Babyville Page 0,64
voice is harsh. Harsher than I thought, and I stand up and walk to the window, where I watch the cars for a while, wondering how everyone else's life can carry on as if nothing terrible has happened, when mine has just been turned upside down.
Although really, it's only an abortion, for God's sake. Practically everyone I know has had an abortion at one time or another. To be honest it's a bloody miracle that it's never happened to me before now. And everybody else gets over it. It's no big deal.
“It's no big deal,” I say, my back still turned to Viv, my gaze now fixed on the lit-up window of a flat over the road. Thanks to the huge Georgian sash windows, I can see clearly into their living room, and of course the irony is that I am looking at a young couple, both lying on the floor playing adoringly with a baby who's attempting to crawl. I watch the baby, on hands and knees swaying from side to side before belly-flopping to the floor as his parents lean down and cover him with kisses.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
The mother looks up and sees me watching, and I pull the shutters across so I can no longer see.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
“It's not a baby, Mum.” I walk back to the sofa and sit down, wondering why I don't feel sick. Wondering why I don't feel anything except tired and a bit numb. “It's a . . . nothing. It's nothing. It's not a baby, it's not my child, and it's not your grandchild. You have to stop thinking like that or I won't be able to get through this.”
I hear Viv pulling herself together, and eventually she sniffs and says she understands.
We pretend to have a normal evening. We make supper and eat it in front of the television, feet resting on the coffee table as we tuck into pasta primavera. We don't say anything about the pregnancy for the rest of the evening, and every time an ad comes on that features a baby, Viv or I quickly flick the remote control to another channel. It's exhausting, but it's what we need to do. Pretend it's not happening.
“What about the father?” I pause halfway into my toast and look up to see Viv framed in the doorway, eyes still blurry with sleep.
Viv always likes a lie-in on a Sunday, so when I woke up this morning I tiptoed past her, fast asleep on the sofa bed, and snuck into the kitchen to make tea and toast. And another slice of toast. And then another. Christ, I'm hungry.
“What about the father?”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don't know. I hadn't thought, but no. I don't suppose he needs to know.”
Viv sighs as she comes in, makes herself some coffee, then perches on the stool on the other side of the breakfast bar in my teeny tiny kitchen.
“Maeve”—I steel myself because I can tell from her tone that I'm not about to like what she's going to say—“I'm not going to tell you anything trite like he has a right to know, or you owe it to him or anything like that, because I don't believe that's necessarily true, particularly given that it was a brief fling.”
I sigh with relief.
“But,” she continues, “this man, what was his name again?”
“Mark.”
“Mark. Didn't you tell me he thought he was infertile? Didn't you say that he was desperately unhappy in his relationship because his girlfriend blamed him for not being able to get pregnant?”
“How on earth do you remember that?” I'm amazed and somewhat horrified. I understand the point she's making, and I also know she's right. How could I possibly deny him this knowledge? Not that I want him to be involved in any way, size, shape, or form, but how can I let this man carry on thinking he's firing blanks when he's quite patently not?
“I lay in bed for hours last night,” Viv says. “I couldn't sleep and I wanted to wake you up and ask you about him, but you needed to sleep. You know what I'm going to say, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“He has a right to know that he's capable of having children. That's all. If you don't want him to do anything else, fair enough, but you can't let that poor man carry on thinking he's the one at fault with his girlfriend. He is still with his girlfriend, isn't he?” Viv's voice is suddenly