Page 59 of Storm in a D Cup

Julian’s hands came down around my shoulders and I burst into tears all over again.

‘What the hell is wrong with these kids? They act like they know everything and they can’t even manage to put on a stupid condom?’

‘Calm down, Erica. We’ll take care of it.’

‘How?’

‘You have to allow for her age. She’s very young.’

I snorted.

‘For Christ’s sake, Erica – stop being so judgmental,’ he urged.

‘Judgmental?’ I repeated. ‘That is my – our son! Who’s going to have a kid! I’m furious, and scared to death, not judgmental!’

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and huffed.

‘People make mistakes, Erica. You can’t jump onto their backs every time someone falls out of line.’

I swiped at my cheeks in silence. I sure as hell hoped he wasn’t talking about himself. And Warren? If this was true, his life was practically over. His plans for the future, his studies, the chance of seeing the world. And falling in love with a nice girl. All over.

Julian cleared his throat. ‘I know you’re scared and angry and hurt. But Warren is all that, too. Tenfold. Trust me.’

I sighed, wanting to let go and get angry, spew out a few bad words. But I forced myself not to because every time that happened, I felt that big demolition ball swinging in my chest like in the old days. To which I didn’t want to go back, but right now, it was difficult for me to live and let live. This was my family we were talking about here. What was the matter with everybody?

‘Is this only about Stefania getting pregnant or maybe just a bit about you not getting pregnant?’ he asked.

‘Oh, that is such acrassthing to say!’ I flung at him, but couldn’t help wonder how much of it was a lie.

Warren knocked on our bedroom door and poked his head in, his face ashen. The last time I had seen that look on his face was when he had been eleven and he was in trouble for punching a kid on the field.

‘Come in, son. We’ll work this out together,’ Julian beckoned him in.

Warren stuffed his hands into his pockets and sat down at the writing desk where I paid our bills. Boy, this certainly was the biggest bill ever – my son’s freedom and youth. When you had kids you never knew what was around the corner. But I knew Stefania’s greedy mother Melania inside out.

She’d had four kids when she was very young, realized she couldn’t cope with them and started blaming their father who was always at work trying to raise the money to feed them. The fact that he could get away from her screeching voice was just a bonus. Mealtimes in that house were a nightmare, not to mention homework time.

Melania was so inept (I can’t think of a better word to describe her) that she always ferried the kids off to a friend’s house in the hope they would help her take care of them. Needless to say her so-called friends would soon tire of her and ditch her, and Melania would have to move on to a new friend. She was cheerful and cute enough to attract people, but soon it would become evident that she only befriended people who could give her something.

That sounds cruel and judgmental (which, alas, I am. I can’t help it. It’s stronger than me. But over the years it’s helped me keep the creeps at bay). OK, let me put it this way.

The truth was that Melania couldn’t keep a job, nor a clean house, nor her own kids. She kept changing religion – and therefore her so-called friends – every change of season. She was unfocused and flaky. She would drag the kids to temple, or the tent, or the pagoda – whichever religion seemed in vogue at the moment, just so she wasn’t alone with them. And whenever confronted, Melania – frustrated and incapable of an adult-level of thought or communication – would use her middle finger as a sign that the conversation was over.

Rumors had it she had become a steady drinker and always delegated someone else to pick her kids up (it had even happened to me six or seven years ago) as she was already floored by five o’clock. Now you see,thatwas the kind of wife my ex-husbandIrahad deserved. Not conscientious, underestimatedme.

Neither was Stefania really anything to write home about. To me she looked like a younger version of Melania. Yet Warren was smitten because she always told him what to do. Go figure. When I tried that all I’d get from him was a grunt. Then Stefania would walk in and he’d rise as if magically levitating, his eyes filled with the divine light of her beauty. Love did work in mysterious ways, but it was a good thing that Warren had parents who cared.

*

I saw her through the crack in the door. She sat haughtily, straightening her fake Chanel dress, her bangles clanging with the brisk movements. On her face was the look of greed. If Stefania really was pregnant, Melania would do her utmost to milk the situation as much as possible. And from the way she was smacking her lips in anticipation, this was only the beginning of it.

‘How’s she looking?’ Julian whispered.

‘Still like mutton dressed as lamb,’ I whispered back, calmer now that I’d had a heart-to-heart with my son and assured him we would be behind him all the way to hell and back.

Julian nudged me forward. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with once and for all.’ In a sense, I was grateful that this thing, whatever it was, had brought us back on the same team, or so to speak.

We opened the door and she jumped in surprise. She was probably silently counting our money.

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