The Girl in the Mirror(62)
“You’re pregnant? How can you be more pregnant than Summer?” he demands. “Are you married? When did you conceive?”
What has happened to Adam’s fuzzy memory? He’s jumped to the heart of the matter in seconds. It seems there’s a limit to his diffidence about the money. It’s one thing not to care whether you get it or not. It’s another to have it snatched away after you thought you’d won.
Tarquin toddles over to me and pokes me in my abdomen. “Baby’s back,” he says. “Baby’s back.” He runs his little hand down the curve of my belly.
You can feel the bumps of my baby’s spine through my abdominal wall, to the right of my midline, but I have no idea how Tarquin knows this. Stringing two words together is a linguistic advance for him, but I have bigger things on my mind.
“She’s not more pregnant than me,” I say. “Women vary in size when they’re pregnant. I’m on the petite side—”
“And I’m fat,” says Virginia. As if to emphasize the point, she pulls out a king-size bar of chocolate and snaps off a chunk. “Yes, I’m married, but don’t worry, Adam, you’ve won the race.”
Virginia explains Francine’s evil plan as she chews the chocolate, and reiterates that she’s determined to carry her baby to term. I’m waiting for Adam to drop the thousand-yard stare and show his usual chivalry, but instead he says, “If you care so much for your baby’s health, stop scoffing all that junk.”
It’s as if a different man has walked in the door from the husband who left this morning, but perhaps Adam has a point. Virginia’s ballooning weight might trigger early labor, mightn’t it? I can’t think straight. Tarquin is still touching my belly and chanting, “Baby’s back,” and pain shoots across my body.
“Stop it, sweetie,” I say. “Mummy’s hurting.”
“Where’s dinner?” Adam asks. “Annabeth will be here any minute.”
“It’s four thirty in the afternoon, I had no idea she was coming, and I have a guest!” I retort. “And I’m heavily pregnant! What are you expecting, a five-course banquet? Can’t we get takeaway for once?”
Adam looks from me to Virginia to Tarquin, who is still chanting merrily at my side, although he’s stopped touching me now.
“And why do we need to talk about my birthday—Iris’s birthday?” I ask.
At last, my husband comes to his senses. The Adam I’ve conjured into existence over the last few months—the house-trained helper hubby—reappears.
“My bad,” he says, scooping up Tarq and planting an apologetic kiss on my cheek. “Of course we can get takeaway. I’ll feed Tarq.” He wraps his warm arm around my shoulder. “I guess I’m more stressed about this baby than I realized. It brings back a lot of memories, you know.” He nods toward the piano. He has a habit of gesturing toward it whenever he mentions Helen; sometimes I feel that thing is her coffin, standing in the middle of our living room. “We don’t need to talk about your birthday if you don’t want to, but Annabeth wants to do something to remember Iris, and it’s only a couple of days away now.”
“It’s fine, honey,” I murmur. I lean into his muscular frame and press my face into his neck. “Sorry I snapped. I think we’re all a bit stressed right now. And we all want to help you, Virginia.”
Virginia nods, all grateful and tearful. Adam stands with one arm around me, the other holding his son. We must look superb, the ideal family, about to become very rich. As long as Virginia doesn’t go into labor.
Several hours later, Annabeth, Adam, Tarquin, Virginia, and I are sitting in a mess of empty takeaway containers, magazine spreads of christening photos, and empty M&Ms packets, when I realize the truth about Adam.
Our sex life has been amazing ever since the pregnancy test. I had to let go of Summer’s bullshit stories about candlelit seductions, and Adam had to let go of the sexyrape, but since we have both done that, things have blossomed between us. The baby bump has not been a turnoff for Adam, and as for his body, it’s a series of roped muscles, honey-gold and sublime. Adam still doesn’t kiss me, but apart from that he’s a great lover, thoughtful and playful and just plain hot.
But something is wrong, and his wedding album forces me to face it.
Who knew that you have to consult your wedding album in order to sew a christening gown? It wouldn’t have occurred to me, but Annabeth says she wants the lace to match. She has brought a ton of fabric samples with her, which she is now spreading out on the coffee table. Her conversation has meandered all evening between how to keep Virginia safe from Francine and what sort of gown she should make. My mother regards these topics as equally enthralling.
“Grab your wedding photos, Summer!” Annabeth cries.
Sometimes I think this will be the rest of my life; I’m just relaxing, my belly full of vindaloo, when someone demands something, right now, that I have no idea how to do. I don’t have a clue where Summer’s wedding photos are, but I have learned some techniques over the last few months. Grief and pregnancy are my go-to excuses for not remembering, not knowing, not doing the right thing.
“I’m too pregnant to move,” I say. As if in sympathy, my belly goes rigid, as it has been doing periodically all evening. “I swear if I get out of this armchair, the baby’s going to drop out of me.”