One Thing Led to Another. Katy Regan

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       ‘I thought the love would just be there. That I would look into my baby’s eyes and we would have an instant understanding. But when Poppy was born, I just felt terrified, like I’d been handed someone else’s baby to look after. It took seven months for me to honestly say I loved her. Obviously now, I know I was ill, but I still feel guilty.’

       Sam, 36, Didsbury

      I am lying next to Jim, my belly against the curve of his back, the faint whirr of a dawn flight outside. After the row with Gina yesterday, the atmosphere in the house was frosty to say the least so that evening I got on a bus and came here, to Jim’s place, a cosy Victorian flat in East Dulwich.

      It had been over a week since the row in Frankie’s and I was worried how I might be received.

      I needn’t have been.

      When Jim opened the door, wearing his mustard dressing gown (the result of a dye disaster with a beach towel) I have never felt so welcome, or wanted to hug him so much in my life. I stood on the doorstep, a forlorn figure under the glare of the street lamp.

      ‘Hello you,’ he said, arms crossed, head leaning against the doorframe as if he was expecting me. ‘Come on in.’

      He led me through his narrow, bright hallway, the only thing adorning the wall a framed photo of an Americana sign:

       Warning: Water on Road During Rain

      Lifts my mood every time.

      Jim’s downstairs is open plan. The lounge is cosy in its make-do-ness. Two stripy sofas covered with dark grey throws, a huge black and white circular rug and a bobbly green swivel chair that he always does his marking on. His telly’s crap – you can only get three channels if you balance the aerial on a mug – and today (like most days) there’s a huge pile of marking on the sofa that he’s obviously just put to one side. He moved it, putting it on the Ikea coffee table along with the remote control, the remains of a Muller Light and a note-filled copy of Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Then he pressed down on my shoulders, sitting me on the sofa, and went into the kitchen to make tea.

      It’s a boy’s kitchen – a dazzling array of unnecessary gadgets, juicer, pasta maker, ice-cream maker, blood-red DeLonghi coffee maker that weighs a tonne – the shine of which is diminished only by a subtle layer of grime.

      On the shelves above the sink are Jamie Oliver cookbooks and a few suspect ones called things like Nose to Tail Eating that contain nothing but recipes for offal and pig trotter. (Jim likes to think he’s a fearless cook – i.e. you have to be fearless to eat whatever he cooks.) Next to a pint glass of pennies is a herb garden that he actually keeps alive, unlike me who buys one every time I go to Tesco’s only to find it desiccated on top of the fridge three months later.

      ‘Henry IV eh?’ I said, picking up the book, thinking a bit of idle chat might do me good. ‘Sorry, but I never could get excited about Shakespeare.’

      ‘You blaspheme!’ spluttered Jim. ‘It’s one of the funniest, rudest books ever written.

      ‘How can you not fall in love with such a top bloke as Hal, or a total piss-head like Falstaff? You of all people.’

      ‘Oi,’ I said. ‘What are you suggesting?’

      Jim handed me a cup of tea. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what owes me this pleasure?’

      That was it, I was off. I poured out all the details of the showdown with Gina and the more I said it aloud the more unbelievable it felt.

      ‘I’m sorry for being such a cow last week,’ I said, sheepishly, when I’d off loaded. ‘Not to mention blabbing to Gina. You must hate me.’

      ‘Yeah, can’t stand you, hate your guts,’ Jim said, totally dead pan. ‘You were a bitch from hell but we’ll blame it on the hormones, shall we?’

      ‘That will be my epitaph at this rate.’

      It must have been one a.m. before we went to bed. I was still pretty shook up about Gina and Jim was as confused as I was. ‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’ he said. ‘I know Gina can be unpredictable but that’s just weird.’

      ‘I know, I don’t understand it either. It was like me being pregnant was a personal attack. Like something I’d done wrong. I mean, I know I can’t get drunk like we used to, but I’m still me, aren’t I? I’m still the person she’s been friends with for more than a decade.’

      Jim gave me a hug. It felt like he could squeeze the air right out of me.

      ‘It will be alright, you know, all this,’ he said, staring straight ahead, with that prophetic certainty he has about everything. ‘I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it will.’

      ‘And Gina?’ I asked tentatively, as we walked up the stairs to bed.

      ‘She’ll come round.’ Jim yawned. ‘And if she doesn’t, we’ll kick her ass.’

      I smiled but at the back of my mind I was still worried. How could I confide in her about anything now? And what if everyone, even Vicky, reacted as badly? What if I was utterly deluded and keeping this baby was the worst, most irresponsible idea in the world?

      ‘All a baby needs is love,’ Jim said. I play those words in my head again and again. ‘All a child needs is to feel wanted.’ And I want this baby. If I don’t, why do I wake up, my heart in my mouth with every twinge, petrified this is the start of losing it? The fact is, I think to myself as I lay here, if I was to lose this baby now, we couldn’t try for another. Not like real couples.

      It is one thing to have an accident and make the best of a less than ideal situation but quite another to make something happen again that should never have happened in the first place.

      This unborn child that already has fingers and toes and maybe my curviness and Jim’s long legs (Eva Herzigova eat your heart out!) is a fluke, it slipped through the net. And so if fate decided it wasn’t meant to be then it would be heartbreaking, but we’d have to accept it. Why did the thought of this terrify me so much?

      Jim is sleeping but I can’t, my mind won’t let me. I know it must be almost morning because I can just about make out shapes in his familiar room in the emerging light and the photograph on his bedside table, the one in the red frame that’s never meant much before, is staring right back at me now, making my mind race.

      Me, Jim, Gina and Vicks sitting under the awning of our caravan, that camping trip in Norfolk last summer. Jim and I had been hopping into each other’s bed when the fancy took us for three months by then. How many times have I looked at this picture? And it has never stirred much more than nostalgia before. But now suddenly the body language says it all: Gina and Vicky leaning against each other, laughing into the camera which we’ve got balanced on a beer crate. Me, reclining on a deckchair, feet tucked