Beneath the Skin(95)
‘Wow, that went quickly. Do you know what you’re having?’
‘A baby!’ Mike would undoubtedly reply, quoting from Only Fools and Horses. But Mike doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby, he wants a surprise. Her heart lurched just a little when he said it, the ‘forgiven but not forgotten’ accusations about the miscarriage still hanging around her like an aura. Along, of course, with the ghost of Sami. It’s still there, but nebulous and vague, as a phantom should be. It feels a little silly now, but she whipped herself up into such a state of panic at one time she wondered if one could tell colour or ethnicity from a scan. She pictured the sonographer looking accusingly at Mike and saying, ‘What the hell are you doing here, you’re not the father!’ But Mike is the father. Thank God. She finds herself thanking God a lot, which is pretty ironic coming from her doubting lips.
Olivia scrapes off the newly formed layer of ice on the windscreen of her car with a credit card. Climbing into the car, she puts her hand on the mound of her stomach and smiles as she feels the baby squirm. She was so tightly bound with anxiety about Sami and Mike that she forgot to worry about a miscarriage.
Sable cloud’s silver lining, she thinks, as she turns on the ignition.
She’s now nearly seven months gone, the baby moves regularly and everything looked good on the scan, nose, fingers and toes and a firmly beating heart. Besides, somehow she knows this one is a fighter. She doesn’t want to tempt fate with her happiness, but she can’t help it. Despite her initial negativity, she feels quite light-headed and giddy with optimism. Then yesterday at the scan, as she gazed at her baby on the screen, she saw what looked like a little willy. She glanced up at the sonographer and knew from her small smile and the slight nod of her head that the baby is a boy. It was all she could do not to point it out to Mike there and then. She knows he’ll be so pleased with her, so thrilled when a son is born.
Other than sheer relief, Olivia can’t explain the transformation from the woman who didn’t want another baby to this, but she feels intensely grateful as she drives. To the hospital for the scan, to Mike for hanging in there and to Hannah for not kicking off about the baby. To her sister for not saying ‘I told you so’ after the fifth time. To Rachel for putting up with such a crap mum.
Peering through the windscreen, she smiles, thinking of her in-laws and their need to pray aloud. ‘If you are up there, Mr Almighty, thank you too. I’ll even let you off for the stretch marks.’
Not quite yet eleven, Antonia is early. It’s drizzling, of course. David said it always rained in Withington. But he called it ‘happy rain’. She should’ve asked him, ‘Why happy?’ but she didn’t. Seeing the sparkle in his eyes was enough.
Today’s another journey to the past, the more immediate past this time. She’d always assumed the gleam was nostalgic, from David’s days as a student, and if not that, humorous thoughts of his Friday night banter with Sami and Mike at the pub. But she’d been wrong; her discovery about Misty at the funeral was deeply hurtful and shocking. But now time has passed, she finds it puzzling too; David had loved her, really loved her. Hadn’t he?
Pushing the door open, the yeasty dank smell of beer hits her. It’s mixed with cleaning products too, but she knows it’s a smell that doesn’t disappear. Once it’s spilled, it stays, greedily absorbed by the floorboards like a drunk.
She heads to the bar, surprised to see two men at separate tables already clutching pints. One of them catches her eye and nods soulfully. Dark beer, almost black, she knows that it’s Guinness.
The lady at the counter turns. ‘What can I get you?’ Middle-aged and not unfriendly, she chats for a few moments as she pours the orange juice, but she doesn’t have red hair, she isn’t Misty.
Heading for the empty space beyond the bar, Antonia sits, wondering if this is where David sat on a Friday. He invited her, of course. ‘Come to the pub. I want to show you off.’ Just like he invited her everywhere. ‘Come and watch me play football on Sunday. You need to see my left foot in action. You’ll be so impressed.’
She sips her drink slowly, her eyes catching the morose man staring back. He has a fresh pint. What time did he start drinking? Why does he need to so early? What’s he escaping? There’s always a reason. She tries to reach for understanding or empathy, but the split of emotions is still there.
‘It’s Antonia, isn’t it?’
The sound of the voice makes her start and look up. Misty, it’s Misty. It’s what she’s here for, isn’t it? And yet she wants to bolt, to deny who she is and escape.
But Misty is already pulling out a stool. ‘Is it OK if I sit down?’ she asks.
Antonia nods and Misty sits, smiling hesitantly. She places her wrinkled hands on the table. Huge glistening rings adorn her fingers and they’re shaking badly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she says with a catch to her voice. ‘I tried to speak to you at the funeral but of course you were busy. I wanted to speak to you in person, maybe visit or something, but I didn’t know if you’d want me to.’
Antonia breathes. She thought she might shout when this moment came. Scream and shake the evil bitch. But the woman’s a wreck. Her grey roots are showing through the red, her eye make-up is haphazard and smudged, she looks desperately sad. ‘Because I might know about the affair?’ she asks quietly instead.