Mutton, page 15
‘I went to the appointment,’ Sky says. ‘For my food poisoning. Except it wasn’t food poisoning. It was a baby.’
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Fuck.’
‘Innit,’ says Jack.
‘Oh fuck,’ I say again. ‘What do you want to do, Sky? It’s probably not a good idea to hang around. How far gone are you?’
‘Twelve weeks,’ says Sky. ‘I’m due my first scan.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’
My brain is whizzing all over the place as I reach for the tea things – not mugs, but a pot: I feel the occasion demands it. Fuck. What are we going to do? Quite aside from the fact that I feel absolutely terrible: I’m in loco parentis for a few weeks and the child in my care gets up the duff. It’s not impressive. But then I do the maths and realize she must have been pregnant before she moved in, and feel marginally less guilty. But not much. Pregnant by my son. Who could become a dad. Fuck, is the point. Fuck.
‘OK,’ I say, putting the tea things on the table with a calmness I very much don’t feel. ‘Well, you know what your options are, presumably.’
‘Dr Bellingham explained,’ says Sky. ‘Not that it’s rocket science. We did it in Year 10.’
‘Well, obviously I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll come along with you, whatever you decide, for the, er … the thing. Jesus – we need to tell your dad. I really, really need to talk to him. Like, now.’
‘He’s not going to be pleased,’ Sky says, looking like a little girl. ‘He’s going to be livid.’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Jack, putting his arm around her protectively. ‘You said your mum was your age when they had you.’
‘Yeah, but it was different in the olden days,’ wails Sky. ‘He’s going to go mad – or will he just be sad? Or both? I can’t stand the thought of it.’
‘How did this even happen?’ I say, but as nicely as I can. ‘Do you not understand how contraception works? Jack?’
‘The condom came off a couple of times,’ Jack says, blushing scarlet. ‘I’m really not comfortable discussing this with my mum.’
‘Bit late for that,’ I say briskly. ‘The condom came off and what – you haven’t heard of the morning-after pill?’
‘I didn’t … Oh man, try and fill in the blanks,’ Jack says, now puce with embarrassment. ‘And because I didn’t, not inside, we didn’t think …’
‘I was going to go on the pill,’ says Sky, chewing her fingers. ‘I was waiting for the start of my next period.’
‘And when it didn’t come, you thought, “Ah well, never mind”?’
‘They’re really irregular,’ says Sky. ‘It’s happened loads of times before. I didn’t think it was a very big deal.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘There’s no point in discussing that now, I don’t suppose. We need a plan.’
‘I’ve got a load of leaflets from Dr Bellingham,’ says Sky. ‘Mostly I’m worried about my dad.’
‘Fucking Hebrides,’ I say. ‘Is there really no way of getting hold of him?’
‘No,’ says Sky miserably. ‘Only by letter. What’s he going to say? What’s he going to do? He’s supposed to have no distractions. Oh God, I so can’t face telling him.’
‘There’s that neighbour on the other side of the island,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to have to go and see your dad myself. I need to tell him face to face. Not by neighbour, not by letter. In person.’
‘I could come with you,’ says Sky. ‘Should I? Or would it make it worse?’ She looks really green.
‘We’ll think about it,’ I say, though even now I’m not convinced that an arduous journey to the outermost edge of the country is the best idea for Sky at this moment. ‘We’ll sleep on it.’
I go over and give Sky a hug. Poor little thing, half-orphaned and pregnant and seventeen. I need to get to her dad as quickly as is humanly possible: his daughter, my son … Oh God. God.
‘I thought you’d be really angry,’ says Jack.
‘Well, I’m not doing a dance of joy,’ I point out, stroking his arm. ‘You are a pair of complete idiots. But it’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to your dad and we’ll work it out.’
‘Um, Clara?’ says Sky, in a little voice. ‘But will we all be able to fit in here? Will that be OK, if we’re all here?’
‘What? What do you mean, all?’
‘All of us,’ Sky says. ‘Me and Jack and the baby.’ She and Jack are clinging to each other like love’s young dream. ‘I’m going to keep the baby.’
14
‘Oh my God. He must have replied on the very same day,’ Gaby says, almost swooning, stroking an envelope. The extravagantly curlicued writing looks like it’s been done by quill. No need to ask who it’s from: next to the stamps is a two-inch-square pen and ink drawing of some sort of crest featuring birds of prey.
‘He’s good at drawing,’ I say. ‘I like those eagles.’
‘They’re not eagles,’ says Gaby, rolling her eyes. ‘They’re Beakstrels. You know, like he sent Massicot. Man, I can’t believe he’s drawn me some Beakstrels!’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘OK. I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Anyway, shush,’ says Gaby. ‘This is the most important letter I’ve received in my life.’
‘I need to talk to you, though. It’s urgent.’
‘What, now?’ Gaby is reverentially opening the letter, pulling at the flap in tiny gestures, unsticking rather than pulling.
‘Why are you opening it in such a weird way?’
‘I am opening it with reverence,’ Gaby says. ‘Because it’s from Bernard Frossage.’
‘I’d worked that bit out,’ I say. ‘Speaking of which …’
‘After my letter,’ Gaby says firmly, holding a palm up at me. ‘I really need to read this, Clara. Everything else can wait.’
‘I suppose it can, for a few minutes,’ I say, taking a sip of tea and flipping my laptop open. I have to figure out how to get to the Isle of Muck in the Inner Hebrides. It’s two miles long by one mile wide; population thirty-eight. Well, thirty-nine if you include Frossage. It seems I need to get myself to Mallaig, on the west coast of the Highlands, which is doable by train from Fort William, and then cross by ferry.
‘Gaby,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he mentions coming home in the next couple of days? Or going to Glasgow or Edinburgh for a little light relief? Or to anywhere at all on the mainland?’
‘No. Oh my God,’ says Gaby. ‘This letter is amazing. This letter blows my mind.’ She puts it down on the table and actually puts her head between her knees, something I’ve only ever seen in movies. She takes deep breaths and then re-emerges, fanning her face. ‘He says I have already helped him “immeasurably” and he is begging me, actually begging me, to share any other ideas I might have.’ She looks up at me, eyes shining with happiness. ‘He’s invited me over! Listen: “Your remarkable insights have renewed my faith in my abilities … what had started to feel extraordinarily unwieldy and complex now begins to feel manageable … The blinding audacity of your resolution concerning the Amphiboles and your suggestions regarding the aftermath of the siege … I know that with your help, I am now, finally, able to move forward.” And so on. And then he invites me. He actually invites me. He says, “I would be honoured, Gabbro, if you would join me here, and spend a couple of days brainstorming the concluding chapters of Volume Seven.” ’
‘You signed it “Gabbro”?’
‘Yeah. It’s my name.’ She looks electrified with happiness. ‘Where actually is he?’ she asks. ‘Hebrides, right? I can’t even remember where I sent my letter. I was feeling a bit giddy.’
‘He’s on Muck,’ I say. ‘The Isle of. And as it happens, I’m going to have to pay him a visit too.’
‘Road trip!’ says Gaby. ‘But, er, why? You don’t even know him.’
‘Because, dear Lady Gabbro of Beakstrels …’
‘Don’t even try to do it,’ says Gaby disdainfully. ‘A) You can’t and b) it’s not funny.’
‘Because Sky’s pregnant.’
‘Oh my fucking God,’ says Gaby, sitting down and blanching. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because you weren’t here. This was only last night.’
‘Oh, Massicot, my little pal. Oh my God. When? How? How long have you known? Fuck. What are we going to do?’
I’m touched by the ‘we’.
‘I’ve told you: nobody knew until yesterday. We’re going to go and see Bernard,’ I say, ‘because my son has impregnated his daughter and it’s hardly the kind of news you break by letter.’
‘In his books, it’s exactly the kind of devastating news that would come by Beakstrel,’ Gaby muses.
‘Enough with the Beakstrels,’ I say. ‘And I’m telling Sky he may not in fact be devastated, so stick to that line. Poor thing’s got enough on her plate without fearing what you might call the Wrath of Bern.’
‘Don’t call him Bern, it’s disrespectful. How pregnant?’
‘Three months.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know. Explains the puking.’
‘I know a very good doctor,’ Gaby says.
‘Of course you do. But Sky says she’s planning to keep it. She’s having it, she says.’
‘Oh my God,’ Gaby says again, her mouth dropping open. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Well, she’s exactly the age her mother was when she had her. She doesn’t have a mother. She is great with kids: look how lovely she’s always been with Maisy. Who knows? And she may well change her mind. She only found out yesterday.’
‘I don’t think people change their minds,’ Gaby says. ‘Once they start thinking about it as an actual baby. God, little Sky. Little Massicot. Where is she now?’
‘At the library, revising,’ I say. ‘She’s fine, you know. She was chipper at breakfast. I mean, bit spaced-out, bit pukey, but cheerful enough.’
‘How’s Jack?’
‘Jack seems OK too. He just keeps saying he loves her and he’ll stick with her whatever she decides. He’s saying it like a kind of panicky mantra. He’s worried because Sky’s worried, though. Her main concern at the moment is Bernard, which is why we need to go.’
‘What, today?’
‘I’m just looking at trains and planes and ferries. Probably tomorrow – I’m going to ask Sam if he can move in for a couple of days. But imminently. Better start packing.’
What with one thing and another, I’m not really in the mood for dinner with Bel (Belt?), but I had to cancel our date last night for reasons of teenage pregnancy, and he asked if I was free tonight instead. Not unkeen, ole Bel, I sense: matters are coming to a head. Gaby said she’d cook ‘a nice dinner’ for the children – one involving both carbohydrates and fat – and take the opportunity to have a chat with Sky. So here I am again, dressed in my new frock, sitting in Dirty, a happening new restaurant on the edge of Bethnal Green. Dirty looks like the grimy version of a dive bar in Fifties America, with prices very much not to match, and serves burgers and cocktails. It occurs to me, too late, that my choice of restaurant is a bit coals-to-Newcastle for Bel, who must have sat in places like this for several decades and probably doesn’t find the inclusion of sliders – fashionably minute burgers – on the menu that exciting.
But I do, I reflect as I sip my nearly finished second Martini, even if the penumbral, speakeasy-darkness of the restaurant made it necessary for me to use the torch app on my phone to read the cocktail list, like a potholer. I had to get here early because, maddeningly and like all fashionable restaurants, Dirty doesn’t take bookings. I’ve secured a booth, which is good. The Martinis are going to my head, which is – well, it’s also good, actually, because I am finding everything a bit overwhelming, what with pregnant children and so on. Happily my fellow punters are able to distract me, for tonight at least: one of them is wearing a furry hat with enormous panda ears and a tabard, and another appears to be wearing a dress made of bark.
And now my phone pings, and it’s a text from Bel (Bellicose?) saying that he’s running fifteen minutes late and is very very sorry but the traffic is appalling. ‘No problem,’ I text back, and order a third cocktail, which is perhaps injudicious, but they are delicious and – well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I didn’t sleep last night for thinking about Sky and Jack, and tomorrow I set off for the Hebrides: why shouldn’t I have three cocktails? The thought of Bernard Frossage residing on Muck makes me feel that mild hysteria again, until I remember that I have to tell him about our predicament. Well, at least he’s no stranger to this particular scenario, given Sky’s mother’s age when they had their child. Perhaps he can give us some tips.
The phone pings again and interrupts my ruminations. ‘Where are you?’ reads the text. ‘Still here,’ I reply. ‘Embarking on my third Martini.’ It is only as I press Send that I wonder why Bel (Beleaguered?) should suddenly feel confused about my location, which he has in full including postcode: he’s not that old. I tap back on the handset, to Messages. It wasn’t from Bel: it was from the Man From The Connaught, the man who has been silent as the tomb, give or take a koala, for nearly a year. I’m wondering what to do about this, apart from feel my stomach plunge down ten storeys, which is my first response, when another text pings up. ‘Lucky you,’ it says. ‘Would you like some dinner to go with them?’ This, of course, is when Bel appears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, kissing my cheek and easing himself into the booth. ‘The traffic was atrocious. I should have taken the Underground but I’ve never been to this part of London before and I thought a taxicab would be easier. Sorry,’ he repeats. ‘Two more of those,’ he tells the waiter, gesturing at my drink.
‘And some water, please,’ I say. ‘Tap is fine.’
‘Well, this is different,’ says Bel, peering about him. I’ve only ever seen Bel in a suit, but tonight he is in casual wear, in chinos and a blazer and a crisp, immaculately pressed pink shirt: City mufti, which isn’t entirely my bag. It’s funny how some people look rich whatever they’re wearing: Bel exudes quiet wealth, though his clothes are normal-seeming as well as very square. It’s to do with his skin and hair, and teeth, and with his patrician air. The jawline, maybe. He probably looks rich naked. Some people do. With women it usually has something to do with incredibly expensive highlights and a certain fine-poredness.
‘You’re not in Mayfair any more,’ I smile. What am I going to do about my text? What am I going to do?
‘It’s great,’ says Bel. ‘I’d never come anywhere like this normally. Very hip.’
‘I suddenly thought it was a stupid choice,’ I say, forcing myself to stay on-topic, ‘given that you must have been to dozens of diners like this at home.’
‘Not quite like this,’ says Bel, looking around. ‘Different atmosphere. Different clientele.’ Our drinks arrive, and a pair of menus. ‘And never with anyone quite like you.’
Here we go. I don’t quite know what to say to this, so I smile. Judging by the look on his face – an expression of infinite tenderness – smiling was also a stupid choice. Because I am tiddly and have no self-control, I start laughing: Bel is looking at me with wonderment, like I am a newborn foal and he is my horse-mummy. He is like the baby Simba in The Lion King, beholding for the first time the pride lands of Africa. This seems an overreaction, and strikes me as absurd, as does the next item to pop into my head: a picture of Timon, a cartoon meerkat, and Pumbaa, his flatulent warthog friend. I push these away. I am aware that I am grinning manically. I should drink some water.
‘I – we – should eat something,’ I say. ‘Shall we order?’ Perhaps Bel will reply that he needs no nourishment other than the food of love. I need to get some sort of grip on myself. My phone pings again but I don’t look at it.
‘Well, cheers,’ says Bel, raising his glass to mine. ‘Bottoms up.’
‘Hakuna matata,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry?’ says Bel.
‘Just a saying,’ I shrug. ‘A saying of multicultural Britain. It’s nice, I think. Now – what do you want to eat?’
Bel looks at me for two seconds too long. Oh dear.
‘Er, why don’t you order?’ I say. ‘Here, use my torch app.’ The words have only just come out of my mouth – I am in the act of proffering my phone – when I remember the texts. I take the phone back. ‘Actually, don’t,’ I say hastily, practically snatching it back. ‘Silly me. There’s nothing wrong with your eyes.’
‘It is very dark,’ Bel says. ‘But I have my own torch app, as it happens.’
‘Oh good. If they come before I get back, could I have my burger rare?’ I say. ‘And will you excuse me for a second?’
Bel (Belch?) stands up, because his manners are so reliably impeccable and his demeanour so reliably courtly. It’s nice – there’s nothing I like more than good manners – but I’m never quite sure about the standing up when a woman goes to the bathroom thing. Instead of slinking away peacefully for your wee, you have it announced to the whole room that, yep, it’s time for a slash for the woman on table 7. It lacks mystery. It breaks mystique. When you’re having dinner with a whole group of men with old-fashioned manners, they all stand up, every single one, and you feel like you should head to the bathroom doing a special little loo dance, just in case anyone’s failed to notice that YOU’RE GOING NUMBER ONES because YOUR BLADDER IS FULL.
I sit on the loo and try to think. I’m almost scared to look at my phone. But I do. There are the first two texts, and then a third, which says, ‘Apols for the short notice – unexpectedly in London. Expect you’re busy. Would love to see you. Understand if not.’ He might well apologize: asking someone to dinner at seven-thirty p.m. is uncharming and booty call-ish. I am filled with indignation, actually. So I text back, ‘Asking someone to dinner at 7.30 p.m. is uncharming and booty call-ish.’ The phone rings almost immediately, but I send it to voicemail. And then another text: ‘I know. My flight came in early. So not as bad as looks. Answer the phone.’ ‘I can’t,’ I reply. ‘I am at dinner with a very attractive and hot man.’ This is only half a lie: lots of people would find Bel very attractive and hot. ‘OK,’ he texts back. ‘I’ll try you later.’ Many replies suggest themselves: ‘Actually, matey, I’ll try you later if I feel like it’; ‘I might be really busy shagging’; ‘I miss you so much I can barely breathe. I feel like climbing out of this loo window and jumping into a taxi.’ None of these seem especially wise, so I stare at the phone for a bit and then put it in my handbag, like a mature adult. Then I sit on the loo and regulate my breathing.
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Fuck.’
‘Innit,’ says Jack.
‘Oh fuck,’ I say again. ‘What do you want to do, Sky? It’s probably not a good idea to hang around. How far gone are you?’
‘Twelve weeks,’ says Sky. ‘I’m due my first scan.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’
My brain is whizzing all over the place as I reach for the tea things – not mugs, but a pot: I feel the occasion demands it. Fuck. What are we going to do? Quite aside from the fact that I feel absolutely terrible: I’m in loco parentis for a few weeks and the child in my care gets up the duff. It’s not impressive. But then I do the maths and realize she must have been pregnant before she moved in, and feel marginally less guilty. But not much. Pregnant by my son. Who could become a dad. Fuck, is the point. Fuck.
‘OK,’ I say, putting the tea things on the table with a calmness I very much don’t feel. ‘Well, you know what your options are, presumably.’
‘Dr Bellingham explained,’ says Sky. ‘Not that it’s rocket science. We did it in Year 10.’
‘Well, obviously I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll come along with you, whatever you decide, for the, er … the thing. Jesus – we need to tell your dad. I really, really need to talk to him. Like, now.’
‘He’s not going to be pleased,’ Sky says, looking like a little girl. ‘He’s going to be livid.’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Jack, putting his arm around her protectively. ‘You said your mum was your age when they had you.’
‘Yeah, but it was different in the olden days,’ wails Sky. ‘He’s going to go mad – or will he just be sad? Or both? I can’t stand the thought of it.’
‘How did this even happen?’ I say, but as nicely as I can. ‘Do you not understand how contraception works? Jack?’
‘The condom came off a couple of times,’ Jack says, blushing scarlet. ‘I’m really not comfortable discussing this with my mum.’
‘Bit late for that,’ I say briskly. ‘The condom came off and what – you haven’t heard of the morning-after pill?’
‘I didn’t … Oh man, try and fill in the blanks,’ Jack says, now puce with embarrassment. ‘And because I didn’t, not inside, we didn’t think …’
‘I was going to go on the pill,’ says Sky, chewing her fingers. ‘I was waiting for the start of my next period.’
‘And when it didn’t come, you thought, “Ah well, never mind”?’
‘They’re really irregular,’ says Sky. ‘It’s happened loads of times before. I didn’t think it was a very big deal.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘There’s no point in discussing that now, I don’t suppose. We need a plan.’
‘I’ve got a load of leaflets from Dr Bellingham,’ says Sky. ‘Mostly I’m worried about my dad.’
‘Fucking Hebrides,’ I say. ‘Is there really no way of getting hold of him?’
‘No,’ says Sky miserably. ‘Only by letter. What’s he going to say? What’s he going to do? He’s supposed to have no distractions. Oh God, I so can’t face telling him.’
‘There’s that neighbour on the other side of the island,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to have to go and see your dad myself. I need to tell him face to face. Not by neighbour, not by letter. In person.’
‘I could come with you,’ says Sky. ‘Should I? Or would it make it worse?’ She looks really green.
‘We’ll think about it,’ I say, though even now I’m not convinced that an arduous journey to the outermost edge of the country is the best idea for Sky at this moment. ‘We’ll sleep on it.’
I go over and give Sky a hug. Poor little thing, half-orphaned and pregnant and seventeen. I need to get to her dad as quickly as is humanly possible: his daughter, my son … Oh God. God.
‘I thought you’d be really angry,’ says Jack.
‘Well, I’m not doing a dance of joy,’ I point out, stroking his arm. ‘You are a pair of complete idiots. But it’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to your dad and we’ll work it out.’
‘Um, Clara?’ says Sky, in a little voice. ‘But will we all be able to fit in here? Will that be OK, if we’re all here?’
‘What? What do you mean, all?’
‘All of us,’ Sky says. ‘Me and Jack and the baby.’ She and Jack are clinging to each other like love’s young dream. ‘I’m going to keep the baby.’
14
‘Oh my God. He must have replied on the very same day,’ Gaby says, almost swooning, stroking an envelope. The extravagantly curlicued writing looks like it’s been done by quill. No need to ask who it’s from: next to the stamps is a two-inch-square pen and ink drawing of some sort of crest featuring birds of prey.
‘He’s good at drawing,’ I say. ‘I like those eagles.’
‘They’re not eagles,’ says Gaby, rolling her eyes. ‘They’re Beakstrels. You know, like he sent Massicot. Man, I can’t believe he’s drawn me some Beakstrels!’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘OK. I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Anyway, shush,’ says Gaby. ‘This is the most important letter I’ve received in my life.’
‘I need to talk to you, though. It’s urgent.’
‘What, now?’ Gaby is reverentially opening the letter, pulling at the flap in tiny gestures, unsticking rather than pulling.
‘Why are you opening it in such a weird way?’
‘I am opening it with reverence,’ Gaby says. ‘Because it’s from Bernard Frossage.’
‘I’d worked that bit out,’ I say. ‘Speaking of which …’
‘After my letter,’ Gaby says firmly, holding a palm up at me. ‘I really need to read this, Clara. Everything else can wait.’
‘I suppose it can, for a few minutes,’ I say, taking a sip of tea and flipping my laptop open. I have to figure out how to get to the Isle of Muck in the Inner Hebrides. It’s two miles long by one mile wide; population thirty-eight. Well, thirty-nine if you include Frossage. It seems I need to get myself to Mallaig, on the west coast of the Highlands, which is doable by train from Fort William, and then cross by ferry.
‘Gaby,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose he mentions coming home in the next couple of days? Or going to Glasgow or Edinburgh for a little light relief? Or to anywhere at all on the mainland?’
‘No. Oh my God,’ says Gaby. ‘This letter is amazing. This letter blows my mind.’ She puts it down on the table and actually puts her head between her knees, something I’ve only ever seen in movies. She takes deep breaths and then re-emerges, fanning her face. ‘He says I have already helped him “immeasurably” and he is begging me, actually begging me, to share any other ideas I might have.’ She looks up at me, eyes shining with happiness. ‘He’s invited me over! Listen: “Your remarkable insights have renewed my faith in my abilities … what had started to feel extraordinarily unwieldy and complex now begins to feel manageable … The blinding audacity of your resolution concerning the Amphiboles and your suggestions regarding the aftermath of the siege … I know that with your help, I am now, finally, able to move forward.” And so on. And then he invites me. He actually invites me. He says, “I would be honoured, Gabbro, if you would join me here, and spend a couple of days brainstorming the concluding chapters of Volume Seven.” ’
‘You signed it “Gabbro”?’
‘Yeah. It’s my name.’ She looks electrified with happiness. ‘Where actually is he?’ she asks. ‘Hebrides, right? I can’t even remember where I sent my letter. I was feeling a bit giddy.’
‘He’s on Muck,’ I say. ‘The Isle of. And as it happens, I’m going to have to pay him a visit too.’
‘Road trip!’ says Gaby. ‘But, er, why? You don’t even know him.’
‘Because, dear Lady Gabbro of Beakstrels …’
‘Don’t even try to do it,’ says Gaby disdainfully. ‘A) You can’t and b) it’s not funny.’
‘Because Sky’s pregnant.’
‘Oh my fucking God,’ says Gaby, sitting down and blanching. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because you weren’t here. This was only last night.’
‘Oh, Massicot, my little pal. Oh my God. When? How? How long have you known? Fuck. What are we going to do?’
I’m touched by the ‘we’.
‘I’ve told you: nobody knew until yesterday. We’re going to go and see Bernard,’ I say, ‘because my son has impregnated his daughter and it’s hardly the kind of news you break by letter.’
‘In his books, it’s exactly the kind of devastating news that would come by Beakstrel,’ Gaby muses.
‘Enough with the Beakstrels,’ I say. ‘And I’m telling Sky he may not in fact be devastated, so stick to that line. Poor thing’s got enough on her plate without fearing what you might call the Wrath of Bern.’
‘Don’t call him Bern, it’s disrespectful. How pregnant?’
‘Three months.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know. Explains the puking.’
‘I know a very good doctor,’ Gaby says.
‘Of course you do. But Sky says she’s planning to keep it. She’s having it, she says.’
‘Oh my God,’ Gaby says again, her mouth dropping open. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Well, she’s exactly the age her mother was when she had her. She doesn’t have a mother. She is great with kids: look how lovely she’s always been with Maisy. Who knows? And she may well change her mind. She only found out yesterday.’
‘I don’t think people change their minds,’ Gaby says. ‘Once they start thinking about it as an actual baby. God, little Sky. Little Massicot. Where is she now?’
‘At the library, revising,’ I say. ‘She’s fine, you know. She was chipper at breakfast. I mean, bit spaced-out, bit pukey, but cheerful enough.’
‘How’s Jack?’
‘Jack seems OK too. He just keeps saying he loves her and he’ll stick with her whatever she decides. He’s saying it like a kind of panicky mantra. He’s worried because Sky’s worried, though. Her main concern at the moment is Bernard, which is why we need to go.’
‘What, today?’
‘I’m just looking at trains and planes and ferries. Probably tomorrow – I’m going to ask Sam if he can move in for a couple of days. But imminently. Better start packing.’
What with one thing and another, I’m not really in the mood for dinner with Bel (Belt?), but I had to cancel our date last night for reasons of teenage pregnancy, and he asked if I was free tonight instead. Not unkeen, ole Bel, I sense: matters are coming to a head. Gaby said she’d cook ‘a nice dinner’ for the children – one involving both carbohydrates and fat – and take the opportunity to have a chat with Sky. So here I am again, dressed in my new frock, sitting in Dirty, a happening new restaurant on the edge of Bethnal Green. Dirty looks like the grimy version of a dive bar in Fifties America, with prices very much not to match, and serves burgers and cocktails. It occurs to me, too late, that my choice of restaurant is a bit coals-to-Newcastle for Bel, who must have sat in places like this for several decades and probably doesn’t find the inclusion of sliders – fashionably minute burgers – on the menu that exciting.
But I do, I reflect as I sip my nearly finished second Martini, even if the penumbral, speakeasy-darkness of the restaurant made it necessary for me to use the torch app on my phone to read the cocktail list, like a potholer. I had to get here early because, maddeningly and like all fashionable restaurants, Dirty doesn’t take bookings. I’ve secured a booth, which is good. The Martinis are going to my head, which is – well, it’s also good, actually, because I am finding everything a bit overwhelming, what with pregnant children and so on. Happily my fellow punters are able to distract me, for tonight at least: one of them is wearing a furry hat with enormous panda ears and a tabard, and another appears to be wearing a dress made of bark.
And now my phone pings, and it’s a text from Bel (Bellicose?) saying that he’s running fifteen minutes late and is very very sorry but the traffic is appalling. ‘No problem,’ I text back, and order a third cocktail, which is perhaps injudicious, but they are delicious and – well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I didn’t sleep last night for thinking about Sky and Jack, and tomorrow I set off for the Hebrides: why shouldn’t I have three cocktails? The thought of Bernard Frossage residing on Muck makes me feel that mild hysteria again, until I remember that I have to tell him about our predicament. Well, at least he’s no stranger to this particular scenario, given Sky’s mother’s age when they had their child. Perhaps he can give us some tips.
The phone pings again and interrupts my ruminations. ‘Where are you?’ reads the text. ‘Still here,’ I reply. ‘Embarking on my third Martini.’ It is only as I press Send that I wonder why Bel (Beleaguered?) should suddenly feel confused about my location, which he has in full including postcode: he’s not that old. I tap back on the handset, to Messages. It wasn’t from Bel: it was from the Man From The Connaught, the man who has been silent as the tomb, give or take a koala, for nearly a year. I’m wondering what to do about this, apart from feel my stomach plunge down ten storeys, which is my first response, when another text pings up. ‘Lucky you,’ it says. ‘Would you like some dinner to go with them?’ This, of course, is when Bel appears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, kissing my cheek and easing himself into the booth. ‘The traffic was atrocious. I should have taken the Underground but I’ve never been to this part of London before and I thought a taxicab would be easier. Sorry,’ he repeats. ‘Two more of those,’ he tells the waiter, gesturing at my drink.
‘And some water, please,’ I say. ‘Tap is fine.’
‘Well, this is different,’ says Bel, peering about him. I’ve only ever seen Bel in a suit, but tonight he is in casual wear, in chinos and a blazer and a crisp, immaculately pressed pink shirt: City mufti, which isn’t entirely my bag. It’s funny how some people look rich whatever they’re wearing: Bel exudes quiet wealth, though his clothes are normal-seeming as well as very square. It’s to do with his skin and hair, and teeth, and with his patrician air. The jawline, maybe. He probably looks rich naked. Some people do. With women it usually has something to do with incredibly expensive highlights and a certain fine-poredness.
‘You’re not in Mayfair any more,’ I smile. What am I going to do about my text? What am I going to do?
‘It’s great,’ says Bel. ‘I’d never come anywhere like this normally. Very hip.’
‘I suddenly thought it was a stupid choice,’ I say, forcing myself to stay on-topic, ‘given that you must have been to dozens of diners like this at home.’
‘Not quite like this,’ says Bel, looking around. ‘Different atmosphere. Different clientele.’ Our drinks arrive, and a pair of menus. ‘And never with anyone quite like you.’
Here we go. I don’t quite know what to say to this, so I smile. Judging by the look on his face – an expression of infinite tenderness – smiling was also a stupid choice. Because I am tiddly and have no self-control, I start laughing: Bel is looking at me with wonderment, like I am a newborn foal and he is my horse-mummy. He is like the baby Simba in The Lion King, beholding for the first time the pride lands of Africa. This seems an overreaction, and strikes me as absurd, as does the next item to pop into my head: a picture of Timon, a cartoon meerkat, and Pumbaa, his flatulent warthog friend. I push these away. I am aware that I am grinning manically. I should drink some water.
‘I – we – should eat something,’ I say. ‘Shall we order?’ Perhaps Bel will reply that he needs no nourishment other than the food of love. I need to get some sort of grip on myself. My phone pings again but I don’t look at it.
‘Well, cheers,’ says Bel, raising his glass to mine. ‘Bottoms up.’
‘Hakuna matata,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry?’ says Bel.
‘Just a saying,’ I shrug. ‘A saying of multicultural Britain. It’s nice, I think. Now – what do you want to eat?’
Bel looks at me for two seconds too long. Oh dear.
‘Er, why don’t you order?’ I say. ‘Here, use my torch app.’ The words have only just come out of my mouth – I am in the act of proffering my phone – when I remember the texts. I take the phone back. ‘Actually, don’t,’ I say hastily, practically snatching it back. ‘Silly me. There’s nothing wrong with your eyes.’
‘It is very dark,’ Bel says. ‘But I have my own torch app, as it happens.’
‘Oh good. If they come before I get back, could I have my burger rare?’ I say. ‘And will you excuse me for a second?’
Bel (Belch?) stands up, because his manners are so reliably impeccable and his demeanour so reliably courtly. It’s nice – there’s nothing I like more than good manners – but I’m never quite sure about the standing up when a woman goes to the bathroom thing. Instead of slinking away peacefully for your wee, you have it announced to the whole room that, yep, it’s time for a slash for the woman on table 7. It lacks mystery. It breaks mystique. When you’re having dinner with a whole group of men with old-fashioned manners, they all stand up, every single one, and you feel like you should head to the bathroom doing a special little loo dance, just in case anyone’s failed to notice that YOU’RE GOING NUMBER ONES because YOUR BLADDER IS FULL.
I sit on the loo and try to think. I’m almost scared to look at my phone. But I do. There are the first two texts, and then a third, which says, ‘Apols for the short notice – unexpectedly in London. Expect you’re busy. Would love to see you. Understand if not.’ He might well apologize: asking someone to dinner at seven-thirty p.m. is uncharming and booty call-ish. I am filled with indignation, actually. So I text back, ‘Asking someone to dinner at 7.30 p.m. is uncharming and booty call-ish.’ The phone rings almost immediately, but I send it to voicemail. And then another text: ‘I know. My flight came in early. So not as bad as looks. Answer the phone.’ ‘I can’t,’ I reply. ‘I am at dinner with a very attractive and hot man.’ This is only half a lie: lots of people would find Bel very attractive and hot. ‘OK,’ he texts back. ‘I’ll try you later.’ Many replies suggest themselves: ‘Actually, matey, I’ll try you later if I feel like it’; ‘I might be really busy shagging’; ‘I miss you so much I can barely breathe. I feel like climbing out of this loo window and jumping into a taxi.’ None of these seem especially wise, so I stare at the phone for a bit and then put it in my handbag, like a mature adult. Then I sit on the loo and regulate my breathing.
