The Last Living Slut (30 page)

He picked out two teddy bears from a bag stuffed with cuddly toys that his kids had given him to keep him company. “These are for you to look after. But only for a short time, because I know I’ll see you very soon. I’m so happy we met. Those days and nights were amazing. I will see you very soon. I promise.”

I told him the pain was a motherfucker.

Later, he texted me from the airport: “I already miss you so much. I am going to make sure we will see each other soon.”

I didn’t cry. I just drank the rest of his Jägermeister and cuddled the teddy bears he’d given me. This was life. It was rock band reality. Subreality. I was ready as rain to walk the wobbly pavements of Soho and lose myself in the daze. People, shops, the Tube, colored lines on the route map, my body, sex, going dead inside—all these things must exist without emotion, with precision and tidiness. Because this is life. My heart must not miss or long.

Chapter 48

We can’t keep The Baby. Please don’t Wig Out On Me.

D
espite my resolve, throughout August, there was so much slushy, corny talk between Dizzy and me that I stayed happy and smiling in my sleep, curled naked with his teddy bears beside me. My family thought I was on drugs because I was on such a high.

“It has not stopped raining ever since you left,” I texted him. “I wanted to be in your arms tonight. Miss you so much.”

“You should come visit me here,” he responded. “I would be happy to take care of you.”

No other man was attractive to me. I didn’t want to sleep with anyone else, which shocked me. This is what it feels like to want to be monogamous, I thought. It was so nice. Every time I masturbated and gushed like a waterfall, it was Dizzy who automatically popped into my head. I craved him: him on top of me, the smell of his body and his hair, the rough tickle on my skin when he moved, his light blue eyes and beautiful face. No other man had ever turned me on that way.

Sometimes I felt compelled to text him just after I’d orgasmed to tell him how much I craved him. And he would think I’d meant to text someone else. “Do you know who you have just texted?” he’d reply.

“I can’t believe you said that. I crave you and when I come it’s you I think about,” I’d write in return.

September always ended the smooth, warm summer with a blunt jolt, bringing with it the start of school for children, the beginning of autumn, and the return to rhythm and routine from a spell of laziness and irresponsibility. I was starting to feel sick all the time, and it was pissing me off. My tits hurt like they were being pumped with air; they felt like giant footballs on my chest. I slept all the time, and I began to feel weak. Convinced I was just out of shape, I talked a friend of mine who used to be in the Iraqi army into being my personal trainer.

At the gym, however, I got tired too easily, and it drove me crazy. I was also starting to get menstrual cramps, even though my period wouldn’t start. It was the first of the month, and I couldn’t stop sleeping all day. I felt violently sick, and my breasts were sore like they’d been when my new buds first pushed through years ago. I knew there was no way I was physically capable of getting pregnant, but I decided to have a pregnancy test just to be sure. God, this is ridiculous, I thought. Why am I even buying this? I’m just feeling rundown. No need to be dramatic about it.

I wasn’t nervous buying the kit itself; I’d always been blissfully free of pregnancy anxiety. At home, I did the test with a mixture of fear and amusement. After three minutes, I looked at the stick. There were two pink lines side by side: It was wrong. They must have sold me an expired kit. I did the test on the second stick, and the results were positive again. I hated pharmacies that carried bad stock. There was no way I could be pregnant: I couldn’t
get
pregnant.

I took the fifteen-minute walk to the pharmacy and bought two more test kits, each a different brand. After using the Clearblue test stick, I looked away for a couple minutes and prayed that this time I’d get the real results:
Please, God, let it be a minus blue line. Let it be a minus blue line when I look.

I looked. It was a plus blue sign. I screamed. “No, God, no. Please, no!”

I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. I was so angry at myself for being so irresponsible, and angry at my doctor for telling me I couldn’t get pregnant. So I could, after all. And I was. I was having a baby.

Dizzy was going to fucking kill me.

I was shaking like a lamb on her way to slaughter when I called him. I left a trembling voice message. Fifteen minutes later, when I was out wandering the streets—looking for new pregnancy test brands, as if that would fix everything—he called back.

“I’m pregnant,” I told him, terrified. “Are you mad at me?”

“Fuck! You told me you can’t get pregnant.”

“I know. My doctor told me I have very low fertility. Listen, I’ll take care of it. I’m so scared, Diz.”

“I’m freaked out,” Dizzy said. “We can’t have a baby. Fuck!” He went on and on, but I couldn’t hear him because it felt like my head was underwater.

I was crying, standing in a back alley with people unloading meat and garbage all around me.

I knew what I wanted to tell him:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up. It’s my fault. I love you, Diz, and want to have this baby, but I know I can’t because you don’t want me to. You would never look after me and take care of our baby, because you already have four children by three different women. You have all this stress from touring. You don’t need this shit.

After we hung up, I called my doctor and tried to be a rational human being.

“I need to make an appointment with a clinic. I am pregnant and . . . I don’t . . . want to be.” The National Health Service offered the service for free, but because of their waiting list, I was told, I wouldn’t be able to have the termination until late October. By then, I’d be three months pregnant. That was not an option. No way did I want this baby to grow, to continue forming an identity. I called every help line listed in the phone book. Finally I found one that told me they could do it in a few days. It would cost about £500.

That night I dreamed I had a baby boy. He was running in a forest and had blondish hair and intensely wild blue eyes. He was creative and intelligent, and he talked to me and laughed. He looked at me, and I knew I loved him. I loved my boy. His name was going to be Tiger.

When I woke, I e-mailed Dizzy. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted this baby. I told him about my dream, and I couldn’t stop crying as I wrote. I could barely see what I was writing because it was like a rainstorm on the screen. Everyone at the Internet café looked at me with such curiosity as the tears streaming down my face fucked up the keyboard.

“It was good to hear your voice, although I couldn’t hear what you were saying very well,” I wrote. “I’m kinda scared. I have to be honest with you and say that all I wish is that you were here with me when I go to the clinic. I have never done this and it upsets me that I have to kill my baby, especially because it’s yours. It’s kind of heartbreaking, but I know I have to do it. I wish you could hold me and comfort me. I cannot tell anyone apart from a couple of girlfriends. I need to see you very soon. I can come over in mid-September and we can have lots of fun. xxxxxxxxxx.”

Dizzy replied the same day: “I’m sorry you have to go through all of this. I’m pretty freaked out. I’m in the middle of a U.S. tour with my other band trying to make some $. Totally burnt. Let me know how you are doing and we will hook up when u get over this way and when I know my schedule. I wish I was there, too. We do need to talk. I hope u r okay. Fuck.”

I walked all over town, through shops and past people under the clouds. People with McDonald’s and sugared cereals and children. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I just needed Dizzy. I needed him to help me get through this. And he was so far away. I decided to see my mum.

“You have to get rid of it,” she said. “It’ll ruin your life.”

“But I love this baby.”

“You love it, but think about your future. Is this man going to help you? Will he support you? He has four children by three different women. He doesn’t sound like a very responsible person. Please don’t keep this baby.”

“You don’t understand. He’s on tour. He can’t do anything now. He’s a very kind person. He’s so nice to me.” I was conflicted, defensive, anxious.

“Do you know how hard it is to be a single mother? This man is unreliable. He’s not going to be there for you. You’ll have to do everything by yourself, just like I did when I had you.”

“I love my baby. Dizzy will help me!” I screamed and ran out like a teenager.

The day before my appointment at the clinic, I went to my university to walk along the river. I was going crazy. I loved my baby so much. I wanted to keep him. I was hysterical. How could I do this by myself? It wasn’t the right time.

There was no one on campus. I walked around the forest and the hills and I talked to my baby: “I’m sorry I can’t keep you. I love you so much.”

That day, I had an appointment with my tutor to get feedback on my final paper for my master’s degree. Throughout the meeting, I bit my tongue so hard so I wouldn’t weep. I had to keep the lump in my throat from exploding, or my tutor would think I was mad for crying in the middle of discussing my essay.

Later that night, I texted and e-mailed Dizzy. I was desperate for anything—a single shred of hope—to change my mind.

“I am going in tomorrow,” I wrote him. “If you want me to keep the baby, tell me now.”

“We can’t keep the baby,” he replied. “Please don’t wig out on me. I got your text. I feel awful but there’s nothing I can do about this right now. We can meet when you come over here. I’m still waiting to get our tour dates but we don’t officially start the tour until Oct. 21 so I don’t know where I am going to be yet. I flew all night, haven’t slept in two weeks. Call me when you get out of the clinic and please leave me a message if I am asleep and I will call you back.”

I texted Diz again a few hours later: “I’m going in to the clinic tomorrow morning at nine a.m. if you still give a shit. If you want us to have this baby, you have to tell me right now.”

God, please let him want me to keep our baby.

Dizzy replied: “I don’t think either of us should have a baby. I do give a shit. I’m 10,000 miles away at this time. I just returned from a tour in a van this morning. My contact via e-mail, myspace, etc., was very limited. Let me know how you are doing 2moro, or I will call you. What time do you go in?”

I was fucking crushed. “What if he is a talented piano player like you?” I pleaded with him. “God, this is so hard.”

All night, I cried and apologized to my baby for killing it. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I can’t keep you. But it’s for the best. I love you so much.”

Chapter 49

T
he taxi picked me up at eight a.m. I wore a light pink shirt and wide black trousers. It was sunny. I took my checkbook. We drove to a lovely part of town with lots of trees and posh cream buildings. We walked to a tiny cobbled road and there it was: “The Clinic,” all prim and proper and tucked within the shadows. The door was river blue.

The receptionist took my name and told me to sit in the waiting room. There was a teenage girl with her mother, an older woman, and a hot model type with long legs, long hair, and designer sunglasses there. I filled out the form.

“It’s five hundred and five pounds, please,” said a matronly woman in a sectioned-off area of the waiting room. “Will you be paying cash or card?”

“Can I pay in installments, please? I don’t have the whole amount right now.”

“You’ll be pleased to know that we have a monthly plan, but you need to give me three backdated checks now.”

I wrote the checks out as if I were in an office and it was the start of my working day.

“Thank you. Please have a seat in the waiting area again and the doctor will see you in a few minutes.” Then she called in the next person.

A nurse took me into a room. I filled out more forms. “Please lie down on the bed and I’ll take a scan,” she said. I lay down and she put this cold jelly stuff on my belly, then rolled a long silver device on it, attached to a monitor.

“Yes, I can see it. It’s there. See?” She pointed at a tiny, white bean shape about an inch long, lodged into the gray mesh of the scan of my womb.

I looked at the monitor, and there it was: my baby. Created by Dizzy and me. Inside me, feeding off me. Needing me. Tears rushed down my face. I was so embarrassed. I felt like such an idiot. The nurse must have thought I was an idiot for crying over something an inch long. I could tell she felt uncomfortable. She was just there to do her job, not to babysit an emotional wreck. She said nothing as she printed an image of the scan.

“Can I have one?” I asked, trying to jostle some sort of emotion from her instead of the money-in-exchange-for-terminating-your-baby transaction she had been programmed to implement. I wanted her to say something warm, comforting, even if it had to be clinical. I wanted her to present me with other options, to hint that I should at least think about this decision. But she didn’t. I knew she wanted to get on with it, move on to the next person waiting, and finish for the day so she could go home and put her feet up and drink a cup of tea. I clutched the picture of my baby.

“His name is Tiger,” I said defiantly. It was a last-ditch attempt to extract emotion from her, tenderness that surely all females must possess.

“Ahh,” the nurse said. “Do you want to think about it a bit more, miss?” She stood in front of me, broad-shouldered, tidy, sanitized.

“I have to call the father,” I said, and walked out.

Outside on the cobbled street, amid the Georgian buildings, law firms, and petite office girls with salon hair, I called Dizzy. My fingers pushed the call button like they were squeezing the life out of a fruit. “Pick up, pick up,” my mouth tripped into the phone.
He’s the only one who will understand. He’s my lifeline.
I needed him so much.