Lover in Law (22 page)

What have I done? Adam and I had been trying to conceive for a year and a half and then suddenly, poof, I fall pregnant. The moment I sleep with someone else. Is that serendipity or coincidence? I guess, hand on heart, if you look at the statistics, it all points to the wrong man. Adam had had fifteen previous bites at the cherry. Why should the sixteenth have been any different? Yet it could have been. How do I know? If the baby is Anthony’s, then what? To put it mildly and cleanly, I’m in a pickle.

I’d love to blame someone for this predicament. Scott Richardson, my parents, or even Adam, letting me believe he was having an affair, throwing me off the straight and narrow. I could throw out accusation after accusation, to shirk my responsibility, but I know, deep down, that the burden is mine. I brought this on all by myself and now I’ve got to deal with it. Only I don’t know how. Adam’s been so lovely and loving. He doesn’t deserve this. I don’t know what to do.

Chapter 25

I can’t tell Adam, I can’t tell Anthony, I’m too ashamed to tell Kayla, so I turn to the Samaritans, early evening, when I’m alone at home, feet up on the chaise longue in the lounge, curtains closed, lights dimmed. I’m relieved, beyond belief, when a woman answers. I’d have probably hung up on a man. Her voice is soft, gentle and soporific.

“Hello, my name’s Susan. What can I call you?”

“Ali,” I speak quietly. I’d have liked to come up with a pseudonym, but couldn’t think quickly enough.

“Hello Ali. How are you feeling?”

I fend off the absolute desire to cry because what I need now, more than anything, is to talk, to share my burden.

“I’m four months pregnant,” I begin, “and I don’t know if it’s my partner’s or the person I was having an affair with.”

“Are you sure it could be either one’s?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Although my partner and I had been trying for a baby for almost a year and a half, so I suppose it might not be his.”

“Have you considered that your partner might be infertile?”

“Yes, but he’s had a sperm test. They said he was fine.”

I nervously coil the telephone wire round my right index finger, tight as can be.

“Your partner and the person you were having an affair with, are they vaguely similar looking?”

Ouch. This woman’s good. Long pause. I semi-titter, not because it’s funny, but because sometimes you just have to.

“My boyfriend’s white. The man I was having an affair with is black. Well, half black. His Mum’s African, his Dad’s Caucasian.”

“You’ve got a major problem then,” she sympathizes. “This must be keeping you awake at night. What are you going to do?”

The coil around my finger starts to inflict pain, so I release it, which leaves a puffy red and white indentation ring. I massage the circulation back.

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would tell me.”

“I can’t advise. I can only offer emotional support.”

Silence.

“This is the sort of stuff you read about in women’s magazines. I know what they might write,” she offers hope.

I reach for the remote control. Even though the sound’s on mute, the television’s still on and the pictures are distracting. I turn it off and lie back, focusing on the ceiling.

“What would they say?”

“They might say the whole thing might come out in the end, so perhaps you should tell your partner.”

“But how the hell would I tell my partner? And the baby might be his anyway, so he might never need to know.”

“Do they both know you’re pregnant?”

“No, only my partner does.”

“And how does he feel about it?”

“He’s absolutely thrilled.”

“And if you were pregnant from the affair would you still want it? How would he feel?”

Silence. “I’ve no idea.”

I’ve not really contemplated how Anthony would feel if I were pregnant with his child, let alone how he’ll react when he finds out I’m pregnant, although I fully plan to tweak the dates. I take in the detail of the ornate ceiling rose. I’ve never paid much attention to it before, but now I realise the design’s a circle of leaves bordered by rings of beads. It’s really quite pretty.  

“Have you considered discussing it with your partner?”

I’ve barely contemplated telling Adam. The consequences don’t bear thinking about.

“Yes and no. I guess I’m being naïve. I’m hoping the baby will come out white, looking like my partner’s and that nobody will be any the wiser. Nobody will ever have to get hurt.”

“Well, there’s a very high chance that it might be his, but you’ve got to consider that it might not end up that way. What will you do if the baby comes out black? You’ve got to consider living with this for the rest of your life, perhaps not even knowing yourself.”

I’m becoming steadily more depressed, rolling awkwardly from side to side in my reclined position, like a centipede with half its legs chopped off. I’d been hoping for answers, to be told what to do and that this can all have a happy ending, but now I’m being forced to confront the reality, when I’ve not yet let my mind wander that far. I’ve not allowed myself to dwell on what will happen, if it doesn’t come out the way I hope, when I give birth in less than five months time.  

 “It’s a diabolical situation,” she breaks my silence.

“It could be better,” I half laugh again.

I reach for the remote control and turn the television back on, keeping the volume right down. The pictures, some drama set in a hair salon, are now a comforting distraction. 

“This is all very well, we can both laugh, and sometimes it’s the only thing you can do, but perhaps you won’t always be able to laugh. Perhaps you really do need to think about the long-term scenario. If the baby does come out black, absolutely everybody will know about it, and you might have to cope with these things at a vulnerable time when you can’t think straight and you’re on your own.”

This is all looking bleaker and bleaker. Thankfully the hairdressers on the box all look like they’re having a pretty crap time too.

“I’ve got my twin sister, she’ll still love me,” I whisper.

That’s got to be true. Surely Kayla will always stand by me?

“Oh dear,” she says. “I wouldn’t know what to do myself. You’re between safe dry land and a raging sea. The thing is, you’ve got a choice of battling it out now or in five months time, but then again you might not have to.”

“At least I’m pregnant,” I say, desperate to find something positive in this mess. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she says. “And it might be your partner’s baby.”

“And it might not,” I whisper.

***

I’ve been here before with Kayla. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it, or myself, for why I’m here right now. Who cares that the road breathes leafy suburbia or that the waiting room is more faux lounge? This place is what it is and there’s no getting away from it. No amount of smiley faces or stylish furniture can change that. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine coming back here, alone and for me. I’ve had my wake-up call though, assessed my options and weighed them up. When it comes down to it, I don’t have many choices. There is a possible win/win scenario for me, but can I live with the not knowing for the next five months and the potential outcome where everyone loses? I’m not sure I can, which is why there is only one option. The Marie Stopes option.

“Alison Kirk?” calls a baby killer disguised as a nurse.

I get up and follow her. They’d squeezed me in pronto. Even though legally you can have an abortion up to twenty-three weeks, Marie Stopes only cater for eighteen weeks and under. Time is not on our side.

“Right,” she says, closing the door to the consultation room behind her, pulling out a couple of chairs for us to sit on at a small table. “How many weeks are you?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “I think I’m about four months.”

“When was your last menstrual period?”

“It’s not that simple,” I explain. “You see I’ve had light periods throughout my pregnancy. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until just over a couple of weeks ago.”

“Right then, we might as well do a scan straight away. Do you mind hopping up on that couch?”

She points to a dentist type chair with stirrups and my gut instinct is to run like the wind, but I don’t. I do as I’m told and lie down. It’s a relief to have someone telling me what to do. They’d said, on the phone, I was so far on that the contents of my womb would have to be removed by suction, whilst I was asleep under anaesthetic. They said it was gentle, but I don’t buy that. The whole procedure sounds barbaric. The sheer thought terrorizes me, turns my blood blue. And what would I tell Adam? I’ve thought of that too. As far as he’s concerned it would be an unfortunate miscarriage and we would both mourn the loss of our child. She’s about to turn the screen away, once she’s squeezed on the gel and found the right spot with the probe.

“No, please don’t,” I gently pull on her arm. “I want to see.”

I remember how miraculous it felt seeing my baby for the first time, on the scanner, once I actually started to believe it was true. Even I, with lay person’s eyes, can see the baby’s grown. It’s a perfectly formed little being, curled up in foetal position. This time it’s not waving, it’s sucking its thumb.

 “Oh,” I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth.

We both stare at the screen. After a while, the nurse turns her gaze to me. I can feel her eyes boring a hole in my head, but I ignore it, not wanting to waste this time, perhaps my last time with the baby.

“I’d say you’re about seventeen weeks,” she finally breaks the silence.

 “Is it a boy or a girl?” I whisper.

“I’m afraid it’s slightly too early to tell that with any real accuracy.”

They might not be able to determine the sex, but perhaps they can see other characteristics.

“I’m sure this is a stupid question, but you can’t, by any remote chance, tell if the baby’s black or white?”

“Is that what this is all about?” she asks.

I nod imperceptibly.

“I’m afraid we can’t. Have you considered paternity testing though?”

“Yes, but that would be after the baby is born. I want to know now.”

“We don’t offer it here, but there are places you can test for paternity on the unborn child.”

“You’re kidding.”

This is the lifeline I need. It’s the answer to all my problems. It never crossed my mind. I can tell from her expression that she’s not spinning a yarn.

 “How the hell does it work?”

“Well, they take fluid from the amniotic sac and both the mother and alleged father give a sample of blood and they compare the DNA.”

I smell a rat. This can’t be as simple as it sounds.

“How much blood do you need?”

“Normal blood test amount.”

And how do I get that from Adam without him knowing?

“Would a pin prick do?”

“I’m afraid not,” she cocks her head in sympathy, understanding where I’m coming from. “And I’m afraid you’d need consent from the alleged father. You’d both need to sign a form.”

“Right,” I say, deflated and defeated, back to square one.

She gives me a moment to take it all in. “Look, normally I tell people to go away and think about it, be sure this is really what they want to do, but you don’t have a lot of time. I know for a fact, without even looking in the diary, that the only place we could slot you in is at the end of today. We had a cancellation this morning. Now you can either take that or hedge your bets that another appointment becomes free in the next couple of days, should you still decide to go ahead.”

I take an age staring at the screen, out the window and at my tummy. Then I tell her to book me in for later.

***

I’m slightly early for my appointment. I managed to slip away from work without anyone noticing, without making excuses. I have no alibi. Nobody knows where I’ve gone or what I’m doing and for once, that’s a good thing. It’s nil by mouth until the procedure, but I’m so hungry that I’m queuing up, in a little bakery round the corner from Marie Stopes, so I’ve got something for after. Not that food should be relevant at a time like this, only I need it, for comfort. I’m next in line to be served, but this man who I saw leave a couple of minutes ago has just come back and has politely pushed to the front. He’s smart and tall and handsome and very flustered. He also happens to be black. The only black person here.

“Excuse me,” he interrupts my sale, addressing the baker. Danny’s his name. It says so on his badge. “I gave you a twenty pound note, but you only gave me change from ten.”

The shop is small and packed with customers who all suddenly turn deathly quiet, as if time’s stood still. We’re all watching Danny, a middle-aged man with a white hat on his head, as he weighs up in his mind whether this guy is telling the truth or not.

“Look at me,” the black man pleads. “Do I look like the kind of person who would make this up?”

We’re all now caught in this dilemma, on tenterhooks, waiting for Danny’s next move, willing him to make what we think is the moral decision, praying he’ll give the money back. There’s a long pause, which feels like an eternity, until finally Danny opens the till, hands over a ten pounds note. The man says thank you and leaves. The rest of the shop starts breathing again. “You did the right thing,” the woman next to me says to the baker. “You’re a good man,” the woman behind me adds. “The way I look at it,” Danny the baker addresses us all, “is if he’s telling the truth I must give him the money and if he’s not telling the truth, then he needs it more than I do.” He then shifts his attention to me. I ask for a slice of pizza.