‘Yes I am. It’s not what I planned, but I’m thirty this year so it could be last-chance saloon.’
I had to applaud her courage in deciding to have a baby on her own. Since my dad died, I felt panicky about getting the train up to London by myself. In fact, I realised with a jolt, I only really felt safe when Patrick was with me.
‘Will you stay in Canada? Would you be able to manage on your own if you’ve got to work?’ I’d asked.
‘God, Jo. You’re such a harbinger of doom. I haven’t made any decisions yet.’
The whole conversation was weird, the opposite of how Ginny normally was with news, good or bad. She was a blurter, not an eker. I never had to work this hard to glean the basics.
‘When is the due date?’
‘About the third week of November.’
‘November? That soon? How long have you known?’
‘Not long. A doctor here told me it was fine to take the pill for three months without a break, so I didn’t realise I was pregnant for ages.’
‘Will you come back home to have the baby at least?’
‘I’ll have to see what work looks like. Might have the baby here then see how it goes. I need to look into the finances of maternity leave and childcare. I suppose I could go home to Mum and Dad until I work out what to do, but I’m not sure I could stand her fussing over me.’
‘You could come and live with us for a bit. We’ll have moved out of Mum’s into our own place by then.’
‘No. No.’ The forcefulness of her refusal offended me. I couldn’t see how we’d be worse than her parents. Her mum had never made any secret of the fact that she had high expectations of her clever firstborn. I was pretty sure a baby out of wedlock wouldn’t chime with her ambitions for Ginny. She paused. ‘Thank you though. You won’t want me there with a screaming baby in the lead-up to getting married.’
‘We’d manage. I’m sure we’d muddle through. I’d prefer that than you on your own in Canada with no one to help you.’ I felt selfish asking the next question. ‘But you will be able to come to the wedding, won’t you? Will you still be able to be bridesmaid? The baby will only be a month old.’
‘At the rate I’m putting weight on, I’m going to be a right heifer by the time the baby’s born. As long as you don’t mind me looking fat in the photos, I’ll be there.’ The words sounded forced and monotonous, nothing like the excited bridesmaid begging to be allowed to make a speech that I’d envisaged.
And as often happened when I managed to speak to her, she’d rung off suddenly, leaving me vacillating between concern, puzzlement and resentment.
The front door opening dragged me away from the ghosts of grievances past. I snapped the album shut.
Victor was home first. He tapped on the door of my office. ‘Have you got a moment?’
Those eyes. Patrick’s eyes.
I ignored the tight feeling in my chest. ‘Of course. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I just wanted to talk to you about something. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way or think that I’m really unhappy here or anything…’
My heart did a complicated dance of bracing myself against him leaving and hoping that he might, if only to release me from the conflicting feelings that bustled into the room every time he appeared. I longed for temporary relief from the emotions that swelled and scraped and suffocated when there was an instant connection between Patrick and him, an offbeat joke they both found funny.
He looked down. ‘I’m not sure I should even ask because Mum wasn’t, well, she didn’t ever really speak about it.’
I felt something soften inside me, this poor lad with no other choice but to trust us to put whatever he needed in front of the mess that the three adults he depended on had made.
‘You can say anything to me, Victor. I’m not that easily shocked, as I think you might have gathered. Can’t be worse than anything Phoebe’s come up with.’
‘I’d like to try and find out who my dad is.’
Dismay enveloped me. ‘Is there a particular reason?’
Victor fiddled with the leather bracelet round his wrist. ‘I’d never really thought about the white bit of me before. Mum was black, my grandparents were black, lots of