you stay?’ she says. ‘You’re here now and we won’t bite!’
‘Well, only the food!’ says the other woman. They giggle.
‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’ll reschedule.’
‘Aww, come on!’ The first woman tries to grab my arm and pull me over but I shrug her off.
‘It’s fine. Really. All the more for you. Have a lovely evening.’
I spin on my heel and leave the kitchen. I stop briefly in the anteroom, where the waiter’s tidying up the champagne glasses.
‘Did my companion guarantee the booking with a credit card?’
‘Yes… yes, it’s policy.’
‘He can’t make it, so please charge whatever cancellation fee you need to his card, thank you.’
‘I’m afraid at such late notice, you will be charged the full price.’ The waiter shakes his head apologetically.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘And, while you’re at it, please send the group a bottle of champagne. That one we had earlier? Just add it to the bill, thanks.’
I walk back through the hotel lobby and signal for a black cab, barely registering the activity going on around me. My mind’s racing: I’m remembering Ness’s phone call to me after the reunion; the warning tone in her voice: ‘Will you stay in touch, do you think?’
While the taxi weaves its way through Friday-night London traffic, I open Facebook on my mobile, and there, in among the notifications, I find Ness’s message: ‘Happy birthday, Stella! Hope you’re having a lovely evening! Xx’
Sick? She’s not sick: she’s clever. George! I think. How can you be so gullible? And then, as the taxi draws up outside my apartment block, I remember a simple fact that sends me to the wine bottle before I even take my shoes off: he’s not mine. Ness has every right to pull rank on my birthday because George is not mine.
When I put the key in the lock, I don’t know whether I’m worried about Ness or angry with her for making me miss Stell’s birthday dinner. I’d told her I had a very important ‘client dinner’.
‘Please can you come?’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been throwing up all day and I… I just need you.’
‘I can’t, hon. I’m sorry, but these people are in town for one night only.’
‘Can you send someone else?’
‘I would if I could, hon, but it’s me they want.’
‘George, please? I need you.’ Her voice was hoarse from vomiting.
‘Is there no one else you can call? Just till I get home?’
She’d gone quiet then, and I’d caught myself: am I such a monster that I won’t go to my sick wife when she needs me? Because I’m out with my lover? I’d paced the office, torn between burning desire to see Stell and the duty I felt to go home to Ness.
‘I’m sorry. Of course I’ll come. You’re right. I’ll get Adam to go to the dinner. I’m sure the client won’t mind and – well, if they do…’
‘. . . if they do, perhaps they’re not the sort of client you want.’
‘Exactly.’
And so I stop at Waitrose on the way home and pick up a bunch of guilt flowers for Ness.
‘Honey!’ I call as I push open the door but there’s no reply. The light’s on in the living room so I look there first and, bingo, there she is, sprawled, fast asleep on the sofa, her hair spread all over the cushions. I stand over her for a minute, wondering whether to wake her up or just make her more comfortable there on the sofa, when I notice something in her hand and my whole body stiffens. A pregnancy test.
‘Oh my God! Ness! Is it? What is it? Are we… ?’ I squeeze my hands into fists, not sure whether to take the test from her hands or wait for her to tell me. Ness’s eyes snap open and she pushes her hair out of her eyes as she struggles to sit up, her hand clamping back around the test. Slowly, she registers me standing there and her face breaks into a huge smile. She holds the test out to me.
‘Here, look.’
‘What is it? What does it mean?’
‘Read it!’
So I look at the test, and I see that it says one word and one word only: ‘Pregnant’.
‘Oh my God! Ness! Does this mean… ?’
She nods.
‘Oh my God! There’s no doubt?’
‘Well. You can get false negatives, but I don’t think you get false positives, so…’
‘I’m going to be a dad?’
‘Yes.’
I fling myself down on the sofa next to her and scoop her into my arms, hugging her to me and kissing her face and her hair. She clings on to me.
‘You’re happy about this?’ she asks.
‘Of course I’m happy! Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ I swear I want a baby more than she does; I long to see that little crumpled face that looks like a brand-new, old-age version of me. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it! You clever thing! How?’
‘George! You know exactly how!’
‘But – when?’
‘You remember that night your client cancelled? I reckon it was then.’
‘But why now?’
‘Oh I don’t know, George! Stop analysing it! Maybe the time’s right. Maybe the stars aligned and a pink unicorn sprinkled some fairy dust over our house. I don’t know.’
I look at her and maybe I’m imagining it but already there seems to be a radiance about her. Suddenly I feel very protective of her. She’s carrying the most precious cargo in the world: my child.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to bed. You need your sleep now, more than ever. You both do.’ I take her hand and lead her up to the bedroom where we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
At the very back of my mind, behind everything else, just one dark cloud: Stell.
I
