After the End(100)
They all know, these people, they know what happened to Dylan. It passed from one person to another—not gossip, exactly, but a quiet explanation I found I didn’t mind. And now, here they all are—people I have worked with both airside and landside—wishing me well, not only because that’s what you do when people have babies, but because they really mean it.
“Nice party.” Like at least half the people here, Lars is on the orange juice. He tips his glass towards mine and we clink a toast.
“If I’d known, I’d have dressed up.” I give a rueful smile and sweep my free hand along my outfit and out to the side. Ta-da! I’m wearing Virgin’s answer to maternity wear: a black top and trousers, with my red crew cardigan. Hardly glamorous.
“You’re . . . what is it they say?” Lars finds the word. “Blooming.”
“And I thought pilots had to have perfect eyesight . . .”
He opens his mouth to protest, before realising I’m joking. “So,” he says instead. “Now that you’re on maternity leave, perhaps we could have that coffee?”
* * *
You’re going on a date with Lars Van der Werf?”
“It’s not a date.” The party is over, and Jada and I are sitting in neighbouring loungers in the corner of the Clubhouse. “It’s a cup of coffee.” On the floor next to me is a hamper of goodies, stuffed with onesies, chocolates, nappies, a mountain of toiletries, and a miniature bottle of champagne from Marilyn—to sneak into your hospital bag.
Jada pinches a piece of icing from the plate resting on my bump, weighed down with my second enormous slice of cake. Eating for two, and all that. “You might get carried away and shag him over the fondant fancies.”
I laugh, and my plate wobbles.
“You do fancy him, though, don’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Oh OK, maybe a little bit.”
She holds her hands aloft, claiming victory.
“But in a purely objective way.” I ignore Jada’s pointed stare. “I’m about to have a baby with a husband I’m divorcing—it’s a bit early to be shopping around for a replacement, don’t you think?”
“You’re being proactive.”
“It’s purely platonic, I promise you. Not least because, as far as he’s concerned, I’m still married.” Thankfully, Lars has never mentioned my clumsy attempt to seduce him.
“Oh no, he knows you’re separated.” She stands up. “Come on, I promised we’d be out of here by five.”
“What? How does he know that?”
Jada grins and holds out a hand to heave me up. “Because I told him.”
* * *
I meet Lars a few days later, at the end of March. He lives in St. Albans, and so we meet halfway, at a pub just outside of Milton Keynes, where we end up having lunch, instead of coffee.
It’s not a date, I remind myself, as he helps me out of my coat, and pulls out my chair for me to sit down. It’s not a date, I repeat, as I feel my skin warming under his gaze, and the jolt of my nerve endings as my arm brushes against his. It’s not a date.
“What’s the one place you’d like to go, that you’ve never visited?” Lars leans back in his chair, waiting for my answer.
I think for a moment. I’ve flown every week—discounting my time off with Dylan—since I was twenty-two. There aren’t many places I haven’t been. Suddenly I have it. “The Lake District.”
“Really?” Lars laughs.
“Really. I’ve never been, and it looks beautiful. I’d like to go camping by the lakes, and sit by a fire toasting marshmallows and telling stories. How about you?”
But I never do get to hear where Lars would like to go, because just at that moment there’s a rush of wetness down my legs, and my first thought is how glad I am that this is my second baby, because if I hadn’t given birth before I might have thought that my bladder had let me down. My second thought is that I have no idea where Max is.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, absurdly British, “but I’m having a baby.”
To his credit, Lars simply smiles. “I had noticed.” For a moment I think he’s referring to what feels like a tsunami of amniotic fluid beneath our table, but then I realise he thinks I’m apologising simply for being pregnant. I open my mouth to explain, just as the first contraction hits me, and a low moan escapes me, like a cow coming in for milking. I double over, gripping the table with both hands.
“Oh my God, you mean you’re having a baby now!”
I nod, unable to speak until the pain recedes, and the tightness across my bump passes. “I’d better go home and get my notes ready.” I still haven’t packed a bag, and despite my midwives’ advice to keep my notes in the car, they are sitting on the kitchen table.
“I’ll drive you.”
“It’s fine, it’ll be ages yet. With Dylan I was in labour for—” Pain punches me in the stomach. “Oh God!” I’m vaguely aware of people rushing around us, of Lars asking staff to call an ambulance, and me saying It’s fine, let’s drive. I hear him telling them It’s too early—she’s not due for another month, and I think suddenly that yes, I would like an ambulance, because it is too early, and what if . . . what if . . .