Chapter 19
EMMA
‘Oh my God,’ Rachel whispered, when I told her what I’d done. ‘Do you really think this could change things?’
‘I don’t know. But I had to at least try.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. But now you’ve done this you have to put it out of your mind and get on with your life. Do you promise me?’
‘I promise.’
And I was doing it. I was going to work, enjoying nights out with friends, going to the theatre, booking a holiday. I even joined a local am-dram society and was loving being on stage for the first time in years. I started to feel revived, like I really could do this.
And then, two weeks later, everything changed.
It took me a while to notice that I wasn’t feeling very well. A low-level, underlying nausea that felt like I’d been reading in a car for too long. It hung around all day, only clearing by bedtime and starting all over again the next day.
And then I realised that I hadn’t had a period for a while.
When I bought the test, I was fairly certain the result had to be negative. Because there was no way I could be pregnant after having sex with someone who didn’t even live at the same time as me. As impossible situations went, that would be up there with the best of them.
So I wasn’t particularly nervous as I peed on the stick, or as I waited for the blue line to appear, confident there would only be one line, and my sickness would be caused by something else entirely.
There were two lines.
Not once. Not even twice. But three times.
And then I knew it had to be true.
I was pregnant with Nick’s baby.
For the next few days I felt like a ghost, living outside my own life. I had this enormous secret, and I couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Rachel, because I was too scared of what she’d say. The only person I wanted to tell was Nick, and that was impossible.
But there was something else on my mind too.
There was endless information to be found online about pregnancy.
Whatever you needed to know, it seemed you could find someone to help you, and there didn’t appear to be a single topic that was off-limits, that hadn’t been written about hundreds, thousands, millions of times.
If I wanted to know how big my embryo was likely to be at two months old, I could easily find out (the size of a grape, if you really wanted to know).
If I needed to find a hypnobirth expert, or a mother and baby class, or a newborn photographer, or advice on swollen ankles during pregnancy, there it was.
But the one thing I desperately needed to know was something that no expert in the world would be able to answer, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Would this baby even be viable? Was there any chance that it would form properly and grow into a healthy, normal baby? Would it even be possible for me to have this baby, given that its father was dead at the time it was conceived?
Imagine typing that question into Mumsnet.
I got through the next few days at work on autopilot, then hurried home and locked myself away from the world.
Some evenings I stood at the door of the small box room at the top of the stairs and tried to picture a cot in there, a little chair where I would sit and rock a baby to sleep in the darkest hours of the night.
Greg and I had talked about it often, had discussed what our babies would be like, what they’d be into.
‘Eddie will be an actor like his mum, and Connor will be into sport like his dad,’ he said, and I’d roll my eyes.
‘No girls?’ I said.
‘Maybe one day,’ he said, and winked.
And although it hadn’t been this house we’d envisioned bringing them up in, our old house had had a room just like this that we’d earmarked as the nursery. One day soon.
One day.
Was this the room that Nick and Dawn had imagined as the baby’s room? He told me they’d planned the nursery – had they picked out colours, bought a mobile, a cot?
Nick.
I thought about his face when he’d talked about being a dad.
About how much he’d wanted a baby, how sad he’d been when he talked about the fact he and Dawn had been unable to conceive before she fell ill.
Being a dad was all he’d wanted, and now he wouldn’t ever know about this baby.
It felt like the cruellest trick of fate.
I pushed myself off the door frame and went downstairs.
The nausea had eased a little and I needed to eat something other than the endless packets of spicy Monster Munch that seemed to be the only thing I’d been able to keep down these last few days.
I was just stabbing a potato with a fork when the doorbell rang.
I froze. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and the only person who’d come round at this time of night unannounced was Rachel.
I wasn’t ready to tell her what was going on yet.
I didn’t move, hoping she’d leave. But the doorbell rang again, then the rap of the knocker. I heard the clatter of the letterbox, then Rachel’s voice, reedy through the tiny gap in the door.
‘Emma Vickers, I know you’re in there. Stop ignoring me!’
The seconds ticked by. I held my breath.
‘Fine. But just so you know I’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day. And I’ll ring you every ten minutes until you pick up. You know I will.’
The letterbox clattered shut. I was about to peer round the kitchen door to see whether she’d left when my phone buzzed.
Rachel
Seriously, darling, I hope you’re okay. I hope we’re okay. Love you. R x
A wave of guilt washed over me. I knew Rachel worried about me. I should reply.
Emma
I’m fine, just not up to talking. Thanks for caring. Love you too. E x