Page 115 of The Art of Loving You

‘Only one of you can come in the room.’

‘Libby,’ Mum says before I have had time to speak. ‘You two have always—’

‘Needed you.’ I am out of my depth.

‘You can do this. Be there, for your sister.’

Alice grips my hand tightly.

‘Okay.’ I can do this. Even if this is the last thing I can do.

From Alice’s screams, her pants of pain, I had expected the baby to come quickly but there is still no sign of her. The midwife, Samantha, stays in the room with us. She had explained they’d keep a very close eye on Alice because she is only thirty-four weeks pregnant but they’d let the birth progress naturally as long as the baby isn’t showing signs of distress.

‘I need to tell you something,’ Alice says in between contractions. She is nine centimetres dilated and apparently that means she could be giving birth very soon. ‘The father, it’s … it’s …’ She takes another suck of gas and air before she carries on.‘Michael.’

‘Michael?’ For a second I am confused, searching my mind for all the Michaels we know, but there is only one. ‘Faith’s husband?’ I don’t let go of Alice’s hand. I don’t judge her.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Again a draw of gas and air for pain relief. ‘He called into the coffee shop on Valentine’s day after work for a cup of tea. He asked me what my plans were that night and when I told him I didn’t have a date he—’ Another contraction hit. ‘He said that Faith was away in Norfolk and then asked if I wanted to get something to eat. As friends.’

I gritted my teeth. Fucking liar. Faithhadbeen in Norfolk but was back for Valentine’s. That was the night she showed up at our flat. Eager to show the photo of the beach with the bunker to Jack.

‘He’d always seemed okay on the couple of occasions I’d met him with you. I thought …’ A beat. ‘I thought he was harmless and I was upset about being on my own. I’d recently broken up with Kris. It was stupid but we went back to mine with a takeaway and a bottle of wine and … he kept topping up my glass and …’ She is crying now.

‘Alice, he’s fifteen years older than you. He should have known better. I don’t blame you.’

‘Don’t you?’ Alice lets out a roar. ‘Libby …’

Samantha springs forward.

‘It’s time.’

I am nervous and excited. Distressed to see my sister in so much pain and elated I am about to become an auntie.

Alice screws up her face and clenches my fingers so hard I fear they will snap.

It seems to take an age.

Alice is told to push. To stop pushing. We pant together. I cheer her on, my vision clouded with tears.

‘Come on, Alice,’ I urge. In my mind I am standing by the red ribbon that stretches across the finishing line while eight-year-old Alice jumps towards me in a sack.

‘You can do this, Alice,’ I encourage, the way I did when my seventeen-year-old sister had hesitantly climbed into the car to take her driving test.

‘I believe in you, Alice.’ I reassure her as I had so many times over the years when she’d been lost. Alone. Afraid.

With one last push, one almighty scream, it is over. There’s a brief, terrifying moment of silence before there’s a cry.

The baby is crying.

Alice is crying.

I’m crying.

‘It’s a girl.’ It is confirmed and they show her to us and she looks so small and helpless I am scared.

While she is checked over I soothe the damp hair back from Alice’s brow.

‘You did it. You did it,’ I whisper over and over.

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