“Yes! The Salmon à la King! All those salmons!”
Gaah! “You’ve been a bastion of village life, Mum,” I said. “You go sock it to that Mavis!”
(“Sock it to”? Where did that come from?)
“Thank you, darling. Ooh, must whizz! I’ve left gammon and pineapple in.”
Was just recovering from the latest vomit, embracing the beloved toilet, when the phone rang again.
Was Tom: “I forgot to ask you how it went with Mark. You see? Horrible person. Don’t deserve to talk to you. Goodbye.”
Looked confusedly at the phone for a minute, then, thinking about the baby, decided to microwave a cheesy potato.
—
&nb
sp; 9 p.m. There you go, little sweetheart: cheesy potato.
We have to tell the truth, don’t we? That’s one of the things we’re always going to do. Even if it means being very, very brave. Even if we really don’t want to.
MONDAY 16 OCTOBER
Mark’s whole house was turned into a baby-welcoming committee, with flowers, baby supplies and a banner across the kitchen saying CONGRATULATIONS BRIDGET.
Fatima was bustling about, beaming. She hugged me and then left the room with her usual discretion.
“You mustn’t carry anything,” said Mark, taking my handbag. “Sit here and put your feet up.”
He sat me on a bar stool at the kitchen counter and tried to lift my feet up onto another bar stool. We both laughed.
“Look what I brought down from the attic for him. I used to love this. Look!”
An old Scalextric car set was laid out in the—I supposed you could now call it—family room, where the comfy sofas and chairs were.
I was laughing and fighting back tears: “She might not be ready for that STRAIGHTaway, but…”
Mark bounded over to the fridge. “Look what I’ve got in here!”
There were two packs of Huggies diapers.
“I thought that was where you were supposed to keep them: so they’re nice and cool on the little bottom. No? I’m practicing. You’ll move in here, of course? The three of us? It’s as if we’ve been given a second chance! A second chance at life!”
My dad’s words were repeating themselves in my ear. “You never go too far wrong by just telling the truth.”
“Mark.”
He stopped in his tracks at my tone.
“What? Bridget, what’s wrong? The baby? Is there something wrong?”
“No, no. The baby’s fine.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“It’s just…there is one tiny complication.”
“Right, right. We can deal with anything. What is it?”