Page 37 of The First Time I Saw You
Week Fourteen
Sophie
I can’t do up my trousers. This is now a fact. I look at my bed where a cascade of different coloured material confirms this. I chew my bottom lip and stand nakedly in front of the mirror.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I say and notice the panicked sound within my voice. Turning to the side, I look at my profile where there is undeniably a bump. I run my hand over it. ‘I’m really pregnant. Oh God.’ The enormity of not only my stomach but the situation makes me feel dizzy and I slump on to the end of the bed. I take a few deep breaths and concentrate on slowing my breathing down. I know this is the beginning of an anxiety attack; I used to have them before exams and when I would hear Ian’s voice raised in the night, knowing that Mum would be ‘having a little accident’. I continue to concentrate on controlling my thoughts, on rationalising them and relaxing my muscles. My pulse slows down, and the dizziness subsides. ‘Get a grip, Sophie,’ I say to myself.
My hands grasp the end of the bed and I push down on the mattress as I get up, pull open my underwear drawer, put on a pair of black knickers and then fasten on a matching bra. Except the bra doesn’t fit. ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ I go back to the mirror where my boobs are impressively spilling out of each cup. Typical. My whole life I’ve wanted bigger boobs and now that I have, there is nobody around to see them! I rummage through my trousers and grab a pair of leggings, then stomp downstairs into the kitchen, where I open various drawers until I find a pair of scissors and make incisions either side of the waist elastic. I pull them up. They will have to do for now.
I fan myself with my hand – it’s the second week in May and the forecast has said that temperatures will hit twenty-three degrees this week. I sit down and pull the laptop towards me, then spend an hour ordering a vast array of maternity clothes. Satisfied that by tomorrow my wardrobe will be filled with new, comfortable clothing with hidden panels and adjustable waists, I pull on a pair of bright-yellow rubber gloves and begin scrubbing the pan from my midnight feast. I’ve been having a lot of troubled sleep this past week and came down in the early hours to make a cheese toasty . . . the odd thing is that I wasn’t really craving the cheese itself, more the burnt bits around the edge.
My inbox pings and I lean over to see a confirmation on my delivery time for tomorrow just as someone knocks on the door. I pull at the fingers of the rubber gloves, but they feel tight and stuck. I bite the end of my right index finger and try to pull the glove off again; it moves slightly but not enough to release my hand. There’s another knock on the door. ‘Coming!’ I shout as I continue to wrestle with the gloves. I put my hand in between my thighs and start pulling against the yellow rubber. Another knock. I wipe my brow with the back of my forearm, my face becoming red with exertion. I can feel a little movement inside the glove, but my hand is still not coming free. The door knocks again insistently. Still trying to release my hand, I open the door. There – looking slightly alarmed – is Charlie, and he is holding a box full of vegetables.
‘Hello.’ He looks up at the sky as he talks, and I wonder if this avoiding eye contact is a trait of his. ‘I ordered vegetables.’ He thrusts the box towards my rubber-gloved hands, thinks better of his action and instead, still not looking anywhere in my direction, places the box on my doorstep. I look down at it with confusion. I haven’t seen him since the previous week when we had a stilted awkward, conversation as I thanked him for the frame. His reply had been that he had never liked it anyway. Honestly, I can’t decide whether he is rude or just odd. ‘There were too many,’ he adds, still looking up at the sky. I look into the box and see a small collection of vegetables.
‘Oh. Um, thanks,’ I say, still fiddling with the rubber gloves.
‘You’ve been away.’ He says this as a statement, his eyes still looking skywards.
‘Yes, I’ve been over at my sister’s for a couple of days. Helped her at the school fair.’ He snorts.
‘What?’ I reply indignantly.
‘It’s just that you don’t seem like a school fair kind of person, that’s all.’
‘I will have you know that it was quite a prestigious affair. ITV News was there because Gina Little was auctioning the name of a character in her new book for charity . . . Apparently, she used to go to that school when she was a kid. And I made muffins to sell – she even took one from our stall.’
‘OK.’ He raises his hands up defensively. ‘I take it back, you’re perfect school fair material.’
‘Could you do me a favour?’ His eyes glance at my face momentarily then back at the sky. I wonder if he has autism. ‘Could you help me get these gloves off? I think my hands have swollen in the heat, or maybe from the pregnancy, but I can’t get them off.’ I stretch my yellow Marigolds out towards him. He glances back at me and then down at the gloves. Charlie reaches for the wrists, still with his strange eye-darting movement. He gives it a good tug and the glove releases my ensnared right hand, folding itself inside out.
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, offering my other hand. It is at this moment that I realise. I am standing in front of my burly neighbour wearing a pair of cut-at-the-seams leggings, a rubber glove and a black bra from which my newly enlarged bosoms are heaving out. ‘Oh God!’ I shriek, snatching my gloved hand back from his grip and frantically grabbing the nearest thing that I can see to cover my modesty: a Savoy cabbage and a head of broccoli. I hold them over my chest which is rising and falling at an impressive rate. ‘Go!’
He takes a step back and blinks in a panicked fashion, then risks a brief look at my chest, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I push the box with my heel into my house and shimmy myself backwards through the door, closing it with a bang.
Helen’s face disappears from my laptop screen before she reappears with a glass of wine.
‘It’s not that funny,’ I scold her lightly, even though the more I replay the image of myself holding the cabbage and broccoli, the funnier it seems.
‘It is,’ she laughs. It’s a relief to hear her laughing. Last week we only talked once aboutAlice in Wonderland, and that was as she carried my case into the girls’ bedroom.
‘I’m sorry about the way I just left, Soph,’ she’d apologised, her hand resting on my arm, ‘but I’ve tried long and hard to put that part of my life behind me. I’m afraid of what will happen if I start thinking about it again . . . do you know what I mean?’ I was fairly sure she didn’t remember the drunken phone call after she’d got home last time. I replayed Mum’s words and didn’t question her: giving her time. I’d nodded, just as Jessica had run into the room, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the kitchen to show me the recipe for the muffins she wanted us to make. I’d suggested we make jam tarts instead but she had made gagging noises and said her mum hates jam tarts.
I remind myself how horrific it must have been for Helen to find Mum, to know that her father had killed her. It’s enough for me to hold back my questions . . . for now at least.
‘How’s the business?’ Helen leans towards the screen as she shifts in her chair, opening a bag of crisps.
‘Good, I’ve got my first client.’ I look down at the pile of receipts on the table. ‘One of the B&Bs on the front contacted me. You know you’re back home when you get a reply from the card you put up in the corner shop.’
‘Figures.’
‘Muuuuuummmmmy! I’ve had a poo!’ is announced from within Helen’s house.
‘Give me strength,’ she sighs, rolling her eyes and draining her glass. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘OK . . . see you soon?’
‘Sure. See you soon.’ She kisses her two fingers and places them on the camera. I return the gesture but the screen is already blank.
