Babyville Page 0,81

all while he runs around like a headless chicken making sure the mother of his child is happy.

It's sheer and utter bliss.

“Do you want a Bounty?” he asks, midway through the afternoon.

“Mmm,” I groan luxuriously from the comfort of my cushions.

“Right.” He flings on his jacket. “I'm just popping out to the garage. Anything else you need?”

“I wouldn't mind some coronation chicken.”

“You're still hungry after the roast beef?” Aghast.

“Not hungry. Just, you know. A bit peckish.”

“We've got chicken and mayonnaise. I'll see if I can get some curry powder.”

“Great. Thanks.” I've already switched my focus back to the television set, usually a video Mark will have got out for the afternoon, and thankfully we both share the same cheesy taste in old films. It's a Wonderful Life; Harvey; Some Like It Hot; Gone With the Wind. Many's the Sunday we've lost ourselves in a fantasy world of an age gone by. The last couple of weeks I've stayed the night.

Don't be ridiculous.

In the guest room of course.

And that is the most extraordinary thing. Aside from the fact that I am carrying his child, I cannot believe that Mark and I ever had sex. In fact, even though I am carrying his child there are times when I think that perhaps it was an immaculate conception and that I simply dreamed that whole night in Soho.

I even had to ask Stella, just to be on the safe side. Was I actually there?

Mark has become my best friend. He is the first person I turn to when I want to share my news, or have a night out, or just have a laugh. He's always there for me; always steady, reliable, secure. He makes me feel safe, and comforted, and loved. And I mean that in a platonic sense.

Because he's the last person in the world I could ever fancy.

I know I fancied him that night. I have a vague memory of the sex being fantastic, but I still can't quite believe that that was Mark. Mark. The same Mark that's sitting opposite me draining a can of Coke and emitting indecently loud burps every few seconds.

“You're revolting.” I'm smiling.

“God, I know.” He makes a face. “Lawyers are such pigs, aren't they?”

“Not all lawyers. Just you.”

Mark burps particularly loudly and grins. “You could have chosen any man to be the father of your baby, but you chose me.”

“Trust me,” I say. “If I had to make my choice all over again, it would be a very different story.”

But of course it wouldn't be, because, while I don't fancy him in the slightest, he has become, other than Viv, my most favorite person in the whole world, and I cannot think of a better person to be raising my child with. I love the idea that my child will be half mine and half Mark's. To be honest I can't think of a better combination. Other than me and Steve McQueen of course. And that, clearly, is not in the cards.

“You know what you are?” I say, later that afternoon, as Mark sits on the floor tinkering with some Victorian lamps we picked up at a garage sale this morning. (A 6 A.M. start. I wouldn't recommend it.) “You're the brother I never had.”

Mark makes a face. “Now that really is sick. Disgusting. You're accusing me of incest.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I mean just in terms of us. Our relationship. I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable with anyone other than my family. That's what I meant. You know you're my best friend.” I'm not sure quite what's come over me, because spontaneous outbursts of affection are really not my style, but I don't think I ever really knew how important it was to have someone before.

And I don't mean an “other half.” I just mean someone to share things with. Someone like a best friend. Or a brother. Someone like Mark.

Mark stops tinkering and smiles at me. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Shit,” I mumble, opening Marie Claire and pretending to be immediately engrossed in the film reviews, the embarrassment of having been so open starting to hit. “I didn't mean it.”

“Yes, you did. And thank you. That's lovely to hear, and just for the record I feel exactly the same about you.”

“I'm the brother you never had?”

“No. You're the pain in the arse little sister I never wanted. Ouch.” I hit him over the head with the rolled-up Marie Claire. And then he sits back and looks at