The Switch(55)

‘Yeah?’ Martha pants.

‘You’re being that woman,’ Fitz says.

Ten minutes later and the groans are more like screams.

‘We need to get her to the hospital,’ Fitz tells Rupert and Aurora. I’ll give them their due, they’re not shying away from getting stuck in. Aurora is dashing around fetching water and typing questions into Google Search; Rupert, who did a spell as a paramedic in his youth, is desperately reciting the advice he remembers about childbirth, which is not calming Martha, but is making the rest of us feel a bit better.

‘What was Martha’s plan for when the baby came?’ I ask Fitz.

‘Yaz,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘She’s got a car, she’d drive her to the hospital.’

‘But she’s not here,’ I say. ‘What was the alternative plan?’

Everyone blinks at me.

‘I have a motorbike?’ Rupert offers.

‘A scooter,’ Aurora corrects him. Rupert pouts.

‘I’m not sure that’ll work,’ Fitz says, rubbing Martha’s back as she leans on the sofa arm, groaning. ‘How long ’til the Uber arrives?’

Rupert checks his phone and whistles between his teeth. ‘Twenty-five minutes.’

‘Twenty-what?’ Martha yells, in a voice that sounds absolutely nothing like Martha. ‘That is literally impossible! There is always an Uber within five minutes! It is a law of physics! Where is Yaz? She was meant to bloody be here!’

‘She’s in America,’ Letitia offers. ‘What?’ she says, noting my glare. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘She’s not picking up her phone,’ Fitz says to me in a low voice. ‘I’ll keep trying her.’

Martha lets out a half groan, half scream, dropping into a crouch. Fitz flinches.

‘I am not meant to be witnessing this,’ he says. ‘I’m supposed to be downstairs having a cigar and a whisky and pacing, aren’t I? Isn’t that what men do in these situations?’

I pat him on the shoulder. ‘Let me take over.’ I swing a cushion off the sofa for my knees and get down next to Martha. ‘Fitz, you go and knock on the neighbours’ doors. There must be someone with a car. Aurora, fetch some towels. Just in case,’ I say to Martha when she turns panicked eyes my way. ‘And Rupert … go and sterilise your hands.’

*

‘In! In!’ Sally from Flat 6 is yelling.

This emergency situation has been a wonderful bonding experience for the building. I can finally say I’ve met every single neighbour. I was astonished when Sally stepped up to the plate, though she was rather strong-armed into it: she’s the only one in the building with a means of transport, and by the time we got to her the sound of Martha screaming blue murder was echoing down the halls.

‘All I know about Sally is that she is a hedge-fund manager and lives in Flat 6, yet I have no qualms about getting in her enormous, serial-killer-style van,’ Fitz observes wonderingly. ‘Is this community spirit, Eileen? Trusting thy neighbour, and all? Oh, holy mother of God …’

Martha has his hand in a vice-like grip. She’s leaning her forehead on the headrest of the seat in front; when she sits back, I notice she’s left a foggy dark patch of sweat on the fabric. She’s in a bad way. This baby is not dilly-dallying.

‘Go! Go! Go!’ Sally yells, though to whom I’m not sure – she’s in the driving seat. She pulls out of her parking space to a series of outraged honks. ‘Emergency! Baby being born in the back!’ she shouts out of the window, waving her arm at an irate taxi driver. ‘No time for niceties!’

Sally’s definition of niceties is quite broad and seems to cover most of the rules of the road. She goes through every red light, clips someone’s wing mirror, drives up three kerbs, and shouts at a pedestrian for having the gall to walk over a zebra crossing at the wrong moment. I find it fascinating that a woman so anxious about feeling safe in her own home drives as though she’s on the dodgems. But, still, I’m delighted she’s throwing herself into things. Though I’ve yet to get to the bottom of why she owns quite such a big van, as a woman living alone in the centre of London. I do hope Fitz’s not right – I’d feel awful if she turned out to be a serial killer.

Martha startles me out of my reverie with a long, loud, agonised roar.

‘We’re almost there,’ I tell her soothingly, though I haven’t a clue where we are. ‘You’ll be in the hospital in no time.’

‘Yaz,’ Martha manages, a vein standing out on her forehead. She grabs my arm with that urgent, animal grip that only comes with pain.

‘I can’t get hold of her, honey,’ Fitz says. ‘I think she’ll be on stage. But I’ll keep trying her.’

‘Oh, God, I can’t do this,’ Martha wails. ‘I can’t do this!’

‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘Just don’t do it until we get to the hospital, there’s a love.’





19


Leena


I’m on my fifth batch of brownies. I have discovered four entirely different ways of making brownies badly: burning them, undercooking them, forgetting to line the tray, and missing out the flour (a real low point).

But these are perfection. All it takes is application. And practice. And possibly a slightly calmer mental state – I started this process in a fog of missing Carla and raging at my mother and wondering what the hell I was doing with my life, and I think maybe brownies are like horses: they can sense your stress levels.