
‘Does he mind?’
‘He doesn’t seem to. He’s always indulged her – all her life.’ I felt the familiar stab of resentment. ‘Almost as though he were trying to compensate her for something,’ I suddenly added, although I’d never had this thought before.
Xan stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. I stared at his pale suede desert boots.
‘And how’s your dad been coping since your mother died?’ I heard him ask.
I heaved a deep sigh. ‘Not well.’
I went down to the house every weekend. Dad didn’t talk much, so we’d watch TV and do practical things – the shopping and gardening, his washing and ironing. He stopped listening to music because it made him cry. He’d left all Mum’s things just as they were. It had taken him three weeks to wash the wineglass she’d been using. It still had her pink lipstick marks.
I couldn’t console Dad, any more than he could console me – but I did my best to distract him. I’d encourage him to ring his friends, or go to the golf club.
‘Not yet,’ he’d say quietly. ‘I just … can’t.’
During the week I’d spend my free time with Xan. I’d wake in his arms, feeling excited but at the same time intensely comfortable. It was as though we’d known each other years before, but had recently met again and were keen to resume the relationship. Yet the truth was I hadn’t known him that long.
How long? I wondered one morning in late October as I sat in one of my horticulture lectures. The tutor was asking us to devise a planting plan for dry, shady conditions. Anemone japonica, I wrote down and Helleborus argutifolius. Acanthus mollis thrives in shade, as does Pulmonaria – that does wonderfully in dark corners and the dappled leaves are still pretty when the flowers have faded. It was a month since I’d met Xan. I looked out into the garden below, admiring the Indian bean tree beneath the window. No, I realised, it was more. We’d met on Friday the tenth of September so that was – I discreetly glanced at my diary – nearly seven weeks. I flicked back through my diary again, then forward, then a little further back. And now I saw that there was a red ring round a date in late August.
A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine …
I’d been late before, I told myself as I walked briskly up Flood Street on to the King’s Road at lunchtime. My cycle had probably changed due to stress. Shock can do that, I reflected as I went into the chemist’s. I looked at the range of tests.
‘We’ve got these on 3 for 2 if you’re interested,’ the pharmacist said benignly.
‘Erm … no thanks,’ I replied as I paid. One would be more than enough, I thought as I half walked, half ran back to the Physic Garden, my heart pounding.
I wasn’t pregnant, I told myself as I peed on the stick. If I were I’d know, because you’re supposed to get symptoms pretty early on, aren’t you? I tried to remember what they were. Nausea, obviously. When did that start? Wasn’t the taste of metal said to be an early sign? I slotted the stick back into the cartridge to await the result, which would take two minutes. I flushed the loo, then washed my hands. And wasn’t a bloated feeling a giveaway? I wondered as I yanked down the towel. Well, I didn’t feel bloated. Another minute to go. Engorged breasts? A perfunctory feel suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Twenty seconds now … Did I look pregnant? I peered into the mirror. No. Right then … Holding my breath, as though about to dive underwater, I picked up the test …
It was as though I’d stepped into a crevasse.
A blue cross in the second window means that you are pregnant.
I stared at the blue cross in mine – so strong it seemed almost to pulsate. With trembling hands I retrieved the carton from the paper bag and reread the blurb. Then I sank on to a chair and closed my eyes. Now I suddenly remembered what I’d said to Xan the night we met: I’m about to start a new life …
Xan … I’ve got something to tell you …
I couldn’t tell him something so huge over the phone. But he was filming in Glasgow and was then going to Spain to see his parents, so I wouldn’t get to see him for five days.
In the interim I tried to imagine his reaction. He’d be shocked. Not least because he’d said no pressure. I laughed darkly. No pressure? So, no – he was hardly going to be overjoyed. But if he could just be accepting – however grudgingly – that would be more than enough.
But what would I do about my course? I’d wonder, and my new career. The anxiety would make me feel sick. Then my mood would lift and I’d be entertaining a pleasant fantasy in which Xan was putting his arms round me and telling me that although, yes, it was rather soon, it would all be fine and we’d buy a house together a bit further out, with a nice big garden. And I was mentally landscaping said garden with a glorious play area complete with swing and slide, and a tree house – yes, a really great tree house – when the phone rang. My heart surged.
‘Anna …?’
‘Xan …’ I sank on to the chair with relief.
‘I’m back and, well …’ He sounded tired but then he’d been travelling.
‘I missed you, Xan.’
‘I missed you too,’ he said, with a kind of surprised sadness. ‘But … look … I need to see you. Can I come over?’
‘Yes… Yes, I’ll cook. Come at eight.’
He arrived at half past, carrying a huge bunch of pink roses. He kissed me on the cheek, which struck me as oddly formal. He seemed remote, but I put it down to fatigue.
‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,’ he said, almost regretfully, as we ate our risotto.
I looked at his plate. ‘But you’ve eaten so little.’
‘Yes …’ he said distractedly. ‘So have you.’
‘Well … that’s because …’ Adrenalin burned through my veins. ‘Xan …’ I put down my fork. ‘There’s something I have to tell you …’
So I did.
Xan froze, as though someone had poured liquid nitrogen over him. In the ensuing silence all I could hear was the hum of my computer.
‘You’re pregnant?’ he whispered. ‘But how?’
‘Well …’ I shrugged. ‘In the … conventional way.’
‘But …’ He was shaking his head. ‘We’ve been so careful.’
‘Not